The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (141 page)

“A spirit of the land, aye. Hidden ambition and sudden power. The other spirits…suspected naught.”

Bult's face twisted in disgust. “We lost seventeen soldiers tonight just to kill a handful of Tithan warchiefs and unmask a rogue spirit?”

The historian flinched. It was the first time he'd heard the full count of losses.
Coltaine's first failure. If Oponn smiles on us, the enemy won't realize it
.

“With such knowledge,” Sormo explained quietly, “future lives will be saved. The spirits are greatly distressed—they were perplexed at being unable to detect the raids and ambushes, and now they know why. They did not think to look among their own kin. Now they will deliver their own justice, in their own time—”

“Meaning the raids continue?” The veteran looked ready to spit. “Will your spirit allies be able to warn us now—as they once did so effectively?”

“The rogue's efforts will be blunted.”

“Sormo,” Duiker said, “why was the Semk's mouth sewn shut?”

The warlock half smiled. “That creature is sewn shut
everywhere
, Historian. Lest that which was devoured escapes.”

Duiker shook his head. “Strange magic, this.”

Sormo nodded. “Ancient,” he said. “Sorcery of guts and bone. We struggle with knowledge we once possessed instinctively.” He sighed. “From a time before warrens, when magic was found
within
.”

A year ago Duiker would have been galvanized with curiosity and excitement at such comments, and would have relentlessly interrogated the warlock without surcease. Now, Sormo's words were a dull echo lost in the vast cavern of the historian's exhaustion. He wanted nothing but sleep, and knew it would be denied him for another twelve hours—the camp outside was already stirring, even though another hour of darkness remained.

“If that's the case,” Lull drawled, “why didn't that Semk burst apart like a bloated bladder when we pricked him?”

“What was devoured hides deep. Tell me, was this possessed Semk's stomach shielded?”

Duiker grunted. “Belts, thick leather.”

“Just so.”

“What happened to Nil?”

“Caught unawares, he made use of that very knowledge we struggle to recall. As the sorcerous attack came, he retreated within himself. The attack pursued but he remained elusive, until the malevolent power spent itself. We learn.”

Into Duiker's mind arose the image of the other warlock's horrific death. “At a cost.”

Sormo said nothing, but pain revealed itself for a moment in his eyes.

“We increase our pace,” Coltaine announced. “One less mouthful of water for each soldier each day—”

Duiker straightened. “But we have water.”

All eyes turned to him. The historian smiled wryly at Sormo. “I understand Nil's report was rather…dry. The spirits made for us a tunnel through the bedrock. As the Captain can confirm, the rock weeps.”

Lull grinned. “Hood's breath, the old man's right!”

Sormo was staring at the historian with wide eyes. “For lack of asking the right questions, we have suffered long—and needlessly.”

A new energy infused Coltaine, culminating in a taut baring of his teeth. “You have one hour,” the Fist told the warlock, “to ease a hundred thousand throats.”

 

From bedrock that split the prairie soil in weathered outcroppings, sweet tears seeped forth. Vast pits had been excavated. The air was alive with joyous songs and the blessed silence of beasts no longer crying their distress. And beneath it all was a warm, startling undercurrent. For once, the spirits of the land were delivering a gift untouched by death. Their pleasure was palpable to Duiker's senses as he stood close to the north edge of the encampment, watching, listening.

Corporal List was at his side, his fever abated. “The seepage is deliberately slow but not slow enough—stomachs will rebel—the reckless ones could end up killing themselves…”

“Aye. A few might.”

Duiker raised his head, scanning the valley's north ridge. A row of Tithansi horsewarriors lined its length, watching in what the historian imagined was fearful wonder. He had no doubt that Kamist Reloe's army was suffering, even though they had the advantage of seizing and holding every known waterhole on the Odhan.

As he studied them, his eyes caught a flash of white that flowed down the valleyside, then vanished beyond Duiker's line of sight. He grunted.

“Did you see something, sir?”

“Just some wild goats,” the historian said. “Switching sides…”

 

The blowing sand had bored holes into the mesa's sides, an onslaught that began by sculpting hollows, then caves, then tunnels, finally passages that might well exit out of the other side. Like voracious worms ravaging old wood, the wind devoured the cliff face, hole after hole appearing, the walls between them thinning, some collapsing, the tunnels widening. The mantle of the plateau remained, however, a vast cap of stone perched on ever-dwindling foundations.

Kulp had never seen anything like it.
As if the Whirlwind's deliberately attacked it. Why lay siege to a rock?

The tunnels shrieked with the wind, each one with its own febrile pitch, creating a fierce chorus. The sand was fine as dust where it spun and swirled on updrafts at the base of the cliff. Kulp glanced back to where Heboric and Felisin waited—two vague shapes huddled against the ceaseless fury of the storm.

The Whirlwind had denied them all shelter for three days now, ever since it had first descended upon them. The wind assailed them from every direction
—as if the mad goddess has singled us out
. The possibility was not as unlikely as it first seemed. The malevolent will was palpable.
We're intruders, after all. The Whirlwind's focus of hate has always been on those who do not belong. Poor Malazan Empire, to have stepped into such a ready-made mythos of rebellion…

The mage scrambled back to the others. He had to lean close to be heard above the endless roar. “There's caves! Only the wind's plunging down their throats—I suspect it's cut right through the hill!”

Heboric was shivering, beset since morning by a fever born of exhaustion. He was weakening fast.
We all are
. It was almost dusk—the unrelieved ochre dimming over their heads—and the mage estimated they had traveled little more than a league in the past twelve hours.

They had no water, no food. Hood stalked their heels.

Felisin clutched Kulp's tattered cloak, pulling him closer. Her lips were split, sand gumming the corners of her mouth. “We try anyway!” she said.

“I don't know. That whole hill could come down—”

“The caves! We go into the caves!”

Die out here, or die in there. At least the caves offer us a tomb for our corpses
. He gave a sharp nod.

They half dragged Heboric between them. The cliff offered them a score of options with its ragged, honeycombed visage. They made no effort to select one, simply plunging into the first cave mouth they came to, a wide, strangely flattened tunnel that seemed to run level—at least for the first few paces.

The wind was a hand at their backs, dismissive of hesitation in its unceasing pressure. Darkness swept around them as they staggered on, within a cauldron of screams.

The floor had been sculpted into ridges, making walking difficult. Fifteen paces on, they stumbled into an outcropping of quartzite or some other crystalline mineral that resisted the erosive wind. They worked their way around it and found in its lee the first surcease from the Whirlwind's battering force in over seventy hours.

Heboric sagged in their arms. They set him down in the ankle-deep dust at the base of the outcropping. “I'd like to scout ahead,” Kulp told Felisin, yelling to be heard.

She nodded, lowering herself to her knees.

Another thirty paces took the mage to a larger cavern. More quartzite filled the space, reflecting a faint luminescence from what appeared to be a ceiling of crushed glass fifteen feet above him. The quartzite rose in vertical veins, the gleaming pillars creating a gallery effect of startling beauty, despite the racing wind's dust-filled stream. Kulp strode forward. The piercing shriek dimmed, losing itself in the vastness of the cavern.

Closer to the center of the cavern rose a heap of tumbled stones, their shapes too regular to be natural. The glittering substance of the ceiling covered them in places—a single side of their vaguely rectangular forms, the mage realized after a moment's examination. Crouching, he ran a hand along one such side, then bent still lower.
Hood's breath, it's glass in truth! Multicolored, crushed and compacted…

He looked up. A large hole gaped in the ceiling, its edges glowing with that odd, cool light. Kulp hesitated, then opened his warren. He grunted.
Nothing. Queen's blessing, no sorcery—it's mundane
.

Hunching low against the wind, the mage made his way back to the others. He found them both asleep or unconscious. Kulp studied them, feeling a chill at the composed finality he saw in their dehydrated features.

Might be more merciful not to awaken them
.

As if sensing his presence, Felisin opened her eyes. They filled with instant awareness. “You'll never have it that easy,” she said.

“This hill's a buried city, and we're under what's buried.”

“So?”

“The wind's got into one chamber at least, emptied it of sand.”

“Our tomb.”

“Maybe.”

“All right, let's go.”

“One problem,” Kulp said, not moving. “The way in is about fifteen feet over our heads. There's a pillar of quartzite, but it wouldn't be an easy climb, especially not in our condition.”

“Do your warren trick.”

“What?”

“Open a gate.”

He stared at her. “It's not that simple.”

“Dying's simple.”

He blinked. “Let's get the old man on his feet, then.”

Heboric's eyes were blistered shut, weeping grit-filled tears. Slow to awaken, he clearly had no idea where he was. His wide mouth split into a ghastly smile. “They tried it here, didn't they?” he asked, tilting his head as they helped him forward. “Tried it and paid for it, oh, the memories of water, all those wasted lives…”

They arrived at the place of the breached ceiling. Felisin laid a hand on the quartzite column nearest the hole. “I'd have to climb this like a Dosii does a coconut palm.”

“And how's that done?” Kulp asked.

“Reluctantly,” Heboric muttered, cocking his head as if hearing voices.

Felisin glanced at the mage. “I'll need those straps from your belt.”

With a grunt, Kulp began removing the leather band at his waist. “Damned strange time to be wanting to see me without my breeches, lass.”

“We can all do with the laugh,” she replied.

He handed her the belt, and watched as she affixed the binding strips at each end to her ankles. He winced at how savagely she tightened the knots.

“Now, what's left of your raincloak, please.”

“What's wrong with your tunic?”

“No one gets to ogle my breasts—not for free, anyway. Besides, that cloak's a tougher weave.”

“There was retribution,” Heboric said. “A methodical, dispassionate cleaningup of the mess.”

As he pulled off his sand-scoured cloak, Kulp scowled down at the ex-priest. “What are you going on about, Heboric?”

“First Empire, the city above. They came and put things aright. Immortal custodians. Such a debacle! Even with my eyes closed I can see my hands—they're groping blind, so blind now. So empty.” He sank down, suddenly racked with shuddering grief.

“Never mind him,” Felisin said, stepping up as if to embrace the jagged pillar. “The old toad's lost his god and it's broken his mind.”

Kulp said nothing.

Felisin reached around the column and linked her hands on the other side by gripping two ends of the cloak and twisting them taut. The belt between her feet hugged this side of the pillar.

“Ah,” Kulp said. “I see. Clever Dosii.”

She hitched the cloak as high as she could on the opposite side, then leaned back and, in a jerking motion, jumped a short distance upward—knees drawn up, the belt snapping against the pillar. He saw the pain rip through her as the bindings dug into her ankles.

“I'm surprised the Dosii have feet,” Kulp said.

Gasping, she said, “Guess I got some minor detail wrong.”

In all truth, the mage did not think she would make it. Before she had gone two arm-spans—a full body's length from the ceiling—her ankles streamed blood. She trembled all over, using unimagined but quickly waning reserves of energy. Yet she did not stop.
This is a hard, hard creature. She surpasses us all, again and again
. The thought led him to Baudin—banished, likely to be somewhere out there, suffering the storm.
Another hard one, stubborn and stolid. How fare you, Talon?

Felisin finally came to within reach of the hole's ragged edge. And there she hesitated.

Aye, now what?

“Kulp!” Her voice bounced in an eerie echo that was quickly swept away by the wind.

“Yes?”

“How close are my feet to you?”

“Maybe three arm-spans. Why?”

“Prop Heboric beside the pillar. Climb onto his shoulders—”

“In Hood's name what for?”

“You've got to reach my ankles, then climb over me—I can't let go—nothing left!”

Gods, I'm not as hard as you, lass
. “I think—”

“Do it! We have no choice, damn you!”

Hissing, Kulp swung to Heboric. “Old man, can you understand me? Heboric!”

The ex-priest straightened, grinned. “Remember the hand of stone? The finger? The past is an alien world. Powers unimagined. To touch is to recall someone else's memories, someone so unlike you in thought and senses that they beckon you into madness.”