The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (62 page)

Paran sighed deeply.
Too many regrets. Lost chances—and with each one passing the less human we all became, and the deeper into the nightmare of power we all sank
.

Was his life irretrievable? He wished he had an answer to that question.

Movement in the south caught his attention, and with it he became aware of a rumbling sound, rising up from the earth around him. He rose in the saddle. A wall of dust curled over the ridge of land directly ahead. He swung his mount westward and nudged it into a trot. Moments later he reined in. The curtains of dust hung in that direction as well. Cursing, he spurred to the crest of a nearby rise. Dust. Dust on all sides.
A storm? No, the thunder is too regular
. He rode down to the plain below and reined in again, wondering what to do. The dust wall rose, cresting the hill he faced. The deep rumbling grew. Paran squinted into the dust. Dark, massive shapes moved there, spreading out to either side, sweeping down on his position. In moments he was surrounded.

Bhederin. He’d heard tales of the huge shaggy creatures, moving across the inner plains in herds half a million strong. On all sides, Paran could see nothing but the humped reddish-brown, dust-caked backs of the beasts. There was nowhere he could lead his horse, no place of safety within sight. Paran leaned back in his saddle and waited.

Something flashed to his left, tawny and low to the ground. The captain half turned, just as something heavy hammered him from the right and clung, dragging him from the saddle. Cursing, Paran thumped heavily in the dust, grappling with wiry limbs, ragged black hair. He drove his knee up, connecting with a solid stomach. His attacker rolled to one side, gasping. Paran scrambled to his feet, found himself facing a youth in tanned hides. The boy sprang to close with the captain once again.

Paran sidestepped and clouted the boy on the side of the head. His attacker sprawled unconscious.

Piercing cries were sounding on all sides. The Bhederin were parting, moving away. Figures emerged, closing on Paran’s position. Rhivi. Sworn enemies to the Empire, allied in the north with Caladan Brood and the Crimson Guard.

Two warriors came to the unconscious boy’s side; each took an arm and dragged him off.

The herd had come to a stop.

Another warrior approached, striding boldly up to Paran. His dust-streaked face was stitched with dyed threads, black and red, from high on the cheeks
down to the jawline then up and around the mouth. A Bhederin hide rode the broad line of his shoulders. Stopping less than an arm’s length in front of Paran, the warrior reached out and closed his hand on the grip of Chance. Paran struck away the hand. The Rhivi smiled, stepped back and loosed a high-pitched, ululating cry.

Figures rose on the backs of the surrounding Bhederin, lances balanced in one hand as they crouched on the shaggy backs. The huge animals beneath the warriors ignored them as if they were but tick-birds.

The two Rhivi who had taken the boy away now returned, joining the stitch-faced warrior, who said something to the one on his left. This man moved forward. Before Paran could react, he surged into motion, throwing a leg behind the captain then driving his shoulder into Paran’s chest.

The warrior fell on top of him. A knife blade slid against the line of Paran’s jaw, sliced through the helmet strap. The iron skullcap was pulled away and fingers snagged a handful of his hair. Dragging the warrior with him, Paran pushed himself upright. He’d had enough. Death was one thing, death without dignity quite another. As the Rhivi’s hand twisted, pulling his head up, the captain reached between the warrior’s legs and found his own handful. He yanked hard.

The warrior shrieked, releasing Paran’s hair. A knife appeared again, flashing at the captain’s face. He ducked to one side, his free hand snapping up to grasp the wrist, pushing away the knife. He squeezed once more with his other hand. The Rhivi shrieked again, then Paran let go, twisted round and drove his armored elbow into the man’s face.

Blood spattered like rain in the dust. The warrior reeled back, crumpled to the ground.

A lance haft hammered a glancing blow along Paran’s temple. He spun round with the impact. A second lance struck him in the hip, hard as a kick from a horse, numbing his leg. Something pinned his left foot to the ground.

Paran unsheathed Chance. The weapon was almost knocked from his hand with a ringing, pealing sound. He swung it upward and it was struck again. Half blinded with pain, sweat and dust, Paran reared upright, shifting to a two-handed grip and drawing Chance down to a center guard position. The sword’s blade was struck a third time, but he retained his grip.

There was silence. Gasping, blinking, Paran raised his head, looked around.

Rhivi surrounded him, but none moved. Their dark eyes were wide.

Paran flicked his gaze to his weapon, glared back up and around at the warriors, then his eyes returned to Chance. And stayed there.

Three iron lanceheads sprouted from the blade like leaves, each point split and jammed, the hafts shattered and gone, leaving only white wood jutting out from the sockets.

He looked down at his pinned foot. A lance had struck, through his boot, but the wide blade of the head was turned, its flat side pressing against his foot. Splintered wood surrounded him. Paran glanced at his hip, saw no wound. A jagged tear marred the leather of Chance’s scabbard.

The Rhivi warrior with the smashed face lay motionless a few feet from
where Paran stood. The captain saw that his mount and the packhorses were untouched and had not moved. The other Rhivi had pulled back. The encirclement now divided as a small figure approached.

A girl, perhaps no more than five years old. The warriors moved aside from her as if in awe, or fear, possibly both. She wore antelope skins tied with cord at the waist, and nothing on her feet.

There was something familiar about her, a way of walking, her stance as she stopped before him—something in her heavy-lidded eyes—that made Paran frown uneasily.

The girl stopped to regard him, her small round face slowly coming to mirror Paran’s own frown. She raised one hand, as if reaching for him, then dropped it. The captain found he could not pull away his eyes from her.
Child, do I know you?

As the silence between them lengthened, an old woman came up behind the girl, rested a wrinkled hand on her shoulder. Looking worn, almost exasperated, the old woman studied the captain. The girl beside her said something, the quick lilting language of the Rhivi, surprisingly low-pitched for one so young. The old woman crossed her arms. The girl spoke again, insistently.

The old woman addressed Paran in Daru, “Five lances claimed you as our enemy.” She paused. “Five lances were wrong.”

“You’ve plenty more,” Paran said.

“So we have, and the god favoring your sword has no followers here.”

“So finish it,” Paran growled. “I’m tired of the game.”

The girl spoke, a tone of command that rang like iron on stone.

The old woman turned in obvious surprise.

The girl continued, her words now evidently explanatory. The old woman listened, then swung her dark, glittering gaze back to the captain. “You are Malazan, and Malazans have chosen to be the enemies of the Rhivi. Is this choice yours as well? And know this: I will recognize a lie when I hear it.”

“I am Malazan by birth,” Paran said. “I have no interest in calling the Rhivi my enemy. I would rather have no enemies at all.”

The old woman blinked. “She offers you words to ease your grief, soldier.”

“Meaning?”

“You are to live.”

Paran did not quite trust this turn of events. “What words has she for me? I’ve never seen her before.”

“Nor has she seen you before. Yet you know each other.”

“No, we don’t.”

The old woman’s eyes hardened. “Will you hear her words or not? She offers you a gift. Will you throw it back in her face?”

Profoundly uneasy, he said. “No, I suppose not.”

“The child says you need not grieve. The woman you know has not passed through the Arching Trees of Death. Her journey was beyond the lands you can see, beyond those of the spirit that all mortals sense. And now she has returned. You must be patient, soldier. You will meet again, so this child promises.”

“Which woman?” Paran demanded, his heart pounding.

“The one you thought dead.”

He looked again at the girl. The familiarity returned like a blow to his chest. He staggered back a step. “Not possible,” he whispered.

The girl withdrew, dust swirling. She vanished.

“Wait!”

Another cry sounded. The herd lurched into motion, closing in, obscuring the Rhivi. In moments all Paran could see were the backs of the giant beasts, shuffling past. He thought to push among them, but knew it would bring him only death.

“Wait!” the captain shouted again, but the sound of hundreds—thousands—of hooves on the plain drowned his efforts.

Tattersail!

It was fully an hour before the Bhederin herd’s tail end appeared. As the last of the beasts strolled past the captain, he looked around. The wind rolled the dust cloud eastward, over the sloping, humped hills.

Paran climbed into the saddle, swung his mount southward once again. The hills of Gadrobi rose before him.
Tattersail, what did you do?
He recalled Toc noting the trail of small prints leading from the scorched pillar that had been all that was left of Bellurdan and Tattersail.
Hood’s Breath, did you plan such a thing? And why the Rhivi? Reborn, already a child of five, maybe six—are you even mortal anymore, woman? Have you ascended? You’ve found yourself a people, a strange, primitive people—to what end? And when we next meet, how old will you appear to be then?

He thought again about the Rhivi. They’d been driving the herd north, a herd big enough to feed . . .
an army on the march. Caladan Brood—he’s on his way to Pale. That is something I don’t think Dujek’s prepared for. Old Onearm’s in trouble
.

He had another two hours of riding before sunset. Beyond the Gadrobi Hills was Lake Azur, and the city of Darujhistan. And within the city, Whiskeyjack and his squad.
And in that squad, a young woman I’ve been preparing to meet for three years. The god possessing her—is he even my enemy anymore?

The question arrived unbidden, turning his heart cold.
Gods, what a journey this has been, and here I had thought to travel this plain unnoticed. A foolish thought. Scholars and mages write endlessly of fell convergences—it seems I am a walking convergence, a lodestone to draw Ascendants. To their peril, it seems. My sword Chance answered those five lances, despite my treatment of one of the Twins. How to explain that? The truth is, my cause has become my own. Not the Adjunct’s, not the Empire’s. I said I’d rather have no enemies at all—and the old woman saw those as true words. And so, it seems, they are
.

Endless surprises, Ganoes Paran. Ride on, see what comes
.

______

The track climbed a hillside and the captain spurred his horse up the slope. Reaching the summit, he yanked hard on the reins. The horse snorted indignantly and swung her head round, eyes rolling. But Paran’s attention was elsewhere. He leaned back in the saddle and loosened his sword.

A heavily armored man struggled to his feet beside a small campfire. Beyond him was a hobbled mule. The man tottered, his weight on one leg, and unsheathed a bastard sword, which he then leaned on as he regarded the captain.

Paran nudged his mount forward, scanning the immediate area. It seemed that the warrior was alone. He brought his horse to a halt with thirty feet between them.

The man spoke in Daru. “I’m in no shape for a fight, but if you want one it’s yours.”

Once again Paran found himself thankful for the Adjunct’s insistence that he be thoroughly schooled: his reply was as fluent as this native’s. “No. I’ve lost the taste for it.” He waited, leaning forward in the saddle, then grinned at the mule. “Is that beast a War Mule?”

The man barked a laugh. “I’m sure it thinks it is,” he said, relaxing. “I’ve food to spare, traveler, if you’re of a mind.”

The captain dismounted and approached. “My name’s Paran,” he said. He sat down by the fire.

The other followed suit, the fire between them. “Coll,” he grunted, stretching out a bandaged leg. “You down from the north?”

“Genabaris, initially. Spent some time in Pale, recently.”

Coll’s brows rose at that. “You’ve the look of a mercenary,” he said, “though likely an officer. I heard it was pretty bad up there.”

“I arrived a little late,” Paran admitted. “Saw lots of rubble and lots of dead, so I’m inclined to believe the stories.” He hesitated, then said, “There was a rumor in Pale that Moon’s Spawn is now over Darujhistan.”

Coll grunted, tossing a handful of sticks onto the fire. “So it is,” he said. He gestured at a battered pot tucked against the coals. “That’s stew, if you’re hungry. Help yourself.”

Paran realized he was famished. He accepted Coll’s offer gratefully. As he ate, using a wooden spoon the man loaned him, he thought to ask about that leg wound. But then he recalled his Claw training. When you play a soldier, you play it to the hilt. Nobody talks about what’s obvious. Something staring you in the eye, you look around it and grumble about the weather. Anything important will come out in its own time. Soldiers have nothing to look forward to, making patience an easy virtue, and sometimes it’s not just a virtue, but a contest of indifference. So Paran emptied the pot, while Coll waited in casual silence, poking at the fire and adding the occasional stick from an enormous pile behind him—where the wood had come from was anybody’s guess.

Finally, Paran wiped his mouth with his sleeve and scrubbed the spoon as clean as he could manage without water. He sat back then, and belched.

Coll spoke. “You heading into Darujhistan, then?”

“I am. And you?”

“Should be able to manage it in another day or so, though I can’t say I’m looking forward to riding into the city on the back of a mule.”

Paran looked westward. “Well,” he said, squinting, “sun’s about down. Mind if I share this camp for the night?”