The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (167 page)

“Who is standing in for the officers?”

“If y' mean who's got things shipshape and all the hands at stations, that'd be me, sir, only our new commander ain't much interested in jawing wi' me. His swordsman's come over to tell me t' get ready to heave to, once the seas have settled some.”

“To transfer cargo.”

The man nodded.

“And then?”

“Well now, if the commander's true to his word, they'll let us go.”

Kalam grunted. “And why would they be so kind?”

“Aye, I've been chewin' that one myself. We got sharp enough eyes—too sharp for them to breathe easy. Besides, there's what's been done to Captain. Got us a little peeved, that has.”

Boots thumped midships and the two men turned to see the bodyguard lead the marines onto the main deck. The lieutenant was looking none too happy.

“It's the gods' puke all round us now, sir,” the sailor muttered. “Raider's closing.”

“So we've arrived,” Kalam said under his breath. He looked across to Salk Elan and found the man's eyes on him. The assassin gave a nod and Elan casually turned away, his hands hidden beneath his cloak.

“That raider's got a shipload of swords, sir. I make fifty or more, all gettin' ready.”

“Leave them to the marines. Your crew stays back—spread the word.”

The sailor moved off.

Kalam made his way to the main deck. The treasurer was facing off with the lieutenant.

“I said to surrender your weapons, Lieutenant!” the treasurer snapped.

“No, sir. We will not.”

The treasurer was trembling with rage. He gestured to his bodyguard.

The big tribesman did not get very far. He made a choking sound, hands reaching up to claw at the knife protruding from his throat. Then he fell to his knees, toppled.

Salk Elan stepped forward. “Change of plans, my dear sir,” he said, bending to retrieve his knife.

The assassin moved behind the treasurer and pushed the point of his long-knife against the man's lower back. “Not a word,” he growled, “not a move.” He then turned to the marines. “Lieutenant, prepare to repel boarders.”

“Aye, sir.”

The raider was coming alongside, the pirates jostling as they prepared to leap the distance between the ships. The difference in height meant that they had a climb to make—nor could those on deck see much of what awaited them on
Ragstopper
. A lone crewman on the raider had begun a lazy climb toward the lone mast's tiny crow's nest.

Too late, you fools
.

The pirate captain—the treasurer's uncle, Kalam assumed—shouted a greeting across the distance.

“Say hello,” the assassin growled. “Who knows, if your cousins are good enough, you might win the day yet.”

The treasurer raised a hand, called out his answer.

There was less than ten paces between the two ships now. Salk Elan approached those of the
Ragstopper
's crew who stood near the marines. “When she's close enough, use the grappling hooks. Make sure we're snug, lads, because if she gets away, she'll hound us from here to Falar.”

The pirate climbing the mast was halfway up, already swinging around to see if he could get a better look at the scene on
Ragstopper
's main deck.

The raider's crew threw lines across. The ships closed.

A cry of warning from the lookout was cut short by a crossbow quarrel. The man toppled, landing amidst his fellows crowding the raider's deck. Angry shouts arose.

Kalam gripped the treasurer by the collar and dragged him back as the first of the pirates leaped the distance and swarmed up
Ragstopper
's flank.

“You've made a terrible mistake,” the treasurer hissed.

The marines answered the assault with a murderous flight of quarrels. The first line of pirates pitched back.

Salk Elan shouted a warning that brought Kalam spinning around. Hovering just off the port side, directly behind the grouped marines, an apparition took form, its wings ten paces across, its shimmering scales bright yellow and blinding in the new day's light. The long reptilian head was a mass of fangs.

An enkar'al—this far from Raraku—Hood's breath!

“I warned you!” the treasurer laughed.

The creature was a blur as it plunged into the midst of the marines, talons crunching through chain and helms.

Kalam whirled again, drove his fist into the grinning treasurer's face. The man dropped to the deck unconscious, blood gushing from his nose and eyes.

“Kalam!” Salk Elan shouted. “Leave the mage to me—help the marines!”

The assassin bolted forward. Enkar'al were mortal enough, just notoriously hard to kill, and rare even in their desert home the assassin had never before faced one.

Seven marines were down. The creature's wings thundered as it hung over the rest, its two taloned limbs darting downward, clashing against shields.

Pirates were streaming onto
Ragstopper
, opposed now by only half a dozen marines, the lieutenant among them.

Kalam had little time to think of what he planned, and none to gauge Salk Elan's progress. “Stiffen shields!” he bellowed, then leaped forward, scrambling onto the shields. The enkar'al twisted around, razor claws lashing at his face. He ducked and drove his long-knife up between the creature's legs.

The point jammed against scale, snapping like a twig.

“Hood!”

Dropping the weapon, Kalam surged upward, clambering over the gnarled, scaly hide. Jaws snapped down at him but could not reach. The assassin swung around, onto the beast's back.

Sorcerous concussions reached his ears from the raider's deck.

Thrusting knife in one hand, his other arm looped around the enkar'al's sinuous neck, Kalam began slashing at the beating wings. The blade slipped through membrane, opening wide, spreading gaps. The enkar'al fell to the deck, into the midst of the surviving marines, who closed in around it, thrusting with their short swords.

The heavier weapons succeeded where long-knife failed, driving between scales. Blood sprayed. The creature screamed, thrashing about in its death throes.

There was fighting on all sides now, as pirates converged to cut down the last of the marines. Kalam clambered off the dying enkar'al, shifted the knife to his left hand and found a short sword lying beside a dead marine, barely in time to meet the charge of two pirates, their heavy scimitars slashing down on both sides.

The assassin leaped between the two men, inside their reach, stabbed swiftly with both weapons, then pushed past, twisting his blades as he dragged them free.

His awareness blurred then, as Kalam surged through a crush of pirates, cutting, slashing and stabbing on all sides. He lost his knife as it jammed between ribs, used the freed hand to yank a helmet away from a collapsing warrior and jam it onto his head—the skullcap was too small, and a glancing blow from a wailing scimitar sent it flying even as he broke through the press, skidding on blood-slick decking as he spun around.

Half a dozen pirates wheeled to attack him.

Salk Elan struck the group from the side, a long-knife in either hand. Three pirates went down in the first attack. Kalam launched himself forward, batting aside a blade, then driving stiff fingers into its wielder's throat.

A moment later the clash of weapons had ceased. Figures were sprawled on all sides, some moaning, some shrieking and gibbering in pain, but most still and silent.

Kalam dropped to one knee, struggling to regain his breath.

“What a mess!” Salk Elan muttered, crouching to wipe his blades clean.

The assassin lifted his head and stared at him. Elan's fine clothes were scorched and soaked in blood. Half his face was bright red, flash-burned, the eyebrow on that side a smear of ash. He was breathing heavily, and every breath caused him obvious pain.

Kalam looked past the man. Not a single marine was standing. A handful of sailors moved among the bodies, pulling free those that still lived—they'd found but two thus far, neither one the lieutenant.

The acting First Mate came to the assassin's side. “Cook wants to know.”

“What?”

“Is that big lizard tasty?”

Salk Elan's laugh became a cough.

“A delicacy,” Kalam muttered. “A hundred jakatas a pound in Pan'potsun.”

“Permission to cross over to the raider, sir,” the sailor continued. “We can resupply.”

The assassin nodded.

“I'll go with you,” Salk Elan managed.

“Appreciate that, sir.”

“Hey,” one of the sailors called, “what should we do with the treasurer? The bastard's still alive.”

“Leave him to me,” Kalam said.

 

The treasurer was conscious as they loaded him down with sacks of coin, making noises behind his gag, his eyes wide. Kalam and Salk Elan carried the man between them to the side and pitched him over without ceremony.

Sharks converged on the splash the man made, but the effort of following him down proved too great for the already sated creatures.

The stripped-down raider was still burning beneath a column of smoke as it vanished beyond the horizon.

 

The Whirlwind lifted itself into a towering wall, higher than the eye could fathom and over a mile in width, around the Holy Desert Raraku. Within the wasteland's heart, all remained calm, the air refulgent with golden light.

Battered ridges of bedrock rose above the sands ahead, like blackened bones. Walking half a dozen paces in front, Leoman paused and turned. “We must cross a place of spirits,” he said.

Felisin nodded. “Older than this desert…they have risen and now watch us.”

“Do they mean us harm, Sha'ik Reborn?” the Toblakai asked, reaching for his weapon.

“No. They may be curious, but they are beyond caring.” She turned to Heboric. The ex-priest was still huddled within himself, hidden beneath his tattoos. “What do you sense?”

He flinched away from her voice, as if every word sent his way was a jagged dart. “One needn't be an immortal ghost not to care,” he muttered.

She studied him. “Fleeing from the joy of being reborn cannot last, Heboric. What you fear is becoming human once again—”

His laugh was bitter, sardonic.

“You do not expect to hear such thoughts from me,” she noted. “For all that you disliked what I was, you are loath to relinquish that child.”

“You're still in that rush of power, Felisin, and it's deluded you into thinking it's delivered wisdom as well. There are gifts, and then there is that which must be earned.”

“He is as shackles about you, Sha'ik Reborn,” the Toblakai growled. “Kill him.”

She shook her head, still eyeing Heboric. “Since wisdom cannot be gifted to me, I would be gifted a wise man. His company, his words.”

The ex-priest looked up at that, eyes narrowing beneath the heavy shelf of his brow. “I thought you'd left me no choice, Felisin.”

“Perhaps it only seemed that way, Heboric.”

She watched the struggle within him, the struggle that had always been there.
We have crossed a war-ravaged land, and all the while we were warring with ourselves. Dryjhna has but raised a mirror…
“I have learned one thing from you, Heboric,” she said.

“And that is?”

“Patience.” She turned about, waved Leoman on.

They approached the folded, scarred outcroppings. There was little evidence that this place had once known sacred rites. The basaltic bedrock was impervious to the usual pitting and grooving that active hands often worked into the stone of holy sites, nor was there any pattern in the few boulders scattered about.

Yet Felisin could sense the presence of spirits, once strong, now but echoes, and their faint regard followed them with unseen eyes. Beyond the rise the desert swept out and down into an immense basin, where the dwindling sea of ancient times had finally died. Suspended dust cloaked the vast depression.

“The oasis lies near the center,” Leoman said at her side.

She nodded.

“Less than seven leagues now.”

“Who carries Sha'ik's belongings?” she asked.

“I do.”

“I will take them.”

He was silent as he set down his pack, untied the flap and began removing items. Clothing, a scatter of a poor woman's rings, bracelets and earrings, a thin-bladed long-knife, its iron stained black except for the honed edge.

“Her sword awaits us at the encampment,” Leoman said when he'd done. “She wore the bracelets on her left wrist only, the rings on her left hand.” He gestured down at some leather straps. “She wound these around her right wrist and forearm.” He paused, looked up at her with hard eyes. “It were best you matched the attire. Precisely.”

She smiled. “To aid in the deceit, Leoman?”

He dropped his gaze. “There may well be some…resistance. The High Mages—”

“Would bend the cause to their wills, create factions within the camp, then clash in a struggle to decide who will rule all. They have not yet done so, for they cannot determine if Sha'ik still lives. Yet they have prepared the ground.”

“Seer—”

“Ah, you accept that much at least.”

He bowed. “None could deny the power that has come to you, yet…”

“Yet I did not myself open the Holy Book.”

He met her eyes. “You did not.”

Felisin looked up. The Toblakai and Heboric stood a short distance away, watching, listening. “What I shall open is not between those covers, but is within me. Now is not the time.” She faced Leoman again. “You must trust in me.”

The skin tightened around the desert warrior's eyes.

“You never could easily yield that, could you, Leoman?”

“Who speaks?”

“We do.”

He was silent.

“Toblakai.”