Facing the opposite direction, he set off for the wound.
Aparal’s eyes had been on the gate, and he was not alone in seeing the Hound’s severed head sailing out to thump and roll on the ground. Shouts of dismay and horror sounded on all sides.
He stared in horror.
It cannot be just one man. It cannot!
A Hust legion waits for us. Hundreds of the cursed slayers, each one driven mad by their weapons. Nothing will stop them, nothing can defeat them.
We cannot win this.
Unblinking, he stared at the huge head, the empty eyes, and then he turned to the dying dragon. It had lurched up against the corpse of Iparth Erule. Had bitten into his rotting flank. But now the motions were slowing, losing that frenzied strength. Eldat, please die. Please.
‘Not long now,’ he whispered. Not long now.
Waves of sorcery had pursued the Hound back to the wound, Pully and Skwish advancing behind them, clambering over corpses and torn-up soldiers still in the process of dying. Pithy staggered in their wake. She’d taken a slash to her right shoulder and the bleeding wasn’t slowing. Her arm was sheathed in red, with thick threads draining from her fist. Colours were fast fading from the world.
She saw Brevity leading a solid wedge of Letherii, coming up from the left flank. Where was the prince?
And what was that thunder in the breach?
Nearby was the carcass of a Hound, and nearer the breach another one of the horrid, giant beasts, still alive, still kicking where it lay on its side. Soldiers were closing on it, readying their pikes. Killing it was going to take some time.
I’m so tired. All at once the strength left her legs and she sat down. Bad cut. A fang? A claw? I can’t remember – can’t twist round enough to see it. But at least the pain’s gone.
‘Captain!’
Pithy looked down at the sword in her hand. Smiled. You did all right. You didn’t fail me. Where’s that girl? Need to tell her.
‘Someone get one of the witches! Quickly!’
That voice was loud, almost right next to her ear, but it seemed muffled all the same. She saw Brevity running towards her now, but it was hard work, getting over all those bodies, and Pithy wondered if she’d arrive in time.
In time for what? Oh. This.
She settled, tried lying down, found herself cradled in someone’s arms.
‘Her back’s bitten half off! Where are the witches?’
‘Spent.’
‘We need—’
A roaring sound filling her head, Pithy looked down at her hand, the one holding the sword. She willed it to let go, but it refused. She frowned. But a moment later the frown faded. I understand. I am a soldier. Not a thief. Not a criminal. A soldier. And a soldier never lets go of the sword. Ever. You see it in their eyes.
Can you see it in my eyes? I bet you can.
It’s true. At last, it’s true. I was a soldier.
Brevity was still ten paces away when she saw her friend die. She cried out, sagged down amidst the corpses. Crossing this killing field had been a nightmare, a passage of unrelenting horror. Letherii, Shake, Liosan – bodies were bodies, and death was death, and names didn’t mean shit. She was soaked in what had been spilled, what had been lost. The abattoir reek was thick enough to drown in. She held her head in her hands.
Pithy.
Remember the scams? How we took ’em for all they had? It was us against the world and gods, it felt good those times we won. It never hurt us, not once, beating ’em at their own game. Sure, they had law on their side, making legal all they stole. But then, they’d made up those laws. That was the only difference between us.
We used to hate their greed. But then we got greedy ourselves. Served us right, getting caught.
Island life, now that was boring. Until those Malazans showed up. It all started right then, didn’t it? Leading up to here. To now.
They sent us tumbling, didn’t they? Fetching us up on the Shore. We could’ve gone off on our own, back into everything we knew and despised. But we didn’t. We stayed with Twilight and the Watch, and they made us captains.
And now we fought us a war. You did, Pithy. I’m still fighting it. Still not knowing what any of it means.
Ten paces, and I can’t look over at you. I can’t. It’s this distance between us. And while I live, I can’t cross it. Pithy, how could you leave me so alone?
Yedan Derryg emerged from the wound in Lightfall. The laughter of his sword chewed the air. She stared across at him, thinking how lost he looked. But no. That’s just me. It’s just me. He knows what he needs to know. He’s worked it all out. It comes with the blood.
Sergeant Cellows stumped up to Yedan. ‘Prince – she’s alive, but unconscious. The witches used her—’
‘I know,’ he replied, studying the killing field.
The sergeant, burly and hulking – a touch of Teblor blood in him – followed his gaze and grunted. ‘They hurt us this time, sire. The Hounds mauled the centre and the right flank. One of the beasts reached the wounded before Pully drove it back. But our losses, sire. They hurt us. Nithe, Aysgan, Trapple, Pithy—’
Yedan shot him a hard look. ‘Pithy?’
Cellows pointed with a finger that had been cut off just below the knuckle. ‘There.’ A figure slumped in a weeping soldier’s arms. Brevity kneeling nearby, head lowered.
‘See to what needs to be done, Sergeant. Wounded. Weapons.’
‘Yes, sire – er, Prince?’
‘What is it?’
‘Seems I’m the last.’
‘The last?’
‘From your original company, sir. Coast Patrol.’
Yedan felt something crunch at the back of his mouth. He winced, leaned over and spat. ‘Shit, broke a tooth.’ He lifted his eyes, stared across at Cellows. ‘I want you in reserve.’
‘Sire?’
‘For when I need you the most, Sergeant. For when I need you at my side. Until then, you are to remain out of the fight.’
‘Sire—’
‘But when I call, you’d better be ready.’
The man saluted, and then strode away.
‘My last,’ Yedan whispered.
He squinted at Brevity. If all these eyes were not upon me, I would walk to you, Brevity. I would take you in my arms. I would share your grief. You deserve that much. We both do. But I can show nothing like … that.
He hesitated, suddenly unsure. Probed his broken tooth with his tongue. Tasted blood. ‘Shit.’
Brevity looked up as the shadow fell over her. ‘Prince.’ She struggled to stand but Yedan reached out, and the weight of his hand pushed her back down.
She waited for him to speak. But he said nothing, though his eyes were now on Pithy and the soldiers gathering around the fallen woman. She forced herself to follow his gaze.
They were lifting her so gently she thought her heart would rupture.
‘It’s no easy thing,’ murmured Yedan, ‘to earn that.’
Aparal Forge saw the enclaves encamped on the surrounding mounds slowly stirring awake, saw the soldiers assembling. This will be the one, then. When we throw our elites through the gate. Legions of Light. Lord Kadagar Fant, why did you wait this long?
If they had gone through from the first, the Shake would have fallen by now. Make the first bite the deepest. Every commander knows this. But you wouldn’t listen. You wanted to bleed your people first, to make your cause theirs.
But it hasn’t worked. They fight because you give them no choice. The pot-throwers dry their hands and the wheel slows and then stops. The weavers lock up their looms. The wood-carvers put away their tools. The road-menders, the lamp-makers, the hawkers of songbirds and the dog-skinners, the mothers and the whores and the consorts and the drug-peddlers – they all set down the things they would do, to fight this war of yours.
It all stops, and for so many now will never start again.
You’ve ripped out the side of your people, left a gaping wound – a wound like the one b
efore us. And we flow through it like blood. We spill out and scab up on the other side.
The Soletaken were all sembled now. They knew what needed to be done. And as the ranks drew up, Aparal saw his Eleint-fouled kin take position, each at the head of his or her own elite soldiers.
But a Hust Legion awaits us. Slayers of Hounds and Dragons, in all the mad laughter of war.
This next battle. It will be our last.
He looked up to the battlements, but Kadagar was not there. And from his soldiers resting on all sides, his commoners so bloodied, so utterly ruined, Aparal heard the same words. ‘He comes. Our lord shall lead us.’
Our lord. Our very own rag doll.
‘Water, Highness. Drink.’
She barely had strength to guide the mouthpiece to her lips. Like rain in a desert, the water flowed through the ravaged insides of her mouth. Lacerated tissues stung awake, her throat opened in relief. She pulled it away, gasping.
‘What’s happening? Where am I?’
‘The witches and your brother, Queen, they killed the Hounds.’
Hounds.
What day is this? In a world without days, what day is this?
‘They’re little girls now,’ her companion said.
Yan Tovis blinked up at her. A familiar face. ‘Your brother?’
The woman looked away.
‘I’m sorry.’
She shook her head. ‘I will see them soon, my queen. That’s what I look forward to now.’
‘Don’t think that way—’
‘Forgive me, Highness. I took care of them all my life, but against this, I wasn’t enough. I failed. It’s too much. From the very start, it was too much.’
Yan Tovis stared up at the woman’s face, the dry eyes, the absence of expression. She’s already gone. ‘“They await you on the Shore.”’
A brittle half-smile. ‘So we say over our dead, yes. I remember.’
Over our dead.
‘Tell the witches – if they do that to me again – if they use me like that – ever again – I will kill them both.’
The woman flinched. ‘They look ten years old, Highness.’
‘But they aren’t. They’re two old women, sour and bitter and hateful of the world. Go, give them my warning, soldier.’
With a silent nod, the young woman rose.
Yan Tovis settled her head, felt the sand grinding against the back of her skull. Empty sky. Dreams of darkness. If I had knelt to the Shore, they couldn’t touch me. Instead, they punished me.
‘But if they hadn’t,’ she whispered, ‘those Hounds would have killed hundreds more. Which of us, then, is sour and bitter? Hateful of the world?’
I will go to her. To Kharkanas. I will beg her forgiveness. Neither of us can withstand the weight of this crown. We should cast it off. We can find the strength for that. We must.
Oh, I am a fool. Yedan will not yield. The lives lost must mean something, even when they don’t. So, it seems we must all die. It seems we have no choice. Not the Shake, not the Letherii, not Sandalath Drukorlat, Queen of High House Dark.
She reached down and came up with a handful of white sand – crumbled bones. ‘It’s all here,’ she whispered. ‘Our entire history, right here. From then … to now. To what’s coming. All … here.’ And she watched, as she closed that hand into a fist, as if to crush it all.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Stone whispers
Patience
But we take chisel in hand
Child begs
Not yet
But the sands have run out
Sky cries
Fly
But we hold our ground
Wind sings
Free
But roots bind us down
Lover sighs
Stay
But we must be gone
Life pleads
Live
But death is the dream
We beg
Not yet
But the sands have run out
Stone whispers
Patience …
Incantation
Gallan of Kharkanas
‘THERE WILL COME A TIME,’ VENTURED SECHUL LATH, ‘WHEN WE shall be all but forgotten.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ growled Errastas. ‘And they shall drink blood. Remember that? Book of Elders. And that is the last memory of us that will remain. As drinkers of blood. A tyranny of thirst. If it is not for us to save our worshippers, then who will – who will save all these wretched mortals?’
Behind them, feet thumping the ground like a drum of war, Kilmandaros said, ‘They cannot be saved. They never could.’
‘Then what use are we? To any of them?’
Errastas spat on the ground, and replied with contempt, ‘Someone to blame, Setch. For all the ruin they themselves commit. On each other. On themselves. Anyway, enough. We’ve chewed on this too many times.’
Sechul Lath glanced back. ‘Are we far enough, do you think?’
Kilmandaros’s eyes were hooded with exhaustion, and she did not bother following his gaze. ‘No.’
‘A warren—’ Errastas began.
She cut him off with a snort. ‘The wounding to come shall strike through every warren. Young and Elder. Our only hope is to get as much distance between us and her as we can.’
Errastas shrugged. ‘I never much liked K’rul anyway.’
‘To begin,’ Kilmandaros said, ‘this but wounds. If she is not slain in time, then K’rul will indeed die, and the world shall be unmade. The death of sorcery, and more.’
Sechul Lath smiled across at Errastas. ‘And so the coin is cast, and it spins, and spins still.’
‘She is no longer our problem,’ he replied, one finger probing the empty socket of his stolen eye. ‘Her sister will have to deal with her. Or someone else.’
‘And on this our fate rests – that someone else cleans up the mess we make. I dare say our children will not appreciate the burden.’
‘They’ll not live long enough to appreciate much of anything,’ Errastas said.
I truly see our problem, friends. We don’t want the future, we want the past. With a new name. But it’s still the past, that invented realm of nostalgia, all the jagged edges smoothed away. Paradise … for the drinkers of blood.
‘Draconus seeks to do me harm,’ said Kilmandaros. ‘He waits for me.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ snapped Errastas. ‘He will join with T’iam in slaying the Otataral Dragon. He may have vowed eternal war against chaos, but even he would not welcome its end. Besides, a battle with you risks too much – you might kill him. He’s been imprisoned in a sword for how long? You think he’d risk his freedom so soon? Perhaps indeed he has old scores to settle with you, Kilmandaros, but he is about to discover far more immediate threats.’
‘Unless he gleans our purpose.’
Sechul Lath glanced back at her. ‘Mother, I assure you, he has done that. But I think Errastas judges rightly. Draconus will see the threat posed by the release of the Otataral Dragon, and her presence will be his lodestone. Hopefully a fatal one.’
‘Many have tried to kill her,’ Errastas agreed, ‘and all have failed. Even the imprisonment demanded an elaborate trap – one that took centuries for Rake to devise.’
‘He wasn’t alone,’ rumbled Kilmandaros.
‘And what was made you have now unmade,’ Errastas said, nodding. ‘And Anomander Rake is dead, and there remains no one to match his insane obsessions—’
Kilmandaros had drawn close during the conversation, and her hand was a sudden blur in the corner of Sechul’s vision, but the blow she struck Errastas was impossible to miss, as ribs snapped and he was thrown from his feet. He struck the ground, rolled once, and then curled up around the damage to his chest.
She moved to stand over him. ‘You will cease speaking ill of him,’ she said in a low voice. ‘We did not always agree. Often we quarrelled. But the Son of Darkness was a man of integrity and honour. No longer will I permit you t
o spit on his name. He is dead, and your voice lives on like the cry of a cowardly crow, Errastas. You were never his match, and even in death he stands taller than you in all your guises. Do you think I do not hear your resentment? Your envy? It disgusts me.’
Sechul Lath felt a trickle of power from Errastas, as the Elder God healed himself. Slowly, he regained his feet, and, not looking at either of them, resumed walking.
After a moment, Sechul fell in behind the Errant, followed by Kilmandaros.
She said, loud enough for both to hear, ‘Rake once said to me that Draconus was a man of great honour. Before the betrayal. Before his day of rage. I believe him.’
Sechul turned and studied his mother. ‘You believe he will leave the Otataral Dragon to T’iam. That he will seek you out, not to settle old scores, but to punish you for what you have done here. To punish you for releasing her.’
‘Punish me?’ She bared her tusks. ‘He will seek to kill me, my son. And I am frightened.’
The admission was like ice in Sechul’s veins. Mother? ‘We should never have done this,’ he whispered.
‘A common prayer,’ she muttered in reply.
‘Farther still?’ Errastas demanded.
Kilmandaros glanced behind them. ‘Farther still.’
The dragon circled him twice before descending to the broken tundra two hundred paces ahead. As Tulas Shorn walked closer, he watched it eyeing him warily. Scales like plates of ice, milky and translucent in places, blinding white where the sun’s light struck them full. Eyes red as blood. With less than fifty strides between them, the dragon sembled.
Tulas maintained his steady approach until ten paces away, and then he halted in alarm. ‘Is that a Hust blade you carry, Silchas Ruin? Such was not your style.’
The weapon was moaning, sensing the nearness of one possessing the blood of Eleint. One other than its wielder, that is.
Silchas Ruin’s expression was flat. ‘It seems that you evaded their bargain – for there was a bargain, was there not? Between my brother and the Lord of the Slain. There had to have been.’
‘I imagine you are correct.’
‘Was your prison Hood’s realm, Prince, or Dragnipur?’