There would be time, Lostara realized, for a private conversation.
She and Pearl halted six paces from the Adjunct.
The Claw dumped Korbolo Dom onto the ground between them. ‘He won’t wake up any time soon,’ he said, taking a deep breath, then sighing and looking away.
‘What are you two doing here?’ the Adjunct asked. ‘Did you lose the trail?’
Pearl did not glance at Lostara, but simply shook his head in answer to Tavore’s question. A pause, then, ‘We found her, Adjunct. With deep regret . . . Felisin is dead.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Yes, Adjunct.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘I can say one thing for certain, Tavore. She died quickly.’
Lostara’s heart felt ready to explode at Pearl’s quiet words. Jaws clenching, she met the Adjunct’s eyes, and slowly nodded.
Tavore stared at them both for a long moment, then lowered her head. ‘Well, there is mercy in that, I suppose.’
And then sheathed her sword, turned away and began walking towards her approaching officers.
Under her breath, so low that only Pearl could hear her, Lostara said, ‘Yes, I suppose there is . . .’
Pearl swung to her suddenly. ‘Here comes Tene Baralta. Stall him, lass.’ He walked over to Sha’ik’s body. ‘The warrens are clear enough . . . I hope.’ He bent down and tenderly picked her up, then faced Lostara once more. ‘Yes, she’s a heavier burden than you might think.’
‘No, Pearl, I don’t think that. Where?’
The Claw’s smile lanced into her heart. ‘A hilltop . . . you know the one.’
Lostara nodded. ‘Very well. And then?’
‘Convince them to get out of Raraku, lass. As fast as they can. When I’m done . . .’ he hesitated.
‘Come and find me, Pearl,’ she growled. ‘Or else I’ll come looking for you.’
A flicker of life in his weary eyes. ‘I will. I promise.’
She watched his gaze flit past her shoulder and she turned. Tavore was still twenty paces from the riders, who had all but Baralta halted their horses. ‘What is it, Pearl?’
‘Just watching her . . . walking away,’ he replied. ‘She looks so . . .’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes. That is the word, isn’t it. See you later, lass.’
She felt the breath of the warren gust against her back, then the day’s heat returned. Lostara hitched her thumbs in her belt, and waited for Tene Baralta.
Her once-commander would have wanted Sha’ik’s body. A trophy for this day. He would be furious. ‘Well,’ she muttered, ‘that’s just too damned bad.’
Keneb watched her approach. There was none of the triumph there he thought he would see. Indeed, she looked worn down, as if the falling of spirit that followed every battle had already come to her, the deathly stillness of the mind that invited dire contemplation, that lifted up the host of questions that could never be answered.
She had sheathed her sword without cleansing it, and Sha’ik’s blood had run crooked tracks down the plain scabbard.
Tene Baralta rode past her, on his way, Keneb suspected, to Sha’ik’s body. If he said anything to the Adjunct in passing, she made no reply.
‘Fist Blistig,’ she announced upon arriving. ‘Send scouts to the Dogslayer ramps. Also, a detachment of guards—the Claw have delivered to us Korbolo Dom.’
Ah, so that was what that man was carrying. Keneb glanced back to where the duel had taken place. Only the woman stood there now, over the prone shape that was the Napan renegade, her face turned up to Tene Baralta, who remained on his horse and seemed to be berating her. Even at this distance, something told Keneb that Baralta’s harangue would yield little result.
‘Adjunct,’ Nil said, ‘there is no need to scout the Dogslayer positions. They are all dead.’
Tavore frowned. ‘Explain.’
‘Raraku’s ghosts, Adjunct.’
Nether spoke up. ‘And the spirits of our own slain. Nil and I—we were blind to it. We’d forgotten the ways of . . . of seeing. The cattle dog, Adjunct. Bent. It should have died at Coltaine’s feet. At the Fall. But some soldiers saved it, saw to the healing of its wounds.’
‘A cattle dog? What are you talking about?’ Tavore demanded, revealing, for the very first time, an edge of exasperation.
‘Bent and Roach,’ Nil said. ‘The only creatures still living to have walked the Chain the entire way. Two dogs.’
‘Not true,’ Temul said from behind the two Wickan shamans. ‘This mare. It belonged to Duiker.’
Nil half turned to acknowledge the correction, then faced Tavore once more. ‘They came back with us, Adjunct—’
‘The dogs.’
He nodded. ‘And the spirits of the slain. Our own ghosts, Adjunct, have marched with us. Those that fell around Coltaine at the very end. Those that died on the trees of Aren Way. And, step by step, more came from the places where they were cut down. Step by step, Adjunct, our army of vengeance grew.’
‘And yet you sensed nothing?’
‘Our grief blinded us,’ Nether replied.
‘Last night,’ Nil said, ‘the child Grub woke us. Led us to the ridge, so that we could witness the awakening. There were legions, Adjunct, that had marched this land a hundred thousand years ago. And Pormqual’s crucifed army and the legions of the Seventh on one flank. The three slaughtered clans of the Wickans on the other. And still others. Many others. Within the darkness last night, Tavore, there was war.’
‘Thus,’ Nether said, smiling, ‘you were right, Adjunct. In the dreams that haunted you from the very first night of this march, you saw what we could not see.’
‘It was never the burden you believed it to be,’ Nil added. ‘You did not drag the Chain of Dogs with you, Adjunct Tavore.’
‘Didn’t I, Nil?’ A chilling half-smile twisted her thin-lipped mouth, then she looked away. ‘All those ghosts . . . simply to slay the Dogslayers?’
‘No, Adjunct,’ Nether answered. ‘There were other . . . enemies.’
‘Fist Gamet’s ghost joined them,’ Nil said.
Tavore’s eyes narrowed sharply. ‘You saw him?’
Both Wickans nodded, and Nether added, ‘Grub spoke with him.’
The Adjunct shot Keneb a querying look.
‘He can be damned hard to find,’ the captain muttered, shrugging. ‘As for talking with ghosts . . . well, the lad is, uh, strange enough for that.’
The Adjunct’s sigh was heavy.
Keneb’s gaze caught movement and he swung his head round, to see Tene Baralta riding back in the company of two soldiers wearing little more than rags. Both were unshaven, their hair long and matted. Their horses bore no saddles.
The Fist reined in with his charges. His face was dark with anger. ‘Adjunct. That Claw has stolen Sha’ik’s body!’
Keneb saw the woman approaching on foot, still twenty paces distant. She looked . . . smug.
Tavore ignored Tene Baralta’s statement and was eyeing the two newcomers. ‘And you are?’ she asked.
The elder of the two saluted. ‘Captain Kindly, Adjunct, of the Ashok Regiment. We were prisoners in the Dogslayer camp. Lieutenant Pores and myself, that is.’
Keneb started, then leaned forward on his saddle. Yes, he realized, through all that filth . . . ‘Captain,’ he said in rough greeting.
Kindly squinted, then grimaced. ‘Keneb.’
Tavore cleared her throat, then asked, ‘Are you two all that’s left of your regiment, Captain?’
‘No, Adjunct. At least, we don’t think so—’
‘Tell me later. Go get cleaned up.’
‘Aye, Adjunct.’
‘One more question first,’ she said. ‘The Dogslayer camp . . .’
Kindly made an involuntary warding gesture. ‘It was not a pleasant night, Adjunct.’
‘You bear shackle scars.’
Kindly nodded. ‘Just before dawn, a couple of Bridgeburners showed up and burned out the locks.’
‘What?’
T
he captain waved for his lieutenant to follow, said over one shoulder, ‘Don’t worry, they were already dead.’
The two rode into the camp.
Tavore seemed to shake herself, then faced Keneb. ‘You two know each other? Will that prove problematic, Captain?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Then he won’t resent your promotion to Fist. Now ride to your new legion. We will follow the fleeing tribes. If we have to cross this entire continent, I will see them cornered, and then I will destroy them. This rebellion will be ashes on the wind when we are done. Go, Fist Keneb.’
‘Aye, Adjunct.’ And he gathered his reins.
‘Weapons out!’ Temul suddenly shouted.
And all spun to see a rider cantering down from the hill where Sha’ik had first appeared.
Keneb’s eyes thinned, even as he drew his sword. There was something wrong . . . a skewing of scale . . .
A small squad from Blistig’s legion had been detailed as guard to the Adjunct, and they now moved forward. Leading them was one of Blistig’s officers—none other, Keneb realized, than Squint. The slayer of Coltaine, who was now standing stock still, studying the approaching horse warrior.
‘That,’ he growled, ‘is a Thelomen Toblakai! Riding a damned Jhag horse!’
Crossbows were levelled.
‘What’s that horse dragging?’ asked the woman who had just arrived on foot—whom Keneb now recognized, belatedly, as one of Tene Baralta’s officers.
Nether suddenly hissed, and she and her brother flinched back as one.
Heads. From some demonic beasts—
Weapons were readied.
The Adjunct lifted a hand. ‘Wait. He’s not drawn his weapon—’
‘It’s a stone sword,’ Squint rasped. ‘T’lan Imass.’
‘Only bigger,’ one of the soldiers spat.
No-one spoke as the huge, blood-spattered figure rode closer.
To halt ten paces away.
Tene Baralta leaned forward and spat onto the ground. ‘I know you,’ he rumbled. ‘Bodyguard to Sha’ik—’
‘Be quiet,’ the Toblakai cut in. ‘I have words for the Adjunct.’
‘Speak, then,’ Tavore said.
The giant bared his teeth. ‘Once, long ago, I claimed the Malazans as my enemies. I was young. I took pleasure in voicing vows. The more enemies the better. So it was, once. But no longer. Malazan, you are no longer my enemy. Thus, I will not kill you.’
‘We are relieved,’ Tavore said drily.
He studied her for a long moment.
During which Keneb’s heart began to pound hard and fast in his chest.
Then the Toblakai smiled. ‘You should be.’
With that he wheeled his Jhag horse round and rode a westerly path down the length of the basin. The huge hound heads bounced and thumped in their wake.
Keneb’s sigh was shaky.
‘Excuse my speaking,’ Squint rasped, ‘but something tells me the bastard was right.’
Tavore turned and studied the old veteran. ‘An observation,’ she said, ‘I’ll not argue, soldier.’
Once more, Keneb collected his reins.
Surmounting the ridge, Lieutenant Ranal sawed hard on the reins, and the horse reared against the skyline.
‘Gods take me, somebody shoot him.’
Fiddler did not bother to turn round to find out who had spoken. He was too busy fighting his own horse to care much either way. It had Wickan blood, and it wanted his. The mutual hatred was coming along just fine.
‘What is that bastard up to?’ Cuttle demanded as he rode alongside the sergeant. ‘We’re leaving even Gesler’s squad behind—and Hood knows where Borduke’s gone to.’
The squad joined their lieutenant atop the ancient raised road. To the north stretched the vast dunes of Raraku, shimmering in the heat.
Ranal wheeled his mount to face his soldiers. Then pointed west. ‘See them? Have any of you eyes worth a damn?’
Fiddler leaned to one side and spat grit. Then squinted to where Ranal was pointing. A score of riders. Desert warriors, likely a rearguard. They were at a loping canter. ‘Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘there’s a spider lives in these sands. Moves along under the surface, but drags a strange snake-like tail that every hungry predator can’t help but see. Squirming away along the surface. It’s a big spider. Hawk comes down to snatch up that snake, and ends up dissolving in a stream down that spider’s throat—’
‘Enough with the damned horse-dung, Sergeant,’ snapped Ranal. ‘They’re there because they were late getting out of the oasis. Likely too busy looting the palace to notice that Sha’ik had been skewered, the Dogslayers were dead and everyone else was bugging out as fast as their scrawny horses could take ’em.’ He glared at Fiddler. ‘I want their heads, you grey-whiskered fossil.’
‘We’ll catch them sooner or later, sir,’ Fiddler said. ‘Better with the whole company—’
‘Then get off that saddle and sit your backside down here on this road, Sergeant! Leave the fighting to the rest of us! The rest of you, follow me!’
Ranal kicked his lathered horse into a gallop.
With a weary gesture, Fiddler waved the marines on, then followed on his own bucking mare.
‘Got a pinched nerve,’ Koryk called out as he cantered past.
‘Who, my horse or the lieutenant?’
The Seti grinned back. ‘Your horse . . . naturally. Doesn’t like all that weight, Fid.’
Fiddler reached back and readjusted the heavy pack and the assembled lobber crossbow. ‘I’ll pinch her damned nerve,’ he muttered. ‘Just you wait.’
It was past midday. Almost seven bells since the Adjunct cut down Sha’ik. Fiddler found himself glancing again and again to the north—to Raraku, where the song still rushed out to embrace him, only to fall away, then roll forward once more. The far horizon beyond that vast basin of sand, he now saw, now held up a bank of white clouds.
Now that don’t look right . . .
Sand-filled wind gusted suddenly into his face.
‘They’ve left the road!’ Ranal shouted.
Fiddler squinted westward. The riders had indeed plunged down the south bank, were cutting out diagonally—straight for a fast-approaching sandstorm. Gods, not another sandstorm . . . This one, he knew, was natural. The kind that plagued this desert, springing up like a capricious demon to rage a wild, cavorting path for a bell or two, before vanishing as swiftly as it had first appeared.
He rose up on his saddle. ‘Lieutenant! They’re going to ride into it! Use it as cover! We’d better not—’
‘Flap that tongue at me one more time, Sergeant, and I’ll tear it out! You hear me?’
Fiddler subsided. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘Full pursuit, soldiers!’ Ranal barked. ‘That storm’ll slow them!’
Oh, it will slow them, all right . . .
Gesler glared into the blinding desert. ‘Now who,’ he wondered under his breath, ‘are they?’
They had drawn to halt when it became obvious that the four strange riders were closing fast on an intercept course. Long-bladed white swords flashing over their heads. Bizarre, gleaming white armour. White horses. White everything.
‘They’re none too pleased with us,’ Stormy rumbled, running his fingers through his beard.
‘That’s fine,’ Gesler growled, ‘but they ain’t renegades, are they?’
‘Sha’ik’s? Who knows? Probably not, but even so . . .’
The sergeant nodded. ‘Sands, get up here.’
‘I am,’ the sapper snapped.
‘What’s your range, lad, with that damned thing?’
‘Ain’t sure. No chance to try it yet. Fid’s is anywhere from thirty to forty paces with a cusser—which is ugly close—’
‘All right. Rest of you, dismount and drive your horses down the other side. Truth, hold on good to their reins down there—if they bolt we’re done for.’
‘Saw Borduke and his squad south of here,’ Pella ventured.
??
?Aye, as lost as we are—and you can’t see ’em now, can you?’
‘No, Sergeant.’
‘Damn that Ranal. Remind me to kill him when we next meet.’
‘Aye, Sergeant.’
The four attackers were tall bastards. Voicing eerie warcries now as they charged towards the base of the hill.
‘Load up, lad,’ Gesler muttered, ‘and don’t mess up.’
The lobber had been copied from Fiddler’s own. It looked decent, at least as far as lobbers went—which ain’t far enough. Thirty paces with a cusser. Hood roast us all . . .
And here they came. Base of the slope, horses surging to take them up the hill.
A heavy thud, and something awkward and grey sailed out and down.
A cusser—holy f—‘Down! Down! Down!’
The hill seemed to lift beneath them. Gesler thumped in the dust, coughing in the spiralling white clouds, then, swearing, he buried his head beneath his arms as stones rained down.
Some time later, the sergeant clambered to his feet.
On the hill’s opposite side, Truth was trying to run in every direction at once, the horses trailing loose reins as they pelted in wild panic.
‘Hood’s balls on a skillet!’ Gesler planted his hands on his hips and glared about. The other soldiers were picking themselves up, shaken and smeared in dust. Stormy closed on Sands and grabbed him by the throat.
‘Not too hard, Corporal,’ Gesler said as Stormy began shaking the sapper about. ‘I want him alive for my turn. And dammit, make sure he ain’t got any sharpers on his body.’
That stopped Stormy flat.
Gesler walked to the now pitted edge of the hill and looked down. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘they won’t be chasing us any more, I’d say.’
‘Wonder who they were?’ Pella asked.
‘Armour seems to have weathered the blast—you could go down and scrape out whatever’s left inside ’em . . . on second thought, never mind. We need to round up our horses.’ He faced the others. ‘Enough pissing about, lads. Let’s get moving.’
Lying on the smoking edge of the crater, sprayed in horseflesh and deafened by the blast, Jorrude groaned. He was a mass of bruises, his head ached, and he wanted to throw up—but not until he pried the helm from his head.