The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (545 page)

The manservant leaned on a merlon and watched the Edur army approach down the west road. An occasional glance to his left allowed him to monitor the closing of the fleet, and the vast, deadly demon beneath it—a presence spanning the width of the river and stretching back downstream almost half a league. A terrible, brutal creature straining at its sorcerous chains.

The west gate was open and unguarded. The lead elements of the Edur army had closed to within a thousand paces, advancing with caution. Ranging to either side of the column, in the ditches and across the fields, the first of the Soletaken wolves came into view.

Bugg sighed, looked over at the other occupant along the wall. ‘You will have to work fast, I think.'

The artist was a well-known and easily recognized figure in Letheras. A mass of hair that began on his head and swept down to join with the wild beard cover
ing jaw and neck, his nub of a nose and small blue eyes the only visible features on his face. He was short and wiry, and painted with agitated capering—often perched on one leg—smearing paint on surfaces that always seemed too small for the image he was seeking to capture. This failing of perspective had long since been elevated into a technique, then a legitimate style, in so far as artistic styles could be legitimate. At Bugg's comment he scowled and rose up on one leg, the foot of the other against the knee. ‘The scene, you fool! It is burned into my mind, here behind this eye, the left one. I forget nothing. Every detail. Historians will praise my work this day, you'll see. Praise!'

‘Are you done, then?'

‘Very nearly, very very nearly, yes, nearly done. Every detail. I have done it again. That's what they will say. Yes, I have done it again.'

‘May I see?'

Sudden suspicion.

Bugg added, ‘I am something of an historian myself.'

‘You are? Have I read you? Are you famous?'

‘Famous? Probably. But I doubt you've read me, since I've yet to write anything down.'

‘Ah, a lecturer!'

‘A scholar, swimming across the ocean of history.'

‘I like that. I could paint that.'

‘So, may I see your painting?'

A grand gesture with a multicoloured hand. ‘Come along, then, old friend. See my genius for yourself.'

The board perched on its easel was wider than it was high, in the manner of a landscape painting or, indeed, a record of some momentous vista of history. At least two arm-lengths wide. Bugg walked round for a look at the image captured on the surface.

And saw two colours, divided in a rough diagonal. Scratchy red to the right, muddy brown to the left. ‘Extraordinary,' Bugg said. ‘And what is it you have rendered here?'

‘What is it? Are you blind?' The painter pointed with a brush. ‘The column! Those approaching Edur, the vast army! The standard, of course. The standard!'

Bugg squinted across the distance to the tiny patch of red that was the vanguard's lead standard. ‘Ah, of course. Now I see.'

‘And my brilliance blinds you, yes?'

‘Oh yes, all comprehension has been stolen from my eyes indeed.'

The artist deftly switched legs and perched pensively, frowning out at the Edur column. ‘Of course, they're closer now. I wish I'd brought another board, so I could elaborate yet further on the detail.'

‘Well, you could always use this wall.'

Bushy brows arched. ‘That's…clever. You are a scholar indeed.'

‘I must be going, now.'

‘Yes, yes, stop distracting me. I need to focus, you know. Focus.'

Bugg quietly made his way down the stone stairs. ‘A fine lesson,' he mut
tered under his breath as he reached street level. Details…so many things to do this day.

He walked deserted streets, avoiding the major intersections where barricades had been raised and soldiers moved about in nervous expectation. The occasional furtive figure darted into and out of view as he went on.

A short time later the manservant rounded a corner, paused, then approached the ruined temple. Standing near it was Turudal Brizad, who looked over as Bugg reached his side.

‘Any suggestions?' the god known as the Errant asked.

‘What do you mean?'

‘The mortal I requested for this task has not appeared.'

‘Oh. That's not good, since the Jheck are at the gates even as we speak.'

‘And the first Edur from the ships have disembarked, yes.'

‘Why not act for yourself?' Bugg asked.

‘I cannot. My aspect enforces certain…prohibitions.'

‘Ah, the nudge, the pull or the push.'

‘Yes, only that.'

‘You have been about as direct as you can be.'

The Errant nodded.

‘Well, I see your dilemma,' Bugg said.

‘Thus my query—do you have any suggestions?'

The manservant considered for a time, whilst the god waited patiently, then he sighed and said, ‘Perhaps. Wait here. If I am successful; I will send someone to you.'

‘All right. I trust you will not be overlong.'

‘I hope not. Depends on my powers of persuasion.'

‘Then I am encouraged.'

Without another word, Bugg headed off. He quickened his pace as he made his way towards the docks. Fortunately, it was not far, and he arrived at Front Street to see that only the main piers had been commandeered by the landing warriors of the Tiste Edur. They were taking their time, he noted, a sign of their confidence. No-one was opposing their landing. Bugg hurried along Front Street until he came to the lesser berths. Where he found his destination, a two-masted, sleek colt of a ship that needed new paint but seemed otherwise relatively sound. There was no-one visible on its deck, but as soon as he crossed the gangway he heard voices, then the thump of boots.

Bugg had reached the mid-deck when the cabin door swung open and two armed women emerged, swords out.

Bugg halted and held up his hands.

Three more figures appeared once the two women stepped to either side. A tall, grey-maned man in a crimson surcoat, and a second man who was clearly a mage of some sort. The third arrival Bugg recognized.

‘Good morning, Shand. So this is where Tehol sent you.'

‘Bugg. What in the Errant's name do you want?'

‘Well said, lass. And are these fine soldiers Shurq Elalle's newly hired crew?'

‘Who is this man?' the grey-haired man asked Shand.

She scowled. ‘My employer's manservant. And your employer works for my employer. His arrival means there's going to be trouble. Go on, Bugg, we're listening.'

‘First, how about some introductions, Shand?'

She rolled her eyes. ‘Iron Bars—'

‘An Avowed of the Crimson Guard,' Bugg cut in, smiling. ‘Forgive me. Go on, please.'

‘Corlo—'

‘His High Mage. Again, forgive me, but that will have to do. I have very little time. I need these Guardsmen.'

‘You need us for what?' Iron Bars asked.

‘You have to kill the god of the Soletaken Jheck.'

The Avowed's expression darkened. ‘Soletaken. We've crossed paths with Soletaken before.'

Bugg nodded. ‘If the Jheck reach their god, they will of course protect it—'

‘How far away?'

‘Just a few streets, in an abandoned temple.'

Iron Bars nodded. ‘This god, is it Soletaken or D'ivers?'

‘D‘ivers.'

The Avowed turned to Corlo, who said, ‘Ready up, soldiers, we've some fighting ahead.'

Shand stared at them. ‘What do I tell Shurq if she shows up in the meantime?'

‘We won't be long,' Iron Bars said, drawing his sword.

‘Wait!' Shand swung to Bugg. ‘You! How did you know they'd be here?'

The manservant shrugged. ‘Errant's nudge, I suppose. Take care, Shand, and say hello to Hejun and Rissarh for me, won't you?'

 

Fifty paces' worth of empty cobbled road between them and the yawning gates of Letheras. Trull Sengar leaned on his spear and glanced over at Rhulad.

The emperor, fur-shouldered and hulking, was pacing like a beast, eyes fixed on the gateway. Hannan Mosag and his surviving K'risnan had advanced ten paces in the midst of shadow wraiths, the latter now sliding forward.

The wraiths reached the gate, hovered a moment, then swept into the city.

Hannan Mosag turned and strode back to where the emperor and his brothers waited. ‘It is as we sensed, Emperor. The Ceda's presence is nowhere to be found. There are but a handful of minor mages among the garrison. The wraiths and demons will take care of them. We should be able to carve our way through the barricades and reach the Eternal Domicile by noon. A fitting time for you to ascend the throne.'

‘Barricades,' Rhulad said, nodding. ‘Good. We wish to fight. Udinaas!'

‘Here.' The slave stepped forward.

‘This time, Udinaas, you will accompany the Household under Uruth's charge.'

‘Emperor?'

‘We shall not risk you, Udinaas. Should we fall, however, you will be sent to us immediately.'

The slave bowed and stepped back.

Rhulad swung to where stood his father and three brothers. ‘We shall enter Letheras now. We shall claim our empire. Ready your weapons, blood of ours.'

They began moving forward.

Trull's gaze held on Hannan Mosag for a moment longer, wondering what the Warlock King was hiding, then he followed his brothers.

 

Hull Beddict was among the second company to enter Letheras, and twenty paces in from the gate he stepped to one side and halted, watching as the wary Edur marched on. None paid him any attention. From the nearby buildings, pallid faces looked down from windows and through slightly parted shutters. From out over the docks gulls wheeled and cried out in a cacophony of panic. Somewhere ahead, down the main avenue, the fighting began at the first barricade. There was a thump of sorcery, then screams.

A meaningless waste of life. He hoped not all the garrison soldiers would be so foolishly brave. There was no longer any reason for fighting. Lether was conquered. All that was left was to depose the ineffectual king and his treacherous advisers. The one truly just act of this war, as far as Hull Beddict was concerned.

His grieving for his brother Brys was done. Although Brys was not yet dead, his death was none the less as certain an outcome as could exist. The King's Champion would die defending the king. It was tragic, and unnecessary, but it would be the last tradition acted out by the Letherii, and nothing Hull or anyone else could do or say would prevent it.

All the ashes had settled in Hull's mind. The slaughter behind them, the murder waiting ahead of them. He had betrayed, to see an end to the corrupt insanity of his people. That the victory demanded the death of Brys offered the final layer of ash to shroud Hull's soul. There would be no absolution.

Even so, one responsibility remained with Hull. As the third company of Tiste Edur entered through the gates, he turned and made his way down a side alley.

He needed to speak to Tehol. To explain things. To tell his brother that he knew of the deceptions, the schemes. Tehol was, he hoped, the one man in Letheras who would not hate Hull for what he had done. He needed to speak to him.

He needed something like forgiveness.

For not being there to save their parents all those years ago.

For not being there to save Brys now.

Forgiveness, a simple thing.

 

Udinaas stood among the other slaves of the Sengar household, awaiting their turn to enter Letheras. Word had already come that there was fighting ahead, somewhere. Uruth stood nearby, and with her was Mayen, wrapped in a heavy cloak, her face looking ravaged, eyes like a thing hunted. Uruth remained close,
as if fearing an escape attempt from the younger woman. Not out of compassion for Mayen, however. The child was all that mattered now.

Poor Mayen.

He knew how she felt. Something like a fever gripped him, an urgency in his blood. Sweat trickled down his body beneath his tunic. His skin felt on fire. He held himself still, on the edge, he feared, of losing control.

The sensation had come on suddenly, like an inner wave of panic, a faceless terror. Worsening—

Head spinning, it was a moment before he realized what was happening. Then horror flooded through Udinaas.

The Wyval.

It was coming to life within him.

 

B'nagga in the lead, the Jheck entered the city. Soletaken, loping with heads sunk low, one and all seeking the scent of their god. And finding it within the fear-sour current drifting through Letheras, an impatience, a sentience consumed with rage.

Gleeful howls, rising to fill the city, reverberating down the streets, from over nine thousand wolves. Striking terror amongst cowering citizens. Nine thousand wolves, white-furred, racing on a score of convergent routes towards the old temple, an inward rush of bestial madness.

B'nagga joined his voice to the chilling howls, his heart filled with savage joy. The Pack awaited them. Demons, wraiths, Tiste Edur and damned emperors were as nothing now. Momentary allies of convenience. What would rise here in Letheras was the ascension of the Jheck. An empire of Soletaken, with a god-emperor upon the throne. Rhulad torn to pieces, every Edur sundered into bloody, sweet-tasting meat, rich marrow from split bones, skulls broken open, brains devoured.

This day would end in such slaughter that none who survived would forget.

This day, B'nagga told himself with a silent laugh, belonged to the Jheck.

 

Seventy-three of his company's finest soldiers formed a shield wall behind Moroch Nevath. They held the principal bridge crossing Main Canal, a suitable site for this pathetic drama. Best of all, the Third Tiers were arrayed behind them, on which citizens had now appeared. Spectators—a Letherii talent. No doubt wagers were being made, and at least Moroch Nevath would have an audience.

The hooded looks, the rumours of his cowardice at High Fort, would cease this day. It wasn't much, but it would suffice.