'He comes.'
'Then perhaps arrogance has cursed both commands.'
Nether opened her eyes. 'Where is the corporal?'
Duiker shrugged. 'Somewhere. Not far.'
'The Silanda shall take as many wounded soldiers as it can carry—those who will eventually mend, that is. To Aren. Coltaine enquires if you wish to accompany them, Historian.'
Not arrogance at all, then, but fatal acceptance. He knew he should have hesitated, given the suggestion sober thought, but heard his own voice reply, 'No.'
She nodded. 'He knew you would answer thus, and say it quickly as well.' Frowning, she searched Duiker's face. 'How does Coltaine know such things?'
Duiker was startled. 'You are asking me? Hood's breath, lass, the man's a Wickan!'
'And no less a cipher to us, Historian. The clans do as he commands and say nothing. It is not shared certainty or mutual understanding that breeds our silence. It is awe.'
Duiker could say nothing to that. He found himself turning away, eyes caught and gathered into the sky's sweeping blurs of pale yellow. They migrate. Creatures of instinct. A mindless plunge into fatal currents. A beautiful, horrifying dance to Hood, every step mapped out. Every step…
The Fist arrived in darkness, the warriors of the Crow slipping forward to establish a corridor down which the vanguard rode, followed by the wagons burdened with those wounded that had been selected for the Silanda.
Coltaine, his face gaunt and lined with exhaustion, strode down to where Duiker, Nether and Gesler waited near the awning. Behind the Fist came Bult, captains Lull and Sulmar, Corporal List and the warlocks Sormo and Nil.
Lull strode up to Gesler.
The marine corporal scowled. 'You ain't as pretty as I remembered, sir.'
'I know you by reputation, Gesler. Once a captain, then a sergeant, now a corporal. You've got your boots to the sky on the ladder—'
'And head in the horseshit, aye, sir.'
'Two left in your squad?'
'Well, one officially, sir. The lad's sort of a recruit, though not properly inducted, like. So, just me and Stormy, sir.'
'Stormy? Not Cartheron Fist's Adjutant Stormy—'
'Once upon a time.'
'Hood's breath!' Lull swung to Coltaine. 'Fist, we've got two of the Emperor's Old Guard here… as Coastal Marines.'
'It was a quiet posting, sir, until the uprising, anyway.'
Lull loosed his helm strap, pulled the helm from his head and ran a hand through sparse, sweat-plastered hair. He faced Gesler again. 'Call your lad forward, Corporal.'
Gesler beckoned and Truth stepped into view.
Lull scowled. 'You're now officially in the Marines, lad.'
Truth saluted, thumb pulled in and pinning the little finger.
Bult snorted. Captain Lull's scowl deepened. 'Where—oh, don't bother.' He addressed Gesler again. 'As for you and Stormy—'
'If you promote us, sir, I will punch you in what's left of your face. And Stormy will likely kick you while you're down. Sir.' Gesler then smiled.
Bult pushed past Lull and stood face to face with the corporal, their noses almost touching. 'And, Corporal,' the commander hissed, 'would you punch me as well?'
Gesler's smile did not waver. 'Yes, sir. And Hood take me, I'll give the Fist's crack-thong a yank too, if you ask sweetly.'
There was a moment of dead silence.
Coltaine burst out laughing. The shock of it brought Duiker and the others around to stare at the Wickan.
Muttering his disbelief, Bult stepped back from Gesler, met the historian's eyes and simply shook his head.
Coltaine's laughter set the dogs to wild howling, the animals suddenly close and swarming about like pallid ghosts.
Animated for the first time and still laughing, Coltaine spun to the corporal. 'And what would Cartheron Crust have said to that, soldier?'
'He'd have punched me in the—'
Gesler got no further as Coltaine's fist lashed out and caught the corporal flush on the nose. The marine's head snapped back, his feet leaving the ground. He fell on his back with a heavy thud. Coltaine wheeled around, clutching his hand as if he'd just connected with a stone wall.
Sormo stepped forward and grasped the Fist's wrist to examine the hand. 'Spirits below, it's shattered!'
All eyes swung to the supine corporal, who now sat up, blood gushing from his nose.
Both Nil and Nether hissed, lurching back from the man. Duiker grasped Nether's shoulder and pulled her around. 'What is it, lass? What's wrong—'
Nil answered, his voice a whisper. 'That blood—that man has almost ascended!'
Gesler did not hear the comment. His gaze was on Coltaine. 'I guess I'll take that promotion now, Fist,' he said through split lips.
'—almost ascended. Yet the Fist…' Both warlocks now stared at Coltaine, and for the first time Duiker could clearly see the awe in their expressions.
Coltaine cracked open Gesler's face. Gesler, a man on the edge of Ascendancy… and into what? The historian thought back to Stormy and Truth manning the dory's sweeps… their extraordinary strength, and the tale of the burning warren. Abyss below, all three of them… And… Coltaine?
There was such confusion among the group that none heard the slow approach of horses, until Corporal List grunted, 'Commander Bult, we have visitors.'
They turned, with the exception of Coltaine and Sormo, to see half a dozen Crow horsewarriors surrounding an Ubari officer wearing silver inlaid scale armour. The stranger's dark face was shrouded in beard and moustache, the curls dyed black. He was unarmed, and now held out both hands to the sides, palms forward.
'I bring greetings from Korbolo Dom, Humblest Servant of Sha'ik, Commander of the South Army of the Apocalypse, to Fist Coltaine and the officers of the Seventh Army.'
Bult stepped forward, but it was Coltaine, now standing straight, his broken hand behind his back, who spoke. 'Our thanks for that. What does he want?'
A new handful of figures rushed into the gathering, and Duiker scowled as he recognized Nethpara and Pullyk Alar at their head.
'Korbolo Dom wishes only peace, Fist Coltaine, and as proof of his honour he spared your Wickan riders who came here to this crossing earlier today—when he could have destroyed them utterly. The Malazan Empire has been driven from six of the Seven Holy Cities. All lands north of here are now free. We would see an end to the slaughter, Fist. Aren's independence can be negotiated, to the gain of Empress Laseen's treasury.'
Coltaine said nothing.
The emissary hesitated, then continued. 'As yet further proof of our peaceful intentions, the crossing of the refugees to the south bank will not be contested—after all, Korbolo Dom well knows that it is those elements that provide the greatest difficulty to you and your forces. Your soldiers can well defend themselves—this we all have seen, to your glory. Indeed, our own warriors sing to honour your prowess. You are truly an army worthy of challenging our goddess.' He paused, twisting in his saddle to look at the gathered nobles. 'But these worthy citizens, ah, this war is not theirs.' He faced Coltaine again. 'Your journey across the wastelands beyond the forest shall be difficult enough—we shall not pursue to add to your tribulations, Fist. Go in peace. Send the refugees across the Vathar tomorrow, and you will see for yourselves—and without risk to your own soldiers—Korbolo Dom's mercy.'
Pullyk Alar stepped forward. 'The Council trusts in Korbolo Dom's word on this,' he announced. 'Give us leave to cross tomorrow, Fist.'
Duiker frowned. There has been communication. The Fist ignored the nobleman. 'Take words back to Korbolo Dom, Emissary. The offer is rejected. I am done speaking.'
'But Fist—'
Coltaine turned his back, his ragged feather cape glistening like bronze scales in the firelight.
The Crow horsewarriors closed around the emissary and forced the man's mount around.
Pullyk Alar and Nethpara rushed towards the officers. 'He must reconsider!'
'Out of our sight,' Bult g
rowled, 'or I shall have your hides for a new tent. Out!'
The pair of noblemen retreated.
Bult glared about until he found Gesler. 'Ready your ship, Captain.'
'Aye, sir.'
Stormy muttered beside the historian, 'None of this smells right, sir.'
Duiker slowly nodded.
Leoman led them unerringly across the clay plain, through impenetrable darkness, to another cache of supplies, this one stored beneath a lone slab of limestone. As he unwrapped the hardbread, dried meat and fruits, Felisin sat down on the cool ground and wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to stop shivering.
Heboric sat beside her. 'Still no sign of the Toblakai. With Oponn's luck bits of him are souring that Soletaken's stomach.'
'He fights like no other,' Leoman said, sharing out the food. 'And that is why Sha'ik chose him—'
'An obvious miscalculation,' the ex-priest said. 'The woman's dead.'
'Her third guardian would have prevented that, but Sha'ik relinquished its binding. I sought to change her mind, but failed. All foreseen, each of us trapped within our roles.'
'Convenient, that. Tell me, is the prophecy as clear on the rebellion's end? Do we now face a triumphant age of Apocalypse unending? Granted, there's an inherent contradiction, but never mind that.'
'Raraku and Dryjhna are one,' Leoman said. 'As eternal as chaos and death. Your Malazan Empire is but a brief flare, already fading. We are born from darkness and to darkness we return. These are the truths you so fear, and in your fear discount,'
'I am no-one's marionette,' Felisin snapped.
Leoman's only reply to that was a soft laugh.
'If this is what becoming Sha'ik demands, then you'd better go back to that withered corpse at the gate and wait for someone else to show up.'
'Becoming Sha'ik shall not shatter your delusions of independence,' Leoman said, 'unless, of course, you will it.'
Listen to us. Too dark to see a thing. We are naught but three disembodied voices in futile counterpoint, here on this desert stage.
Holy Raraku mocks our flesh, makes of us no more than sounds at war with a vast silence. Soft footfalls approached. 'Come and eat,' Leoman called out.
Something slapped wetly to the ground close to Felisin. The stench of raw meat wafted over her.
'A bear with white fur,' the Toblakai rumbled. 'For a moment, I dreamed I had returned to my home in Laederon. Nethaur, we call such beasts. But we fought on sand and rock, not snow and ice. I have brought its skin and its head and its claws, for the beast was twice as large as any I'd seen before.'
'Oh, I just can't wait for daylight,' Heboric said. 'The next dawn is the last before the oasis,' the giant savage said to Leoman. 'She must undertake the ritual.' There was silence.
Heboric cleared his throat. 'Felisin—'
'Four voices,' she whispered. 'No bone, no flesh, just these feeble noises that claim their selves. Four points of view. The Toblakai is pure faith, yet he shall one day lose it all—'
'It has begun,' Leoman murmured.
'And Heboric, the rendered priest without faith, who shall one day discover it anew. Leoman, the master deceiver, who sees the world with eyes more cynical than Heboric in his fitting blindness, yet is ever searching the darkness… for hope.
'And finally, Felisin. Ah, now who is this woman in a child's raiment? Pleasures of the flesh devoid of pleasure. Selves surrendered one after another. Kindness yearned for behind every cruel word she utters. She believes in nothing. A crucible fired clean, empty. Heboric possesses hands unseen and what they now grasp is a power and a truth that he cannot yet sense. Felisin's hands… ah, they have grasped and touched, they have been slick and they have been soiled, and yet have held nothing. Life slips through them like a ghost.
'All was incomplete, Leoman, until Heboric and I came to you. You and your tragic child companion. The Book, Leoman.'
She heard him remove the clasps, heard the tome pulled free of its hide wrapping. 'Open it,' she told him.
'You must open it—nor is it dawn! The ritual—'
'Open it.'
'You—'
'Where is your faith, Leoman? You do not understand, do you? The test is not mine alone. The test is for each of us. Here. Now. Open the Book, Leoman.'
She heard his harsh breathing, heard it slow, heard it gentled by a fierce will. The skin cover crackled softly.
'What do you see, Leoman?'
He grunted. 'Nothing, of course. There is no light to see by.'
'Look again.'
She heard him and the others gasp. A glow the colour of spun gold had begun emanating from the Book of Dryjhna. On all sides came a distant whisper, then a roar. 'The Whirlwind awakens—but not here, not in the heart of Raraku. The Book, Leoman, what do you see?'
He reached down to touch the first page, peeled it back, then the next, then the one after that. 'But this is not possible—it is blank! Every page!'
'You see what you see, Leoman. Close the Book, give it to the Toblakai, now.'
The giant edged forward and crouched down, his massive, bloodstained hands accepting the Book. He did not hesitate.
A warm light bathed his face as he stared down at the first page. She saw tears fill his eyes and run crooked tracks down his scarred cheeks.
'Such beauty,' she whispered to him. 'And beauty makes you weep. Do you know why you feel such sorrow? No, not yet. One day… Close the Book, Toblakai.
'Heboric—'
'No.'
Leoman slid a dagger free, but was stilled by Felisin's hand. 'No,' the ex-priest repeated. 'My touch—' 'Aye,' she said. 'Your touch.' 'No.'
'You were tested before, Heboric, and you failed. Oh, how you failed. You fear you will fail again—'
'I do not, Felisin,' Heboric's tone was sharp, certain. 'That least of all. I shall not be part of this ritual, nor shall I risk laying hands on that cursed Book.'
'What matter if he opens the Book?' the Toblakai growled. 'He's as blind as an enkar'al. Let me kill him, Sha'ik Reborn. Let his blood seal this ritual.'
'Do it.'
The Toblakai moved in a blur, the wooden sword almost unseen as it slashed for Heboric's head. Had it struck it would have shattered the old man's skull, spraying bits of it for ten paces or more. Instead, Heboric's hands flared, one the hue of dried blood, the other bestial and fur-backed. They shot up to intercept the swing, each closing on one of the giant's wrists—and stopping the swing dead. The wooden sword flew out of the Toblakai's hands, vanishing into the darkness beyond the Book's pale glow.
The giant grunted in pain.
Heboric released the Toblakai's wrists, grasped the giant by his neck and belt, then, in a surge, threw him out into the darkness. There was a thud as he struck and the clay trembled beneath their feet.
Heboric staggered back, his face twisted in shock, and the blazing rage that entwined his hands winked out.
'We could see, then,' Felisin told him. 'Your hands. You were never forsaken, Heboric, no matter what the priests may have believed when they did what they did. You were simply being prepared.'
The old man fell to his knees.
'And so a man's faith is born anew. Know this: Fener would never risk investing you and you alone, Heboric Light Touch. Think on that, and be at ease…'
Out in the darkness, the Toblakai groaned.
Felisin rose to her feet. 'I shall have the Book now, Leoman. Come the dawn.' Felisin, surrendering herself yet again. Remade. Reborn. Is this the last time? Oh no, it most certainly is not.
With dawn an hour away, Icarium led the others to the edge of the warren. Hitching the stock of his crossbow on one hip, Fiddler handed Crokus the lantern, then glanced over at Mappo.
The Trell shrugged. 'The barrier is opaque—nothing of what lies beyond is visible.'
'They know nothing of what is to come,' Iskaral Pust whispered. 'An eternal flare of pain, but shall I waste words in an effort to prepare them? No, not at all, never. Words are too precious to
be wasted, hence my coy silence while they hesitate in a fit of immobile ignorance.'
Fiddler gestured with the crossbow. 'You go first, Pust.'
The High Priest gaped. 'Me?' he squealed. 'Are you mad?' He ducked his head. 'They are deceived again, even that gnarled excuse for a soldier—oh, this is too easy!'
Hissing, Crokus stepped forward, raising the lantern high, then strode through the barrier, vanishing from the others. Icarium immediately followed.
With a growl, Fiddler gestured Iskaral Pust forward.
As the two disappeared, Mappo swung to Apsalar and her father. 'You two have been through once before,' he said. 'The warren's aura clings to you both.'
Rellock nodded. 'The false trail. We had to make sure of the D'ivers and Soletaken.'
The Trell swung his gaze to Apsalar. 'What warren is this?'
'I don't know. It has indeed been torn apart. There is little hope of determining its nature given the state it's now in. And my memories tell me nothing of such a warren so destroyed.'
Mappo sighed, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension binding his muscles. 'Ah, well, why assume that the Elder Warrens we know of—Tellann, Omtose Phellack, Kurald Galain—are the only ones that existed?'
The barrier was marked by a change in air pressure. Mappo swallowed and felt his ears pop. He blinked, his senses struggling to manage the flood that rushed upon them. The Trell stood with the others in a forest of towering trees, a mix of spruce, cedar and redwood all thickly braided in moss. Blue-tinged sunlight filtered down. The air smelled of decaying vegetation and insects buzzed. The scene's ethereal beauty descended on Mappo like a cooling balm.
'Don't know what I was expecting," Fiddler muttered, 'but it wasn't this.'
A large dolomite boulder, taller than Icarium, rose from the mulch directly ahead. Sunlight bathed it in pale green, lifting into view the shadows of grooves, pits and other shapes carved into its surface.
'The sun never moves,' Apsalar said beside the Trell. 'The light is ever at that angle, the only angle that raises those carvings to our eyes.'
The base and sides of the boulder were a mass of hand and paw prints, every one the colour of blood.
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