The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (43 page)

“Rake’s disdain for everything beneath him has left us stumbling and flat on our faces one time too many,” Brood said. He glanced at Crone and raised a hairless eyebrow. “You’re scattering my armies. Stop it.”

Crone stopped pacing and squatted. “Once again,” she sighed, “Caladan Brood the Great Warrior seeks the bloodless way. Rake gets that coin and he’ll pull Oponn right in and spit the Lord and Lady on that lovely sword of his. Imagine the chaos that would ensue—a wonderful ripple that could topple gods and deluge realms.” She heard her own excitement and reveled in its blatancy. “Such fun.”

“Quiet, bird,” Brood said. “The Coin Bearer needs protection, now that Rake’s recalled his mages.”

“But who is there to match the Tiste Andii?” Crone asked. “Surely you don’t intend to leave your campaign here?”

Brood bared his filed teeth in a nasty grin. “Ha, caught you out, I think. Good. You need taking down a notch or two, Crone. You don’t know everything. How does it feel?”

“I’ll permit such torture from you, Brood,” Crone squawked, “only because I respect your temper. Just don’t push me too far. Tell me, who around here can match Rake’s mages? This is something I must know. You and your secrets. How can I be a true servant to my master’s wishes when he withholds vital information?”

“What do you know of the Crimson Guard?” Brood asked.

“Scant,” Crone replied. “A company of mercenaries held in high regard among such kind, what of them?”

“Ask Rake’s Tiste Andii for their assessment, crow.”

Crone’s feathers arched indignantly. “Crow? I’ll not take such insults! I’m leaving. Returning to the Moon, there to devise such a list of foul names for Caladan Brood as to stain the realms!”

“Begone with you, then,” Brood said, smiling. “You’ve done well.”

“If only Rake wasn’t even more stingy than you,” Crone said, as she hopped toward the doorway, “my spying skills would be used on you instead of on him.”

Brood spoke. “One last thing, Crone.”

She stopped at the entrance and cocked her head.

The warrior’s attention had returned to the map. “When you find yourself over the Rhivi Plain far to the south, mark whatever powers you sense active there. But be careful, Crone. Something’s brewing, and it stinks.”

Crone’s cackle was her only reply, and then she was gone.

Brood stood over his map, thinking hard. He remained unmoving for close to twenty minutes, then he straightened. Stepping outside he searched the sky. Crone was nowhere in sight. He grunted and turned to survey the nearest tents. “Kallor! Where are you?”

A tall gray man stepped around a tent and walked slowly up to Brood. “The Gold have bogged down in the forest, Warlord,” he said in a gravelly voice, his ancient, lifeless eyes meeting Brood’s. “A storm comes down from the Laederon Heights. The Moranth’s Quorls will be grounded for some time.”

Brood nodded. “I’m leaving you in charge. Heading to Fox Pass.”

Kallor raised an eyebrow.

Brood stared at him, then said, “Let’s not get too excited. People will start thinking you’re not as bored with all this as you make out to be. I’m meeting with Prince K’azz.”

A faint smile quirked Kallor’s thin lips. “What madness has Jorrick Sharplance perpetrated now?”

“None, so far as I’m aware,” Brood answered. “Ease up on the lad, Kallor. He pulled off the last one. Remember, you were young once, too.”

The old warrior shrugged. “Jorrick’s last success belongs to the Lady of Luck if anything. It surely was not the product of genius.”

“I’ll not argue you that one,” Brood said.

“May I ask, what is the reason for speaking with K’azz in person?”

Brood looked around. “Where’s that damn horse of mine, anyway?”

“Probably cowering,” Kallor said dryly. “Word is, his legs have become shorter and stubbier beneath your prodigious self. I remain unconvinced that such a thing is possible, but who can argue with a horse?”

“I need some of the Prince’s men,” Brood said, heading off down an aisle. “To be more precise,” he said, over his shoulder, “I need the Crimson Guard’s Sixth Blade.”

Watching Caladan Brood stride away, Kallor sighed. “Rake again, is it, Warlord? You’d do better to follow my advice and destroy him. You will rue dismissing my advice, Brood.” His dull eyes followed Brood until he turned a corner and disappeared from sight. “Consider that my last warning.”

The charred earth crunched under their horses’ hooves. The glance that Toc the Younger threw back over his shoulder was received with a grim nod from Captain Paran. They were nearing the source of last night’s column of fire.

As Toc had promised, leaving the city had proved a simple matter; none accosted them, and the gates had been left ajar. Their horses were indeed Wickan-bred, lean and long-limbed; and though their ears flattened and eyes rolled they held to the discipline of their reins.

The still midday air was heavy with the stench of sulfur, and already a fine coat of ash covered the two riders and their horses. Overhead the sun was a bright copper orb. Toc stopped his mount and waited for the captain to arrive.

Paran wiped grimy sweat from his brow and adjusted his helmet. The camail felt heavy on his shoulders as he squinted ahead. They were heading toward the place where the pillar of fire had come from. The night just past had been one of deep fear for Paran: neither he nor Toc had ever witnessed such a conflagration of sorcery. Though they had camped leagues away they had felt the heat pouring from it. Now, as they approached, all Paran could feel was dread.

Neither he nor Toc spoke. Perhaps a hundred yards eastward rose something that looked like a misshapen tree stump, one gnarled, blackened branch reaching skyward. In a perfect circle around it the grassy sward was untouched for perhaps five yards. A dark smudge lay in this unburned area, slightly off to one side.

Paran nudged his mount forward and Toc followed after unslinging and stringing his bow. As Toc caught up with the captain, Paran saw that his companion had nocked an arrow.

The closer they approached the less like a tree the charred thing looked. The limb that reached out from it had familiar lines. Paran’s gaze narrowed some more, then he cursed and spurred his horse. He closed the distance quickly, leaving behind a startled Toc.

Arriving, he dismounted and strode up to what he now saw were two bodies, one gigantic. Both had been burned beyond recognition, but Paran held no illusions as to who the other was.
All that come close to me, all that I care for
. . . “Tattersail,” he whispered, then fell to his knees.

Toc joined him, but remained in the saddle, standing in the stirrups and scanning the horizon. A minute later he dismounted and walked a slow circle around the embracing bodies, stopping at the dark smudge they’d seen from a distance. He crouched to study it.

Paran raised his head and struggled to keep his eyes on the figures. The limb belonged to the giant. The fire that had consumed them both had blackened the arm for most of its length, but its hand was only slightly scorched. Paran stared at the grasping fingers and wondered what salvation the giant had reached for in its moment of death.
The freedom that is death, a freedom denied me. Damn the gods, damn them all
. Numbed, he was slow to realize that Toc called to him.

It was an effort to rise to his feet. He staggered to where Toc still crouched. On the ground before the man was a torn burlap sack.

“Tracks lead from this,” Toc said shakily, a strange expression on his face. He scratched vigorously at his scar, then rose. “Heading northeast.”

Paran looked at his companion without comprehension. “Tracks?”

“Small, like a child’s. Only . . .”

“Only what?”

The man hugged himself. “Those feet were mostly bones.” He met the captain’s blank stare. “As if the soles were gone, rotted or burned away—I don’t know . . . Something horrible has happened here, Captain. I’m glad it’s heading away, whatever it is.”

Paran turned back to the two entwined figures. He flinched. One hand reached up to touch his face. “That’s Tattersail,” he said, in a flat voice.

“I know. I’m sorry. The other one is the Thelomen High Mage Bellurdan. It has to be.” Toc looked down at the burlap sack. “He took leave to come out here and bury Nightchill.” He added quietly, “I don’t think Nightchill needs burying anymore.”

“Tayschrenn did this,” Paran said.

Something in the captain’s voice brought Toc round.

“Tayschrenn. And the Adjunct. Tattersail was right. They would not have killed her otherwise. Only she didn’t die easily, she never took the easy path in anything. Lorn’s taken her from me, just like she’s taken everything else.”

“Captain . . .”

Paran’s hand unconsciously gripped the pommel of his sword. “That heartless bitch has a lot coming to her, and I mean to deliver it.”

“Fine,” Toc growled. “Just let’s be smart about it.”

Paran glared at him. “Let’s get going, Toc the Younger.”

Toc glanced one last time into the northeast. This wasn’t over, he told himself, shivering. He winced as a savage, painful itch rose beneath his scar. Though he tried, he found he could not reach through to it. And a formless fire burned behind his empty eye-socket—something he had been experiencing often lately. Muttering, he strode to his horse and climbed into the saddle.

The captain had already swung his own mount and the trailing horse southward. The set of the man’s back spoke volumes to Toc the Younger, and he wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake in accompanying him. Then he shrugged. “Well,” he said, to the two charred bodies, as he rode past, “it’s done, ain’t it?”

The plain below lay sheathed in darkness. Looking to the west, Crone could still see the setting sun. She rode the highest winds, the air around her bitter cold. The Great Raven had left Caladan Brood’s company two days ago. Since then, she’d detected no sign of life in the wastes below. Even the massive herds of Bhederin, which the Rhivi were in the habit of following, had disappeared.

At night, Crone’s senses were limited, though it was in such darkness that she could best detect sorcery. As she winged ever southward she scanned the land far below with a hungry eye. Others among her brethren from Moon’s Spawn regularly patrolled the plains in service to Anomander Rake. She’d yet to see one, but it was only a matter of time. When she did, she would ask them if they’d detected any source of magic recently.

Brood was not one to overreact. If something was happening down here that soured his palate, it could be momentous, and she wanted to know of it before anyone else.

Fire flashed in the sky ahead of her, perhaps a league distant. It flared briefly, tinged green and blue, then disappeared. Crone tensed. That had been sorcery, but of a kind she’d never known. As she swept into the area the air washed over her hot and wet, with a charnel stench that reminded her of—she cocked her head—burned feathers.

A cry sounded ahead, angry and frightened. Crone opened her beak to reply, then shut it again. It had come from one of her kin, she was certain, but for some reason she felt the need to hold her tongue. Then another ball of fire flashed, this time close enough to Crone that she saw what it engulfed: a Great Raven.

Her breath hissed from her beak. In that brief instant of light she’d seen half a dozen more of her brethren wheeling in the sky ahead of her and to the west. She thrummed her wings and angled toward them.

When she could hear their panicked flapping about her on all sides, Crone called out, “Children! Attend to Crone! The Great Mother has come!”

The ravens voiced relieved cries and closed in around her. They all shrieked at
once in an effort to tell her what was happening, but Crone’s angry hiss silenced them at once. “I heard among you Hurtle’s voice,” Crone said, “did I not?”

One male swept near her. “You did,” he replied. “I am Hurtle.”

“I’ve just come from the north, Hurtle. Explain to me what has occurred.”

“Confusion,” Hurtle drawled sarcastically.

Crone cackled. She loved a good joke more than anyone. “Indeed! Go on, lad!”

“Before dusk Kin Clip detected a flare of sorcery below her on the plain. It was odd, its feel, but clearly a Warren had just opened and something had issued onto the plain. Kin Clip spoke to me of this, then investigated. I shadowed her from above during the descent, and so saw what she saw. Crone, it has come to my mind that once again the art of soul-shifting has been exercised.”

“Eh?”

“Traveling on the ground and having just come from a Warren was a small puppet,” Hurtle explained, “animate and possessing great power. When this puppet detected Clip he gestured at her and she burst into flames. Since then, the creature has disappeared into its Warren, reappearing only to kill another of us.”

“Why do you remain?” Crone demanded.

Hurtle chuckled. “We would determine its course, Crone. Thus far, it seems to travel southward.”

“Very well. Now that that’s been confirmed, leave and take the others with you. Return to Moon’s Spawn and report to our lord.”

“As you command, Crone.” Hurtle dipped a wing and slid off into darkness. His voice called out and was answered by a chorus.

Crone waited. She wanted to be certain that they had all departed the area before doing some investigating on her own. Was this puppet the thing birthed in the pillar of fire? It didn’t seem likely. And what kind of sorcery did it employ that no Great Raven could absorb? There was an Eldering taste about this. Soul-shifting was no simple cantrip, and it had never been common among the wizards even when its techniques were known. Too many tales of madness born within the shifting.

Perhaps this puppet had survived from these times. Crone thought about that. Unlikely.

Magic bloomed on the plain below, then faded. A small magical force scampered from the spot, weaving as it ran. There, thought Crone, there lie the answers to my questions. Destroy my younglings, will you? Would you so easily disdain Crone?

She crooked her wings and dropped. The air whistled around her. She raised a penumbra of protective magic that encapsulated her just as the small figure ceased its march and looked up. Faintly, Crone heard a manic laugh rise up to meet her, then the puppet gestured.