The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (187 page)

“That will do me fine, Kellanved. I appreciate it.”

A moment later the sapper was gone.

The assassin turned a jaded eye on Shadowthrone. “You understand, don't you, that I won't try to kill Laseen—my hunt's over. In fact, I'm tempted to warn you and Cotillion off her—leave the Empire to the Empress. You've got your own, right here—”

“Tempted to warn us, you said?” The god swept closer. “Bite it back, Kalam, lest you come to regret it.” The shadow-wrapped from withdrew again. “We do as we please. Never forget that, mortal.”

Minala edged to Kalam's side and laid a trembling hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Gifts from gods make me nervous,” she whispered. “Especially this one.”

He nodded, in full agreement.

“Oh,” Shadowthrone said, “don't be like that! My offer stands. Sanctuary, a true opportunity to settle down. Husband and wife, hee hee! No, mother and father! And, best of all, there's no need to wait for children of your own—Apt has found some for you!”

The mists surrounding them suddenly cleared, and they saw, beyond Apt and her charge, a ragtag encampment sprawled over the summit of a low hill. Small figures wandered among the tent rows. Woodsmoke rose from countless fires.

“You wished for their lives,” Shadowthrone hissed in glee. “Or so Apt claims. Now you have them. Your children await you, Kalam Mekhar and Minala Eltroeb—all thirteen hundred of them!”

The whirlwind's spinning tunnel opened out onto the plain in an explosion of airborne dust. Wiry, strangely black grasses lay before Sha'ik as she led her train forward. After a moment she slowed her mount. What she had first thought to be humped stones stretching out in all directions she now realized were corpses, rotting under the sun. They had come upon a battlefield, one of the last engagements between Korbolo Dom and Coltaine.

The grasses were black with dried blood. Capemoths fluttered here and there across the scene. Flies buzzed the heatswollen bodies. The stench was overpowering.

“Souls in tatters,” Heboric said beside her.

She glanced at the old man, then gestured Leoman forward to her other side. “Take a scouring party,” she told the desert warrior. “See what lies ahead.”

“Death lies ahead,” Heboric said, shivering despite the heat.

Leoman grunted. “We are already in its midst.”

“No. This—this is nothing.” The ex-priest swung his sightless eyes toward Sha'ik. “Korbolo Dom
—what has he done?
”

“We shall discover that soon enough,” she snapped, waving Leoman and his troop forward.

The army of the Apocalypse marched out from the Whirlwind Warren. Sha'ik had attached each of her three mages to a battalion—she preferred them apart, and distanced from her. They had been none too pleased by the order of march, and she now sensed the three sorcerers questing ahead with enhanced sensitivities—questing, then flinching back, L'oric first, then Bidithal and finally Febryl. From three sources came echoes of appalled horror.

And, should I choose it, I could do the same. Reach ahead with unseen fingers to touch what lies before us
. Yet she would not.

“There is trepidation in you, lass,” Heboric murmured. “Do you now finally regret the choices you have made?”

Regret? Oh, yes. Many regrets, beginning with a vicious argument with my sister, back in Unta, a sisterly spat that went too far. A hurt child…accusing her sister of killing their parents. One, then the other. Father. Mother. A hurt child, who had lost all reasons to smile
. “I have a daughter now.”

She sensed his attention suddenly focusing on her, the old man wondering at this strange turn of thought, wondering, then slowly—in anguish—coming to understand.

Sha'ik went on, “And I have named her.”

“I've yet to hear it,” the ex-priest said, as if each word edged forward on thinnest ice.

She nodded. Leoman and his scouts had disappeared beyond the next rise. A faint haze of smoke awaited them there, and she wondered at the portent. “She rarely speaks. Yet when she does…a gift with words, Heboric. A poet's eye. In some ways, as I might have become, given the freedom…”

“A gift with words, you say. A gift for you, but it may well be a curse for her, one that has little to do with freedom. Some people invite awe whether they like it or not. Such people come to be very lonely. Lonely in themselves, Sha'ik.”

Leoman reappeared, reining in on the crest. He did not wave them to a quicker pace—he simply watched as Sha'ik guided her army forward.

A moment later another party of riders arrived at the desert warrior's side. Tribal standards on display—strangers. Two of the newcomers drew Sha'ik's attention. They were still too distant to make out their features, but she knew them anyway: Kamist Reloe and Korbolo Dom.

“She will not be lonely,” she told Heboric.

“Then feel no awe,” he replied. “Her inclination will be to observe, rather than participate. Mystery lends itself to such remoteness.”

“I can feel no awe, Heboric,” Sha'ik said, smiling to herself.

They approached the waiting riders. The ex-priest's attention stayed on her as they guided their horses up the gentle slope.

“And,” she continued, “I understand remoteness. Quite well.”

“You have named her Felisin, haven't you?”

“I have.” She turned her head, stared into his sightless eyes. “It's a fine name, is it not? It holds such…promise. A fresh innocence, such as that which parents would see in their child, those bright, eager eyes—”

“I wouldn't know,” he said.

She watched the tears roll down his weathered, tattooed cheeks, feeling detached from their significance, yet understanding that his observation was not meant as a condemnation.
Only loss
. “Oh, Heboric,” she said. “It's not worthy of grief.”

Had she thought a moment longer before speaking those words, she would have realized that they, beyond any others, would break the old man. He seemed to crumple inward before her eyes, his body shuddering. She reached out a hand he could not see, almost touched him, then withdrew it—and even as she did so, she knew that a moment of healing had been lost.

Regrets? Many. Unending
.

“Sha'ik! I see the goddess in your eyes!” The triumphant claim was Kamist Reloe's, his face bright even as it seemed twisted with tension. Ignoring the mage, she fixed her gaze on Korbolo Dom.
Half-Napan—he reminds me of my old tutor, even down to the cool disdain in his expression. Well, this man has nothing to teach me
. Clustered around the two men were the warleaders of the various tribes loyal to the cause. There was something like shock in their faces, intimations of horror. Another rider was now visible, seated with equanimity on a mule, wearing the silken robes of a priest. He alone seemed untroubled, and Sha'ik felt a shiver of unease.

Leoman sat his horse slightly apart from the group. Sha'ik already sensed a dark turmoil swirling between the desert warrior and Korbolo Dom, the renegade Fist.

With Heboric at her side, she reached the crest and saw what lay beyond. In the immediate foreground was a ruined village—a scattering of smoldering houses and buildings, dead horses, dead soldiers. The stone-built entrance to the Aren Way was blackened with smoke.

The road stretched away in an even declination southward. The trees lining it to either side…

Sha'ik nudged her horse forward. Heboric matched her, silent and hunched, shivering in the heat. Leoman rode to flank her on the other side. They approached the Aren Gate.

The group wheeled to follow, in silence.

Kamist Reloe spoke, the faintest quaver in his voice. “See what has been made of this proud gate? The Malazan Empire's Aren Gate is now Hood's Gate, Seer. Do you see the significance? Do you—”

“Silence!” Korbolo Dom growled.

Aye, silence. Let silence tell this tale
.

They passed beneath the gate's cool shadow and came to the first of the trees, the first of the bloated, rotting bodies nailed to them. Sha'ik halted.

Leoman's scouts were approaching at a fast canter. Moments later they arrived, reined in.

“Report,” Leoman snapped.

Four pale faces regarded them, then one said, “It does not change, sir. More than three leagues—as far as we could see. There are—there are
thousands
.”

Heboric pulled his horse to one side, nudged it closer to the nearest tree and squinted up at the closest corpse.

Sha'ik was silent for a long minute, then, without turning, she said, “Where is your army, Korbolo Dom?”

“Camped within sight of the city—”

“You failed to take Aren, then.”

“Aye, Seer, we failed.”

“And Adjunct Tavore?”

“The fleet has reached the bay, Seer.”

What will you make of this, sister?

“The fools surrendered,” Korbolo Dom said, his voice betraying his own disbelief. “At High Fist Pormqual's command. And that is the Empire's new weakness—what used to be a strength: those soldiers obeyed the command. The Empire has lost its great leaders—”

“Has it now?” She finally faced him.

“Coltaine was the last of them, Seer,” the renegade Fist asserted. “This new Adjunct is untested—a nobleborn, for Hood's sake. Who awaits her in Aren? Who will advise her? The Seventh is gone. Pormqual's army is gone. Tavore has an army of recruits. About to face veteran forces three times their number. The Empress has lost her mind, Seer, to think that this pureblood upstart will reconquer Seven Cities.”

She turned away from him and stared down the Aren Way. “Withdraw your army, Korbolo Dom. Link up with my forces here.”

“Seer?”

“The Apocalypse has but one commander, Korbolo Dom. Do as I say.”

And silence once again tells its tale
.

“Of course, Seer,” the renegade Fist finally grated.

“Leoman.”

“Seer?”

“Encamp our own people. Have them bury the dead on the plain.”

Korbolo Dom cleared his throat. “And once we've regrouped—what do you propose to do then?”

Propose?
“We shall meet Tavore. But the time and place shall be of my choosing, not hers.” She paused, then said, “We return to Raraku.”

She ignored the shouts of surprise and dismay, ignored the questions flung at her, even as they rose into demands.
Raraku—the heart of my newfound power. I shall need that embrace…if I am to defeat this fear—this terror—of my sister. Oh, Goddess, guide me now…

The protests, eliciting no responses, slowly died away. A wind had picked up, moaned through the gate behind them.

Heboric's voice rose above it. “Who is this? I can see nothing—can sense nothing. Who is this man?”

The corpulent, silk-clad priest finally spoke. “An old man, Unhanded One. A soldier, no more than that. One among ten thousand.”

“Do—do you…” Heboric slowly turned, his milky eyes glistening. “Do you hear a god's laughter? Does anyone hear a god's laughter?”

The Jhistal priest cocked his head. “Alas, I hear only the wind.”

Sha'ik frowned at Heboric. He looked suddenly so…small.

After a moment she wheeled her horse around. “It is time to leave. You have your orders.”

 

Heboric was the last, sitting helpless on his horse, staring up at a corpse that told him nothing. There was no end to the laughter in his head, the laughter that rode the wind sweeping through Aren Gate at his back.

What am I not meant to see? Is it you who have truly blinded me now, Fener? Or is it that stranger of jade who flows silent within me? Is this a cruel joke…or some kind of mercy?

See what has become of your wayward son, Fener, and know—most assuredly know—that I wish to come home
.

I wish to come home
.

 

Commander Blistig stood at the parapet, watching the Adjunct and her retinue ascend the broad limestone steps that led to the palace gate directly beneath him. She was not as old as he would have liked, but even at this distance he sensed something of the rumored hardness in her. An attractive younger woman walked at her side—Tavore's aide and lover, it was said—but Blistig could not recall if he'd ever heard her name. On the Adjunct's other flank strode the captain of her family's own house guard, a man named Gimlet Gamet, or some such thing. He had the look of a veteran, and that was reassuring.

Captain Keneb arrived. “No luck, Commander.”

Blistig frowned, then sighed. The scorched ship's crew had disappeared almost immediately after docking and offloading the wounded soldiers from Coltaine's Seventh. The garrison commander had wanted them present for the Adjunct's arrival—he suspected Tavore would desire to question them
—and Hood knows, those irreverent bastards could do with a blistering…

“The Seventh's survivors have been assembled for her inspection, sir,” Keneb said.

“Including the Wickans?”

“Aye, and both warlocks among them.”

Blistig shivered despite the sultry heat. They were a frightening pair. So cold, so silent.
Two children who are not
.

And Squint was still missing—the commander well knew that it was unlikely he would ever see that man again. Heroism and murder in a single gesture would be a hard thing for any person to live with. He only hoped that they wouldn't find the old bowman floating face down in the harbor.

Keneb cleared his throat. “Those survivors, sir…”

“I know, Keneb, I know.”
They're broken. Queen's mercy, so broken. Mended flesh can do only so much. Mind you, I've got my own troubles with the garrison—I've never seen a company so…brittle
.

“We should make our way below, sir—she's almost at the gate.”

Blistig sighed. “Aye, let's go meet this Adjunct Tavore.”

 

Mappo gently laid Icarium down in the soft sand of the sinkhole. He'd rigged a tarp over his unconscious friend, sufficient for shade, but there was little he could do about the stench of putrefaction that hung heavy in the motionless air. It was not the best of smells for the Jhag to awaken to…

The ruined village was behind them now, the black gate's shadow unable to reach to where Mappo had laid out the camp beside the road and its ghastly sentinels. The Azath warren had spat them out ten leagues to the north, days ago now. The Trell had carried Icarium in his arms all that way, seeking a place free of death—he'd hoped to have found it by now. Instead, the horror had worsened.

Mappo straightened at the sound of wagon wheels clattering on the road. He squinted against the glare. A lone ox pulled a flatbed cart up Aren Way. A man sat hunched on the buck-board seat, and there was motion behind him—two more men crouched down on the bed, bent to some unseen task.

Their progress was slow, as the driver stopped the cart at every tree, the man spending a minute or so staring up at the bodies nailed to it, before moving on to the next one.

Picking up his sack, Mappo made his way toward them.

On seeing him, the driver drew the cart to a halt and set the brake. He casually reached over the back of the seat and lifted into view a massive flint sword, which he settled sideways across his thighs.