The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (356 page)

‘I sense a certain unease in you, sir,' Torvald said. ‘Have you security concerns regarding fair Malyntaeas?'

The man's head slowly turned. He regarded the Daru for a moment, then grunted. ‘You're the one might be a Claw. Well, if you are, add this to your damned report. There's Crimson Guard in Malyntaeas, stirring up the Korhivi. The shadows ain't safe, and it's getting so bad that the patrols don't go anywhere unless there's two squads at the minimum. And now two-thirds of them are being sent home. The situation in Malyntaeas is about to get very unsettled.'

‘The Empress would certainly be remiss to discount the opinions of her officers,' Torvald replied.

The First Mate's eyes narrowed. ‘She would at that.'

He then strode ahead, bellowing at a small group of sailors who'd run out of things to do.

Torvald tugged at his beard, glanced over at Karsa and winked. ‘Crimson Guard. That's troubling indeed. For the Malazans, that is.'

 

Days vanished. Karsa became aware once again as the wagon bed pitched wildly under him. His joints were afire, as his weight was shifted, chains snapping taut to jolt his limbs. He was being wheeled through the air, suspended from a pulley beneath a creaking framework of beams. Ropes whipped about, voices shouting from below. Overhead, seagulls glided above masts and rigging. Figures clung to that rigging, staring down at the Teblor.

The pulley squealed, and Karsa watched the sailors get smaller. Hands gripped the bed's edges on all sides, steadying it. The end nearest his feet dropped further, drawing him slowly upright.

He saw before him the mid-and foredecks of a huge ship, over which swarmed haulers and stevedores, sailors and soldiers. Supplies were piled everywhere, the bundles being shifted below decks through gaping hatches.

The bed's bottom end scraped the deck. Shouts, a flurry of activity, and the Teblor felt the bed lifted slightly, swinging free once more, then it was lowered again, and this time Karsa could both hear and feel the top edge thump against the main mast. Ropes were drawn through chains to bind the platform in place. Workers stepped away, then, staring up at Karsa.

Who smiled.

Torvald's voice came from one side, ‘Aye, it's a ghastly smile, but he's harmless, I assure you all. No need for concern, unless of course you happen to be a superstitious lot—'

There was a solid crack and Torvald Nom's body sprawled down in front of Karsa. Blood poured from his shattered nose. The Daru blinked stupidly, but made no move to rise. A large figure strode to stand over Torvald. Not tall, but wide, and his skin was dusky blue. He glared down at the bandit chief, then studied the ring of silent sailors facing him.

‘It's called sticking the knife in and twisting,' he growled in Malazan. ‘And he got every damned one of you.' He turned and studied Torvald Nom once more. ‘Another stab like that one, prisoner, and I'll see your tongue cut out and nailed to the mast. And if there's any other kind of trouble from you or this giant here, I'll chain you up there beside him then toss the whole damned thing overboard. Nod if you understand me.'

Wiping the blood from his face, Torvald Nom jerked his head in assent.

The blue-skinned man swung his hard gaze up to Karsa. ‘Wipe that smile off your face or a knife will kiss it,' he said. ‘You don't need lips to eat and the other miners won't care either way.'

Karsa's empty smile remained fixed.

The man's face darkened. ‘You heard me…'

Torvald raised a hesitant hand, ‘Captain, sir, if you will. He does not understand you—his brain is addled.'

‘Bosun!'

‘Sir!'

‘Gag the bastard.'

‘Aye, Captain.'

A salt-crusted rag was quickly wrapped about Karsa's lower face, making it difficult to breathe.

‘Don't suffocate him, you idiots.'

‘Aye, sir.'

The knots were loosened, the cloth pulled down to beneath his nose.

The captain wheeled. ‘Now, what in Mael's name are you all standing around for?'

As the workers all scattered, the captain thumping away, Torvald slowly climbed to his feet. ‘Sorry, Karsa,' he mumbled through split lips. ‘I'll get that off you, I promise. It may take a little time, alas. And when I do, friend,
please
, don't be smiling…'

 

Why have you come to me, Karsa Orlong, son of Synyg, grandson of Pahlk?

One presence, and six. Faces that might have been carved from rock, barely visible through a swirling haze. One, and six.

‘I am before you, Urugal,' Karsa said, a truth that left him confused.

You are not. Only your mind, Karsa Orlong. It has fled your mortal prison.

‘Then, I have failed you, Urugal.'

Failed. Yes. You have abandoned us and so in turn we must abandon you. We must seek another, one of greater strength. One who does not accept surrender. One who does not flee. In you, Karsa Orlong, our faith was misplaced.

The haze thickened, dull colours flashing through it. He found himself standing atop a hill that shifted and crunched beneath him. Chains stretched out from his wrists, down the slopes on all sides. Hundreds of chains, reaching out into the rainbow mists, and at the unseen ends of each one, there was movement. Looking down, Karsa saw bones beneath his feet. Teblor. Lowlander. The entire hill was naught but bones.

The chains slackened suddenly.

Movement in the mists, drawing closer from every direction.

Terror surged through Karsa.

Corpses, many of them headless, staggered into view. The chains that held the horrifying creatures to Karsa penetrated their chests through gaping holes. Withered, long-nailed hands reached towards him. Stumbling on the slopes, the apparitions began climbing.

Karsa struggled, seeking to flee, but he was surrounded. The very bones at his feet held him fast, clattering and shifting tighter about his ankles.

A hiss, a susurration of voices through rotting throats.
‘Lead us, Warleader…'

He shrieked.

‘Lead us, Warleader.'

Climbing closer, arms reaching up, nails clawing the air—

A hand closed about his ankle.

Karsa's head snapped back, struck wood with a resounding crunch. He gulped air that slid like sand down his throat, choking him. Eyes opening, he saw before him the gently pitching decks of the ship, figures standing motionless, staring at him.

He coughed behind his gag, each convulsion a rage of fire in his lungs. His throat felt torn, and he realized that he had been screaming. Enough to spasm his muscles so they now clenched tight, cutting off the flow of his air passages.

He was dying.

The whisper of a voice deep in his mind:
Perhaps we will not abandon you, yet. Breathe, Karsa Orlong. Unless, of course, you wish to once more meet your dead.

Breathe.

Someone snatched the gag from his mouth. Cold air flooded his lungs.

Through watering eyes, Karsa stared down at Torvald Nom. The Daru was barely recognizable, so dark was his skin, so thick and matted his beard. He had used the very chains holding Karsa to climb up within reach of the gag, and was now shouting unintelligible words the Teblor barely heard—words flung back at the frozen, fear-stricken Malazans.

Karsa's eyes finally made note of the sky beyond the ship's prow. There were colours there, amidst churning clouds, flashing and blossoming, swirls bleeding out from what seemed huge, open wounds. The storm—if that was what it was—commanded the entire sky ahead. And then he saw the chains, snapping down through the clouds to crack thunderously on the horizon. Hundreds of chains, impossibly huge, black, whipping in the air with explosions of red dust, crisscrossing the sky. Horror filled his soul.

There was no wind. The sails hung limp. The ship lolled on lazy, turgid seas. And the storm was coming.

A sailor approached with a tin cup filled with water, lifted it up to Torvald, who took it and brought it to Karsa's scabbed, crusted lips. The brackish liquid entered his mouth, burning like acid. He drew his head away from the cup.

Torvald was speaking in low tones, words that slowly grew comprehensible to Karsa. ‘…long lost to us. Only your beating heart and the rise and fall of your chest told us you still lived. It has been weeks and weeks, my friend. You'd keep hardly anything down. There's almost nothing left of you—you're showing bones where no bones should be.

‘And then this damned becalming. Day after day. Not a cloud in the sky…until three bells past. Three bells, when you stirred, Karsa Orlong. When you tilted your head back and began screaming behind your gag. Here, more water—you must drink.

‘Karsa, they're saying you've called this storm. Do you understand? They want you to send it away—they'll do anything, they'll unchain you, set you free. Anything, friend, anything at all—just send this unholy storm away. Do you understand?'

Ahead, he could see now, the seas were exploding with each lash of the black,
monstrous chains, twisting spouts of water skyward as each chain retreated upward once more. The billowing, heaving clouds seemed to lean forward over the ocean, closing on their position from all sides now.

Karsa saw the Malazan captain descend from the foredeck, the blue-tinged skin on his face a sickly greyish hue. ‘This is no Mael-blessed squall, Daru, meaning it don't belong.' He jerked a trembling finger at Karsa. ‘Tell him he's running out of time. Tell him to send it away. Once he does that, we can negotiate. Tell him, damn you!'

‘I
have
been, Captain!' Torvald retorted. ‘But how in Hood's name do you expect him to send
anything
away when I'm not even sure he knows where he is? Worse, we don't even know for sure if he's responsible!'

‘Let's see, shall we?' The captain spun round, gestured. A score of crewmen rushed forward, axes in hand.

Torvald was dragged down and thrown to the deck.

The axes chopped through the heavy ropes binding the platform to the mast. More crew came forward then. A ramp was laid out, angled up to the starboard gunnel. Log rollers were positioned beneath the platform as it was roughly lowered.

‘Wait!' Torvald cried out. ‘You can't—'

‘We can,' the captain growled.

‘At least unchain him!'

‘Not a chance, Torvald.' The captain grabbed a passing sailor by the arm. ‘Find everything this giant owned—all that stuff confiscated from the slavemaster. It's all going with him. Hurry, damn you!'

Chains ripped the seas on all sides close enough to lift spray over the ship, each detonation causing hull, masts and rigging to tremble.

Karsa stared up at the tumbling stormclouds as the platform was dragged along the rollers, up the ramp.

‘Those chains will sink it!' Torvald said.

‘Maybe, maybe not.'

‘What if it lands wrong way up?'

‘Then he drowns, and Mael can have him.'

‘Karsa! Damn you! Cease playing your game of mindlessness! Say something!'

The warrior croaked out two words, but the noise that came from his lips was unintelligible even to him.

‘What did he say?' the captain demanded.

‘I don't know!' Torvald screamed. ‘Karsa, damn you, try again!'

He did, yielding the same guttural noise. He began repeating the same two words, over and over again, as the sailors pushed and pulled the platform up onto the gunnel until it was balanced precariously, half over the deck, half over the sea.

Directly above them, as he uttered his two words once more, Karsa watched the last patch of clear sky vanish, like the closing of a tunnel mouth. A sudden plunge into darkness, and Karsa knew it was too late, even as, in the sudden terror-stricken silence, his words came out clear and audible.

‘Go away.'

From overhead, chains snapped down, massive, plunging, reaching directly for—it seemed—Karsa's own chest.

A blinding flash, a detonation, the splintering crackle of masts toppling, spars and rigging crashing down. The entire ship was falling away beneath Karsa, beneath the platform itself, which slid wildly down the length of the gunnel before crunching against the foredeck railing, pivoting, then plunging for the waves below.

He stared down at the water's sickly green, heaving surface.

The entire platform shuddered in its fall as the cargo ship's hull rolled up and struck its edge.

Karsa caught an upside-down glimpse of the ship—its deck torn open by the impact of the huge chains, its three masts gone, the twisted forms of sailors visible in the wreckage—then he was staring up at the sky, at a virulent, massive wound directly overhead.

A fierce impact, then darkness.

His eyes opened to a faint gloom, the desultory lap of waves, the sodden boards beneath him creaking as the platform rocked to someone else's movement. Thumps; low, gasping mutters.

The Teblor groaned. The joints of every limb felt torn inside.

‘Karsa?' Torvald Nom crawled into view.

‘What—what has happened?'

The shackles remained on the Daru's wrists, the chains connected on the other end to arm-length, roughly broken fragments of the deck. ‘Easy for you, sleeping through all the hard work,' he grumbled as he moved into a sitting position, pulling his arms around his knees. ‘This sea's a lot colder than you'd think, and these chains didn't help. I've nearly drowned a dozen times, but you'll be glad to know we now have three water casks and a bundle of something that might be food—I've yet to untie its bindings. Oh, and your sword and armour, both of which float, of course.'

The sky overhead looked unnatural, luminous grey shot through with streaks of darker pewter, and the water smelled of clay and silts. ‘Where are we?'

‘I was hoping you'd know. It's pretty damned clear to me that you called that storm down on us. That's the only explanation for what happened—'