The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (34 page)

“Gear should have killed her—would have, if not for that idiot captain. What irony, he now tends to her and puts his hand to his sword whenever I seek to come near. He knows I would snuff her life in an instant. But that sword. What god plays with this fool noble?” The puppet spoke on, but his words dwindled into inaudible mumbles.

Quick Ben waited, hoping for more, though what he’d already heard was enough to set his heart pounding. This mad creature was unpredictable, and all that held him in check was a tenuous control—the strings of power he’d attached to Hairlock’s wooden body. But with this kind of madness came strength—enough strength to break those strings? The wizard was no longer as sure of his control as he had been.

Hairlock had fallen silent. His painted eyes still flickered with black flame—the leaking of Chaotic power. Quick Ben took a step forward.

“Pursue Tayschrenn’s plans,” he commanded, then he kicked hard. The toe of his boot struck Hairlock’s chest and sent the puppet spinning. Hairlock flew out over the edge, then fell downward. His outraged snarl dwindled as he disappeared into the yellow clouds.

Quick Ben drew a deep breath of the thick, stale air. He hoped that his abrupt dismissal had been enough to skew Hairlock’s recollections of the past few minutes. Still, he felt those strings of control growing ever more taut. The more this Warren twisted Hairlock, the more power he would command.

The wizard knew what he’d have to do—Hairlock had given it to him, in fact.
Still, Quick Ben wasn’t looking forward to it. The taste of sour bile rose into his mouth and he spat over the ledge. The air stank of sweat and it was a moment before he realized it was his own. He hissed a curse. “Time to leave,” he muttered. He raised his arms.

The wind returned with a roar, and he felt his body flung up, up into the cavern above, then the next. As the caverns blurred by, a single word clung to his thoughts, a word that seemed to twist around the problem of Hairlock like a web.

Quick Ben smiled, but it was a smile responding to terror. And the word remained,
Gear
, and with that name the wizard’s terror found a face.

Whiskeyjack rose amid silence. The expressions arrayed around him were sober, eyes downcast or fixed elsewhere, closed into some personal, private place where swam the heaviest thoughts. The lone exception was Sorry, who stared at the sergeant with bright, approving eyes. Whiskeyjack wondered who was doing the approving within those eyes—then he shook his head, angry that something of Quick Ben and Kalam’s suspicions had slipped into his thoughts.

He glanced away, to see Quick Ben approaching. The wizard looked tired, an ashen tint to his face. Whiskeyjack’s gaze snapped to Kalam.

The assassin nodded. “Everyone, look alive,” he said. “Load up the boat and get it ready.”

Mallet leading the way, the others headed down to the beach.

Waiting for Quick Ben to arrive, Kalam said, “The squad looks beat, Sergeant. Fiddler, Trotts, and Hedge moved enough dirt in those tunnels to bury the Empire’s dead. I’m worried about them. Mallet—he seems to be holding together, so far . . . Still, whatever Sorry knows about fishing, I doubt any one of us could row their way out of a bathtub. And we’re about to try crossing a lake damn near big as a sea?”

Whiskeyjack’s jaw tightened, then he forced a casual shrug into his shoulders. “You know damn well that any Warren opening anywhere near the city will likely be detected. No choice, Corporal. We row. Unless we can rig up a sail.”

Kalam grunted. “Since when does the girl know about fishing?”

The sergeant sighed. “I know. Came out of nowhere, didn’t it?”

“Bloody convenient.”

Quick Ben reached the dome of rock. Both men fell silent at seeing his expression.

“I’m about to propose something you’re going to hate,” the wizard said.

“Let’s hear it,” Whiskeyjack replied, in a voice empty of feeling.

Ten minutes later the three men arrived on the slick pebbled beach, both Whiskeyjack and Kalam looking shaken. A dozen yards from the water’s edge sat the fisher boat. Trotts was straining on the rope attached to the prow hook, gasping and moaning as he leaned forward with all his weight.

The rest of the squad stood in a clump off to one side, quietly discussing Trotts’s futile efforts. Fiddler chanced to look up. Seeing Whiskeyjack marching toward them, he blanched.

“Trotts!” the sergeant bellowed.

The Barghast’s face, woad tattoos stretched into illegibility, turned to Whiskeyjack with wide eyes.

“Let go of the rope, soldier.”

Kalam released an amused snort behind Whiskeyjack, who glared at the others. “Now,” he said, his voice harsh, “since one of you idiots convinced everyone else that loading all the equipment into the boat when it’s still on shore was a good idea, you can all man the rope and drag it into the lake—not you, Trotts. You get inside, get comfortable, there at the stern.” Whiskeyjack paused. He studied Sorry’s expressionless face. “From Fiddler and Hedge I expect this, but I thought I put you in charge of setting things up.”

Sorry shrugged.

Whiskeyjack sighed. “Can you rig us a sail?”

“There’s no wind.”

“Well, maybe there will be!” Whiskeyjack said, exasperated.

“Yes,” Sorry answered. “We have some canvas. We’ll need a mast.”

“Take Fiddler and make one. Now, the rest of you, get this boat into the water.”

Trotts climbed inside and sat down at the stern. He stretched out his long legs and draped an arm over the splashboard. He bared his filed teeth in what might have been a smile.

Whiskeyjack turned to a grinning Kalam and Quick Ben. “Well?” he demanded. “What’re you waiting for?”

The grins died.

Have you seen the one

who stands apart

cursed in a ritual

sealing his kind

beyond death the host

amassed and whirling

like a plague of pollen—

he stands apart

the First among all

ever veiled in time

yet outcast and alone

a T’lan Imass wandering

like a seed unfallen

L
AY OF
O
NOS
T’
OOLAN
T
OC THE
Y
OUNGER

Toc the Younger leaned forward in his saddle and spat. It was his third day out from Pale, and he longed for the city’s high walls around him. The Rhivi Plain stretched out on all sides, cloaked in yellow grass that rippled in the afternoon wind, but otherwise featureless.

He scratched the edges of the wound that had taken his left eye, and muttered under his breath. Something was wrong. He should have met her two days past. Nothing was going as planned these days. What with Captain Paran vanishing before even meeting Whiskeyjack and the story making the rounds about a Hound attacking the 2nd’s last-surviving mage and leaving fourteen dead marines in its wake, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that this rendezvous had gone awry as well.

Chaos seemed a sign of the times. Toc straightened and rose in his saddle. Though there was no true road as such on the Plain, merchant caravans had mapped a rough track running north–south along the western edge. Trade had since died out, but the passing of generations of wagons and horse trains had left its mark. The center of the Plain was home to the Rhivi, those small brown-skinned people who moved with the herds in a seasonal cycle. Though not warlike, the Malazan Empire had forced their hand, and now they fought and scouted alongside Caladan Brood’s Tiste Andii legions against the Empire.

Moranth reports placed the Rhivi far to the north and east, and Toc was thankful for that. He was feeling very alone out in this wasteland, yet loneliness was a lesser evil, all things considered.

Toc’s single eye widened. It seemed he wasn’t so alone, after all. Perhaps a league ahead ravens wheeled. The man cursed and loosened the scimitar sheathed at his hip. He fought the urge to push his horse into a gallop and settled for a quick trot.

As he neared he saw trampled grass off to one side of the trader’s track. The cackling laughter of the ravens was the only sound to break the stillness. They had already begun feeding. Toc reined in his horse and sat unmoving in his saddle, hunched forward. None of the bodies he saw looked as if they were apt to start moving, and the ravens’ preoccupied squabbling was good evidence that any survivors had long gone. Still, he had a bad feeling about this. Something hung in the air, something between a smell and a taste.

He waited, for what he wasn’t certain, but a reluctance to move gripped him. All at once he identified the strangeness he felt: magic. It had been unleashed here. “I hate this,” he muttered, then dismounted.

The ravens gave him room, but not much. Ignoring their outraged shrieks he approached the bodies. They numbered twelve in all. Eight wore the uniforms of
Malazan Marines—but these weren’t average soldiers. His gaze narrowed on the silver sigils on their helmets. “Jakatakan,” he said. Élites. They’d been cut to pieces.

He turned his attention to the remaining bodies and felt a tremor of fear run through him. No wonder the Jakatakan had taken such a beating. Toc strode to one of the bodies and crouched beside it. He knew something of the clan markings among the Barghast, how each hunter group was identified through their woad tattooing. The breath hissed between his teeth and he reached out to turn the savage’s face toward him, then he nodded. These were Ilgres Clan. Before the Crimson Guard had enlisted them, their home territory had been fifteen hundred leagues to the east, among the mountains just south of the Porule. Slowly Toc rose. The Ilgres numbered among the strongest of those who had joined the Crimson Guard at Blackdog Forest, but that was four hundred leagues north. So what had brought them here?

The stench of spilled magic wafted across his face and he turned, his eye fixing on a body he hadn’t noticed before. It lay beside scorched grass. “So,” he said, “my question’s answered.” This band had been led by a Barghast shaman. Somehow, they’d stumbled onto a trail and this shaman had recognized it for what it was. Toc studied the shaman’s body. Killed by a sword wound in the throat. The unleashing of sorcery had been the shaman’s, but no magic had opposed him. And that was odd, particularly since it was the shaman who had died, rather than whomever he’d attacked.

Toc grunted. “Well, she’s said to be tough on mages.” He walked a slow circle around the kill site, and found the trail with little difficulty. Some of the Jakatakan had survived, and from the smaller set of boot-prints, so had their charge. And overlaying these tracks were half a dozen moccasin prints. The trail veered westerly from the trader’s track, yet still led south.

Returning to his horse, Toc mounted and swung the animal around. He removed the short bow from its saddle holster and strung it, then nocked an arrow. There was no hope of coming up on the Barghast undetected. Out on this plain he’d be visible a long time before entering arrow-range—and that range had become much closer now that he’d lost an eye. So they’d be waiting for him, with those damn lances. But he knew he had no choice; he hoped only to take down one or two of them before they skewered him.

Toc spat again, then wrapped the reins around his left forearm and adjusted his grip on the bow. He gave the wide red scar crossing his face a vigorous, painful scratch, realizing that the maddening itch would return in moments anyway. “Oh well,” he said, then drove his heels into the horse’s flanks.

The lone hill that rose up before Adjunct Lorn was not a natural one. The tops of mostly buried stones encircled its base. She wondered what might be entombed within it, then dismissed her misgivings. If those standing stones were of the size she’d seen rising around the mysterious barrows outside Genabaris, this
mound dated back millennia. She turned to the two exhausted marines stumbling in her wake. “We’ll make our stand here. You with the crossbow, I want you lying up top.”

The man ducked his head in answer and staggered to the mound’s grassy summit. Both he and his comrade seemed almost relieved that she’d called a halt, though they knew their death was but minutes away.

Lorn eyed the other soldier. He’d taken a lance barb in his left shoulder and the blood still flowed profusely down the front of his breastplate. How he had stayed on his feet in the last hour was beyond Lorn’s understanding. He looked upon her with eyes dulled by resignation, showing nothing of the pain he must be feeling.

“I’ll hold your left,” he said, shifting his grip on the curved tulwar in his right hand.

Lorn unsheathed her own longsword and fixed her attention northward. Only four of the six Barghast were visible, approaching slowly. “We’re being flanked,” she called out to her crossbowman. “Take the one on your left.”

The soldier beside her grunted. “My life need not be sheltered,” he said. “We were charged with your protection, Adjunct—”

“Quiet,” Lorn commanded. “The longer you stand the better protected I’ll be,” she said.

The soldier grunted again.

The four Barghast were lingering now, just out of bowshot range. Two still carried their lances; the other two gripped short axes. Then a voice cried out far to Lorn’s right and she whirled to see a lance speeding toward her, and behind it a charging Barghast.

Lorn brought her blade across her body and dropped into a crouch as she raised the weapon over her head. Her sword caught the lance’s shaft and even as it did so she was turning, pulling her weapon to one side. The deflected lance sped past and cracked into the hillside off to her right.

Behind her she heard the crossbowman release a quarrel. As she spun back to the four charging Barghast there came a scream of pain from the other side of the mound. The soldier beside her seemed to have forgotten his wound, as he gripped his tulwar with both hands and planted his feet wide.

“Attend, Adjunct,” he said.

The Barghast off to the right cried out and she turned to see him spinning with the impact of a quarrel.

The four warriors before them were no more than thirty feet away. The two with lances now launched them. Lorn made no move, realizing almost immediately that the one aimed at her would fly wide. The soldier beside her dropped away to his left, but not enough to avoid the lance as it thudded into his right thigh. It struck with such force as to drive right through his leg and embed itself in the earth. The soldier was pinned, but his only response was a soft gasp, and he raised his sword to parry an ax swinging at his head.