Deadhouse Gates

by Steven Erikson

  Felisin realized that Baudin would be the last to die. Unless Heboric's god returned to scoop up his wayward child. Felisin finally began to believe she would be the first. No vengeance achieved. Not Baudin, not sister Tavore, not the entire Hood-warped Malazan Empire.

  A strange wave of lightning leapt up beyond the breakers hammering the reef. It played out tumbling and pitching as if wrapped around an invisible log leagues long and thirty paces thick. The crackling spears struck the sheets of spume with a searing hiss. Thunder slapped the beach hard enough to shiver the sand. The lightning rolled on, straight towards them.

  Heboric was suddenly at her side, his froglike face split wide in a grimace of fear. 'That's sorcery, lass! Run!'

  Her laugh was a harsh bark. She made no move. 'It'll be quick, old man!'

  Wind howled.

  Heboric spun to face the approaching wave. He snarled a curse that was flung away by the growing roar, then interposed himself between Felisin and the sorcery. Baudin crouched down beside her, his face lit in a blue glow that intensified as the lightning reached the shore, then rolled up to them.

  It shattered around Heboric as if he was a spire of rock. The old man staggered, his tattoos a tracery of fire that flared bright, then vanished.

  The sorcery was gone. For all its threat, it swiftly died up and down the beach.

  Heboric sagged, settling on his knees in the sand. 'Not me,' he said in the sudden silence. 'Otataral. Of course. Nothing to fear. Nothing at all.'

  'There!' Baudin shouted.

  A boat had somehow cleared the reef and now raced towards them, its lone sail aflame. Sorcery stabbed at the craft from all sides like vipers, then fell away as the boat neared shore. A moment later it scraped bottom and slid to a halt, canting to one side as it settled. Two figures were at the ratlines in an instant, cutting away the burning sail. The cloth swept down like a wing of flame, instantly doused as it struck the water. Two other men leapt down and waded onto shore.

  'Which one's Duiker?' Felisin asked.

  Heboric shook his head. 'Neither, but the one on the left is a mage.'

  'How can you tell?'

  He made no reply.

  The two men swiftly approached, both staggering in exhaustion. The mage, a small, red-faced man wearing a singed cape, was the first to speak—in Malazan. 'Thank the gods! We need your help.'

  Somewhere beyond the reef waited an unknown mage—a man unconnected to the rebellion, a stranger trapped within his own nightmare. As the vortex of a savage storm, he had risen from the deep on the second day out. Kulp had never before felt such unrestrained power. Its very wildness was all that saved them, as the madness that gripped the sorcerer tore and flayed his warren. There was no control, the warren's wounds gushed, the winds howled with the mage's own shrieks.

  The Ripath was flung about like a piece of bark in a cascading mountain stream. At first Kulp countered with illusions—believing he and his companions were the object of the mage's wrath—but it quickly became apparent that the insane wielder was oblivious to them, fighting an altogether different war. Kulp contracted his own warren into a protective shell around Ripath, then, as Gesler and his crewmen struggled to keep the craft upright, he crouched down to withstand the onslaught.

  The unleashed sorcery instinctively hunted them and no illusion could deceive something so thoroughly mindless. They became its lodestone, the attacks endless and wildly fluctuating in strength, battering Kulp relentlessly for two days and nights.

  They were driven westward, towards the Otataral shores. The mage's power assailed that coastline, with little effect, and Kulp finally began to make sense of it—the mage's mind must have been destroyed by Otataral. Likely an escaped miner, a prisoner of war who had scaled the walls only to find he took his prison with him. Losing control of his warren, it had then taken control of him. It surged with power far beyond anything the mage himself had ever wielded.

  The realization left Kulp horrified. The storm threatened to fling them onto that shore. Was the same fate awaiting him?

  Gesler and his crew's skill was all that kept the Ripath from striking the reef. For eleven hours they managed to sail parallel to the razor-sharp rocks beneath the breakers.

  On the third night Kulp sensed a change. The coastline on their right—which he had felt as an impenetrable wall of negation, the bloodless presence of Otataral—suddenly… softened. A power resided there, bruising the will of the magic-deadening ore, pushing it back on all sides.

  There was a cut in the reef. It gave them, Kulp decided, their only chance. Rising from where he crouched amidships, he shouted to Gesler. The corporal grasped his meaning instantly, with desperate relief. They had been losing the struggle to exhaustion, to the overwhelming stress of watching sorcery speed towards them, only to wash over Kulp's protective magic—a protection they could see weakening with every pass.

  Another attack came, even as they swept between the jagged breakers, sundering Kulp's resistance. Flame lit the storm-jib, the lines, the sail. Had any of the men been dry they would have become beacons of fire. As it was, the sorcery swept over them in a wave of hissing steam, then was gone, striking the shore and rolling up the beach until it fizzled out.

  Kulp had half expected that the strangely blunted effect on this part of shore was in some way connected to the man he was sent to find, and so was not surprised to see three figures emerge from the gloom beyond the beach. Weary as he was, something about the way the three stood in relation to each other jangled alarms in his head. Circumstances had forced them together, and expedience cared little for the bonds of friendship. Yet it was more than that.

  The motionless ground beneath his feet was making him dizzy. When Kulp's weary gaze fell on the handless priest, a wave of relief washed through him, and there was nothing ironic in his call for help.

  The ex-priest answered it with a dried-out laugh.

  'Get them water,' the mage said to Gesler. The corporal pulled his eyes from Heboric with difficulty, then nodded and spun about. Truth had swung down to inspect Ripattis hull for damage, while Stormy sat perched on the prow, his crossbow cradled in his arms. The corporal shouted for one of the water casks. Truth clambered back into the boat to retrieve it.

  'Where's Duiker?' Heboric asked.

  Kulp frowned. 'Not sure. We went our separate ways in a village north of Hissar. The Apocalypse—'

  'We know. Dosin Pali was ablaze the night we escaped the pit.'

  'Yeah, well.' Kulp studied the other two. The big man lacking an ear met his eyes coolly. Despite the ravages of deprivation evident in his bearing, there was a measure of self-control to him that made the mage uneasy. He was clearly more than the scarred dockyard thug he first took him for.

  The young girl was no less disturbing, though in a way Kulp could not define. He sighed. Worry about it later. Worry about everything later.

  Truth arrived with the water cask, Gesler a step behind him.

  The three escapees converged on the young marine as he breached the cask, then held the tin cup that was tied to it and splashed it full of water.

  'Go slow on that,' Kulp said. 'Sips, not gulps.'

  As he watched them drink, the mage sought out his warren. It felt slippery, elusive, yet he was able to take hold, stealing power to bolster his senses. When he looked again upon Heboric he almost shouted in surprise. The ex-priest's tattoos swarmed with a life of their own: flickering waves of power raced across his body and spun a handlike projection beyond the stump of his left wrist. That ghost-hand reached into a warren, was clenched as if gripping a tether. A wholly different power pulsed around his right stump, shot through with veins of green and Otataral red, as if two snakes writhed in mortal combat. The blunting effect arose exclusively from the green bands, radiating outward with what felt like conscious will. That it was strong enough to push back the effects of the Otataral was astonishing.

  Denul healers often described diseases as waging war, with the flesh as the battleground, wh
ich their warren gave them sight to see. Kulp wondered if he wasn't seeing something similar. But not a disease. A battle of warrens—Fener's own, linked by one ghostly hand, the other ensnared by Otataral, yet waxing nonetheless—a warren I can't recognize, a force alien to every sense I possess. He blinked. Heboric was staring at him, a faint smile on his broad mouth.

  'What in Hood's name has happened to you?' Kulp demanded.

  The ex-priest shrugged. 'I wish I knew.'

  The three marines now approached Heboric. 'I'm Gesler,' the corporal said in gruff deference. 'We're all that's left of the Boar Cult.'

  The old man's smile faded. 'That would make three too many.' He turned away and strode off to retrieve a pair of backpacks.

  Gesler stared after him, expressionless.

  Thatman recovers damned quick. The boy Truth had gasped at the harsh words of a man he took to be his god's priest. Kulp saw something crumbling into ruins behind the lad's light-blue eyes. Stormy revealed the dark clouds that likely gave reason to his name, but he laid a hand on Truth's shoulder a moment before facing the one-eared man.

  'Your hands keep hovering over those hidden blades and I'm gonna get nervous,' he said in a low growl, shifting grip on his crossbow.

  'That's Baudin,' the young woman said. 'He murders people. Old women, rivals. You name them, he's got their blood on his hands. Isn't that right, Baudin?' Without awaiting a reply she went on, 'I'm Felisin, House of Paran. Last in the line. But don't let any of that fool you.'

  She did not elaborate.

  Heboric returned with a pack slung over each forearm. He set them down, then moved close to Kulp. 'We're in no shape to help you, but after crossing this damned desert the thought of death by drowning is oddly appealing.' He stared out over the thrashing waves. 'What's out there?'

  'Imagine a child holding a leash and at the other end is a Hound of Shadow. The child's the mage, the Hound's his warren. Too long in the mines before making his escape, is my guess. We need to rest before trying to run his storm again.'

  'How bad are things on the mainland?'

  Kulp shrugged. 'I don't know. We saw Hissar in flames. Duiker went to rejoin Coltaine and the Seventh—that old man's got a streak of optimism that'll get him stuck on a sliding bed. I'd say the Seventh's history, and so's Coltaine and his Wickans.'

  'Ah, that Coltaine. When I was chained at the base of the crevasse behind Laseen's Palace I half expected to meet the man as a neighbour. Hood knows there was worthy enough company down there.' After a moment he shook his head. 'Coltaine's alive, Mage. You don't kill men like that easily."

  'If that's true, then I'm bound to rejoin him.'

  Heboric nodded.

  'He was excommunicated,' Felisin said loudly.

  Both men turned to see Gesler facing the girl. She continued, 'More than that, he's the bane of his own god. Of yours, I gather. Beware scorned priests. You'll have to lead your own prayers to Fener, lads, and I'd advise you to pray. A lot.'

  The ex-priest swung back to Kulp with a sigh. 'You opened your warren to look upon me. What did you see?'

  Kulp scowled. 'I saw,' he said after a moment, 'a child dragging a Hound—as big as a Hood-damned mountain. In one hand.'

  Heboric's expression tightened. 'And in the other?'

  'Sorry,' Kulp replied, 'no easy answer there.'

  'I'd let go…"

  'If you could.'

  Heboric nodded.

  Kulp lowered his voice. 'If Gesler realized…'

  'He'd cut me loose.'

  'Messily.'

  'I take it we're understood,' Heboric said with a faint smile.

  'Not really, but I'll let it lie for now.'

  The ex-priest acknowledged him with a nod.

  'Did you choose your company here, Heboric?' Kulp asked, eyes on Baudin and Felisin.

  'Aye, I did. More or less. Hard to believe, isn't it?'

  'Walk up the beach with me,' the mage said, heading off. The tattooed man followed. 'Tell me about them,' Kulp said after they'd gone a distance.

  Heboric shrugged. 'You have to compromise to stay alive in the mines,' he said. 'And that which one person thinks of value, another is the first to sell. Cheap. Well, that's what they are now. What they were before…" He shrugged again.

  'Do you trust them?'

  Heboric's wide face split in a grin. 'Do you trust me, Kulp? I know, it's too soon to answer that. Yours is not an easy question. I trust Baudin to work with us so long as it's in his interest to do so.'

  'And the girl?'

  The old man was a long time in answering. 'No.'

  Notwhat I'd expected. This should have been the easy part. 'All right,' he said.

  'And what of your companions? Those foolish men and their foolish cult?'

  'Harsh words for a priest of Fener—'

  'An excommunicated priest. The girl spoke the truth. My soul is my own, not Fener's. I took it back.'

  'Didn't know that was possible.'

  'Maybe it isn't. Please, I can walk no farther, Mage. Our journey has been… difficult.'

  You're not the only one, old man.

  They shared no more words on the way back to the others. For all the chaos of the crossing, Kulp had expected this part of the plan to be relatively straightforward. They would come to the coast. They would find Duiker's friend waiting… or not. He'd fought down his misgivings when the historian first came to him, asking for help. Idiot. Well, he would take them off this damned island, deposit them on the mainland, and that would be that. It was all he'd been asked to do.

  The sun was rising, the sorcerous storm over the sea withdrawing from shore to boil black and bruised over the middle of the straits.

  Food had been brought from Ripath. Heboric joined his two companions in a silent, tense meal. Kulp strode to where Gesler sat watch over his two sleeping soldiers, the three of them beneath a square of sailcloth rigged on four poles.

  The corporal's scarred face twisted into an ironic grin. 'Fener's joke, this one,' he said.

  Kulp squatted down beside the corporal. 'Glad you're enjoying it.'

  'The boar god's humour ain't the laughing kind, Mage. Strange, though, I could've sworn the Lord of Summer was… here. Like a crow on that priest's shoulder.'

  'You've felt Fener's touch before, Gesler?'

  The man shook his head. 'Gifts don't come my way. Never did. It was just a feeling, that's all.'

  'Still have it?'

  'I don't think so. Don't know. Doesn't matter.'

  'How's Truth?'

  'Took it hard, finding a priest of Fener who then turns around and denies us all. He'll be all right—me and Stormy, we look out for him. Now it's your turn to answer some questions. How're we getting back to the mainland? That damned wizard's still out there, ain't he?'

  'The priest will see us through.'

  'How's that?'

  'That'd be a long explanation, Corporal, and all I can think of right now is sleep. I'll take next watch.' He rose and went off to find some shade of his own.

  Wide awake, arms wrapped around herself, Felisin watched the mage rig a sunshade, then slip beneath it to sleep. She glanced over at the marines, feeling a wave of gleeful disdain. Followers of Fener, that's a laugh. The boar god with nothing between his ears. Hey, you fools, Fener's here, somewhere, cowering in the mortal realm. Ripe for any hunter with a sharp spear. We saw his hoof. You can thank that old man for that. Thank him any way you care to.

  Baudin had gone down to the water to wash himself. He now returned, his beard dripping.

  'Scared yet, Baudin?' Felisin asked. 'Look at that soldier over there, the one that's awake. Too tough for you by far. And that one with the crossbow—didn't take him long to figure you out, did it? Hard men—harder than you—'

  Baudin drawled, 'What, you bedded them already?'

  'You used me—'

  'What of it, girl? You've made being used a way of life.'

  'Hood take you, bastard!'

  Standing over her, he gru
nted a laugh. 'You won't pull me down—we're getting off this island. We've survived it. Nothing you can say's going to change my mood, girl. Nothing.'

  'What's the talon signify, Baudin?'

  His face became an expressionless mask.

  'You know, the one you've got hidden away, along with all your thieving tools.'

  The man's flat gaze flicked past her. She turned to find Heboric standing a few paces away. The ex-priest's eyes were fixed on Baudin as he said, 'Did I hear that right?'

  The one-eared man said nothing.

  She watched what had to be comprehension sweep across Heboric's face, watched as he glanced down at her, then back to Baudin. After a moment, he smiled. 'Well done,' he said. 'So far.'

  'You really think so?' Baudin asked, then turned away.

  'What's going on, Heboric?' Felisin demanded.

  'You should have paid better attention to your history tutors, lass.'

  'Explain.'

  'Like Hood I will.' He shambled off.

  Felisin wrapped herself tighter in her own arms, pivoting to face the straits. We're alive. I can be patient again. I can bide my time. The mainland burned with rebellion against the Malazan Empire. A pleasing thought. Maybe it would pull it all down—the Empire, the Empress… the Adjunct. And without the Malazan Empire, peace would once again come. An end to repression, an end to the threat of restraint as I set about exacting revenge. The day you lose your bodyguards, sister Tavore, I will appear. I swear it, by every god and every demon lord that ever existed. In the meantime, she would have to make use of these people around her, she would have to get them on her side. Not Baudin or Heboric—it was too late for them. But the others. The mage, the soldiers…

  Felisin rose.

  The corporal watched her approach with sleepy eyes.

  'When did you last lie with a woman?' Felisin asked him.

  It was not Gesler who answered, however. The cross-bowman's—Stormy's—voice drifted out from the shadow beneath the sailcloth: 'That would be a year and a day, the night I dressed up as a Kanese harlot—had Gesler fooled for hours. Mind you, he was pretty drunk. Mind you, so was I.'