The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (576 page)

Mappo nodded. Icarium's descriptions had led him to conclude much the same sequence of events. Like the sky keep itself, the mechanism was built to fly, borne aloft by some unknown sorcery. ‘If we are to find level ground,' he said, ‘it shall have to be within the keep.'

The Jhag smiled. ‘Is that a glimmer of anticipation in your eyes? I am beginning to see the Mappo of old, I suspect. Memory or no, you are no stranger to me, and I have been much chagrined of late, seeing you so forlorn. I understood it, of course – how could I not? I am what haunts you, friend, and for that I grieve. Come, shall we find our way inside this fell keep?'

Mappo watched Icarium stride past, and slowly turned to follow him with his eyes.

Icarium, the Builder of Mechanisms. Where did such skills come from?
He feared they were about to find out.

 

The monastery was in the middle of parched, broken wasteland, not a village or hamlet within a dozen leagues in either direction along the faint tracks of the road. On the map Cutter had purchased in G'danisban, its presence was marked with a single wavy line of reddish-brown ink, upright, barely visible on the worn hide. The symbol of D'rek, Worm of Autumn.

A lone domed structure stood in the midst of a low-walled, rectangular compound, and the sky over it was dotted with circling vultures.

Beside him and hunched in the saddle, Heboric Ghost Hands spat, then said, ‘Decay. Rot. Dissolution. When what once worked suddenly breaks. And like a moth the soul flutters away. Into the dark. Autumn awaits, and the seasons are askew, twisting to avoid all the unsheathed knives. Yet the prisoners of the jade, they are forever trapped. There, in their own arguments. Disputes, bickering, the universe beyond unseen – they care not a whit, the fools. They wear ignorance like armour and wield spite like swords. What am I to them? A curio. Less. So it's a broken world, why should I care about that? I did not ask for this, for any of this…'

He went on, but Cutter stopped listening. He glanced back at the two women trailing them. Listless, uncaring, brutalized by the heat. The horses beneath them walked with drooped heads; their ribs were visible beneath dusty, tattered hide. Off to one side clambered Greyfrog, looking fat and sleek as ever, circling the riders with seemingly boundless energy.

‘We should visit that monastery,' Cutter said. ‘Make use of the well, and if there's any foodstuffs—'

‘They're all dead,' Heboric croaked.

Cutter studied the old man, then grunted. ‘Explains the vultures. But we still need water.'

The Destriant of Treach gave him an unpleasant smile.

Cutter understood the meaning of that smile. He was becoming heartless, inured to the myriad horrors of this world. A monastery filled with dead priests and priestesses was as…nothing. And the old man could see it, could see into him.
His new god is the Tiger of Summer, Lord of War. Heboric Ghost Hands, the High Priest of strife, he sees how cold I have become. And is…amused.

Cutter guided his horse up the side track leading to the monastery. The others followed. The Daru reined in in front of the gates, which were closed, and dismounted. ‘Heboric, do you sense any danger to us?'

‘I have that talent?'

Cutter studied him, said nothing.

The Destriant clambered down from his horse. ‘Nothing lives in there. Nothing.'

‘No ghosts?'

‘Nothing. She took them.'

‘Who?'

‘The unexpected visitor, that's who.' He laughed, raised his hands. ‘We play our games. We never expect…umbrage. Outrage. I could have told them. Warned them, but they wouldn't have listened. The conceit consumes all. A single building can become an entire world, the minds crowding and jostling, then clawing and gouging. All they need do is walk outside, but they don't. They've forgotten that outside exists. Oh, all these faces of worship, none of which is
true
worship. Never mind the diligence, it does naught but serve the demon hatreds within. The spites and fears and malice. I could have told them.'

Cutter walked to the wall, leading his horse. He climbed onto its back, perched on the saddle, then straightened until he was standing. The top of the wall was within easy reach. He pulled himself up. In the compound beyond, bodies. A dozen or so, black-skinned, mostly naked, lying here and there on the hard-packed, white ground. Cutter squinted. The bodies looked to be…boiling, frothing, melting. They roiled before his eyes. He pulled his gaze away from them. The domed temple's doors were yawning open. To the right was a low corral surrounding a low, long structure, the mud-bricks exposed for two thirds of the facing wall. Troughs with plaster and tools indicated a task never to be completed. Vultures crowded the flat roof, yet none ventured down to feast on the corpses.

Cutter dropped down into the compound. He walked to the gates and lifted the bar clear, then pulled the heavy doors open.

Greyfrog was waiting on the other side. ‘
Dispirited and distraught. So much unpleasantness, Cutter, in this fell place. Dismay. No appetite
.' He edged past, scuttled warily towards the nearest corpse. ‘
Ah! They seethe! Worms, aswarm with worms. The flesh is foul, foul even for Greyfrog. Revulsed. Let us be away from this place!
'

Cutter spied the well, in the corner between the outbuilding and the temple. He returned to where the others still waited outside the gate. ‘Give me your waterskins. Heboric, can you check that outbuilding for feed?'

Heboric smiled. ‘The livestock were never let out. It's been days. The heat killed them all. A dozen goats, two mules.'

‘Just see if there's any feed.'

The Destriant headed towards the outbuilding.

Scillara dismounted, lifted clear the waterskins from Felisin Younger's saddle and, with her own thrown over a shoulder, approached Cutter. ‘Here.'

He studied her. ‘I wonder if this is a warning.'

Her brows lifted fractionally, ‘Are we that important, Cutter?'

‘Well, I don't mean us, specifically. I meant, maybe we should take it as a warning.'

‘Dead priests?'

‘Nothing good comes of worship.'

She gave him an odd smile, then held out the skins.

Cutter cursed himself. He rarely made sense when trying to talk with this woman. Said things a fool would say. It was the mocking look in her eyes, the expression ever anticipating a smile as soon as he opened his mouth to speak. Saying nothing more, he collected the waterskins and walked back into the compound.

 

Scillara watched him for a moment, then turned as Felisin slipped down from her horse. ‘We need the water.'

The younger woman nodded. ‘I know.' She reached up and tugged at her hair, which had grown long. ‘I keep seeing those bandits. And now, more dead people. And those cemeteries the track went right through yesterday, that field of bones. I feel we've stumbled into a nightmare, and every day we go further in. It's hot, but I'm cold all the time and getting colder.'

‘That's dehydration,' Scillara said, repacking her pipe.

‘That thing's not left your mouth in days,' Felisin said.

‘Keeps the thirst at bay.'

‘Really?'

‘No, but that is what I keep telling myself.'

Felisin looked away. ‘We do that a lot, don't we?'

‘What?'

She shrugged. ‘Tell ourselves things. In the hope that it'll make them true.'

Scillara drew hard on the pipe, blew a lungful of smoke upward, watching as the wind took it away.

‘You look so healthy,' Felisin said, eyes on her once more. ‘Whilst the rest of us wither away.'

‘Not Greyfrog.'

‘No, not Greyfrog.'

‘Does he talk with you much?'

Felisin shook her head. ‘Not much. Except when I wake up at night, after my bad dreams. Then he sings to me.'

‘Sings?'

‘Yes, in his people's language. Songs for children. He says he needs to practise them.'

Scillara shot her a glance. ‘Really? Did he say why?'

‘No.'

‘How old were you, Felisin, when your mother sold you off?'

Another shrug. ‘I don't remember.'

That might have been a lie, but Scillara did not pursue it.

Felisin stepped closer. ‘Will you take care of me, Scillara?'

‘What?'

‘I feel as if I am going backwards. I felt…older. Back in Raraku. Now, with every day, I feel more and more like a child. Smaller, ever smaller.'

Uneasy, Scillara said, ‘I have never been much good at taking care of people.'

‘I don't think Sha'ik was, either. She had…obsessions…'

‘She did fine by you.'

‘No, it was mostly Leoman. Even Toblakai. And Heboric, before Treach claimed him. She didn't take care of me, and that's why Bidithal…'

‘Bidithal is dead. He got his own balls shoved down his scrawny throat.'

‘Yes,' a whisper. ‘If what Heboric says really happened. Toblakai…'

Scillara snorted. ‘Think on that, Felisin. If Heboric had said that L'oric had done it, or Sha'ik, or even Leoman, well, you might have some reason to doubt. But Toblakai? No, you can believe it. Gods below, how can you not?'

The question forced a faint smile from Felisin and she nodded. ‘You are right. Only Toblakai would have done that. Only Toblakai would have killed him…in that way. Tell me, Scillara, do you have a spare pipe?'

‘A spare pipe? How about a dozen? Want to smoke them all at once?'

Felisin laughed. ‘No, just one. So, you'll take care of me, won't you?'

‘I will try.' And maybe she would. Like Greyfrog. Practice. She went looking for that pipe.

 

Cutter lifted the bucket clear and peered at the water. It looked clean, smelling of nothing in particular. Nonetheless, he hesitated.

Footsteps behind him. ‘I found feed,' Heboric said. ‘More than we can carry.'

‘Think this water is all right? What killed those priests?'

‘It's fine. I told you what killed them.'

You did?
‘Should we look in the temple?'

‘Greyfrog's already in there. I told him to find money, gems, food that hasn't spoiled yet. He wasn't happy about it, so I expect he'll be quick.'

‘All right.' Cutter walked to a trough and dumped the water into it, then returned to the well. ‘Think we can coax the horses in here?'

‘I'll try.' But Heboric made no move to do so.

Cutter glanced over at him, saw the old man's strange eyes fixed on him. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Nothing, I think. I was noticing something. You have certain qualities, Cutter. Leadership, for one.'

The Daru scowled. ‘If you want to be in charge, fine, go ahead.'

‘I wasn't twisting a knife, lad. I meant what I said. You have taken command, and that's good. It's what we need. I have never been a leader. I've always followed. It's my curse. But that's not what they want to hear. Not from me. No, they want me to lead them out. Into freedom. I keep telling them, I know nothing of freedom.'

‘Them? Who? Scillara and Felisin?'

‘I'll get the horses,' Heboric said, turning about and walking off in his odd, toad-like gait.

Cutter refilled the bucket and poured the water into the trough. They would feed the horses here with what they couldn't take with them. Load up on water.
And, even now, loot the temple.
Well, he had been a thief once, long ago. Besides, the dead cared nothing for wealth, did they?

A splitting, tearing sound from the centre of the compound behind him. The sound of a portal opening. Cutter spun round, knives in his hands.

A rider emerged from the magical gate at full gallop. Reining in hard, hoofs skidding in clouds of dust, the dark grey horse a monstrous apparition, the hide worn away in places, exposing tendons, dried muscle and ligaments. Its eyes were empty pits, its mane long and greasy, whipping as the beast tossed its head. Seated in a high-backed saddle, the rider was, if anything, even more alarming in appearance. Black, ornate armour, patched with verdigris, a dented, gouged helm, open-faced to reveal mostly bone, a few strips of flesh hanging from the cheek ridges, tendons binding the lower jaw, and a row of blackened, filed teeth.

In the brief moment as the horse reared, dust exploding outward, Cutter saw more weapons on the rider than he could count. Swords at his back, throwing axes, sheathed handles jutting upward from the saddle, something like a boar-spitter, the bronze point as long as a short sword, gripped in the gauntleted left hand. A long bow, a short bow, knives—

‘
Where is he!?
' The voice was a savage, enraged roar. Pieces of armour bounced on the ground as the figure twisted round, searching the compound. ‘Damn you, Hood!
I was on the trail!
' He saw Cutter and was suddenly silent, motionless. ‘She left one alive? I doubt it. You're no whelp of D'rek. Drink deep that water, mortal, it matters not. You're dead anyway. You and every damned blood-swishing living thing in this realm and every other!'

He pulled his horse around to face the temple, where Greyfrog had appeared, arms heaped with silks, boxes, foodstuffs and cooking utensils. ‘A toad who likes to cook in comfort! The madness of the Grand Ending is upon us! Come any closer, demon, and I'll spit your legs and roast them over a fire – do you think I no longer eat? You are right, but I will roast you in vicious spite, drooling with irony – ah! You liked that, didn't you?' He faced Cutter once more. ‘Is this what he wanted me to see? He pulled me from the trail…
for this
?'

Cutter sheathed his knives. Through the gates beyond came Heboric Ghost Hands, leading the horses. The old man paused upon seeing the rider, head cocking, then he continued on. ‘Too late, Soldier,' he said. ‘Or too early!' He laughed.