Deadhouse Gates

by Steven Erikson

  'I'd supposed that rat had long since gone through one of the dogs,' Duiker said.

  'I'm already wishing it had,' List said. 'That bark hurts the ears. Look at it, prancing around like it rules the pack.'

  'Perhaps it does. Attitude, Corporal, has a certain efficacy that should never be underestimated.'

  Coltaine swung his horse around at their approach. 'Historian. I have called yet again for the captain of the company of Engineers. I begin to believe the man does not exist—tell me, have you ever seen him?"

  Duiker shook his head. 'I am afraid not, although I have been assured that he still lives, Fist.'

  'By whom?'

  The historian frowned. 'I… I can't actually recall.'

  'Precisely. It occurs to me that the sappers have no captain, and they'd rather not acquire one.'

  'That would be a rather complicated deceit to carry off, Fist.'

  'You feel they are incapable?'

  'Oh no, sir, not at all.'

  Coltaine waited, but the historian had nothing further to say on the matter, and after a moment the Fist sighed. 'You would ride with the Foolish Dog?'

  'Yes, Fist. However, I ask that Corporal List remain here, with the main column—'

  'But sir—'

  'Not another word from you, Corporal,' Duiker said. 'Fist, he's anything but healed.' Coltaine nodded.

  Bult's horse surged between the Fist and the historian. The veteran's lance darted from his hand, speeding in a blur into the high grasses lining the trail. The yapping lapdog shrieked in alarm and raced off, bounding like a ragged ball of mud and straw. 'Hood's curse!' Bult snarled. 'Again!'

  'It's little wonder it won't quieten,' Coltaine commented, 'with you trying to kill it daily.'

  'You've been shouted down by a lapdog, Uncle?' Duiker asked, brows rising.

  'Careful, old man,' the scarred Wickan growled. 'Time for you to ride,' Coltaine told Duiker, his eyes lighting on a new arrival. The historian turned to see Nether. She was pale, looking drawn into herself. Raw pain still showed in her dark eyes, but she sat straight in her saddle. Her hands were black, including the flesh under her fingernails, as if dipped in pitch.

  Sorrow flooded the historian and he had to look away.

  The butterflies rose from the track in a swirling cloud as they reached the forest edge. Horses reared, a few stumbling when struck from behind by those that followed, and what had been a scene of unearthly beauty a moment before now threatened chaos and injury. Then, with the mounts skidding and staggering, jostling, heads tossing, a score of cattle-dogs bolted forward, taking the lead. They plunged into the swarms ahead, the insects rising, parting over the road.

  Duiker, spitting out ragged wings that tasted of chalk, caught a momentary glimpse of one of the dogs that made him blink and shake his head in disbelief. No, I didn't see what I thought I saw. Absurd. The animal was the one known as Bent and it seemed to be carrying a four-limbed snag of fur in its mouth.

  Order was restored, the dogs managing to clear the path, and the canter resumed. Before long, Duiker found himself settling into the steady cadence. There was nothing of the usual shouting, jests or Wickan riding songs to accompany the thunder of hooves and the eerie whisper of hundreds of thousands of butterfly wings caressing the air above them.

  The journey assumed a surreal quality, sliding into a rhythm that seemed timeless, as if beneath and above the noise they rode a river of silence. To either side the bracken and dead trees gave way to stands of young cedars, too few on this side of the river to be called a forest. Of mature trees only stumps temained. The stands became a backdrop against which pale yellow swirled in endless motion, the fluttering filling Duiker's peripheral vision until his head ached.

  They rode at the pace of the cattle-dogs, and those animals proved tireless, far fitter than the horses and riders that followed in their wake. Each hour was marked by a rest spell, the mounts slowed to a walk, the last reserves of water offered in wax-sealed hide bags. The dogs waited impatiently.

  The trader track provided the Clan's best chance of reaching the crossing first. Korbolo Dom's cavalry would be riding through the thinned cedar stands, though what might slow them more than anything else was the butterflies.

  When they had travelled slightly over four leagues, a new sound reached them from the west, a strange susurration that Duiker barely registered at first, until its unnatural irregularity brushed him aware. He nudged his mount forward to gain Nether's side.

  Her glance of acknowledgement was furtive. 'A mage rides with them, clearing the way.'

  'Then the warrens are no longer contested.'

  'Not for three days now, Historian.'

  'How is this mage destroying the butterflies? Fire? Wind?'

  'No, he simply opens his warren and they vanish within. Note, the time is longer between each effort—the man tires.'

  'Well, that's good.'

  She nodded.

  'Will we reach the crossing before them?'

  'I believe so.'

  A short while later they came to a second cleared verge. Beyond it, rock pushed up from the earth to the east and west, creating a ragged line against the insect-filled sky. Directly ahead, the track began a downward slope along the path of a pebble-filled moraine, and at its base was a broad clearing, beyond which was revealed a flattened yellow carpet of butterflies that moved in a mass eastward.

  The River Vathar. The funeral procession of drowned insects, down to the sea.

  The crossing itself was marked by twin lines of wooden poles spanning the river, each pole bearing tied rags, like the faded standards of a drowned army. On the eastern downstream side, just beyond the poles, a large ship rested at anchor, bow into the current.

  The breath hissed from Nether upon seeing it, and Duiker felt his own tremble of disquiet.

  The ship had been burned, scorched in fire from one end to the other, making it entirely black, and not a single butterfly had alighted on it. The sweeps of oars—many snapped—jutted in disarray from the craft's flanks; those with blades were dipped into the current and dead insects adhered to them in lumps.

  The Clan rode down towards the open flat that marked this side of the crossing. A sailcloth awning stood on poles near a small hearth which smouldered with foul smoke. Beneath the makeshift tent sat three men.

  The cattle-dogs ringed them at a wary distance.

  Duiker winced at a sudden yapping bark. Gods below, I didn't imagine it!

  The historian and Nether rode up to halt near the restlessly circling dogs. One of the men beneath the awning, his face and forearms a strangely burnished bronze hue, rose from the coil of rope he'd been sitting on and stepped out.

  The lapdog rushed him, then skidded to a halt, its barks ceasing. A ratty tail managed a fitful wag.

  The man crouched down, picked up the dog and scratched it behind its mangy ears. He eyed the Wickans. 'So who else claims to be in charge of this scary herd?' he asked in Malazan.

  'I am,' said Nether.

  The man scowled. 'It figures,' he muttered.

  Duiker frowned. There was something very familiar about these men. 'What does that mean?'

  'Let's just say I've had my fill of imperious little girls. I'm Corporal Gesler and that's our ship, the Silanda.'

  'Few would choose that name these days, Corporal,' the historian said.

  'We ain't inviting a curse. This is the Silanda. We come on her… somewhere far from here. So, are you what's left of them Wickans as landed in Hissar?'

  Nether spoke. 'How did you come to be awaiting us, Corporal?'

  'We didn't, lass. We was just outside Ubaryd Bay, only the city had already fallen and we saw more than one unfriendly sail about, so we holed up here, planning to make passage tonight. We decided to make for Aren—'

  'Hood's breath!' Duiker exclaimed. 'You're the marines from the village! The night of the uprising…"

  Gesler scowled at the historian. 'You were the one with Kulp, weren't you—'


  'Aye, it's him,' Stormy said, rising from his stool and approaching. 'Fener's hoof, never thought to see you again.'

  'I imagine,' Duiker managed, 'you've a tale to tell.'

  The veteran grinned. 'You got that right.'

  Nether spoke, her eyes on the Silanda; 'Corporal Gesler, what's your complement?"

  'Three.'

  'The ship's crew?'

  'Dead.'

  Had he not been so weary, the historian would have noted a certain dryness to that reply.

  The eight hundred horsewarriors of the Foolish Dog Clan set up three corrals in the centre of the clearing, then began establishing perimeter defences. Scouts struck out through the stands to the west, returning almost immediately with the news that Korbolo Dom's advance outriders had arrived. Weapons were readied among an outer line of defenders, while the rest of the warriors continued the entrenchments.

  Duiker dismounted near the awning, as did Nether. As Truth joined Stormy and Gesler outside the awning, Duiker saw that they all shared the same bronze cast to their skin. All three were beardless and their pates sported the short stubble of recent growth.

  Despite the chorus of questions crowding his thoughts, the historian's eyes were drawn to the Silanda.. 'You've no sails left, Corporal. Are you suggesting that the three of you man oars and rudder?'

  Gesler turned to Stormy. 'Ready weapons—these Wickans are already worn down to the bone. Truth, to the dory—we may need to yank our arses out of here fast.' He swung back to study the historian. 'Silanda goes on her own, y'might say—I doubt we got time to explain, though. This ragtag mess of Wickans are face to face with a last stand, from the looks of it—we might be able to take a hundred or so, if you ain't fussy about the company you'd be in—'

  'Corporal,' Duiker snapped. 'This "ragtag mess" is part of the Seventh. You are Marines—'

  'Coastal. Remember? We ain't officially in the Seventh and I don't care if you was Kulp's long-lost brother, if you're of a mind to use that tone on me, you'd better start telling me about the tragic loss of your uniform and maybe I'll buy the song and start callin' you "sir" or maybe I won't and you'll get your nose busted flat.'

  Duiker blinked—I seem to recall we've gone through something like this once before—then continued slowly, 'You are Marines and Fist Coltaine might well be interested in your story, and as Imperial Historian so am I, The Coastal detachments were headquartered in Sialk, meaning Captain Lull is your commander. No doubt he too will want to hear your report. Finally, the rest of the Seventh and two additional Wickan clans are on their way here, along with close to forty-five thousand refugees. Gentlemen, wherever you came from to get here, here you are, meaning you are back in the Imperial Army.'

  Stormy stepped forward to squint at Duiker. 'Kulp had a lot to say about you, Historian, though I can't quite recall if any of it was good.' He hesitated, then cradled his crossbow in one arm and held out a thick, hairless hand. 'Even so, I've dreamed of meeting the bastard to blame for all we've been through, though I wish we still had a certain grumpy old man with us so I could wrap him in ribbons and stuff him down your throat.'

  'That was said in great affection,' Gesler drawled.

  Duiker ignored the proffered hand, and after a moment the soldier withdrew it with a shrug. 'I need to know,' the historian said in a low voice, 'what happened to Kulp.'

  'We wouldn't mind knowing that, too,' Stormy said.

  Two of the Clan's warleaders came down to speak with Nether. She frowned at their words.

  Duiker pulled his attention away from the marines. 'What is happening, Nether?'

  She gestured and the warleaders withdrew. 'The cavalry are establishing a camp upriver, less than three hundred paces away. They are making no preparations to attack. They've begun felling trees.'

  'Trees? Both banks are high cliffs up there.'

  She nodded.

  Unless they're simply building a palisade, not a floating bridge, which would be pointless in any case—they can't hope to span the gorge, can they?

  Gesler spoke behind them. 'We could take the dory upstream for a closer look.'

  Nether turned, her eyes hard as they fixed on the corporal. 'What is wrong with your ship?' she demanded in a febrile tone.

  Gesler shrugged. 'Got a little singed, but she's still seaworthy.'

  She said nothing, her gaze unwavering.

  The corporal grimaced, reached under his burnt jerkin and withdrew a bone whistle that hung by a cord around his neck. 'The crew's dead but that don't slow 'em any.'

  'Had their heads chopped off, too,' Stormy said, startling the historian with a bright grin. 'Just can't hold good sailors down, I always say.'

  'Mostly Tiste Andü,' Gesler added, 'only a handful of humans. And some others, in the cabin… Stormy, what did Heboric call 'em?'

  'Tiste Edur, sir.'

  Gesler nodded, his attention now on the historian. 'Aye, us and Kulp plucked Heboric from the island, just like you wanted. Him and two others. The bad news is we lost them in a squall—'

  'Overboard?' Duiker asked in a croak, his thoughts a maelstrom. 'Dead?'

  'Well,' said Stormy, 'we can't be sure of that. Don't know if they hit water when they jumped over the side—we was on fire, you see and it might have been wet waves we was riding, then again it might not.'

  A part of the historian wanted to throttle both men, cursing the soldiers' glorious and excruciating love of understatement. The other part, the rocking shock of what he was hearing, dropped him with a jarring thud to the muddy, butterfly-carpeted ground.

  'Historian, accompany these marines in the dory,' Nether said, 'but be sure to keep well out from shore. Their mage is exhausted, so you need not worry about him. I must understand what is happening.'

  Oh, we are agreed in that, lass.

  Gesler reached down and gently lifted Duiker upright. 'Come along now, sir, and Stormy will spin the tale while we're about it. It's not that we're coy, you see, we're just stupid.'

  Stormy grunted. 'Then when I'm done, you could tell us how Coltaine and all the rest managed to live this long. Now that'll surely be a story worth hearing.'

  'It's the butterflies, you see,' Stormy grunted as he pulled on the oars. 'A solid foot of 'em, moving slower than the current underneath. Without that, we'd be making no gain at all.'

  'We've paddled worse,' Gesler added.

  'So I gather,' Duiker said. They'd been sitting in the small rowboat for over an hour, during which time Stormy and Truth had managed to pull them a little over a hundred and fifty paces upriver through the thick sludge of drowned butterflies. The north bank had quickly risen to a steep cliff, festooned with creepers, vines covering its pitted face. They were approaching a sharp bend in the gorge created by a recent collapse on that side.

  Stormy had spun his tale, allowing for his poor narrative skills, and it was his painfully obvious lack of imagination that lent it the greatest credence. Duiker was left with the bleak task of attempting to comprehend the significance of the events these soldiers had witnessed. That the warren of fire they had survived had changed the three men was obvious, and went beyond the strange hue of their skin. Stormy and Truth were tireless at the oars, and pulled with a strength to match twice their number. Duiker both longed to board the Silanda and dreaded it. Even without Nether's mage-heightened sensitivity, the aura of horror emanating from that craft preyed on the historian's senses.

  'Will you look at that, sir," Gesler said. They had edged into the river's awkward crook. The collapsed cliffside had narrowed the channel, creating a churning, white-frothed torrent through the gap. A dozen taut ropes spanned the banks at a height of over ten arm-spans. A dozen Ubari archers in harnesses were making their way across the gulf.

  'Easy pickings,' Gesler said from the tiller, 'and Stormy's the man for the task. Can you hold us in place, Truth?'

  'I can try,' the young man said.

  'Wait,' Duiker said. 'This is one hornet's nest we're better off not stirring up, Corporal. Our
advance force is seriously outnumbered. Besides, look to the other side—at least a hundred soldiers have already gone over.' He fell silent, thinking.

  'If they was chopping down trees, it wasn't to build a bridge,' the corporal muttered, squinting at the north cliff edge, where figures appeared every now and then. 'Someone in charge's just come for a look at us, sir.'

  Duiker's gaze narrowed on the figure. 'Likely the mage. Well, if we won't bite, hopefully neither will he.'

  'Makes a nice target, though,' Gesler mused.

  The historian shook his head. 'Let's head back, Corporal.'

  'Aye, sir. Ease up there, lads.'

  The mass of Korbolo Dom's forces had arrived, taking position to either side of the ford. The sparse forest was fast disappearing as every tree in sight was felled, the branches stripped and the trunks carried deeper into the encampment. A no-man's zone of less than seventy paces separated the two forces. The trader track had been left open.

  Duiker found Nether seated cross-legged beneath the awning, her eyes closed. The historian waited, suspecting that she was in sorcerous communication with Sormo. After a few minutes she sighed. 'What news?' she asked, eyes still shut.

  'They've strung lines across the gorge and are sending archers to the other side. What is happening, Nether? Why hasn't Korbolo Dom attacked? He could crush us and not break into a sweat.'

  'Coltaine is less than two hours away. It seems the enemy commander would wait.'

  'He should have heeded the lesson of Kamist Reloe's arrogance.'

  'A new Fist and a renegade Fist—does it surprise you that Korbolo Dom would choose to make this contest personal?'

  'No, but it certainly justifies Empress Laseen's dismissal of Dom.'

  'Fist Coltaine was chosen over him. Indeed, the Empress had made it clear that Korbolo would never advance further in the Imperial Command. The renegade feels he has something to prove. With Kamist Reloe, we faced battles of brute strength. But now, we shall see battles of wits.'

  'If Coltaine comes to us, he will be stepping into the jaws of a dragon, and that's hardly disguised.'