The Bonehunters

  And so there was little choice. Flee, desperate as hares, helpless in this absurd game.

  For the first three kin, the scent of the hunters had begun to fade. It was true — few creatures could keep pace with Dejim Nebrahl for very long. It seemed, then, that they would content themselves with the crippled trailer, giving the D'ivers an opportunity to see them for the first time, to mark them for the others, until such time as vengeance could be exacted.

  And yet, the mysterious beasts did not lunge into view, did not tear into the fourth kin. And even for that one, the scent was fading.

  It made no sense.

  Dejim Nebrahl slowed his flight, wondering, curious, and not yet in the least suspicious.

  ****

  From cool relief to growing chill, the night descended among the trudging soldiers, raising a mutter of new complaints. A sleeping child in his arms, Fiddler walked two strides behind Kalam and Quick Ben, while in his wake strode Apsalar, her footfalls the barest of whispers.

  Better than scorching sun and heat... but not much better. Burnt and blistered skin on shoulders now radiated away all the warmth the flesh could create. Among the worst afflicted, fever awoke like a child lost in the woods, filling shadows with apparitions. Twice in the past hundred paces one of the soldiers had cried out in fear — seeing great moving shapes out in the night. Lumbering, swaggering, with eyes flashing like embers the hue of murky blood. Or so Mayfly had said, surprising everyone with the poetic turn of phrase.

  But like the monsters conjured from the imaginations of frightened babes, they never came closer, never quite revealed themselves. Both Mayfly and Gait swore that they had seen... something. Moving parallel with the column, but quicker, and soon past. Fevered minds. Fiddler told ; himself again, that and nothing more.

  Yet, he felt in himself a growing unease. As if they did indeed have company along this broken track, out there in the darkness, among the trenches and gullies and jumbled rockfalls. A short time earlier he'd thought he had heard voices, distant and seeming to descend from the night sky, but that had since faded. Nonetheless, his nerves were growing frayed — likely weariness, likely an awakening fever within his own mind.

  Ahead, Quick Ben's head suddenly turned, stared out to the right, scanned the darkness.

  'Something?' Fiddler asked in a low voice.

  The wizard glanced back at him, then away again, and said nothing.

  Ten paces later, Fiddler saw Kalam loosen the long-knives in their scabbards.

  Shit.

  He dropped back until he was alongside Apsalar, and was about to speak when she cut him off.

  'Be on your guard, sapper,' she said quietly. 'I believe we have nothing to fear... but I cannot be certain.'

  'What's out there?' he demanded.

  'Part of a bargain.'

  'What is that supposed to mean?'

  She suddenly lifted her head, as if testing the wind, and her voice hardened as she said in a loud voice, 'Everyone off the road — south side only — now.'

  At the command, thin fear whispered along the ancient road. Unarmed, unarmoured — this was a soldier's worst nightmare. Crouching down, huddling in the shadows, eyes wide and unblinking, breaths drawing still, the Malazans strained for any telltale sound in the darkness beyond.

  Staying low to the ground, Fiddler made his way along to rejoin his squad. If something was coming for them, better he died with his soldiers. As he scrabbled he sensed a presence catching up from behind, and turned to see Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas. The warrior held a solid, club­like piece of wood, too thick to be a branch, more like a tap-root from some ancient guldindha. 'Where did you find that?' Fiddler demanded in a hiss.

  A shrug was the only answer.

  Reaching his squad, the sergeant halted and Bottle crawled over to him. 'Demons,' the soldier whispered, 'out there—' a jerk of the head indicated the north side of the road. 'At first I thought it was the pall of evil offshore, the one that flushed the birds from the salt-marshes beyond the bay—'

  'The pall of what?' Fiddler asked.

  'But it wasn't that. Something a lot closer. Had a rhizan wheeling round out there — it came close to a beast. A damned big beast, Sergeant. Halfway between wolf and bear, only the size of a bull bhederin. It was headed west—'

  'You still linked to that rhizan, Bottle?'

  'No, it was hungry enough to break loose — I'm not quite recovered, Sergeant—'

  'Never mind. It was a good try. So, the bear-wolf or wolf-bhederin was heading west...'

  'Aye, not fifty paces across from us — no way it didn't know we were here,' Bottle said. 'It's not like we was sneak­ing along, was it?'

  'So it ain't interested in us.'

  'Maybe not yet, Sergeant.'

  'What do you mean by that?'

  'Well, I'd sent a capemoth ahead of us up the road, used it to test the air — they can sense things when those things are moving, stirring the air, giving off heat into the night — that heat is sometimes visible from a long way away, especially the colder the night gets. Capemoths need all that to avoid rhizan, although it doesn't always—'

  'Bottle, I ain't no naturalist — what did you see or sense or hear or whatever through that damned capemoth?'

  'Well, creatures up ahead, closing fast—'

  'Oh, thanks for that minor detail, Bottle! Glad you finally got round to it!'

  'Shh, uh, Sergeant. Please. I think we should just lie low — whatever's about to happen's got nothing to do with us.'

  Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas spoke: 'Are you certain of that?'

  'Well, no, but it stands to reason—'

  'Unless they're all working together, closing a trap—'

  'Sergeant,' Bottle said, 'we ain't that important.'

  'Maybe you ain't, but we got Kalam and Quick Ben, and Sinn and Apsalar—'

  'I don't know much about them, Sergeant,' Bottle said, 'but you might want to warn them what's coming, if they don't know already.'

  If Quick hasn't smelled all this out he deserves to get his tiny head ripped off. 'Never mind them.' Twisting round, Fiddler squinted into the darkness south of them. 'Any chance of moving to better cover? This ditch ain't worth a damned thing.'

  'Sergeant,' Bottle hissed, his voice tightening, 'we ain't got time.'

  ****

  Ten paces apart and moving now parallel along the route of the old road, one taking the centre of the track, the flankers in the rough ditches to either side, Dejim Nebrahl glided low to the ground, tipped leathery ears pricked forward, eyes scanning the way ahead.

  Something wasn't right. Half a league behind the three the fourth kin limped along, weak with blood-loss and exhausted by fear, and if the hunters remained close, they were now stalking in absolute silence. The kin halted, sink­ing low, head swivelling as its sharp eyes searched the night. Nothing, no movement beyond the flit of rhizan and capemoths.

  The three on the road caught the scent of humans, not far, and savage hunger engulfed all other thoughts. They stank of terror — it would taint their blood when he drank deep, a taste metallic and sour, a flavour Dejim Nebrahl had grown to cherish.

  Something lumbered onto the track thirty strides ahead.

  Huge, black, familiar.

  Deragoth. Impossible — they were gone, swallowed by a nightmare of their own making. This was all wrong.

  A sudden howl from far to the south, well behind the fourth kin, who spun, snarling at the sound.

  The first three D'ivers spread out, eyes on the lone beast padding towards them. If but one, then she is doomed—

  The beast surged forward in a charge, voicing a bellow­ing roar.

  Dejim Nebrahl sprinted to meet it.

  The flanking D'ivers twisted outward as more huge shapes pounded to close with them, two to each side. Jaws spread wide, lips peeling back, the Deragoth reached Dejim Nebrahl, giving voice to thunder. Massive canines sank down into the kin, slicing through muscle, crushing bone. Limbs snapped, ribs splintered and tore i
nto view through ruptured flesh and hide.

  Pain — such pain — the centre D'ivers sprang into the air to meet the charge of the Deragoth ahead. And his right leg was caught in huge jaws, jolting Dejim Nebrahl to a halt in mid-flight. Joints popped even as the leg bones were crunched into shards.

  Flung hard to the ground, Dejim sought to spin round, talons lashing out at his attacker's broad head. He tore into one eye and ripped it loose, sending it whirling off into the darkness.

  The Deragoth flinched back with a squeal of agony.

  Then a second set of jaws closed round the back of the kin's neck. Blood sprayed as the teeth ground and cut inward, crushing cartilage, then bone.

  Blood filled Dejim Nebrahl's throat.

  No, it cannot end like this—

  The other two kin were dying as well, as the Deragoth tore them to pieces.

  Far to the west, the lone survivor crouched, trembling.

  The Hounds attacked, three appearing in front of the last D'ivers. Moments before they closed, all three twisted away — a feint — which meant—

  Wolf jaws ripped into the back of Dejim Nebrahl's neck, and lifted the D'ivers from the ground.

  The T'rolbarahl waited for the clenching, the killing, but it never came. Instead, the beast that held it was run­ning fast over the ground, others of its kind to either side. West, and north, then, eventually, swinging southward, out into the wastes.

  Untiring, on and on through the cold night.

  Helpless in the grip of those jaws, the last D'ivers of Dejim Nebrahl did not struggle, for struggle was pointless. There would be no quick death, for these creatures had some other purpose in mind for him. Unlike the Deragoth, he realized, these Hounds possessed a master.

  A master who found reason to keep Dejim Nebrahl alive. A curious, fraught salvation — but I still live, and that is enough. I still live.

  ****

  The fierce battle was over. Kalam, lying near Quick Ben, narrowed his gaze, just barely making out the huge shapes of the demons as they set off, without a backward glance, westward along the track.

  'Looks like their hunt's not yet over,' the assassin muttered, reaching up to wipe the sweat that had been stinging his eyes.

  'Gods below,' Quick Ben said in a whisper.

  'Did you hear those distant howls?' Kalam asked, sitting up. 'Hounds of Shadow — I'm right, aren't I, Quick? So, we got lizard cats, and giant bear-dogs like the one Toblakai killed in Raraku, and the Hounds... wizard, I don't want to walk this road no more.'

  'Gods below,' the man at his side whispered again.

  ****

  Lieutenant Pores's cheerful embrace with the Lady went sour with an ambush of a patrol he'd led inland from the marching army, three days west of Y'Ghatan. Starving bandits, of all things. They'd beaten them off, but he had taken a crossbow quarrel clean through his upper left arm, and a sword-slash just above his right knee, deep enough to sever muscle down to the bone. The healers had mended the damage, sufficient to roughly knit torn flesh and close scar tissue over the wounds, but the pain remained excruciating. He had been convalescing on the back of a crowded wagon, until they came within sight of the north sea and the army encamped, whereupon Captain Kindly had appeared.

  Saying nothing, Kindly had clambered into the bed of the wagon, grasped Pores by his good arm, and dragged him from the pallet. Down off the back, the lieutenant nearly buckling under his weak leg, then staggering and stumbling as the captain tugged him along.

  Gasping, Pores had asked, 'What's the emergency, Captain? I heard no alarms—'

  'Then you ain't been listening,' Kindly replied.

  Pores looked round, somewhat wildly, but he could seel no-one else rushing about, no general call to arms — the camp was settling down, cookfires lit and figures huddled beneath rain-capes against the chill carried on the sea breeze. 'Captain—'

  'My officers don't lie about plucking nose hairs, Lieutenant. There's real injured soldiers in those wagons, and you're just in their way. Healers are done with you. Time to stretch out that bad leg. Time to be a soldier again — stop limping, damn you — you're setting a miserable example here, Lieutenant.'

  'Sorry, sir.' Sodden with sweat, Pores struggled to keep up with his captain. 'Might I ask, where are we going?'

  'To look at the sea,' Kindly replied. 'Then you're taking charge of the inland pickets, first watch, and I strongly suggest you do a weapons and armour inspection, Lieutenant, since there is the chance that I will take a walk along those posts.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Up ahead, on a rise overlooking the grey, white-capped sea, stood the Fourteenth's command. The Adjunct, Nil and Nether, Fists Blistig, Temul and Keneb, and, slightly apart and wrapped in a long leather cloak, T'amber. Just behind them stood Warleader Gall and his ancient aide Imrahl, along with captains Ruthan Gudd and Madan'Tul Rada. The only one missing was Fist Tene Baralta, but Pores had heard that the man was still in a bad way, one-armed and one-eyed, his face ravaged by burning oil, and he didn't have Kindly in charge of him either, which meant he was being left to heal in peace.

  Ruthan Gudd was speaking in a low voice, his audience Madan'Tul Rada and the two Khundryl warriors, '... just fell into the sea — those breakers, that tumult in the middle of the bay, that's where the citadel stood. A tier of raised land surrounded it — the island itself — and there was a causeway linking it to this shore — nothing left of that but those pillars just topping the sands above the tideline. It's said the shattering of a Jaghut enclave far to the north was responsible—'

  'How could that sink this island?' Gall demanded. 'You make no sense, Captain.'

  'The T'lan Imass broke the Jaghut sorcery — the ice lost its power, melted into the seas, and the water levels rose. Enough to eat into the island, deluging the tier, then devouring the feet of the citadel itself. In any case, this was thousands of years ago—'

  'Are you an historian as well as a soldier?' the Warleader asked, glancing over, his tear-tattooed face bathed red like a mask in the setting sun's lurid light.

  The captain shrugged. 'The first map ever saw of Seven Cities was Falari, a sea-current map marking out the treacherous areas along this coast — and every other coast­line, all the way to Nemil. It had been copied countless times, but the original dated from the days when the only metals being traded were tin, copper, lead and gold. Falar's trade with Seven Cities goes back a long way, Warleader Gall. Which makes sense, since Falar is halfway between Quon Tali and Seven Cities.'

  Captain Kindly observed, 'It's odd, Ruthan Gudd, you do not look Falari. Nor is your name Falari.'

  'I am from the island of Strike, Kindly, which lies against the Outer Reach Deeps. Strike is the most isolated of all the islands in the chain, and our legends hold that we are all that remains of the original inhabitants of Falar — the red- and gold-haired folk you see and think of as Falari were in fact invaders from the eastern ocean, from the other side of Seeker's Deep, or some unknown islands well away from the charted courses across that ocean. They themselves do not even recall their homelands, and most of them believe they have always lived in Falar. But our old maps show different names, Strike names for all the islands and the kingdoms and peoples, and the word "Falar" does not appear among them.'

  If the Adjunct and her retinue were speaking, Pores could hear nothing. Ruthan Gudd's words and the stiff wind drowned out all else. The lieutenant's leg throbbed with pain; there was no angle at which he could hold his injured arm comfortably. And now he was chilled, the old sweat like ice against his skin, thinking only of the warm blankets he had left behind.

  There were times, he reflected morosely, when he wanted to kill Captain Kindly.

  ****

  Keneb stared out at the heaving waters of the Kokakal Sea. The Fourteenth had circumvented Sotka and were now thirteen leagues west of the city. He could make out snatches of conversation from the officers behind them, but the wind swept enough words away to make compre­hension a chore, and likely not wo
rth the effort. Among the foremost line of officers and mages, no-one had spoken in some time.

  Weariness, and, perhaps, the end of this dread, miserable chapter in the history of the Fourteenth..

  They had pushed hard on the march, first west and then northward. Somewhere in the seas beyond was the transport fleet and its escort of dromons. Gods, an intercept must be possible, and with that, these battered legions could get off this plague-ridden continent.

  To sail away... but where?

  Back home, he hoped. Quon Tali, at least for a time. To regroup, to take on replacements. To spit out the last grains of sand from this Hood-taken land. He could return to his wife and children, with all the confusion and trepidation such a reunion would entail. There'd been too many mistakes in their lives together, and even those few moments of redemption had been tainted and bitter. Minala. His sister-in-law, who had done what so many victims did, hidden away her hurts, finding normality in brutal abuse, and had come to believe the fault lay with her, rather than the madman she had married.

  Killing the bastard hadn't been enough, as far as Keneb was concerned. What still needed to be expunged was a deeper, more pervasive rot, the knots and threads all bound in a chaotic web that defined the time at that fell garrison. One life tied to every other by invisible, thrumming threads, unspoken hurts and unanswered expectations, the constant deceits and conceits — it had taken a continent-wide uprising to shatter all of that. And we are not mended.

  Not so long a reach, to see how the Adjunct and this damned army was bound in the same tangled net, the legacies of betrayal, the hard, almost unbearable truth that some things could not be answered.

  Broad-bellied pots crowding market stalls, their flanks a mass of intricately painted yellow butterflies, swarming barely seen figures and all sweeping down the currents of a silt-laden river. Scabbards bearing black feathers. A painted line of dogs along a city wall, each beast linked to the next by a chain of bones. Bazaars selling reliquaries purportedly containing remnants of great heroes of the Seventh Army. Bult, Lull, Chenned and Duiker. And, of course, Coltaine himself.

  When one's enemy embraces the heroes of one's own side, one feels strangely... cheated, as if the theft of life was but the beginning, and now the legends themselves have been stolen away, transformed in ways beyond control. But Coltaine belongs to us. How dare you do this? Such sentiments, sprung free from the dark knot in his soul, made no real sense. Even voicing them felt awkward, absurd. The dead are ever refashioned, for they have no defence against those who would use or abuse them — who they were, what their deeds meant. And this was the anguish... this... injustice.