Deadhouse Gates

by Steven Erikson

  The mare was straining. Coltaine's pickets were five hundred paces ahead, seeming to get no nearer. He heard horses in pursuit, gaining. Figures appeared on the Malazan bulwarks, readying bows. The historian prayed for quick-witted minds among the soldiers he rode towards. He cursed as he saw the bows raised, then drawn back.

  'Not me, you bastards!' he bellowed in Malazan.

  The bows loosed. Arrows sped unseen in the night.

  Horses screamed behind him. His pursuers were drawing rein. More arrows flew. Duiker risked one backward glance and saw the Tithansi scrambling to withdraw out of arrow range. Thrashing horses and bodies lay on the ground.

  He slowed the mare to a canter, then a trot as he approached the earthworks. She was lathered, her limbs far too loose, her head sagging.

  Duiker rode into the midst of blue-skinned Wickans—Weasel Clan—who stared at him in silence. As he glanced around, the historian felt himself in well-suited company—the plains warriors from northeast Quon Tali had the look of spectres, their faces drawn with an exhaustion to match his own.

  Beyond the Weasel Clan's encampment were military-issue tents and two banners—the Hissari Guard who had remained loyal, and a company whose standard Duiker did not recognize, apart from a central stylized crossbow signifying Malazan Marines.

  Hands reached up to help him from the saddle. Wickan youths and elders gathered around, a soothing murmur of voices rising. Their concern was for the mare. An old man gripped the historian's arm. 'We will tend to this brave horse, stranger.'

  'I think she's finished,' Duiker said, a wave of sorrow flooding him. Gods, I'm tired. The setting sun broke through the clouds on the horizon, bathing everything in a golden glow.

  The old man shook his head. 'Our horsewives are skilled in such things. She shall run again. Now, an officer comes—go.'

  A captain from the unknown company of Marines approached. He was Falari, his beard and long, wavy hair a fiery red. 'You rode in your saddle like a Malazan,' he said, 'yet dress like a damned Dosü. Explain yourself and be quick about it.'

  'Duiker, Imperial Historian. I've been trying to rejoin this train since it left Hissar.'

  The captain's eyes widened. 'A hundred and sixty leagues—you expect me to believe that? Coltaine left Hissar almost three months ago.'

  'I know. Where's Bult? Has Kulp rejoined the Seventh? And who in Hood's name are you?'

  'Lull, Captain of the Sialk Marines, Cartheron Wing, Sahul Fleet. Coltaine's called a briefing—you'd better come along, Historian.'

  They began making their way through the encampment. Duiker was appalled at what he saw. Beyond the ragged entrenchments of the Marines was a broad, sloping field, a single roped road running through it. On the right were wagons in their hundreds, their beds crowded with wounded. The wagon wheels were sunk deep in blood-soaked mud. Birds filled the torchlit air, voicing a frenzied chorus—it seemed they had acquired a taste for blood. On the left the churned field was a solid mass of cattle, shoulder to shoulder, shifting in a seething tide beneath a hovering haze of rhizan—the winged lizards feasting on the swarms of flies.

  Ahead, the field dropped away to a strip of marsh bridged by wooden slats. The swampy pools of water gleamed red. Beyond it was a broad humped-back oxbow island on which, in crowded mayhem, were encamped the refugees—in their tens of thousands.

  'Hood's breath,' the historian muttered, 'are we going to have to walk through that?'

  The captain shook his head and gestured towards a large farmhouse on the cattle side of the ford road. 'There. Coltaine's own Crow Clan are guarding the south side, along the hills, making sure none of the livestock strays or gets plucked by the locals—there's a village over on the other side.'

  'Did you say Sahul Fleet? Why aren't you with Admiral Nok in Aren, Captain?'

  The red-haired soldier grimaced. 'Wish we were. We left the fleet and pulled up in Sialk for repairs—our transport was seventy years old, started shipping water two hours out from Hissar. The mutiny happened the same night, so we left the ship, gathered up what was left of the local Marine company, then escorted the exodus out of Sialk.'

  The farmhouse they approached was a sturdy, imposing structure, its inhabitants having just fled the arrival of Coltaine's train. Its foundation was of cut stone, and the walls were split logs chinked with sun-fired clay. A soldier of the Seventh stood guard in front of a solid oak door. He nodded to Captain Lull, then narrowed his eyes on Duiker.

  'Ignore the tribal garb,' Lull told him, 'this one's ours. Who's here?'

  'Everybody but the Fist, the Warlocks and the captain of the sappers, sir.'

  'Forget the captain,' Lull said. 'He ain't bothered showing for one of these yet.'

  'Yes sir.' The soldier thumped a gauntleted fist on the door, then pushed it open.

  Woodsmoke drifted out. Duiker and the captain stepped inside. Bult and two officers of the Seventh were crouched at the massive stone fireplace at the room's far end, arguing over what was obviously a blocked chimney.

  Lull unclipped his sword belt and hung the weapon on a hook by the door. 'What in Hood's name are you building a fire for?' he demanded. 'Ain't it hot and stinking enough in here?' He waved at the smoke.

  One of the Seventh's officers turned and Duiker recognized him as the soldier who'd stood at his side when Coltaine and his Wickans first landed in Hissar. Their eyes met.

  'Togg's feet, it's the historian!'

  Bult straightened and swung around. Scar and mouth both shifted into twin grins. 'Sormo was right—he'd sniffed you on our trail weeks back. Welcome, Duiker!'

  His legs threatening to give way under him, Duiker sat down in one of the chairs pushed against a wall. 'Good to see you, Uncle,' he said, leaning back and wincing at his aching muscles.

  'We were going to brew some herbal tea,' the Wickan said, his eyes red and watering. The old veteran had lost weight, his pallor grey with exhaustion.

  'For the love of clear lungs give it up,' Lull said. 'What's keeping the Fist anyway? I can't wait to hear what mad scheme he's concocted to get us out of this one.'

  'He's pulled it off this far,' Duiker said.

  'Against one army, sure,' Lull said, 'but we're facing two now

  The historian lifted his head. 'Two?'

  'The liberators of Guran,' the captain known to Duiker said. 'Can't recall if we were ever introduced. I'm Chenned. That's Captain Sulmar.'

  'You're it for the Seventh's ranking officers?'

  Chenned grinned. 'Afraid so.'

  Captain Sulmar grunted. 'Not quite. There's the man in charge of the Seventh's sappers.'

  'The one who never shows at these briefings.'

  'Aye.' Sulmar looked dour, but Duiker already suspected that the expression was the captain's favourite. He was dark, short, appearing to have Kanese and Dal Honese blood in his ancestry. His shoulders sloped as if carrying a lifetime of burdens. 'Though why the bastard thinks he's above the rest of us I don't know. Damned sappers've been doing nothing but repairing wagons and collecting big chunks of stone and getting in the cutters' way.'

  'Bult commands us in the field,' Captain Chenned said. 'I am the Fist's will,' the Wickan veteran rumbled. There was the sound of horses pulling up outside, the jangle of tack and armour, then the door thumped once and a moment later swung open.

  Coltaine looked unchanged to Duiker's eyes, as straight as a spear, his lean face wind-burned to the colour and consistency of leather, his black feather cape bellying in his wake as he strode into the centre of the large room. Behind him came Sormo E'nath and half a dozen Wickan youths who spread out to array themselves haphazardly against walls and pieces of furniture. They reminded the historian of a pack of dock rats in Malaz City, lords over the small patch they held.

  Sormo walked up to Duiker and held out both hands to grip his wrists. Their eyes met. 'Our patience is rewarded. Well done, Duiker!'

  The boy looked infinitely older, lifetimes closing in around his hooded eyes.

  'Rest
later, Historian,' Coltaine said, fixing each person in the room with a slow, gauging study. 'I made my command clear,' he said, turning at last to Bult. 'Where is this captain of the Engineers?'

  Bult shrugged. 'Word was sent. He's a hard man to find.' Coltaine scowled. 'Captain Chenned, your report.'

  'Third and Fifth companies are across the ford, digging in. The crossing's about four hundred and twenty paces, not counting the shallows on both sides, which add another twenty or so. Average depth is one and a half arm-spans. Width is between four and five most of the way, a few places narrower, a few wider. The bottom's about two fingers of muck over a solid spine of rocks.'

  'The Foolish Dog Clan will join your companies on the other side,' Coltaine said. 'If the Guran forces try to take that side of the ford during the crossing, you will stop them.' The Fist wheeled to Captain Lull. 'You and the Weasel Clan shall guard this side while the wounded and the refugees cross. I will maintain position to the south, blocking the village road, until the way is clear.'

  Captain Sulmar cleared his throat. 'About the order of crossing, Fist. The Council of Nobles will scream—'

  'I care not. The wagons cross first, with the wounded. Then the livestock, then the refugees.'

  'Perhaps if we split it up more,' Sulmar persisted, sweat glistening on his flat brow, 'a hundred cattle, then a hundred nobles—'

  'Nobles?' Bult asked. 'You meant refugees, surely.'

  'Of course—'

  Captain Lull sneered at Sulmar. 'Trying to buy favours on both sides, are you? And here I thought you were a soldier of the Seventh.'

  Sulmar's face darkened.

  'Splitting the crossing would be suicide,' Chenned said.

  'Aye,' Bult growled, eyeing Sulmar as if he was a piece of rancid meat.

  'We've a responsibility—' the captain snapped before Coltaine cut him off with a snarled curse.

  It was enough. There was silence in the room. From outside came the creak of wagon wheels.

  Bult grunted. 'Mouthpiece ain't enough.'

  The door opened a moment later and two men entered. The one in the lead wore a spotless light-blue brocaded coat. Whatever muscle he'd carried in youth had given way to fat, and that fat had withered with three months of desperate flight. With a face like a wrinkled leather bag, he nonetheless projected a coddled air that was now tinged with indignant hurt. The man a step behind him also wore fine clothes -although reduced by dust and sweat to little more than shapeless sacks hanging from his lean frame. He was bald, the skin of his scalp patchy with old sunburn. He squinted at the others with watery eyes, blinking rapidly.

  The first nobleman spoke. 'Word of this gathering reached the Council belatedly—

  'Unofficially, too,' Bult muttered dryly.

  The nobleman continued with the barest of pauses. 'Events such as these are admittedly concerned with military discussions for the most part, and Heavens forbid the Council involve itself with such matters. However, as representatives of the nearly thirty thousand refugees now gathered here, we have assembled a list of… issues… that we would like to present to you.'

  'You represent a few thousand nobles,' Captain Lull said, 'and as such your own Hood-damned interests and no-one else's, Nethpara. Save the piety for the latrines.'

  Nethpara did not deign to acknowledge the captain's comments. His gaze held on Coltaine, awaiting a reply.

  The Fist gave no sign that he was prepared to provide one. 'Find the sappers, Uncle,' he said to Bult. The wagons begin crossing in an hour.'

  The veteran Wickan slowly nodded.

  'We were expecting a night of rest,' Sulmar said, frowning. 'Everyone's dead on their feet—'

  'An hour," Coltaine growled. 'The wagons with the wounded first. I want at least four hundred across by dawn.'

  Nethpara spoke, 'Please, Fist, reconsider this order of crossing. While my heart breaks for those wounded soldiers, your responsibility is to protect the refugees. More, it will be viewed by many in the Council as a grievous insult that the livestock should cross before unarmed civilians of the Empire.'

  'And if we lose the cattle?' Lull asked the nobleman. 'I suppose you could spit the orphaned children over a fire.'

  Nethpara smiled resignedly. 'Ah, yes, the matter of the reduced rations numbers in our list of concerns. We have it on good account that such reductions have not been applied to the soldiers of the Seventh. Perhaps a more balanced method of distribution could be considered? It is so very difficult to see the children wither away.'

  'Less meat on their bones, eh?" Lull's face was flushed with barely restrained rage. 'Without well-fed soldiers between you and the Tithansi, your stomachs will be flopping around your knees in no time.'

  'Get them out of here,' Coltaine said.

  The other nobleman cleared his throat. 'While Nethpara speaks for the majority of the Council, his views are not unanimously held.' Ignoring the dark glare his companion threw him, the old man continued. 'I am here out of curiosity, nothing more. For example, these wagons filled with wounded—it seems there are many more wounded than I had imagined: the wagons are veritably crowded, yet there are close to three hundred and fifty of them. Two days ago we were carrying seven hundred soldiers, using perhaps a hundred and seventy-five wagons. Two small skirmishes have occurred since then, yet we now have twice as many wagons being used to transport the wounded. More, the sappers have been crawling all over them, keeping everyone away even to the point of discouraging the efforts of the cutters. What, precisely, is being planned here?'

  There was silence. Duiker saw the two captains of the Seventh exchange puzzled looks. Sulmar's baffled expression was almost comical as his mind stumbled back over the details presented by the old man. Only the Wickans seemed unaffected.

  'We have spread the wounded out,' Bult said. 'Strengthened the side walls—'

  'Ah, yes," the nobleman said, pausing to dab his watering eyes with a grey handkerchief. 'So I first concluded. Yet why do those wagons now ride so heavy in the mud?'

  'Is this really necessary, Tumlit?' Nethpara asked in exasperation. 'Technical nuances may be your fascination, but Hood knows, no-one else's. We were discussing the Council's position on certain vital issues. No permission shall be accorded such digressions—'

  'Uncle,' Coltaine said.

  Grinning, Bult grasped both noblemen by their arms and guided them firmly to the door. 'We've a crossing to plan,' he said. 'Digressions unwelcome.'

  'Yet what of the stonecutters and the tenderers—' Tumlit attempted.

  'Out, the both of you!' Bult pushed them forward. Nethpara was wise enough to open the door just in time as the commander gave them a final shove. The two noblemen stumbled outside.

  At a nod from Bult, the guard reached in and pulled the door shut.

  Lull rolled his shoulders beneath the weight of his chain shirt. 'Anything we should know, Fist?'

  'I'm concerned,' said Chenned after it was clear that Coltaine would not respond to Lull's question, 'about the depth of this ford. The crossing's likely to be damned slow -not that there's much of a current, but with the mud underfoot and four and a half feet of water ain't nobody going to cross fast. Even on a horse.' He glanced at Lull. 'A fighting withdrawal won't be pretty.'

  'You all know your positions and tasks,' Coltaine said. He swung to Sormo, eyes narrowing as he studied the warlock, then the children arrayed behind him. 'You'll each have a warlock,' he said to his officers. 'All communication will be through them. Dismissed.'

  Duiker watched the officers and the children leave, until only Bult, Sormo and Coltaine remained.

  The warlock conjured a jug seemingly from nowhere and passed it to his Fist. Coltaine drank down a mouthful, then passed it to Duiker. The Fist's eyes glittered. 'Historian, you've a story to tell us. You were with the Seventh's mage, Kulp. Rode out with him only hours before the uprising. Sormo cannot find the man… anywhere. Dead?'

  'I don't know,' Duiker said truthfully. 'We were split up.' He downed a mouthful from t
he jug, then stared at it in surprise. Chilled ale, where did Sormo get this from? He glanced at the warlock. 'You've searched for Kulp through your warren?'

  The young man crossed his arms. 'A few times,' he replied. 'Not lately. The warrens have become… difficult.'

  'Lucky us,' Bult said.

  'I don't understand.'

  Sormo sighed. 'Recall our one ritual, Historian? The plague of D'ivers and Soletaken? They infest every warren now—at least on this continent. All are seeking the fabled Path of Hands. I have been forced to turn my efforts to the old ways, the sorceries of the land, of life spirits and totem beasts. Our enemy, the High Mage Kamist Reloe, does not possess such Elder knowledge. So he dares not unleash his magery against us. Not for weeks now.'

  'Without it,' Coltaine said, 'Reloe is but a competent commander. Not a genius. His tactics are simplistic. He looks upon his massive army and lets his confidence undervalue the strength and will of his opponents.'

  'He don't learn from his defeats, either,' Bult said.

  Duiker held his gaze on Coltaine. 'Where do you lead this train, Fist?'

  'Ubaryd.'

  The historian blinked. Two months away, at least. 'We still hold that city, then?'

  Silence stretched.

  'You don't know,' Duiker said.

  'No,' Bult said, retrieving the jug from the historian's hand and taking a mouthful.

  'Now, Duiker,' Coltaine said, 'tell us of your journey.'

  The historian had no intention of explaining his efforts regarding Heboric Light Touch. He sketched a tale that ran close enough to the truth, however, to sound convincing. He and Kulp had ridden to a coastal town to meet some old friends in a Marine detachment. Ill luck that it was the night of the Mutiny. Seeing an opportunity to pass through the enemy ranks in disguise, gathering information as he went, Duiker elected to ride. Kulp had joined the marines in an effort to sail south to Hissar's harbour. As he spoke, the muted sounds of wagons lurching into motion on the oxbow island reached the men.

  It was loud enough for Kamist Reloe's soldiers to hear, and rightly guess that the crossing had begun. Duiker wondered how the Whirlwind commander would respond.