‘I can still hear you, Corporal.’
Stormy waved a wide, hairy hand but did not turn round, instead making his way towards the hearth. He paused in his first step to set his boot down on one of Shortnose’s hands. There was an audible crack and the heavy infantryman made a small sound, then sat up. Stormy continued on, while Shortnose looked down at his hand, frowning at the oddly angled third finger, which he then reset with a tug, before rising and wandering off to find somewhere to empty his bladder.
Fiddler scratched at his beard, then swung about and walked back to his squad.
Aye, we’re a lethal bunch.
Gesler wandered the strange ruins. The light was fast fading, making the place seem even more spectral. Round wells on all sides, at least a dozen scattered among the old trees. The stones were exquisitely cut, fitted without mortar – as he had discovered upon peeling back some moss. He had caught sight of the regular shapes from the edge of the glade, had first thought them to be the pedestals for some colonnaded structure long since toppled over. But the only other stone he found was paving, buckled by roots, making footing treacherous.
Seating himself on the edge of one of the wells, he peered down into the inky blackness, and could smell stagnant water. He felt oddly pleased with himself to find that his curiosity had not been as thoroughly dulled as he’d once believed. Not nearly as bad as, say, Cuttle. Now there was a grim bastard. Still, Gesler had seen a lot in his life, and some of it had permanently stained his skin – not to mention other, more subtle changes. But mostly that host of things witnessed, deeds done, not done, they just wore a man down.
He could not look at the tiny flames of the squad’s hearth without remembering Truth and that fearless plunge into Y’Ghatan’s palace. Or he’d glance down at the crossbow in his hands as they stumbled through this damned forest and recall Pella, skewered through the forehead, sagging against the corner of a building barely a hundred paces into Y’Ghatan itself. With every crow’s cackle he heard the echoes of the screams when dread ghosts had assailed the camp of the Dogslayers at Raraku. A glance down at his bared hands and their battered knuckles, and the vision rose in his mind of that Wickan, Coltaine, down on the banks of the Vathar – gods, to have led that mob that far, with more still to go, with nothing but cruel betrayal at the Fall.
The slaughter of the inhabitants of Aren, when the Logros T’lan Imass rose from the dust of the streets and their weapons of stone began to rise and fall, rise and fall. If not for that ex-Red Blade driving open the gates and so opening a path of escape, there would have been no survivors at all. None. Except us Malazans, who could only stand aside and watch the slaughter. Helpless as babes . . .
A dragon through fire, a ship riding flames – his first sight of a Tiste Edur: dead, pinned to his chair by a giant’s spear. Oar benches where sat decapitated rowers, hands resting on the sweeps, and their severed heads heaped in a pile round the mainmast, eyes blinking in the sudden light, faces twisting into appalling expressions—
So who built twelve wells in a forest? That’s what I want to know.
Maybe.
He recalled a knock at the door, and opening it to see, with absurd delight, a drenched T’lan Imass whom he recognized. Stormy, it’s for you. And aye, I dream of moments like this, you red-haired ox. And what did that say about Gesler himself? Wait, I’m not that curious.
‘There you are.’
Gesler looked up. ‘Stormy. I was just thinking of you.’
‘Thinking what?’
He waved at the well’s black hole. ‘If you’d fit, of course. Most of you would go, but not, alas, your head.’
‘You keep forgetting, Gesler,’ the corporal said as he drew nearer, ‘I was one of the ones who punched back.’
‘Got no recollection of that at all.’
‘Want me to remind you?’
‘What I want is to know why you’re bothering me.’
‘We’re all gettin’ ready to head out.’
‘Stormy.’
‘What?’
‘What do you think about all this?’
‘Someone liked building wells.’
‘Not this. I mean, the war. This war, the one here.’
‘I’ll let you know once we start busting heads.’
‘And if that never happens?’
Stormy shrugged, ran thick fingers through his knotted beard. ‘Just another typical Bonehunter war, then.’
Gesler grunted. ‘Go on, lead the way. Wait. How many battles have we fought, you and me?’
‘You mean, with each other?’
‘No, you damned idiot. I mean against other people. How many?’
‘I lost count.’
‘Liar.’
‘All right. Thirty-seven, but not counting Y’Ghatan since I wasn’t there. Thirty-eight for you, Gesler.’
‘And how many did we manage to avoid?’
‘Hundreds.’
‘So maybe, old friend, we’re just getting better at this.’
The huge Falari scowled. ‘You trying to ruin my day, Sergeant?’
Koryk tightened the straps of his bulky pack. ‘I just want to kill someone,’ he growled.
Bottle rubbed at his face then eyed the half-blood Seti. ‘There’s always Smiles. Or Tarr, if you jump him when he’s not looking.’
‘You being funny?’
‘No, just trying to deflect your attention from the weakest guy in this squad. Namely, me.’
‘You’re a mage. Sort of. You smell like one, anyway.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘If I kill you, you’d just curse me with your last breath, then I’d be miserable.’
‘So what would change, Koryk?’
‘Having a reason to be miserable is always worse than having no reason but being miserable anyway. If it’s just a way of life, I mean.’ He suddenly drew out the latest weapon in his arsenal, a long-knife. ‘See this? Just like the kind Kalam used. It’s a damned fast weapon, but I can’t see it doing much against armour.’
‘Where Kalam stuck them there wasn’t no armour. Throat, armpit, crotch – you should give it to Smiles.’
‘I grabbed it to keep it from her, idiot.’
Bottle looked over to where Smiles had, moments earlier, disappeared into the forest. She was on her way back, the placid expression on her face hiding all sorts of evil, no doubt. ‘I hope we’re not expected to stand against Edur the way heavies are,’ he said to Koryk while watching Smiles. ‘Apart from you and Tarr, and maybe Corabb, we’re not a big mailed fist kind of squad, are we? So, in a way, this kind of war suits us – subterfuge, covert stuff.’ He glanced over and saw the half-blood glaring at him. Still holding the long-knife. ‘But maybe we’re actually more versatile. We can be half mailed fist and half black glove, right?’
‘Anyway,’ Koryk said, resheathing the weapon, ‘when I said I wanted to kill someone I meant the enemy.’
‘Tiste Edur.’
‘Letherii bandits will do – there must be bandits around here somewhere.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean, why? There’s always bandits in the countryside, Bottle. Led by moustached rogues with fancy names. Zorala Snicker, or Pamby Doughty—’
A loud snort from Smiles, who had just arrived. ‘I remember those stories. Pamby Doughty with the feather in his hat and his hunchback sidekick, Pomolo Paltry the Sly. Stealers of the Royal Treasure of Li Heng. Cutters of the Great Rope that held Drift Avalii in one place. And Zorala, who as a child climbed the tallest tree in the forest, then found he couldn’t get back down, so that’s where he lived for years, growing up. Until the woodsman came—’
‘Gods below,’ Cuttle growled from the blankets he remained under, ‘someone cut her throat, please.’
‘Well,’ Smiles said with a tight, eponymous curve of her mouth, ‘at least I started the night in a good mood.’
‘She means she had a most satisfying—’
‘Clack the teeth together, Koryk, or I??
?ll cut those braids off when you’re sleeping and trust me, you won’t like what I’ll use ‘em for. And you, Bottle, don’t let that give you any ideas, neither. I took the blame for something you did once, but never again.’
‘I wouldn’t cut off Koryk’s braids,’ Bottle said. ‘He needs them to sneeze into.’
‘Get moving, Cuttle,’ Fiddler said as he strode among them. ‘Look at Corabb – he’s the only one actually ready—’
‘No I’m not,’ the man replied. ‘I just fell asleep in my armour, Sergeant, and now I need somewhere to pee. Only—’
‘Never mind,’ Fiddler cut in. ‘Let’s see if we can’t stumble onto some Edur tonight.’
‘We could start a forest fire,’ Koryk said.
‘But we happen to be in it,’ Tarr pointed out.
‘It was just an idea.’
Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas admitted to himself that these Malazans were nothing like the soldiers of the Dogslayers, or the warriors of Leoman’s army. He was not even sure if they were human. More like . . . animals. Endlessly bickering ones at that, like a pack of starving dogs.
They pretty much ignored him, which was a good thing. Even Bottle, to whom the sergeant had instructed Corabb to stay close. Guarding someone else’s back was something Corabb was familiar with, so he had no issue with that command. Even though Bottle was a mage and he wasn’t too sure about mages. They made deals with gods – but one didn’t have to be a mage to do that, he knew. No, one could be a most trusted leader, a commander whose warriors would follow him into the pit of the Abyss itself. Even someone like that could make deals with gods, and so doom his every follower in a fiery cataclysm even as that one ran away.
Yes, ran away.
He was pleased that he had got over all that. Old history, and old history was old so it didn’t mean anything any more, because . . . well, because it was old. He had a new history, now. It had begun in the rubble beneath Y’Ghatan. Among these . . . animals. Still, there was Fiddler and Corabb knew he would follow his sergeant because the man was worth following. Not like some people.
An army of fourteen seemed a little small, but it would have to do for now. He hoped, however, that somewhere ahead – further inland – they’d come to a desert. Too many trees in this wet, bad-smelling forest. And he’d like to get on a horse again, too. All this walking was, he was certain, unhealthy.
As the squad left the glade, slipping into the deeper darkness beyond, he moved alongside Bottle, who glanced over and grimaced. ‘Here to protect me from bats, Corabb?’
The warrior shrugged. ‘If they try attacking you I will kill them.’
‘Don’t you dare. I happen to like bats. I talk to them, in fact.’
‘The same as that rat and her pups you kept, right?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I was surprised, Bottle, that you left them to burn on the transports.’
‘I’d never do that. I shipped them onto the Froth Wolf. Some time ago, in fact—’
‘So you could spy on the Adjunct, yes.’
‘It was an act of mercy – the one ship I knew would be safe, you see—’
‘And so you could spy.’
‘All right, fine. So I could spy. Let’s move on to another subject. Did Leoman ever tell you about his bargain with the Queen of Dreams?’
Corabb scowled. ‘I don’t like that subject. It’s old history, which means nobody talks about it any more.’
‘Fine, so why didn’t you go with him? I’m sure he offered.’
‘I will kill the next bat I see.’
Someone hissed from up ahead: ‘Stop that jabbering, idiots! ‘
Corabb wished he was riding a fine horse, across a sun-blistered desert – no-one could truly understand the magic wonder of water, unless they had spent time in a desert. Here, there was so much of it a man’s feet could rot off and that wasn’t right. ‘This land is mad,’ he muttered.
Bottle grunted. ‘More like deathless. Layer on layer, ghosts tangled in every root, squirming restlessly under every stone. Owls can see them, you know. Poor things.’
Another hiss from ahead of them.
It started to rain.
Even the sky holds water in contempt. Madness.
Trantalo Kendar, youngest son among four brothers in a coastal clan of the Beneda Tiste Edur, rode with surprising grace, unmatched by any of his Edur companions, alas. He was the only one in his troop who actually liked horses. Trantalo had been a raw fifteen years of age at the conquest, unblooded, and the closest he had come to fighting had been as an apprentice to a distantly related aunt who had served as a healer in Hannan Mosag’s army.
Under her bitter command, he had seen the terrible damage war did to otherwise healthy warriors. The ghastly wounds, the suppurating burns and limbs withered from Letherii sorcery. And, walking the fields of battle in search of the wounded, he had seen the same horrid destruction among dead and dying Letherii soldiers.
Although young, something of the eagerness for battle had left him then, driving him apart from his friends. Too many spilled out intestines, too many crushed skulls, too many desperate pleas for help answered by naught but crows and gulls. He had bound countless wounds, had stared into the glazed eyes of warriors shocked by their own mortality, or, worse, despairing with the misery of lost limbs, scarred faces, lost futures.
He did not count himself clever, nor in any other way exceptional – barring, perhaps, his talent for riding horses – but he now rode with eleven veteran Edur warriors, four of them Beneda, including the troop commander, Estav Kendar, Trantalo’s eldest brother. And he was proud to be at the column’s head, first down this coastal track that led to Boaral Keep, where, as he understood it, some sort of Letherii impropriety demanded Edur attention.
This was as far south from Rennis as he had been since managing to flee his aunt’s clutches just inland of the city of Awl. Trantalo had not seen the walls of Letheras, nor the battlefields surrounding it, and for that he was glad, for he had heard that the sorcery in those final clashes had been the most horrifying of them all.
Life in Rennis had been one of strange privilege. To be Tiste Edur alone seemed sufficient reason for both fear and respect among the subservient Letherii. He had exulted in the respect. The fear had dismayed him, but he was not so naive as not to understand that without that fear, there would be none of the respect that so pleased him. ‘The threat of reprisal,’ Estav had told him the first week of his arrival. ‘This is what keeps the pathetic creatures cowering. And there will be times, young brother, when we shall have to remind them – bloodily – of that threat.’
Seeking to tug down his elation was the apprehension that this journey, down to this in-the-middle-of-nowhere keep, was just that – the delivery of reprisal. Blood-splashed adjudication. It was no wonder the Letherii strove to keep the Edur out of such disputes. We are not interested in niceties. Details bore us. And so swords will be drawn, probably this very night.
Estav would make no special demands of him, he knew. It was enough that he rode point on the journey. Once at the keep, Trantalo suspected he would be stationed to guard the gate or some such thing. He was more than satisfied with that.
The sun’s light was fast fading on the narrow track leading to the keep. They had a short time earlier left the main coastal road, and here on this lesser path the banks were steep, almost chest-high were one standing rather than riding, and braided with dangling roots. The trees pressed in close from both sides, branches almost entwining overhead. Rounding a twist in the trail, Trantalo caught first sight of the stockade, the rough boles – still bearing most of their bark – irregularly tilted and sunken. A half-dozen decrepit outbuildings crouched against a stand of alders and birch to the left and a flatbed wagon with a broken axle squatted in high grasses just to the right of the gate.
Trantalo drew rein before the entrance. The gate was open. The single door, made of saplings and a Z-shaped frame of planks, had been pushed well to one side and left there
, its base snarled with grasses. The warrior could see through to the compound beyond, oddly lifeless. Hearing his fellow Edur draw closer at the canter, he edged his horse forward until he made out the smoke-stained façade of the keep itself. No lights from any of the vertical slit windows. And the front door yawned wide.
‘Why do you hesitate, Trantalo?’ Estav inquired as he rode up.
‘Preda,’ Trantalo said, delighting, as ever, in these new Letherii titles, ‘the keep appears to be abandoned. Perhaps we have ridden to the wrong one—’
‘Boaral,’ affirmed a warrior behind Estav. ‘I’ve been here before.’
‘And is it always this quiet?’ Estav asked, one brow lifting in the way Trantalo knew so well.
‘Nearly,’ the warrior said, rising gingerly on the swivelling Letherii stirrups to look round. ‘There should be at least two torches, one planted above that wagon – then one in the courtyard itself.’
‘No guards?’
‘Should be at least one – could be he’s staggered off to the latrine trench—’
‘No,’ said Estav, ‘there’s no-one here.’ He worked his horse past Trantalo’s and rode through the gate.
Trantalo followed.
The two brothers approached the stepped front entrance to the keep.
‘Estav, something wet on those stairs.’
‘You’re right. Good eye, brother.’ The Beneda warrior dismounted with obvious relief, passing the reins over to Trantalo, then strode towards the steps. ‘Blood-trail.’
‘Perhaps a mutiny?’
The other Edur had left their horses with one of their company and were now moving out across the courtyard to search the stables, smithy, coop and well-house.
Estav stood at the base of the steps, eyes on the ground. ‘A body has been dragged outside,’ he said, tracking the blood-trail.
Trantalo saw his brother’s head lift to face the stable. As it did Estav grunted suddenly, then abruptly sat down.
‘Estav?’
Trantalo looked out to the courtyard, in time to see four warriors crumple. Sudden shouts from the three near the stables, as something like a rock sailed down into their midst.