The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (366 page)

‘We cannot outrun horses,' Karsa growled. ‘Come dark, I will be done running.'

‘Then you attack alone, for it will mean your death.'

‘Alone. That is well. I need no lowlander getting underfoot.'

 

The plunge into night was sudden. Just before the last light failed, the two fugitives, slipping onto a plain crowded with enormous boulders, finally caught sight of their pursuers. Seventeen riders, three spare horses. All but two of the Malazans were in full armour, helmed and armed with either lances or crossbows. The other two riders were easily recognizable to Karsa. Silgar and Damisk.

Karsa suddenly recalled that, the night of their escape from the compound, the stocks had been empty. He'd thought little of it at the time, assuming that the two prisoners had been taken inside for the night.

The pursuers had not seen the two fugitives, who quickly moved behind the cover of the boulders.

‘I have led them to an old campground,' the lowlander at Karsa's side whispered. ‘Listen. They're making camp. The two who weren't soldiers—'

‘Yes. The slavemaster and his guard.'

‘They must have taken that otataral anklet off him. He wants you badly, it seems.'

Karsa shrugged. ‘And he will find me. Tonight. I am done with those two. Neither will see the dawn, this I swear before Urugal.'

‘You cannot attack two squads on your own.'

‘Then consider it a diversion and make good your escape, lowlander.' With that the Teblor swung about and made his way towards the Malazan camp.

He was not interested in waiting for them to settle. The crossbowmen had ridden all day with their weapons cocked. They would probably be replacing the wrapped cords at this very moment, assuming they followed the practice that Karsa had seen among the squads of the Ashok Regiment. Others would be removing saddles and tending to the horses, whilst most of the remaining soldiers would be preparing to cook meals and raise tents. At most, there would be two or three guards establishing a picket around the camp.

Karsa paused behind a huge boulder just beyond the Malazans. He could hear them setting up their position for the night. The Teblor collected a handful of sand and dried the sweat from his palms, then he hefted his blood-sword in his right hand and edged forward.

Three fires had been lit using dung, the hearths ringed with large rocks to cut the light cast out by the flickering flames. The horses stood within a rope corral, three soldiers moving among them. A half-dozen crossbowmen sat nearby, their weapons dismantled on their laps. Two guards stood facing the plain of boulders, one positioned slightly behind the other. The soldier closest to Karsa held a drawn short-sword and a round shield, his companion six paces behind him a short bow, arrow nocked.

There were, in fact, more guards at the pickets than Karsa would have liked, one visible on each other flank of the encampment. The bowman was so positioned as to permit him a field of fire for every one of them.

Crouched before a firepit near the centre of the camp were Silgar, Damisk and a Malazan officer, the latter with his back to Karsa.

The Teblor silently worked his way around the boulder. The guard closest to him was looking to the left at the moment. Five paces to close in a charge. The bowman had turned in his restless scanning towards the guard at the far end of the camp.

Now.

The helmed head was swinging back, the weathered face pale beneath its rim.

And then Karsa was alongside him, his left hand snapping out to close around the man's throat. Cartilage collapsed with a dry popping sound.

Enough to make the bowman whirl.

Had his attacker the short legs of a lowlander, he would have had a chance to loose his arrow. As it was, he barely had time to draw before the Teblor reached him.

The man's mouth opened to shout as he tensed to throw himself backward. Karsa's sword flashed outward, sending the helmed head tumbling from shoulders. Armour clattered behind him as the corpse fell to the ground.

Faces swung round. Shouts rang through the night.

Three soldiers rose from a hearth directly in front of the Teblor. Short-swords
hissed from scabbards. One Malazan threw himself into Karsa's path in an effort to give his companions time to find their shields. A brave and fatal gesture, for his weapon's reach was no match for the blood-sword. The man shrieked as he lost both forearms to a vicious lateral slash.

One of the next two Malazans had managed to ready his round shield, raising it into the path of Karsa's downward swing. The bronze-banded wood exploded at the impact, the arm holding it shattering beneath it. As the soldier crumpled, the Teblor leapt over him, quickly cutting down the third man.

A blaze of pain along the top of his right thigh as a lance ripped a path to thrum into the dusty ground behind him. Wheeling, he whipped his blade around in time to bat aside another lance which had been about to strike his chest.

Footsteps rushing him from behind and to the left—one of the picket guards—while directly before him, three paces distant, stood Silgar, Damisk and the Malazan officer. The slavemaster's face was twisted with terror, even as sorcery rose into a writhing wave in front of him, then roared towards Karsa.

The magic struck him at the precise moment that the picket guard arrived. Sorcery engulfed them both. The Malazan's scream ripped through the air. Grunting at the writhing, ghostly tendrils seeking to snare him in place, Karsa surged through it—and came face to face with the slavemaster.

Damisk had already fled. The officer had thrown himself to one side, deftly ducking beneath Karsa's side-swing.

Silgar threw his hands up.

Karsa cut them off.

The slavemaster reeled back.

The Teblor chopped down, severing Silgar's right leg just above the ankle. The man toppled onto his upper shoulders, legs in the air. A fourth swing sent the left foot spinning.

Two soldiers rushed Karsa from his right, a third one trailing.

A bellowed command rang through the night, and the Teblor—weapon readied—was surprised to see the three men peel away. By his count there were five others, as well as the officer and Damisk. He spun, glaring, but there was no-one—just the sounds of boots retreating into the darkness. He looked to where the horses had been corralled—the animals were gone.

A lance darted towards him. Snarling, Karsa splintered it as the back of his bloodsword deflected it to one side. He paused, then padded over to Silgar. The slavemaster had curled into a tight ball. Blood flowed from the four stumps. Karsa picked him up by his silk belt and carried him back to the plain of boulders.

As he moved around the first of the massive rocks a voice spoke low and clear from the shadows. ‘This way.'

The Teblor grunted. ‘You were supposed to have fled.'

‘They will regroup, but without the mage we should be able to elude them.'

Karsa followed his companion deeper into the studded plain, then, after fifty or so paces, the man stopped and turned to the Teblor.

‘Of course, with your prize leaving a trail of blood, there will be little trouble in following us. Do something with him now.'

Karsa dropped Silgar to the ground, kicked him onto his back. The slavemaster was unconscious.

‘He will bleed to death,' the lowlander said. ‘You have your revenge. Leave him here to die.'

Instead, the Teblor began cutting strips from Silgar's telaba, tying them tight about the stumps at the ends of his arms and legs.

‘There will still be some leakage—'

‘Which we shall have to live with,' Karsa growled. ‘I am not yet done with this man.'

‘What value senseless torture?'

Karsa hesitated, then he sighed. ‘This man enslaved an entire tribe of Teblor. The Sunyd's spirit is broken. The slavemaster is not as a soldier—he has not earned
swift
death. He is as a mad dog, to be driven into a hut and killed—'

‘So kill him.'

‘I shall…once I have driven him mad.'

Karsa lifted Silgar once more, throwing him over a shoulder. ‘Lead us on, lowlander.'

Hissing under his breath, the man nodded.

 

Eight days later, they reached the hidden pass through the Pan'potsun Mountains. The Malazans had resumed their pursuit, but had not been seen since two days past, indicating that the efforts to evade them had succeeded.

They ascended the steep, rocky trail through the course of the day. Silgar was still alive, fevered and only periodically aware. He had been gagged to prevent him making any sounds. Karsa carried him on his shoulder.

Shortly before dusk they reached the summit, and came to the southwest edge. The path wound down into a shadowed plain. At the crest they sat down to rest.

‘What lies beyond?' Karsa asked as he dropped Silgar to the ground. ‘I see naught but a wasteland of sand below.'

‘And so it is,' his companion replied in a reverent tone. ‘And in its heart, the one I serve.' He glanced over at Karsa. ‘She will, I think, be interested in you…' he smiled,
‘Teblor.'

Karsa scowled. ‘Why does the name of my people amuse you so?'

‘Amuse? More like
appals
. The Fenn had fallen far from their past glories, yet they remembered enough to know their old name. You cannot even make that claim. Your kind walked this earth when the T'lan Imass were still flesh. From your blood came the Barghast and the Trell. You are Thelomen Toblakai.'

‘These are names I do not know,' Karsa growled, ‘even as I do not know yours, lowlander.'

The man returned his gaze to the dark lands below. ‘I am named Leoman. And the one I serve, the Chosen One to whom I will deliver you, she is Sha'ik.'

‘I am no-one's servant,' Karsa said. ‘This Chosen One, she dwells in the desert before us?'

‘In its very heart, Toblakai. In Raraku's very heart.'

A single kick from the burly soldier in the lead sent the flimsy door crashing inward. He disappeared into the gloom beyond, followed by the rest of his squad. From within came shouts, the sound of crashing furniture.

Gamet glanced over at Commander Blistig.

The man shrugged. ‘Aye, the door was unlocked—it's an inn, after all, though such a lofty title for this squalid pit is stretching things somewhat. Even so, it's a matter of achieving the proper effect.'

‘You misunderstood me,' Gamet replied. ‘I simply cannot believe that your soldiers found him
here
.'

Unease flitted across Blistig's solid, broad features. ‘Aye, well, we've rounded up others in worse places, Fist. It's what comes of—' he squinted up the street, ‘of broken hearts.'

Fist. The title still clambers into my gut like a starving crow.
Gamet frowned. ‘The Adjunct has no time for broken-hearted soldiers, Commander.'

‘It was unrealistic to arrive here expecting to stoke the fires of vengeance. Can't stoke cold ashes, though don't take me wrong, I wish her the Lady's luck.'

‘Rather more is expected of you than that,' Gamet said drily.

The streets were virtually deserted at this time of day, the afternoon heat oppressive. Of course, even at other times, Aren was not as it once had been. Trade from the north had ceased. Apart from Malazan warships and transports, and a few fisherboats, the harbour and river mouth were empty. This was, Gamet reflected, a scarred populace.

The squad was re-emerging from the inn, carrying with them a rag-clad, feebly struggling old man. He was smeared in vomit, the little hair he had left hanging like grey strings, his skin patched and grey with filth. Cursing at the stench, the soldiers of Blistig's Aren Guard hurried their burden towards the cart's bed.

‘It was a miracle we found him at all,' the commander said. ‘I truly expected the old bastard to up and drown himself.'

Momentarily unmindful of his new title, Gamet turned and spat onto the cob
bles. ‘This situation is contemptible, Blistig. Damn it,
some
semblance of military decorum—of
control
, Hood take me—should have been possible…'

The commander stiffened at Gamet's tone. The guards gathered at the back of the cart all turned at his words.

Blistig stepped close to the Fist. ‘You listen to me and listen well,' he growled under his breath, a tremble shivering across his scarred cheeks, his eyes hard as iron. ‘I stood on the damned wall and
watched
. As did every one of my soldiers. Pormqual running in circles like a castrated cat—that historian and those two Wickan children wailing with grief. I watched—we all watched—as Coltaine and his Seventh were cut down before our very eyes. And if that wasn't enough, the High Fist then marched out his army and ordered them to disarm! If not for one of my captains delivering intelligence concerning Mallick Rel being an agent of Sha'ik's, my Guard would have died with them. Military decorum? Go to Hood with your military decorum, Fist!'

Gamet stood unmoving at the commander's tirade. It was not the first time that he'd felt the snap of this man's temper. Since he had arrived with Adjunct Tavore's retinue, and was given the liaison role that took him to the forefront of dealing with the survivors of the Chain of Dogs—both those who had come in with the historian Duiker, and those who had awaited them in the city—Gamet had felt under siege. The rage beneath the mantle of propriety erupted again and again. Hearts not simply broken, but shattered, torn to pieces, trampled on. The Adjunct's hope of resurrecting the survivors—making use of their local experience to steady her legions of untested recruits—was, to Gamet, seeming more and more unrealistic with each day that passed.

It was also clear that Blistig cared little that Gamet made daily reports to the Adjunct, and could reasonably expect his tirades to have been passed on to Tavore, in culpable detail. The commander was doubly fortunate, therefore, that Gamet had as yet said nothing of them to the Adjunct, exercising extreme brevity in his debriefings and keeping personal observations to the minimum.

As Blistig's words trailed away, Gamet simply sighed and approached the cart to look down on the drunken old man lying on its bed. The soldiers backed away a step—as if the Fist carried a contagion.

‘So,' Gamet drawled, ‘this is Squint. The man who killed Coltaine—'

‘Was a mercy,' one of the guards snapped.

‘Clearly, Squint does not think so.'

There was no reply to that. Blistig arrived at the Fist's side. ‘All right,' he said to his squad, ‘take him and get him cleaned up—and under lock and key.'

‘Aye, sir.'

Moments later the cart was being pulled away.

Gamet faced Blistig once more. ‘Your rather unsubtle plan of getting yourself stripped of rank, shackled in irons, and sent back to Unta on the first ship, will not succeed, Commander. Neither the Adjunct, nor I, care one whit for your fragile state. We are preparing to fight a war, and for that you will be needed. You and every one of your crumple-faced soldiers.'

‘Better we'd died with the rest—'

‘But you did not. We have three legions of recruits, Commander. Wide-eyed and young but ready to shed Seven Cities blood. The question is, what do you and your soldiers intend to show them?'

Blistig glared. ‘The Adjunct makes the captain of her House Guard into a Fist, and I'm supposed to—'

‘Fourth Army,' Gamet snapped. ‘In the 1st Company at its inception. The Wickan Wars. Twenty-three years' service, Commander. I knew Coltaine when you were still bouncing on your mother's knee. I took a lance through the chest but proved too stubborn to die. My commander was kind enough to retire me to what he figured was a safe position back in Unta. Aye, captain of the guard in the House of Paran. But I'd damn well earned it!'

After a long moment, a wry grin twisted Blistig's mouth. ‘So you're as happy to be here as I am.'

Gamet grimaced, made no reply.

The two Malazans returned to their horses.

Swinging himself onto the saddle, Gamet said, ‘We're expecting the last transport of troops from Malaz Island some time today. The Adjunct wants all the commanders assembled in her council chambers at the eighth bell.'

‘To what end?' Blistig asked.

If I had my way, to see you drawn and quartered.
‘Just be there, Commander.'

 

The vast mouth of the Menykh River was a brown, turgid swirl that reached half a league out into Aren Bay. Leaning on the transport's starboard railing just behind the forecastle, Strings studied the roiling water below, then lifted his gaze to the city on the river's north shore.

He rubbed at the bristles on his long jaw. The rusty hue of his beard in youth had given way now to grey…which was a good thing as far as he was concerned.

The city of Aren had changed little in the years since he had last seen it, barring the paucity of ships in the harbour. The same pall of smoke hanging over it, the same endless stream of sewage crawling the currents into the Seeker's Deep—through which the broad-beamed, sluggish transport now sailed.

The newly issued leather cap chafed the back of his neck; it had damned near broken his heart to discard his old one, along with his tattered leather surcoat, and the sword-belt he'd stripped from a Falah'dan guard who no longer needed it. In fact, he had retained but one possession from his former life, buried down in the bottom of his kit bag in his berth below decks, and he had no intention of permitting its discovery by anyone.

A man came alongside him, leaned casually on the rail and stared out over the water to the city drawing ever nearer.

Strings offered no greeting. Lieutenant Ranal embodied the worst of Malazan military command. Nobleborn, commission purchased in the city of Quon, arrogant and inflexible and righteous and yet to draw a sword in anger. A walking death sentence to his soldiers, and it was the Lord's luck that Strings was one of those soldiers.

The lieutenant was a tall man, his Quon blood the purest it could be; fair-skinned, fair-haired, his cheekbones high and wide, his nose straight and long, his mouth full. Strings had hated him on sight.

‘It is customary to salute your superior,' Ranal said with affected indifference.

‘Saluting officers gets them killed, sir.'

‘Here on a transport ship?'

‘Just getting into the habit,' Strings replied.

‘It has been plain from the start that you have done this before, soldier.' Ranal paused to examine the supple, black knuckles of his gloved hands. ‘Hood knows, you're old enough to be the father of most of those marines sitting on the deck behind us. The recruiting officer sent you straight through—you've not trained or sparred once, yet here I am, expected to accept you as one of my soldiers.'

Strings shrugged, said nothing.

‘That recruiting officer,' Ranal went on after a moment, his pale blue eyes fixed on the city, ‘said she saw from the start what you'd been trying to hide. Oddly, she considered it—you, to be more precise—a valuable resource, even so much as to suggesting I make you a sergeant. Do you know why I find that odd?'

‘No, sir, but I am sure you will tell me.'

‘Because I think you were a deserter.'

Strings leaned far forward and spat down into the water. ‘I've met more than a few, and they've all got their reasons and no two of them alike. But there's one thing they all have in common.'

‘And what is that?'

‘You'll never find them in an enlistment line, Lieutenant. Enjoy the view, sir.' He turned away and wandered back to where the other marines sprawled on the midship deck. Most had long since recovered from their seasickness, yet their eagerness to disembark was palpable. Strings sat down, stretched out his legs.

‘Lieutenant wants your head on a plate,' a voice murmured beside him.

Strings sighed and closed his eyes, lifting his face to the afternoon sun. ‘What the lieutenant wants and what he gets ain't the same thing, Koryk.'

‘What he'll get is the bunch of us right here,' the Seti half-blood replied, rolling his broad shoulders, strands of his long black hair whipping across his flat-featured face.

‘The practice is to mix recruits with veterans,' Strings said. ‘Despite everything you've heard, there's survivors of the Chain of Dogs in yon city over there. A whole shipload of wounded marines and Wickans made it through, I've heard. And there's the Aren Guard, and the Red Blades. A number of coastal marine ships straggled in as well. Finally, there's Admiral Nok's fleet, though I imagine he'll want to keep his own forces intact.'

‘What for?' another recruit asked. ‘We're heading for a desert war, aren't we?'

Strings glanced over at her. Frighteningly young, reminding him of another young woman who'd marched alongside him a while ago. He shivered slightly, then said, ‘The Adjunct would have to be a fool to strip the fleet. Nok's ready to begin the reconquest of the coast cities—he could've started months ago. The empire needs secure ports. Without them we're finished on this continent.'

‘Well,' the young woman muttered, ‘from what
I've
heard, this Adjunct might be just what you said, old man. Hood knows, she's nobleborn, ain't she?'

Strings snorted, but said nothing, closing his eyes once more. He was worried the lass might be right. Then again, this Tavore was sister to Captain Paran. And Paran had shown some spine back in Darujhistan. At the very least, he was no fool.

‘Where'd you get the name “Strings”, anyway?' the young woman asked after a moment.

Fiddler smiled. ‘That tale's too long to tell, lass.'

 

Her gauntlets thudded down onto the tabletop, raising a cloud of dust. Armour rustling, sweat soaking the under-padding between her breasts, she unstrapped her helmet and—as the wench arrived with the tankard of ale—dragged out the rickety chair and sat down.

Street urchin messenger. Delivering a small strip of green silk which bore, written in a fine hand, the Malazan words:
Dancer's Tavern, dusk
. Lostara Yil was more irritated than intrigued.

The interior of Dancer's Tavern consisted of a single room, the four walls making some ancient claim to whitewashed plaster, remnants of which now clung to the adobe bricks in misshapen, wine-stained patches, like a map of a drunkard's paradise. The low ceiling was rotting before the very eyes of owner and patron, dust sifting down in clouds lit by the low sun that cast streams of light through the front window's shutters. Already, the foam-threaded surface of the ale in the tankard before her sported a dull sheen.

There were but three other patrons, two bent over a game of slivers at the table closest to the window, and a lone, mumbling, semi-conscious man slumped against the wall beside the piss trench.

Although early, the Red Blade captain was already impatient to see an end to this pathetic mystery, if mystery it was meant to be. She'd needed but a moment to realize who it was who had set up this clandestine meeting. And while a part of her was warmed by the thought of seeing him again—for all his affectations and airs he was handsome enough—she had sufficient responsibilities to wrestle with as Tene Baralta's aide. Thus far, the Red Blades were being treated as a company distinct from the Adjunct's punitive army, despite the fact that there were few soldiers available with actual fighting experience…
and even fewer with the backbone to put that experience to use.

The disordered apathy rife in Blistig's Aren Guard was not shared by the Red Blades. Kin had been lost in the Chain of Dogs, and that would be answered.

If
…

The Adjunct was Malazan—an unknown to Lostara and the rest of the Red Blades; even Tene Baralta, who had met her face to face on three occasions, remained unable to gauge her, to take her measure. Did Tavore trust the Red Blades?