The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (132 page)

In the Fist's command tent, as the sun dropped beneath the horizon, Coltaine held a debriefing.

Duiker, with the now ever-present Corporal List standing at his shoulder, sat wearily in a camp chair, listening to the commanders make their reports with a dismay that slowly numbed. Lull had lost fully half his marines, and the auxiliaries that had supported him had fared even worse. The Weasel Clan had been mauled during the withdrawal—a shortage of horses was now their main concern. From the Seventh, captains Chenned and Sulmar recounted a seemingly endless litany of wounded and dead. It seemed that their officers and squad sergeants, in particular, had taken heavy losses. The pressure against the defensive line had been enormous, especially early in the day—before support had arrived in the form of the Red Blades and the Foolish Dog Clan. The tale of Baria Setral and his company's fall rode many a breath. They had fought with demonic ferocity, holding the front ranks, purchasing with their lives a crucial period in which the infantry was able to regroup. The Red Blades had shown valor, enough to earn comment from Coltaine himself.

Sormo had lost two of his warlock children in the struggle against the Semk wizard-priests, although both Nil and Nether survived. “We were lucky,” he said after reporting the deaths in a cool, dispassionate tone. “The Semk god is a vicious Ascendant. It uses the wizards to channel its rage, without regard for their mortal flesh. Those unable to withstand their god's power simply disintegrated.”

“That'll cut their numbers down,” Lull said with a grunt.

“The god simply chooses more,” Sormo said. More and more he had begun to look like an old man, even in his gestures. Duiker watched the youth close his eyes and press his knuckles against them. “More extreme measures must be taken.”

The others were silent, until Chenned gave voice to everyone's uncertainty. “What does that mean, Warlock?”

Bult said, “Words carried on breath can be heard…by a vengeful, paranoid god. If no alternative exists, Sormo, then proceed.”

The warlock slowly nodded.

After a moment Bult sighed loudly, pausing to drink from a bladder before speaking. “Kamist Reloe is heading north. He'll cross at the river mouth—Sekala town has a stone bridge. But to do so means he loses ten, maybe eleven days.”

“The Guran infantry will stay with us,” Sulmar said. “As will the Semk. They need not stand toe to toe to do us damage. Exhaustion will claim us before much longer.”

Bult's wide mouth pressed into a straight line. “Coltaine had proclaimed tomorrow a day of rest. Cattle will be slaughtered, the enemy's dead horses butchered and cooked. Weapons and armor repaired.”

Duiker lifted his head. “Do we still march for Ubaryd?”

No one answered.

The historian studied the commanders. He saw nothing hopeful in their faces. “The city has fallen.”

“So claimed a Tithansi warleader,” Lull said. “He had nothing to lose in telling us since he was dying anyway. Nether said he spoke truth. The Malazan fleet has fled Ubaryd. Even now tens of thousands of refugees are being driven northeast.”

“More squalling nobles to perch on Coltaine's lap,” Chenned said with a sneer.

“This is impossible,” Duiker said. “If we cannot go to Ubaryd, what other city lies open to us?”

“There is but one,” Bult said. “Aren.”

Duiker sat straight. “Madness! Two hundred leagues!”

“And another third, to be precise,” Lull said, baring his teeth.

“Is Pormqual counterattacking? Is he marching north to meet us halfway? Is he even aware that we exist?”

Bult's gaze held steady on the historian. “Aware? I would think so, Historian. Will he march out from Aren? Counterattack?” The veteran shrugged.

“I saw a company of Engineers on my way here,” Lull said. “They were weeping, one and all.”

Chenned asked, “Why? Is their invisible commander lying on the bottom of the Sekala with a mouthful of mud?”

Lull shook his head. “They're out of cussers now. Just a crate or two of sharpers and burners. You'd think every one of their mothers had just croaked.”

Coltaine finally spoke. “They did well.”

Bult nodded. “Aye. Wish I'd been there to see the road go up.”

“We were,” Duiker said. “Victory tastes sweetest in the absence of haunting memories, Bult. Savor it.”

 

In his tent, Duiker awoke to a soft, small hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to darkness.

“Historian,” a voice said.

“Nether? What hour is this? How long have I slept?”

“Perhaps two,” she answered. “Coltaine commands you to come with me. Now.”

Duiker sat up. He'd been too tired to do more than simply lay his bedroll down on the floor. The blankets were sodden with sweat and condensation. He shivered with chill. “What has happened?” he asked.

“Nothing, yet. You are to witness. Quickly now, Historian. We have little time.”

He stepped outside to a camp quietly moaning in the deepest hour of darkness before the arrival of false dawn. Thousands of voices made the dreadful, gelid sound. Wounds troubling exhausted sleep, the soft cries of soldiers beyond the arts of the healers and cutters, the lowing of livestock, shifting hooves underscoring the chorus in a restless, rumbling beat. Somewhere out on the plain north of them rose faint wailing, wives and mothers grieving the dead.

As he followed Nether's spry, wool-cloaked form down the twisting lanes of the Wickan encampment, the historian was drawn into sorrow-laden thoughts. The dead were gone through Hood's Gate. The living were left with the pain of their passage. Duiker had seen many peoples as Imperial Historian, yet among them not one in his recollection did not possess a ritual of grief.
For all our personal gods, Hood alone embraces us all, in a thousand guises. When the breath from his gates brushes close, we ever give voice to drive back that eternal silence. Tonight, we hear the Semk. And the Tithansi. Uncluttered rituals. Who needs temples and priests to chain and guide the expression of loss and dismay—when all is sacred?

“Nether, why do the Wickans not grieve this night?”

She half turned as she continued walking. “Coltaine forbids it.”

“Why?”

“For that answer you must ask him. We have not mourned our losses since this journey began.”

Duiker was silent for a long moment, then he said, “And how do you and the others in the three clans feel about that, Nether?”

“Coltaine commands. We obey.”

They came to the edge of the Wickan encampment. Beyond the last tent stretched a flat killing strip, perhaps twenty paces wide, then the freshly raised wicker walls of the pickets, with their long bamboo spikes thrust through them, the points outward and at the height of a horse's chest. Mounted warriors of the Weasel Clan patrolled along them, eyes on the dark, stone-studded plain beyond.

In the killing strip stood two figures, one tall, the other short, both lean as specters. Nether led Duiker up to them.

Sormo. Nil. “Are you,” the historian asked the tall warlock, “all that remain? You told Coltaine you lost but two yesterday.”

Sormo E'nath nodded. “The others rest their young flesh. A dozen horsewives tend to the mounts and a handful of healers tend to wounded soldiers. We three are the strongest, thus we are here.” The warlock stepped forward. There was a febrile air about him, and in his voice was a tone that asked for something more than the historian could give. “Duiker, whose eyes met mine across the Whirlwind ghosts in the trader camp, listen to my words. You will hear the fear—every solemn chime. You are no stranger to that dark chorus. Know, then, that this night I had doubts.”

“Warlock,” Duiker said quietly, as Nether stepped forward to take position on Sormo's right—turning so that all three now faced the historian—“what is happening here?”

In answer Sormo E'nath raised his hands.

The scene shifted around them. He saw moraines and scree slopes rising behind the three warlocks, the dark sky seeming to throb its blackness overhead. The ground was wet and cold beneath Duiker's moccasins. He looked down to see glittering sheets of brittle ice covering puddles of muddy water. The crazed patterns in the ice reflected myriad colors from a sourceless light.

A breath of cold wind made him turn around. A guttural bark of surprise was loosed from his throat. The historian stepped back, his being filling with horror. Rotten, blood-smeared ice formed a shattered cliff before him, the tumbled, jagged blocks at its foot less than ten paces away. The cliff rose, sloping back until the streaked face vanished within mists.

The ice was full of bodies, human-shaped figures, twisted and flesh-torn. Organs and entrails were spilled out at the base as if from a giant abattoir. Slowly melting chunks of blood-soaked ice created a lake from which the body parts jutted or rose in islands humped and slick.

Exposed flesh had begun to putrefy into misshapen gelatinous mounds, through which bones could faintly be seen.

Sormo spoke behind him. “He is within it, but close.”

“Who?”

“The Semk god. An Ascendant from long ago. Unable to challenge the sorcery, he was devoured with the others. Yet he did not die. Can you feel his anger, Historian?”

“I think I'm beyond feeling. What sorcery did this?”

“Jaghut. To stem the tides of invading humans, they raised ice. Sometimes swiftly, sometimes slowly, as their strategy dictated. In places it swallowed entire continents, obliterating all that once stood upon them. Forkrul Assail civilizations, the vast mechanisms and edifices of the K'Chain Che'Malle, and of course the squalid huts of those who would one day inherit the world. The highest of Omtose Phellack, these rituals never die, Historian. They rise, subside, and rise yet again. Even now, one is born anew on a distant land, and those rivers of ice fill my dreams, for they are destined to create vast upheaval, and death in numbers unimaginable.”

Sormo's words held a timbre of antiquity, the remorseless cold of ages folding over one another, again and again, until it seemed to Duiker that every rock, every cliff, every mountain moved in eternal motion, like mindless leviathans. Shivers raced the blood in his veins until he trembled uncontrollably.

“Think of all such ice holds,” Sormo went on. “Looters of tombs find riches, but wise hunters of power seek…ice.”

Nether spoke. “They have begun assembling.”

Duiker finally turned away from the ravaged, flesh-marred ice. Shapeless swirls and pulses of energy now surrounded the three warlocks. Some waxed bright and energetic, while others blossomed faintly in fitful rhythm.

“The spirits of the land,” Sormo said.

Nil fidgeted in his robes, as if barely restraining the desire to dance. A dark smile showed on his child-face. “The flesh of an Ascendant holds much power. They all hunger for a piece. With this gift we bring them, further service is bound.”

“Historian.” Sormo stepped closer, reaching out one thin hand until it rested on Duiker's shoulder. “How thin is this slice of mercy? All that anger…brought to an end. Torn apart, each fragment consumed. Not death, but a kind of dissipation—”

“And what of the Semk wizard-priests?”

The warlock winced. “Knowledge, and with it great pain. We must carve the heart from the Semk. Yet that heart is worse than stone. How it uses the mortal flesh…” He shook his head. “Coltaine commands.”

“You obey.”

Sormo nodded.

Duiker said nothing for a dozen heartbeats, then he sighed. “I have heard your doubts, Warlock.”

Sormo's expression showed an almost fierce relief. “Cover your eyes, then, Historian. This will be…messy.”

Behind Duiker, the ice erupted with an explosive roar. Cold crimson rain struck the historian in a rolling wall, staggering him.

A savage shriek sounded behind him.

The spirits of the land bolted forward, spinning and tumbling past Duiker. He whirled in time to see a figure—flesh rotted black, arms long as an ape's—clawing its way out of the dirty, steaming slush.

The spirits reached it, swarming over the figure. It managed a single, piercing shriek before it was torn to pieces.

 

The eastern horizon was a streak of red when they returned to the killing strip. The camp was already awakening, the demands of existence pressing once more upon ragged, weary souls. Wagon-mounted forges were being stoked, fresh hides scraped, leather stretched and punched or boiled in huge blackened pots. Despite a lifetime spent in cities, the Malazan refugees were learning to carry their city with them—or at least those meager remnants vital to survival.

Duiker and the three warlocks were sodden with old blood and clinging fragments of flesh. Their reappearance on the plain was enough to announce their success and the Wickans raised a wail that ran through each clan's encampment, the sound as much sorrowful as triumphant, a fitting dirge to announce the fall of a god.

From the distant Semk camps to the north, the rituals of mourning had fallen off, leaving naught but ominous silence.

Dew steamed from the earth, and the historian could feel—as he crossed the killing strip back toward the Wickan encampment—a darker reverberation to the power of the spirits of the land. The three warlocks parted from him as they approached the camp's edge.

The reverberating power found a voice only moments later, as every dog in the vast camp began howling. The cries were strangely lifeless and cold as iron, filling the air like a promise.

Duiker slowed his walk.
A promise. An age of devouring ice—

“Historian!”

He looked up to see three men approach. He recognized two of them, Nethpara and Tumlit. The fellow nobleman accompanying them was short and round, burdened beneath a gold-brocaded cloak that would have looked imposing on a man twice his height and half his girth. As it was, the effect held more pathos than anything else.