A stabler collected Whiskeyjack's horse, and the commander set off towards Dujek's tent.
A squad of marines sat on their packs in front of the entrance, helms and armour on, still wearing the scarves that had covered their faces against the day's dust. None rose at Whiskeyjack's arrival.
'Carry on,' he growled sarcastically as he strode between the soldiers and entered the tent.
Within, Dujek was on his knees. He'd thrown a map down on the carpeted floor and was studying it by lantern-light, muttering under his breath.
'So,' Whiskeyjack said as he pulled a camp chair close and settled, 'the divided army… divides yet again.'
Dujek glanced up, his bushy brows knitting into a momentary frown before he resumed his perusal of the map. 'My bodyguard outside?'
'Aye.'
'They're a miserable lot at the best of times, and this isn't exactly best.' Whiskeyjack stretched out his legs, wincing as old pain awoke once more in the left one. They're all Untan, aren't they? Haven't seen them around much of late.'
'You haven't seen them around because I told them to get scarce. Calling 'em miserable was being kind. They're not of the Host and as far as they're concerned they'll never be and, damn, I agree with 'em. Anyway, they wouldn't have saluted you even if we wasn't splitting into two commands. It's a struggle them saluting even me, and I'm the one they're sworn to protect.'
'We've got a tired army out there.'
'I know. With Oponn's luck the pace will return to sanity once we're the other side of Maurik. That's three days of loose reins and stretched necks to Coral—we've managed with less.'
'Managed to get mauled, you mean. That run to Mott damn near finished us, Dujek. We can't afford a repetition—there's a lot more to lose this time.'
The High Fist leaned back and began rolling up the map. 'Have faith, friend.'
Whiskeyjack glanced around, noted the cross-slung backpack resting against the centre pole, the old shortsword in its equally ancient scabbard draped over it. 'So soon?'
'You ain't been paying attention,' Dujek said. 'We've been peeling off without a hitch every night since the divide. Do the roll call, Whiskeyjack, you're six thousand short. Come the morning, you've got your command back—well, slightly under half of it, anyway. You should be dancing round the pole.'
'No, I should be the one flying out tonight, not you, Dujek. The risk—'
'Precisely,' the High Fist growled. 'The risk. You never seem to realize, but you're more important to this army than I am. You always have been. To the soldiers, I'm just a one-armed ogre in a fancy uniform—they damned well see me as a pet.'
Whiskeyjack studied Dujek's battered, unadorned armour and grinned sourly.
'A figure of speech,' the High Fist said. 'Besides, it's as the Empress has commanded.'
'So you keep saying.'
'Whiskeyjack, Seven Cities is devouring itself. The Whirlwind has risen over blood-soaked sands. The Adjunct has a new army and it's on its way, but too late for the Malazan forces already there. I know you were talking retirement, but look at it from Laseen's point of view. She has two commanders left who know Seven Cities. And, before long, only one seasoned army—stuck here on Genabackis. If she has to risk one of us in the Pannion War, it has to be me.'
'She plans on sending the Host to Seven Cities? Hood take us, Dujek—'
'If the new Adjunct falls to Sha'ik, what choice does she have? More important, she wants you in command.'
Whiskeyjack slowly blinked. 'What about you?'
Dujek grimaced. 'I don't think she expects me to survive what's about to come. And if by some miracle I do, well, the campaign in Korel is a shambles…'
'You don't want Korel.'
'What I want doesn't matter, Whiskeyjack.'
'And Laseen would say the same of me, I gather. Dujek, as I said before, I intend to retire, to disappear if need be. I'm done. With all of this. Some log cabin in some frontier kingdom, a long way away from the Empire—'
'And a wife swinging a pot at your head. Marital, domestic bliss—you think Korlat will settle for that?'
Whiskeyjack smiled at High Fist's gentle mockery. 'It's her idea—not the pot-swinging—that's your particular nightmare, Dujek. But all the rest… all right, not a log cabin. More like a remote, wind-battered keep in some mountain fastness. A place with a forbidding view—'
'Well,' Dujek drawled, 'you can still plant a small vegetable garden in the courtyard. Wage war against weeds. All right, that's our secret, then. Too bad for Laseen. Should I survive Coral, I'll be the one taking the Host back to Seven Cities. And should I not survive, well, I won't be in a position to care one whit about the Malazan Empire.'
'You'll scrape through, Dujek. You always do.'
'A weak effort, but I'll take it. So, share one last meal with me? The Moranth won't be here till after the midnight bell.'
It was an odd choice of words, and they hung heavy between the two old friends for a long moment.
'One last meal before I leave, I meant,' Dujek said with a faint smile. 'Until Coral.'
'I'd be delighted,' Whiskeyjack replied.
The wastes southwest of River Eryn stretched out beneath the stars, the sands rippled by inland winds born on the Dwelling Plain in the heart of the continent. Ahead, on the horizon's very edge, the Godswalk Mountains were visible, young and jagged, forming a barrier to the south that stretched sixty leagues. Its easternmost edge was swallowed by forests that continued unbroken all the way to Ortnal's Cut and Coral Bay, resuming on the other side of the water to surround the city of Coral itself.
The River Eryn became Ortnal's Cut twenty or more leagues from Coral Bay, the river's red water plunging into a deep chasm and reputedly turning oddly black and impenetrable. Coral Bay seemed to be but a continuation of that chasm.
The Cut was not yet visible to Paran, even from this height, yet he knew it was there. Scouts from the flight of Black Moranth now winging him and his Bridgeburners down the river's path had confirmed its nearness—sometimes the maps were wrong, after all. Fortunately, most of the Black Moranth had been positioned in the Vision Mountains for months, making nightly sorties to study the lie of the land, to formulate the best approach to Coral in anticipation of this moment.
They would likely reach Eryn's mouth before dawn, assuming the stiff, steady winds rushing towards the Godswalk Mountains continued unabated, and the following night would see them skimming over the Cut's black waters, towards Coral itself.
And once there, we work out what the Seer's planned for us. Work it out and, if possible, dismantle it. And once that's done, it'll be time for me and Quick Ben—
Some unseen signal had the quorls plunging earthward, angling towards the river's western bank. Paran gripped hard the bony projections on the Black Moranth rider's armour, the wind whistling through his helm's visor to shriek in his ears. Gritting his teeth, Paran ducked his head low behind the warrior as the dark ground swiftly rose to meet them.
A snap of wings less than a man's height above the boulder-strewn shore slowed them abruptly, and then they were slipping silently along the strand. Paran twisted round to see the others in single file behind them. He tapped a finger against his rider's armour, leaned forward.
'What's happening?'
'There is carrion ahead,' the Black Moranth replied, the words strangely clicking—a sound the captain knew he would never get used to.
'You're hungry?'
The chitin-armoured warrior did not reply.
All right, so that was a little low.
The stench of whatever lay on the shore ahead reached Paran. 'Do we have to do this? Is it the quorls who need to feed? Have we time, Moranth?'
'Our scouts saw nothing the night last, Captain. Never before has this river yielded such a creature. Perhaps, that it has done so now is important. We shall investigate.'
Paran relented. 'Very well.'
The quorl beneath them angled to the right, up and over the grassy embankment, then settled
on the level ground beyond it. The others followed suit.
Joints aching, Paran released the saddle-straps and cautiously dismounted.
Quick Ben limped to his side. 'Abyss take me,' he grumbled, 'much more of this and my legs will fall off.'
'Any idea what they've found?' the captain asked him.
'Only that it stinks.'
'Some dead beast, apparently.'
A half-dozen Black Moranth had gathered around the lead rider.
Clicks and buzzes were exchanged among them in a rapid discussion, then the officer—whose quorl Paran had been riding—gestured for the captain and the wizard to approach.
'The creature,' the officer said, 'lies directly ahead. We would have you examine it as we shall. Speak freely, so that we might finally circle the truth and so know its hue. Come.'
Paran glanced at Quick Ben, who simply shrugged. 'Lead the way, then,' the captain said.
The corpse lay among boulders high on the strand, fifteen paces from the southward-rushing water. Limbs twisted, revealing broken bones—some of them jutting through torn flesh—the figure was naked, bloated with decomposition. The ground around it seethed with crayfish, clicking and scraping and, here and there, locked in titanic battle over possession of the feast—a detail Paran found amusing at first, then ineffably disturbing. His attention only momentarily drawn away from the body by the scavengers, he fixed his gaze once more on the figure. Quick Ben spoke a soft question to the Moranth officer, who nodded. The wizard gestured and a muted glow rose from the boulders on all sides, illuminating the corpse.
Hood's breath. 'Is that a Tiste Andü?'
Quick Ben stepped closer, squatted, and was silent for a long moment, then he said, 'If he is, he's not one of Anomander Rake's people… no, in fact, I don't think he's Tiste Andü at all.'
Paran frowned. 'He's damned tall, Wizard. And those facial features—such as we can see—'
'His skin's too pale, Captain.'
'Bleached by water and sun.'
'No. I've seen a few Tiste Andü bodies. In Blackdog Forest, and in the swamplands surrounding it. I've seen 'em in all sorts of conditions. Nothing like this. He's heat-swelled from the day, aye, and we have to assume he came from the river, but he's not water-logged. Captain, have you ever seen a victim of Sere sorcery?'
'The Path of the Sky? Not that I recall.'
'There's one spell, that bursts the victim from the inside out. Has to do with pressure, with violently altering it, even taking it away entirely. Or, as this looks like, increasing it outside the body a hundredfold. This man was killed by implosive pressure, as if he'd been hit by a mage using High Sere.'
'All right.'
'Not all right, Captain. All wrong, in fact.' Quick Ben looked up at the Moranth officer. 'Circle the truth, you said. OK. Talk.'
'Tiste Edur.'
The name—oh, yes. Twist spoke of them. Some old war… a shattered warren—
'Agreed. Though I've never seen one before.'
'He did not die here.'
'You're right, he didn't. And he didn't drown, either.'
The Moranth nodded. 'He did not drown. Nor was he killed by sorcery—for the smell is wrong.'
'Aye, no taint of magic. Keep circling.'
'The Blue Moranth, who ply the seas and sink nets into the deep trenches—their catch arrives upon the deck already dead. This effect concerns the nature of pressure.'
'I imagine it does.'
'This man was killed by the reverse. By appearing, suddenly, in a place of great pressure.'
'Aye.' Quick Ben sighed. He glanced out over the river. 'There's a trench, a crevasse, out there—you can see it by the current's upstream pull out in the middle. Ortnal's Cut reaches this far, unseen, cracking the river bed. That trench is deep.'
'Hold it,' Paran said. 'You're suggesting that this Tiste Edur appeared, suddenly, somewhere down in that underwater trench. The only way that could be true is if he'd opened a warren in order to get there—that's a seriously complicated means of suicide.'
'Only if he'd intended to do as he did,' Quick Ben replied. 'Only if he was the one who opened the warren in the first place. If you want to kill someone—nastily—you throw them, push them, trip them—whatever—into an inimical portal. I think this poor bastard was murdered.'
'By a High Mage of Sere?'
'More like a High Mage of Ruse—the Path of the Sea. Captain, the Malazan Empire is a seafaring empire, or at least its roots are seafaring. You won't find a true High Mage of Ruse in all the empire. It's the hardest warren to master.' Quick Ben turned to the Moranth. 'And among your Blue Moranth? Your Silver or Gold? Any High Mages of Ruse?'
The warrior shook his helmed head. 'Nor do our annals reveal any in our past.'
'And how far back do those annals go?' Quick Ben asked casually, returning his attention to the corpse.
'Seven tens.'
'Decades?'
'Centuries.'
'So,' the wizard said, straightening, 'a singular killer.' 'Then why,' Paran murmured, 'do I now believe that this man was killed by another Tiste Edur?'
The Moranth and Quick Ben turned to him, were silent.
Paran sighed. 'A hunch, I suppose. A gut whisper.'
'Captain,' the wizard said, 'don't forget what you've become.' He fixed his attention once more on the corpse. 'Another Tiste Edur. All right, let's circle this one, too.'
'There is no objection,' the Moranth officer said, 'to the possibility.'
'The Tiste Edur are of Elder Shadow,' Quick Ben noted.
'Within the seas, shadows swim. Kurald Emurlahn. The Warren of the Tiste Edur, Elder Shadow, is broken, and has been lost to mortals.'
'Lost?' Quick Ben's brows rose. 'Never found, you mean. Meanas—where Shadowthrone and Cotillion and the Hounds dwell—'
'Is naught but a gateway,' the Moranth officer finished.
Paran grunted. 'If a shadow could cast a shadow, that shadow would be Meanas—is that what you two are saying? Shadowthrone rules the guardhouse?'
Quick Ben grinned. 'What a delicious image, Captain.'
'A disturbing one,' he muttered in reply. The Hounds of Shadow—they are the guardians of the gate. Damn, that makes too much sense to be in error. But the warren is also shattered. Meaning, that gate might not lead anywhere. Or maybe it belongs to the largest fragment. Does Shadowthrone know the truth? That his mighty Throne of Shadows is… is what? A castellan's chair? A gatekeeper's perch? My oh my, as Kruppe would say.
'Ah,' Quick Ben sighed, his grin fading, 'I think I see your point. The Tiste Edur are active once more, by what we've seen here. They're returning to the mortal world—perhaps they've re-awakened the true Throne of Shadow, and maybe they're about to pay their new gatekeeper a visit.'
'Another war in the pantheon—the Crippled God's chains are no doubt rattling with his laughter.' Paran rubbed at the bristle on his jaw. 'Excuse me—I need some privacy. Carry on here, if you like—I won't be long.' I hope.
He strode inland twenty paces, stood facing northwest, eyes on the distant stars. All right, I've done this before, let's see if it works a second time…
The transition was so swift, so effortless, that it left him reeling, stumbling across uneven flagstones in swirling, mote-filled darkness. Cursing, he righted himself. The carved images beneath his feet glowed faintly, cool and vaguely remote.
So, I'm here. As simple as that. Now, how do I find the image I'm looking for? Raest? You busy at the moment? What a question. If you were busy we'd all be in trouble, wouldn't we? Never mind. Stay where you are, wherever that is. This is for me to work out, after all.
Not in the Deck of Dragons—I don't want the gateway, after all, do I. Thus, the Elder Deck, the Deck of Holds…
The flagstone directly before him twisted into a new image, one he had not seen before, yet he instinctively recognized it as the one he sought. The carving was rough, worn, the deep grooves forming a chaotic web of shadows.
Paran felt himself being pulle
d forward, down, into the scene.
He appeared in a wide, low chamber. Unadorned, dressed stone formed the walls, water-stained and covered in lichen, mould and moss. High to his right and left were wide windows—horizontal slits—both crowded with a riot of creepers and vines that snaked down into the room, onto the floor and through a carpet of dead leaves.
The air smelled of the sea, and somewhere outside the chamber seagulls bickered above a crashing surf.
Paran's heart thudded loud in his chest. He had not expected this. I'm not in another realm. This is mine.
Seven paces ahead, on a raised dais, stood a throne. Carved from a single trunk of crimson wood, unplaned, broad strips of bark on its flanks, many of them split, had pulled away from the wood beneath. Shadows flowed in that bark, swam the deep grooves, spilling out to dart through the surrounding air before vanishing in the chamber's gloom.
The Throne of Shadow. Not in some hidden, long-forgotten realm. It's here, on—or rather in—my world… A small, tattered fragment of Kurald Galain.
… and the Tiste Edur have come to find it. They're searching, crossing the seas, seeking this place. How do I know this?
He stepped forward. The shadows raced over the throne in a frenzy. Another step. You want to tell me something, Throne, don't you? He strode to the dais, reached out—
The shadows poured over him.
Hound—not Hound! Blood and not blood! Master and mortal!
'Oh, be quiet! Tell me of this place.'
The wandering isle! Wanders not! Flees! Yes! The Children are corrupted, the souls of the Edur are poisoned! Storm of madness—we elude! Protect us, Hound not Hound! Save us—they come!
'The wandering isle. This is Drift Avalü, isn't it? West of Quon Tali. I thought there were supposed to be Tiste Andü on this island—'
Sworn to defend! Spawn of Anomander Rake—gone! Leaving a blood trail, leading the Edur away with the spilling out of their own lives—oh, where is Anomander Rake? They call for him, they call and call! They beg for his help!