The efforts of preparation, concluding with loading the flatbed, had taken most of the morning, even with his half-blind wife’s help. And when he set out on the road, quirting the beast along, the mists had burned off and the sun was high and strong. The stony track leading to the section road was more suited to a cart than a wagon, and so the going was slow, and upon reaching the section track and drawing close to the high road, he had the sun in his eyes.
On this day, in a heap of stones in the corner of a field just next to the high road, a civil war was erupting in a wild beehive. And only a few moments before the farmer arrived, the hive swarmed.
The old man, half-dozing, had been listening to the rapid approach of a rider, but there was room on the road—it had been built for moving armies to and from the border, after all—and so he was not particularly concerned as those drumming hoofs drew ever closer. Yes, the rider was coming fast. Likely some garrison messenger carrying bad news and all such news was bad, as far as the farmer was concerned. He’d had a moment of worry over his sons, and then the swarm lifted from the side of the road and spun in a frenzied cloud to engulf his mule.
The creature panicked, bolting forward with a bleat. Such was its strength, born of terror, that the old man was flung backward over the low seat back, losing his grip on the traces. The wagon jumped under him and then slewed to one side, spilling him from it. He struck the road in a cloud of dust and crazed bees.
The rider, on his third horse since fleeing the city, arrived at this precise moment. Skill and instinct led him round the mule and wagon, but the sudden appearance of the farmer, directly in the horse’s path, occurred so swiftly, so unexpectedly, that neither he nor his mount had the time to react. Forelegs clipped the farmer, breaking a collar bone and striking the man’s head with stunning impact. The horse stumbled, slammed down on to its chest, and its rider was thrown forward.
Her uncle had removed his helm some time that day—the heat was fierce, after all—and while it was debatable whether that made any difference, Abrastal suspected—or, perhaps, chose to believe—that if he’d been wearing it, he might well have survived the fall. As it was, his neck was snapped clean.
She had studied those events with almost fanatic obsession. Her agents had travelled out to that remote region of the kingdom. Interviews with sons and relatives and indeed, the old farmer himself—who had miraculously survived, though now prone to the falling sickness—all seeking to map out, with precision, the sequence of events.
In truth, she’d cared neither way for the fate of her uncle. The man had been a fool. No, what fascinated and indeed haunted her was that such a convergence of chance events could so perfectly conspire to take a man’s life. From this one example, Abrastal quickly comprehended that such patterns existed everywhere, and could be assembled for virtually every accidental death.
People spoke of ill luck. Mischance. They spoke of unruly spirits and vengeful gods. And some spoke of the most terrible truth of all—that the world and all life in it was nothing but a blind concatenation of random occurrences. Cause and effect did nothing but map out the absurdity of things, before which even the gods were helpless.
Some truths could haunt, colder, crueller than any ghost. Some truths were shaped by a mouth open in horror.
When she stumbled from her tent, guards and aides swarming round her, there had been no time for musings, no time for thoughts on past obsessions. There had been nothing but the moment itself, red as blood in the eyes, loud as a howl trapped inside a skull.
Her daughter had found her. Felash, lost somewhere inside a savage storm at sea, had bargained with a god, and as the echoes of cries from drowning sailors sounded faint and hollow beneath the shrieking winds, the god had opened a path. Ancient, appalling, brutal as a rape. In the tears swimming before Abrastal’s eyes, her fourteenth daughter’s face found shape, as if rising from unfathomable depths; and Abrastal had tasted the salt sea on her tongue, had felt the numbing cold of its immortal hunger.
Mother. Remember the tale of your uncle. The wagon crawls, the mule’s head nods. Thunder in the distance. Remember the tale as you told it to me, as you live it each and every day. Mother, the high road is the Wastelands. And I can hear the swarm—I can hear it!
Elder Gods were reluctant, belligerent oracles. In the grip of such a power, no mortal could speak in freedom. Clarity was defied, precision denied. Only twisted words and images could come forth. Only misdirection played true.
But Felash was clever, the cleverest of all her beloved daughters. And so Abrastal understood. She comprehended the warning.
The moment vanished, but the pain of that assault remained. Weeping blood-clouded tears, she struggled and pushed her way through panicked staff and bodyguards, stumbled outside, naked above the hips, her fiery hair snarled and matted with sweat. On her skin the salt already rimed and she stank as would a body pulled up from the sea bottom.
Arms held out to keep everyone away, she stood, gasping, head hanging down, struggling to recover her breath. And, finally, she managed to speak.
‘Spax. Get me Spax. Now.’
Gilk warriors gathered in their kin groups, checking weapons and gear. Warchief Spax stood watching, scratching his beard, the sour ale from the cask the night before swirling ominously in his belly. Or maybe it was the goat shank, or that fist-sized brick of bitter chocolate—something he’d never seen nor tasted before arriving in Bolkando, but if the good gods shat it was surely chocolate.
He saw Firehair’s runner long before the man arrived. One of those scrawny court mice, all red-faced from the exertion, his quivering lip visible from ten paces away. His own scouts had informed him that they were perhaps a day away from the Bonehunters—they’d made good time, damn near impoverishing Saphinand’s traders in the process, and for all his bravado Spax was forced to admit that both the Khundryl Burned Tears and the Perish were as tough as a cactus-eater’s tongue. Almost as tough as his own Barghast. Common opinion had it that armies with trains were slow beasts even on the most level ground, but clearly neither Gall of the Burned Tears nor Krughava of the Perish paid any heed to common opinion.
Glancing at his own warriors one more time before the runner arrived, he saw that they were showing fatigue. Not enough to worry him, of course. One more day, after all, and then Abrastal could have her parley with the Malazans and they could all turn round and head home at a far more reasonable pace.
‘Warchief!’
‘What’s got her excited now?’ Spax asked, ever pleased to bait these fops, but this time the young man did not react to the overfamiliarity with the usual expression of shock. In fact, he continued as if he’d not heard Spax.
‘The Queen demands your presence. At once.’
Normally, even this command would have elicited a sarcastic comment or two, but Spax finally registered the runner’s fear. ‘Lead on then,’ he replied in a growl.
Dressed now in armour, Queen Abrastal was in no mood for banter, and she’d already said enough to the Gilk Warchief to keep him silent as he rode at her side towards the Perish camp. The morning’s light was clawing details down the furrowed scape of the mountains to the west. Dust hung over the raw tracks leading to and from the Saphinand border, and already lines of wagons and carriages were streaming out from the three camps, beds empty barring chests of coin, merchant guards and prostitutes. They would be back out here and waiting, she knew, for the return of the Evertine Legion.
They might have a long wait.
She had told Spax of the sending, had registered with little surprise his scowl. The Barghast knew enough to have no doubt about such things. He had even commented that his own warlocks and witches had been complaining of weakness and blindness—as if the Barghast gods had been driven away, or did not possess the strength to manifest in the Wastelands.
As the horses were being readied, he’d spoken of the belief in convergence, and she had been impressed to discover that behind his white skull paint and turtle-shelled arm
our, this barbarian knew of the world beyond his own tribe and his own people. The notion of power drawing power, however, did not seem to draw close to her sense of what was coming.
‘You say that such forces are fated to meet, Spax. But . . . this is not the same.’
‘How do you mean, Highness?’
‘Is chance the weapon of fate? One might say so, I imagine, but what is drawing close before us, Spax, is something crueller. Random, unpredictable. Stupid, in fact. It is the curse of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
He’d chewed on that for a moment, and then he said, ‘Will you seek to turn them away? Firehair, this Krughava is rooted like a mountain. Her path is the river of its melting crown. You will fail, I think.’
‘I know, Spax. And this forces upon me a dire decision, doesn’t it?’
But he would not see it that way, and he didn’t—she was certain of it, though he’d said nothing, and now the horses were brought forward and they mounted up and kicked the beasts into a quick canter, and then, once beyond the Evertine pickets, into a gallop. Such a pace did not invite conversation beyond a few terse words at best. Neither bothered.
Perish pickets marked them and the banner rising from the socket on Abrastal’s saddle. They quickly and efficiently cleared a path straight to the camp’s centre. As they rode into the main avenue between officer tents, Abrastal and Spax found themselves the subject of growing interest, as soldiers formed lines to either side to watch them pass. Certain moments, fraught and crowded, could spread a chilling fever.
A short time later they reined in at the headquarters of the Grey Helms. The Mortal Sword Krughava and Shield Anvil Tanakalian stood awaiting them, kitted in full armour as was their habit.
Abrastal was the first to slip down from her winded horse. The Gilk followed a moment later.
Krughava bowed with a tilt of her head. ‘Queen, you are welcome among the Perish—’
‘Forget the formal shit,’ Abrastal cut in. ‘Your command tent, if you please.’
A flicker of something in the woman’s hard eyes, and then she gestured to the tent behind her.
Spax said, ‘Might want to summon Gall.’
‘Already done,’ Tanakalian replied with a half-smile that did not belong to this moment. ‘It should not be long.’
Abrastal frowned at the Shield Anvil, and then swept past him and the Mortal Sword, trailed a step behind by Spax. A few moments later the four were in the tent’s main chamber. Krughava ushered her aides away and then sent the guards to the tent’s outer perimeter.
Drawing off her gauntlets, the Mortal Sword faced Abrastal. ‘Highness, the agenda is yours. Will you await Warleader Gall before beginning?’
‘No. He’s a smart man. He’ll work it out. Mortal Sword, we find ourselves in a storm that can only be seen from the outside. We ourselves as yet sense nothing, for we are close to its heart.’ She glanced to the Shield Anvil, and then back to Krughava. ‘Your priests and priestesses are in difficulty, do you deny it?’
‘I do not,’ Krughava replied.
‘Good. Your allies are but a day away—’
‘Half a day if necessary,’ Krughava said.
‘As you say.’ Abrastal hesitated.
At that moment Warleader Gall arrived, sweeping through the curtains of the doorway. He was breathing hard, broad face beaded with sweat.
‘You intend to leave us this day,’ Tanakalian said, glaring at the Queen.
Abrastal frowned. ‘I have said no such thing, Shield Anvil.’
‘Forgive my brother,’ said Krughava. ‘He is precipitate. Highness, what would you warn us against?’
‘I shall use the term Spax has given me—one you will understand at once, or so I am led to believe. The word is convergence.’
Something came alight in Krughava’s eyes, and Abrastal could almost see the woman straightening, swelling as if to meet this moment. ‘So be it—’
‘A moment!’ Tanakalian said, his eyes widening. ‘Highness, this is not the place—rather, you must be wrong. That time is yet to arrive—it is far away, in fact. I cannot see how—’
‘That will be enough,’ Krughava interrupted, her face darkening. ‘Unless, sir, you can speak plainly of knowledge you alone possess. We await you.’
‘You don’t understand—’
‘Correct.’
The man looked half-panicked. Abrastal’s unease regarding Tanakalian—which she had first discovered outside the tent—now deepened. What hid within this young soldier-priest? He seemed somehow knocked awry.
The Shield Anvil drew a breath, and then said, ‘My vision is no clearer than anyone else’s, not here in this place. But all that I sense of the coming convergence tells me that it does not await us in the Wastelands.’
Krughava seemed to be bristling with anger—the first time Abrastal had seen such a thing in the Mortal Sword. ‘Brother Tanakalian, you are not the arbiter of destiny, no matter the vast breadth of your ambition. On this day, and in the matter before us, you would do best to witness. We are without a Destriant—we cannot help but be blind to our future.’ She faced Abrastal. ‘The Grey Helms shall strike for the Bonehunters. We shall find them this day. It may be that they will need our help. It may be that we will need theirs. After all, to stand in the heart of a storm is, as you say, to be blind to all dangers yet safe from none.’
Gall spoke for the first time. ‘The Khundryl shall ride as the tip of the spear, Mortal Sword. We shall send Swifts out ahead, and so be the first to sight our allies. If they be in dire need, word shall wing back.’
‘That is well and I thank you, Warleader,’ said Krughava. ‘Highness, thank you for your warning—’
‘We are coming with you.’
Spax turned, his face expressing shock.
But the Mortal Sword nodded. ‘The glory that is within you, Highness, refutes all disguise. Yet, I humbly suggest that you change your mind, that you heed the objections your Gilk commander is so eager to voice. This is not your destiny, after all. It belongs to the Bonehunters and to the Khundryl and to the Perish Grey Helms.’
‘The Gilk,’ Abrastal replied, ‘are under my command. I believe you have misapprehended Warchief Spax. He is surprised, yes, but so long as he and his Barghast bed themselves in my coin, they are mine to lead.’
‘It is so,’ said Spax. ‘Mortal Sword, you have indeed misapprehended me. The Gilk are without fear. We are the fist of the White Face Barghast—’
‘And if that fist drives into a wasps’ nest?’ Tanakalian asked.
Abrastal started.
Spax bared his teeth. ‘We are not children who die at the sting, Shield Anvil. If we should stir awake such a nest, look to your own.’
‘This is wrong—’
‘Enough!’ snapped Krughava. ‘Shield Anvil, prepare to embrace all who may come to fall this day. That is your task, your responsibility. If you so cherish the gleam of politics then you should have stayed in the kingdom shores of Perish. We who are here refused those games. We left our homes, our place of birth. We left our families and our loved ones. We left the intrigue and the deceit and the court dances of death. Will you now presume to broach that bitter wine? Go, sir, harness your strength.’
Face pale, Tanakalian bowed to Abrastal, Spax and Gall, and then left.
‘Highness,’ Krughava said, ‘you risk too much.’
‘I know,’ she replied.
‘And yet?’
She nodded. ‘And yet.’
Damned women! It’s all women!
She reined in her mount atop a low hill, eyes scanning the south. Was there dust on the horizon? Possibly. Kisswhere arched to ease the ache in her lower back. Her thighs were on fire, as if dipped in acid. She was low on water, and the horse beneath her was half-dead.
Fucking Adjunct. Lostara Yil. That bitch of a sister—it’s not fair! She had been undecided, but no longer. Oh, she’d find the fools, the pompous Perish and the rutting Khundryl who’d weep at a broken pot. She’d
deliver all the useless pleas for help to Krughava—another Hood-damned woman—and then she’d be done with it. I’m not going back. I’ve deserted, right? I’m riding right through them. Saphinand. I can get lost there, it’s ringed in with mountains. I don’t care how squalid it is, it’ll do.
What else did they expect from her? Some heroic return at the head of two armies? Riding to the rescue, snatching them all back from the very gates of Hood? That kind of rubbish belonged to Sinter, or even Masan Gilani, who was riding to find an ally that might not even exist—yes, leave the legend to that northern slut, she had all the necessary traits, after all.
Kisswhere was carved from softer stuff. Not bronze. More like wax. And the world was heating up. They’d saluted her on her way. They’d decided to put all their trust and faith in her. And I will find them. That is a dust-cloud. I can see it now. I can reach them, say whatever I need to say. The Adjunct says, O Mortal Sword, that betrayal does not suit the Perish. Nor the Khundryl. Come to her, she asks.
The Adjunct says the sword’s for wearing and wielding, not sitting on. It’s a weapon, it’s not courage, no matter how straight up it holds you. The Adjunct says there is a betrayer among you, and by that betrayer’s words, you doom the Bonehunters. The Adjunct says the blood is on your hands, you frigid cow.
Find whatever means, Sinter had said. Use whatever you need to use. Shame them, shit on them, spit on them. Or turn sly and build up the fires until their boots burn. Blind them by reflecting the blazing sun of their own egos. Beg, plead, drop to your knees and suck them dry. Use your wiles, Kisswhere, it’s what you do best.
Gods, she hated them all. That knowing look in their eyes, that acceptance of everything that wasn’t good within her. Yes, they knew she’d not come back. And they didn’t care. She was expendable, whipped like an arrow and once it struck, why, it was spent, a shattered thing lying on the ground.
So, a broken arrow she would be. Fine. Why not? They expected nothing more, did they?