The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (125 page)

Behind the moans of Bordu's guard lay silence. From a copse of low trees thirty paces down the river bed came the first peeps of birds awakening to dawn. Kalam dropped to one knee, sucking in lungfuls of sweet, cool air.

He heard a horse descend the south bank and turned to see Minala. The crossbow in her hands pointed from one corpse to the next as she checked the clearing, then she visibly relaxed, fixing Kalam with wide eyes. “I count eight.”

Still struggling for breath, the assassin nodded. He reached out and cleaned his long-knife's blade and hilt on his last victim's telaba, then checked the weapon's edge before sheathing it at his side.

Bordu's guard finally fell silent.

“Eight.”

“How's the captain?”

“Awake. Groggy, maybe fevered.”

“There's another clearing about forty paces east of here,” Kalam said. “I suggest we camp there for the day. I need some sleep.”

“Yes.”

“We need to strip this camp…the bodies…”

“Leave that to Selv and me. We don't shock easily. Any more…”

With a grunt the assassin straightened and went to retrieve his other weapons. Minala watched him.

“There were two others,” she said.

Kalam paused over a body, looked up. “What?”

“Guarding the horses. They look…” She hesitated, then continued grimly, “They were torn to pieces. Big chunks…missing. Bite marks.”

The assassin voiced a second grunt, rose slowly. “I hadn't had much to eat lately,” he muttered.

“Maybe a plains bear, the big brown kind. Took advantage of the ruckus to ambush the two guards. Did you hear the horses screaming?”

“Maybe.” He studied her face, wondering what was going on behind those almost silver eyes.

“I didn't but there were plenty of screams and sound does jump around in river beds like these. Anyway, it'll do as an explanation, don't you think?”

“Just might.”

“Good. I'll ride back for the others now. I won't be long.”

She swung her mount around without using the reins, since she still held the crossbow in her hands. Kalam wasn't sure how she managed it. He recalled her crouch over one stirrup hours earlier, her dance across the saddles.
This woman can sit a horse
.

As she rode back up the bank, the assassin surveyed the grisly camp. “Hood,” he breathed, “I need a rest.”

“Kalam, who rode with Whiskeyjack across Raraku…” Captain Keneb shook his head and poked again at the fire.

It was dusk. The assassin had just awakened from a long, deep sleep. His first hour was never a pleasant one. Aching joints, old wounds—his years always caught up with him while he slept. Selv had brewed a strong tea. She poured Kalam a cup. He stared into the dying flames.

Minala said, “I would never have believed that one man could kill eight, all within minutes.”

“Kalam was recruited into the Claw,” Keneb said. “That's rare. They usually take children, train them—”

“Train?” the assassin grunted. “Indoctrination.” He looked up at Minala. “Attacking a group of warriors isn't as impossible as you think. For the lone attacker, there's no one else to make the first move. Eight—ten men…well, they figure they should just all close in and hack me down. Only, who goes first? They all pause, they all look for an opening. It's my job to keep moving, make sure every opening is closed before they can react. Mind you, a good veteran squad knows how to work together…”

“Then you were lucky they didn't.”

“I was lucky.”

The older boy, Kesen, spoke up. “Can you teach me how to fight like that, sir?”

Kalam grunted. “I expect your father has a better life in mind for you, lad. Fighting is for people who fail at everything else.”

“But fighting isn't the same as soldiering,” Keneb said.

“That's a fact,” the assassin agreed, sensing that he'd somehow stung the captain's pride. “Soldiers are worth respect, and it's true that sometimes fighting's required. Soldiering means standing firm when that time comes. So, lad, if you still want to learn how to fight, learn how to soldier first.”

“In other words, listen to your father,” Minala said, giving Kalam a quick, wry smile.

Following some gesture or look the assassin did not catch, Selv rose and led the boys off to finish breaking camp. As soon as they were out of earshot Keneb said, “Aren's what, three months away? Hood's breath, there has to be a Malazanheld city or fortification that's closer than that, Corporal.”

“All the news I've heard has been bad,” Kalam said. “Everything south of here is tribal lands, all the way to the River Vathar. Ubaryd's close to the river, but I'd guess it's been taken by Sha'ik's Apocalypse—too valuable a port to leave unsecured. Secondly, I would think most of the tribes between here and Aren have set off to join Kamist Reloe.”

Keneb looked startled. “Reloe?”

Kalam frowned. “The bandits spoke of him as being southeast of here…”

“More east than south. Reloe is chasing Fist Coltaine and the Seventh Army. He's probably wiped them out by now, but even so his forces are east of the Sekala River and that's the territory he's been charged to hold.”

“You know much more of this than I,” the assassin said.

“We had Tithansi servants,” Minala explained. “Loyal.”

“They paid for that with their lives,” the captain added.

“Then is there an army of the Apocalypse south of here?”

Keneb nodded. “Aye, preparing to march on Aren.”

The assassin frowned. “Tell me, Captain…you ever heard the word ‘Jhistal?' ”

“No, not Seven Cities. Why?”

“The bandits spoke of ‘a jhistal inside' Aren. As if it was a shaved knuckle.” He fell silent for a moment, then sighed. “Who commands this army?”

“That bastard Korbolo Dom.”

Kalam's eyes narrowed. “But he's a Fist—”

“Was, till he married a local woman who just happened to be the daughter of Halaf's last Holy Protector. He's turned renegade, had to execute half his own legion who refused to step across with him. The other half divested the Imperial uniform, proclaimed themselves a mercenary company, and took on Korbolo's contract. It was that company that hit us in Orbal. Call themselves the Whirlwind Legion or something like that.” Keneb rose and kicked at the fire, scattering the last embers. “They rode in like allies. We didn't suspect a thing.”

There was more to this tale, the assassin sensed. “I remember Korbolo,” Kalam muttered.

“Thought you might. He was Whiskeyjack's replacement, wasn't he?”

“For a time. After Raraku. A superb tactician, but a little too bloodthirsty for my tastes. For Laseen, too, which was why she holed him in Halaf.”

“And promoted Dujek instead.” The captain laughed. “Who's now been outlawed.”

“Now there's an injustice I'll tell you about some day,” Kalam said, rising. “We should get going. Those raiders may have friends nearby.”

He felt Minala's eyes on him as he readied his horse and was not a little disturbed. Husband dead only twenty-four hours ago. An anchor cut away. Kalam was a stranger who'd as much as taken charge despite being outranked by her brother-in-law. She must have thought for the first time in a long time that they stood a chance of surviving with him along. It was not a responsibility he welcomed.
Still, I've always appreciated capable women. Only an interest this soon after her husband's death is like a flower on a dead stalk. Attractive but not for long
. She was capable, but if he let her, her own needs would end up undermining that capability.
Not good for her. And besides, if I led this one on, she'd stop being what attracted me to her in the first place. Best to leave well alone. Best to stay remote
.

“Corporal Kalam,” Minala said behind him.

He swung about. “What?”

“Those women. I think we should bury them.”

The assassin hesitated, then resumed checking his horse's girth strap. “No time,” he grunted. “Worry about the living, not the dead.”

Her voice hardened. “I am. There are two young boys who need to be reminded about respect.”

“Not now.” He faced her again. “Respect won't help them if they're dead, or worse. See that everyone else is ready to ride, then get to your horse.”

“Captain gives the orders,” she said, paling.

“He's got a busted head and keeps thinking this is a picnic. Watch the times he comes round—his eyes fill with fear. And here you go wanting to add yet another burden on the man. Even the slightest nudge might make him retreat into his head for good, and then what use is he? To anyone?”

“Fine,” she snapped, whirling away.

He watched her stalk off. Selv and Keneb stood by their horses, too far away to have heard anything but close enough to know that dark waters had been stirred between Minala and the assassin. A moment later the children rode into view on a single horse, the seven-year-old in front and sitting tall with his younger brother's arms wrapped around him. Both looked older than their years.

Respect for life. Sure. The other lesson is just how cheap that life can become. Maybe the former comes from the latter, in which case they're well on their way as it is
.

“Ready,” Minala said in a cold voice.

Kalam swung into the saddle. He scanned the growing darkness.
Stay close, Apt. Only not too close
.

They rode out of the river bed and onto the grassy Odhan, Kalam in the lead. Luckily, the demon was shy.

 

The rogue wave took them from the port side, a thick, sludgy wall that seemed to leap over the railing, crashing down on the deck like a landslide of mud. The water drained from the silts within seconds, leaving Felisin and the others on the main deck knee-deep in the foul-smelling muck. The pyramid of heads was a shapeless mound.

Crawling, Heboric reached her, his face smeared a dull ochre. “This silt!” he gasped, pausing to spit some from his mouth. “Look at what's in it!”

Almost too miserable to respond, she nevertheless reached down and scooped up a handful. “It's full of seeds,” she said. “And rotting plants—”

“Aye! Grass seeds and rotting grasses—don't you understand, lass? That's not sea bottom down there. It's prairie. Inundated. This warren's flooded. Recently.”

She grunted, unwilling to share in his excitement. “That's a surprise? Can't sail a ship on prairie, can you?”

His eyes narrowed. “You got something there, Felisin.”

The silt around her shins felt strange, crawling, restless. Ignoring the ex-priest, she clambered her way toward the stern-castle. The wave had not gone that high. Gesler and Stormy were both at the steering oar, all four hands needed to maintain a course. Kulp was near them, waiting to relieve the first man whose strength gave out. And he'd been waiting long enough for it to be obvious that Gesler and Stormy were locked in a battle of pride, neither one wanting to surrender before the other. Their bared grins confirmed it for Felisin.
Idiots! They'll both collapse at once, leaving the mage to handle the steering oar by himself
.

The sky continued to convulse over them, lashing lightning in all directions. The surface of the sea resisted the shrieking wind, the silt-heavy water lifting in turgid swells that seemed reluctant to go anywhere. The headless oarsmen continued their ceaseless rowing, though a dozen oars had snapped, the splintered shafts keeping time with those still pushing water. The drum beat on, answering the thunder overhead with its measured, impervious patience.

She reached the steps and climbed clear of the mud, then stopped in surprise. The silt fled her skin as if alive, poured down from her legs to rejoin the quaking pool that covered the main deck.

Crouched near the main mast, Heboric yelled in sudden alarm, eyes on the mud surrounding him as its shivering increased. “There's something in it!”

“Come this way!” Truth shouted from the forecastle steps, reaching out with one hand. Baudin anchored him with a single-handed grip on the lad's other arm. “Quick! Something's coming out!”

Felisin climbed another step higher.

The mud was transmogrifying, coalescing into the shapes of figures. Flint blades appeared, some gray, some the deep red of chalcedony. Bedraggled fur slowly sprouted, riding broad, bony shoulders. Bone helmets gleamed polished gold and brown—the skulls of beasts that Felisin could not imagine existing anywhere. Long ropes of filthy hair were now visible, mostly black or brown. The mud did not so much fall away as
change
. These creatures were one with the clay.

“T'lan Imass!” Kulp shouted from where he stood clinging to the mizzen mast.
Silanda
was rocking with a wild energy. “Logros T'lan!”

They numbered six. All wore furs except one, who was smaller than the others and last to appear. It was bedecked in the oily, ragged feathers of colorful birds, and its long hair was iron gray streaked with red. Shell, antler and bone jewelry hung from its rotting hide shin, but it appeared to carry no weapons.