The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (159 page)

“Servant journeys home, you withered mole carcass!” The High Priest danced in place again. “If the convergence does not kill him first, of course! Hee hee! And takes her, and the sapper, too—and you, lad. You! Ask the Jhag what waits within the warren! Waits like a clenched hand holding down this fragment of realm!”

Apsalar and her father approached side by side.

Mappo had wondered at this reunion, but no expectations he'd envisioned would match the reality. Crokus had yet to notice them, and was instead drawing his daggers and preparing to close in on the sound of the High Priest's voice. Icarium stood behind the Daru, a moment from disarming him. The scene was almost comic, for Crokus could see nothing, and Iskaral Pust began throwing his voice so that it emerged from a dozen places at once, while he continued his capering dance.

Fiddler, cursing under his breath, had removed a battered lantern from his pack and was now hunting for a flint.

“Do you dare tread the path?” Iskaral Pust sang out. “Do you dare? Do you dare?”

Apsalar halted before Mappo. “I knew you would win through,” she said. She swung her head. “Crokus! I am here—”

He whirled, sheathed his daggers and closed.

Sparks flashed and bounced from where Fiddler crouched.

The Trell watched as the Daru's reaching arms were captured by Apsalar and guided around her in a tight embrace.
Oh, lad, you do not know how poignant your blindness is…

An aura that was an echo of a god clung to her, yet it had become wholly her own. The Trell's sense of it did not leave him at ease.

Icarium came close to Mappo. “Tremorlor,” he said.

“Aye.”

“There are some who claim the Azath are in truth benign, a force to keep power in check, that they arise where and when there is need. My friend, I am beginning to see much truth in those claims.”

The Trell nodded.
This torn warren possesses such pain. If it could wander, drift, it would deliver horror and chaos. Tremorlor holds it here—Iskaral Pust speaks the truth—but even so, how Raraku has twisted on all sides…

“I sense Soletaken and D'ivers within,” Icarium said. “Closing, seeking to find the House—”

“Believing it to be a gate.”

The lantern glowed into light, a lurid yellow that reached no more than a few paces in any direction. Fiddler rose from his crouch, eyes on Mappo. “There
is
a gate there, just not the one the shapeshifters seek. Nor will they get to it—the grounds of the Azath will take them.”

“As it might all of us,” spoke a new voice.

They turned to see Apsalar's father standing nearby. “Now,” he grated, “I'd be obliged if you could bend your efforts into talkin' my daughter out of going any farther—we can't try the gate, 'cause it's inside the House…”

“Yet you led her here,” Fiddler said. “Granted, we were looking for Tremorlor in any case, but whatever reasons you have are Iskaral Pust's, aren't they?”

Mappo spoke, “Do you have a name, Servant?”

The old man grimaced. “Rellock.” Glancing back to Fiddler, he shook his head. “I can't guess the High Priest's motives. I only did what I was told. A final task for the High Priest, one to clear the debt and I always clears my debt, even to gods.”

“They gave you back the arm you'd lost,” the sapper said.

“And spared me and the life of my daughter, the day the Hounds came. No one else survived, you know…”

Fiddler grunted. “It was
their
Hounds, Rellock.”

“Even so, even so. It's the false trail, you see, the one that leads the shapeshifters astray, leads them—”

“Away from the true gate,” Icarium said, nodding. “The one beneath Pust's temple.”

Rellock nodded. “We had to finish the false trail, is all, me and my daughter. Plantin' signs, leaving trails and the like. Now that's done. We hid in shadow while the shapeshifters rushed in. If I'm fated to die in bed in my village in Itko Kan, then it don't matter how long's the walk.”

“Rellock wants to go back to fishing, hee hee!” Iskaral Pust sang. “But the place you left is not what you return to, oh no. From one day to the next, never mind years. Rellock's done work guided by the hands of gods, yet he dreams of dragging nets, with the sun on his face and lines between his toes! He is the heart of the Empire—Laseen should take note! Take note!”

Fiddler returned to his horse, drew out the crossbow and set the crank, then locked it. “The rest of you can choose as you like; I've got to go in.” He paused, glancing back at the horses. “And we should let the beasts go.” He walked over to his mount and began loosening the girth straps. He sighed, patting the Gral gelding on the neck. “You've done me proud, but you'll do better out here—lead the others, friend, to Sha'ik's camp…”

After a moment, the others strode to their own mounts.

Icarium turned to the Trell. “I too must go.”

Mappo closed his eyes, willing a stillness to his inner turmoil.
Gods, I am a coward. In all ways imaginable, a coward
.

“Friend?”

The Trell nodded.

“Oh, you will all go!” the High Priest of Shadow crooned, still dancing. “Seeking answers and yet more answers! But in my silent thoughts I snigger and warn you all with words that you will not hear
—beware sleight of hand. Compared to the Azath, my immortal lords are but fumbling children!
”

For as far as Duiker could see, stretching west and east, the cedar forest was filled with butterflies. The dusty green of the trees was barely visible through a restless canopy of pale yellow. Along Vathar's gutted verge, bracken rose amidst skeletal branches, forming a solid barrier but for the trader track that carved its way toward the river.

The historian had ridden out from the column and halted his horse on a low hilltop that rose from the studded plain. The Chain of Dogs was stretched, exhaustion straining its links. Dust rode the air above it like a ghostly cape, grasped by the wind and pulled northward.

Duiker drew his eyes from the distant scenes and scanned the hilltop beneath him. Large, angular boulders had been placed in roughly concentric rings: the summit's crown. He had seen such formations before, but could not recall where. A pervasive unease hung in the air over the hilltop.

A rider approached at a trot from the train, showing obvious discomfort with each rise in the stirrups. Duiker scowled. Corporal List was anything but hale. The young man was risking a permanent limp with all this premature activity, but there was no swaying him.

“Historian,” List said as he reined in.

“Corporal, you're a fool.”

“Yes, sir. Word's come from the rearguard's western flank. Korbolo Dom's lead elements have been sighted.”

“West? He plans to reach the river before us then, as Coltaine predicted.”

List nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. “Aye. Cavalry, at least thirty companies.”

“If we have to push through thirty companies of soldiers to gain the ford, we'll be held up—”

“And Korbolo's main force will close jaws on our tail, aye. That's why the Fist is sending the Foolish Dog ahead. He asks that you join them. It'll be a hard ride, sir, but your mare's fit—fitter than most, anyway.”

Two notches up on her girth straps, the bones of her shoulders hard against my knees, yet fitter than most
. “Six leagues?”

“Closer to seven, sir.”

An easy afternoon's ride, under normal circumstances
. “We might well arrive only to wheel mounts and meet a charge.”

“They'll be as weary as we will, sir.”

Not by half, Corporal, and we both know it. Worse, we'll be outnumbered by more than three to one
. “Likely to be a memorable ride, then.”

List nodded, his attention drawn to the forest. “I've never seen so many butterflies in one place.”

“They migrate, like birds.”

“It's said the river is very low.”

“Good.”

“But the crossing's narrow in any case. Most of the river cuts through a gorge.”

“Do you ride in the same fashion, Corporal? Tug one way, tug the other.”

“Just weighing things out, sir.”

“What do your visions reveal of that river?”

List's expression tightened. “It is a border, sir. Beyond it lies the past.”

“And the rings of stones here on this hill?”

The man started, looking down. “Hood's breath,” he muttered, then met the historian's eyes.

Duiker crooked a grin, gathered up his reins. “I see the Foolish Dog's on its way forward. It wouldn't do to have them wait for us.”

 

A loud yapping bit the air at the vanguard, and as the historian trotted to join the gathered officers he was startled to see, among the cattle-dogs, a small, longhaired lapdog, its once perfectly groomed coat a snarl of tangles and burrs.

“I'd supposed that rat had long since gone through one of the dogs,” Duiker said.

“I'm already wishing it had,” List said. “That bark hurts the ears. Look at it, prancing around like it rules the pack.”

“Perhaps it does. Attitude, Corporal, has a certain efficacy that should never be underestimated.”

Coltaine swung his horse around at their approach. “Historian. I have called yet again for the captain of the company of Engineers. I begin to believe the man does not exist—tell me, have you ever seen him?”

Duiker shook his head. “I am afraid not, although I have been assured that he still lives, Fist.”

“By whom?”

The historian frowned. “I…I can't actually recall.”

“Precisely. It occurs to me that the sappers have no captain, and they'd rather not acquire one.”

“That would be a rather complicated deceit to carry off, Fist.”

“You feel they are incapable?”

“Oh no, sir, not at all.”

Coltaine waited, but the historian had nothing further to say on the matter, and after a moment the Fist sighed. “You would ride with the Foolish Dog?”

“Yes, Fist. However, I ask that Corporal List remain here, with the main column—”

“But sir—”

“Not another word from you, Corporal,” Duiker said. “Fist, he's anything but healed.”

Coltaine nodded.

Bult's horse surged between the Fist and the historian. The veteran's lance darted from his hand, speeding in a blur into the high grasses lining the trail. The yapping lapdog shrieked in alarm and raced off, bounding like a ragged ball of mud and straw. “Hood's curse!” Bult snarled. “Again!”

“It's little wonder it won't quieten,” Coltaine commented, “with you trying to kill it daily.”

“You've been shouted down by a lapdog, Uncle?” Duiker asked, brows rising.

“Careful, old man,” the scarred Wickan growled.

“Time for you to ride,” Coltaine told Duiker, his eyes lighting on a new arrival. The historian turned to see Nether. She was pale, looking drawn into herself. Raw pain still showed in her dark eyes, but she sat straight in her saddle. Her hands were black, including the flesh under her fingernails, as if dipped in pitch.

Sorrow flooded the historian and he had to look away.

 

The butterflies rose from the track in a swirling cloud as they reached the forest edge. Horses reared, a few stumbling when struck from behind by those that followed, and what had been a scene of unearthly beauty a moment before now threatened chaos and injury. Then, with the mounts skidding and staggering, jostling, heads tossing, a score of cattle-dogs bolted forward, taking the lead. They plunged into the swarms ahead, the insects rising, parting over the road.

Duiker, spitting out ragged wings that tasted of chalk, caught a momentary glimpse of one of the dogs that made him blink and shake his head in disbelief.
No, I didn't see what I thought I saw. Absurd
. The animal was the one known as Bent and it seemed to be carrying a four-limbed snag of fur in its mouth.

Order was restored, the dogs managing to clear the path, and the canter resumed. Before long, Duiker found himself settling into the steady cadence. There was nothing of the usual shouting, jests or Wickan riding songs to accompany the thunder of hooves and the eerie whisper of hundreds of thousands of butterfly wings caressing the air above them.

The journey assumed a surreal quality, sliding into a rhythm that seemed timeless, as if beneath and above the noise they rode a river of silence. To either side the bracken and dead trees gave way to stands of young cedars, too few on this side of the river to be called a forest. Of mature trees only stumps remained. The stands became a backdrop against which pale yellow swirled in endless motion, the fluttering filling Duiker's peripheral vision until his head ached.

They rode at the pace of the cattle-dogs, and those animals proved tireless, far fitter than the horses and riders that followed in their wake. Each hour was marked by a rest spell, the mounts slowed to a walk, the last reserves of water offered in wax-sealed hide bags. The dogs waited impatiently.

The trader track provided the Clan's best chance of reaching the crossing first. Korbolo Dom's cavalry would be riding through the thinned cedar stands, though what might slow them more than anything else was the butterflies.

When they had traveled slightly over four leagues, a new sound reached them from the west, a strange susurration that Duiker barely registered at first, until its unnatural irregularity brushed him aware. He nudged his mount forward to gain Nether's side.

Her glance of acknowledgment was furtive. “A mage rides with them, clearing the way.”

“Then the warrens are no longer contested.”

“Not for three days now, Historian.”

“How is this mage destroying the butterflies? Fire? Wind?”

“No, he simply opens his warren and they vanish within. Note, the time is longer between each effort—the man tires.”

“Well, that's good.”

She nodded.

“Will we reach the crossing before them?”

“I believe so.”

A short while later they came to a second cleared verge. Beyond it, rock pushed up from the earth to the east and west, creating a ragged line against the insect-filled sky. Directly ahead, the track began a downward slope along the path of a pebble-filled moraine, and at its base was a broad clearing, beyond which was revealed a flattened yellow carpet of butterflies that moved in a mass eastward.

The River Vathar. The funeral procession of drowned insects, down to the sea
.

The crossing itself was marked by twin lines of wooden poles spanning the river, each pole bearing tied rags, like the faded standards of a drowned army. On the eastern downstream side, just beyond the poles, a large ship rested at anchor, bow into the current.

The breath hissed from Nether upon seeing it, and Duiker felt his own tremble of disquiet.

The ship had been burned, scorched in fire from one end to the other, making it entirely black, and not a single butterfly had alighted on it. The sweeps of oars—many snapped—jutted in disarray from the craft's flanks; those with blades were dipped into the current and dead insects adhered to them in lumps.

The Clan rode down toward the open flat that marked this side of the crossing. A sailcloth awning stood on poles near a small hearth which smoldered with foul smoke. Beneath the makeshift tent sat three men.

The cattle-dogs ringed them at a wary distance.

Duiker winced at a sudden yapping bark.
Gods below, I didn't imagine it!

The historian and Nether rode up to halt near the restlessly circling dogs. One of the men beneath the awning, his face and forearms a strangely burnished bronze hue, rose from the coil of rope he'd been sitting on and stepped out.

The lapdog rushed him, then skidded to a halt, its barks ceasing. A ratty tail managed a fitful wag.

The man crouched down, picked up the dog and scratched it behind its mangy ears. He eyed the Wickans. “So who else claims to be in charge of this scary herd?” he asked in Malazan.

“I am,” said Nether.

The man scowled. “It figures,” he muttered.

Duiker frowned. There was something very familiar about these men. “What does that mean?”

“Let's just say I've had my fill of imperious little girls. I'm Corporal Gesler and that's our ship, the
Silanda
.”

“Few would choose that name these days, Corporal,” the historian said.

“We ain't inviting a curse. This
is
the
Silanda
. We come on her…somewhere far from here. So, are you what's left of them Wickans as landed in Hissar?”

Nether spoke. “How did you come to be awaiting us, Corporal?”

“We didn't, lass. We was just outside Ubaryd Bay, only the city had already fallen and we saw more than one unfriendly sail about, so we holed up here, planning to make passage tonight. We decided to make for Aren—”

“Hood's breath!” Duiker exclaimed. “You're the marines from the village! The night of the uprising…”

Gesler scowled at the historian. “You were the one with Kulp, weren't you—”

“Aye, it's him,” Stormy said, rising from his stool and approaching. “Fener's hoof, never thought to see you again.”

“I imagine,” Duiker managed, “you've a tale to tell.”

The veteran grinned. “You got that right.”

Nether spoke, her eyes on the
Silanda
. “Corporal Gesler, what's your complement?”

“Three.”

“The ship's crew?”

“Dead.”

Had he not been so weary, the historian would have noted a certain dryness to that reply.

 

The eight hundred horsewarriors of the Foolish Dog Clan set up three corrals in the center of the clearing, then began establishing perimeter defenses. Scouts struck out through the stands to the west, returning almost immediately with the news that Korbolo Dom's advance outriders had arrived. Weapons were readied among an outer line of defenders, while the rest of the warriors continued the entrenchments.

Duiker dismounted near the awning, as did Nether. As Truth joined Stormy and Gesler outside the awning, Duiker saw that they all shared the same bronze cast to their skin. All three were beardless and their pates sported the short stubble of recent growth.

Despite the chorus of questions crowding his thoughts, the historian's eyes were drawn to the
Silanda
. “You've no sails left, Corporal. Are you suggesting that the three of you man oars and rudder?”

Gesler turned to Stormy. “Ready weapons—these Wickans are already worn down to the bone. Truth, to the dory—we may need to yank our arses out of here fast.” He swung back to study the historian. “
Silanda
goes on her own, y'might say—I doubt we got time to explain, though. This ragtag mess of Wickans are face to face with a last stand, from the looks of it—we might be able to take a hundred or so, if you ain't fussy about the company you'd be in—”

“Corporal,” Duiker snapped. “This ‘ragtag mess' is part of the Seventh. You are Marines—”

“Coastal. Remember? We ain't officially in the Seventh and I don't care if you was Kulp's long-lost brother, if you're of a mind to use that tone on me, you'd better start telling me about the tragic loss of your uniform and maybe I'll buy the song and start callin' you ‘sir' or maybe I won't and you'll get your nose busted flat.”