‘What do you think?’
The man didn’t answer for a time. He looked down as if studying his wide spade-like hands. ‘I was going to leave, you know. Days ago.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I said it was time I confronted the Lady … and I was on my way.’
‘And something stopped you.’
‘Yes. One of those rumours. One that made too much sense.’
Bakune lifted his glass then stopped himself and set it down. He didn’t know if he wanted to hear anything that could possibly trouble this man. ‘Must I hear this?’
‘Yes. Bakune, I believe that the Malazans … Greymane … is coming here.’
Bakune waved away the possibility. ‘That’s absurd. He’ll march on Paliss, of course.’
The priest was shaking his head. Light from the fire gleamed from his bald pate. ‘No. This is his fleet. It’s awaiting him.’
‘Awaiting him? To take him where? They’ve only just got here! No, once he is close the Moranth troops will disembark and join him to march on Paliss. And if he is victorious, we will have a new overlord.’ Bakune shrugged his helplessness. ‘Simple as that.’
The priest stood. ‘No. It’s not so simple. Chaotic times are coming, Bakune. It may be that there will be no overlord. Then there will be a need for people who can see ahead. Think on that. That is all I suggest.’ He peered down at Bakune. ‘I do not know if we will see each other again. But if not – best of luck, and my blessing.’ He set a hand on Bakune’s shoulder. ‘I’ll see myself out the back.’
Long after the man had gone Bakune sat on into the night. The fire died away to embers. He reached out and swallowed the rest of his liqueur. He’d never been much of a religious man though he’d attended services all his life – as a matter of course as a civic official. Strangely enough, only now did he have the feeling of having been in the presence of a true priest, one less concerned with the welfare of the gods than with the real welfare of the people. It was a strange, discomforting sensation that made him feel that somehow he too ought to be concerned. All his adult life he’d lived under the Malazan yoke. He couldn’t imagine how things would be otherwise.
Yet it was worth thinking about, as the man said. For what if in the course of this coming confrontation no clear victor arose? Or what if Yeull died and the Malazan forces were crippled? What then? Regional warlords would arise. Disintegration of the state. Chaos. Who would guard the interests of Banith?
Well, he supposed that would be him.
* * *
Kiska was surprised to find this nether-Chaos Realm flush with life. Lizard-like things scuttled from their path to disappear amid the broken rock and shifting sands of the region. Tough thorny bushes choked depressions. Even things you might call blind albino fish swam in shallow rock pools. She’d wondered what the white hound had been surviving on. Now she believed she had her answer. She also thought the prospect of fish would excite the priest, Warran, but the man showed no interest. ‘Too small,’ he’d complained. This did not stop him from eating his share, though, after Jheval filleted a few. Their tiny bat-guide led them on, apparently tireless, and though their ultimate goal was obvious it led them true, avoiding defiles, gorges and a swampy lowland Kiska was glad to skirt.
Ever present in the sky loomed their destination, the immense bruise, or blotch, of the Whorl. At night it took the appearance of a circle of pitch black surrounded by a gyre of brilliance as curtains of light rippled and swirled. ‘The energy of destruction,’ the priest called the light.
The only strange or disturbing event that occurred for some time concerned Warran. During the relative gloom of one night Kiska got up to relieve her bladder and in doing so she passed behind the priest where he sat cross-legged facing the Whorl.
For an instant it seemed to Kiska that she could see the brilliance of the stars and the rippling banners of energy through the body of the priest. As if he were translucent, or wasn’t really there at all. She blinked, pausing, and stared again, but the impression was gone and the man was glaring over his shoulder.
‘I’m trying to meditate – if you don’t mind!’
And she’d retreated, apologizing. But the vision would not leave her and she found herself watching him much more closely than she had before.
Then, after an unknowable passage of time, a sandstorm blew in upon them. It came from ahead, the direction of the Whorl, a great wall of obscuring sand or dust boiling over the land towards them. First, the ravens, which had been hopping amid the rocks – searching for insects, Kiska wondered – let out great warning caws and swept up into the air. Jheval pointed to a clump of boulders and they ran to hunch in its lee. Kiska yelped as something latched itself on to her, but it was their guide, returned to wriggle under her cloak.
Warran straightened then, his brows rising in amazement. ‘This is no storm.’
‘Of course it is,’ Jheval snapped from behind his scarf. ‘Now get down!’
The priest raised a warning hand to Jheval. ‘No. This is something much worse. Do not move.’ And he stepped out into the open.
‘Fool! Come back!’ Jheval moved to follow but Kiska stopped him.
‘Wait. Perhaps he knows what he’s doing.’ She had time for one glance around for the hound – had it found cover? – before the cloud engulfed them. The diffuse light of the day darkened beyond the murkiness of night. The noise was almost too loud to hear: it hammered her ears with its reverberation. Something bit her hand – a sharp nip – and she looked down to see some sort of fly feeding upon her. She squashed it. Jheval pressed his head to hers, shouting: ‘Bloodflies! Flesh-eating flies! They’ll flense the meat from our bones! Do something!’
But Kiska flinched away. She cuffed at her head where they crawled in her hair. She thumped her armour where they’d wormed their way beneath. The bites were an agony; they dotted her hands like a pox. When a nip lanced far within her ear she screamed, her howl inaudible even to her, and fell curling into a fetal ball.
She didn’t think she’d passed out but slowly she became aware that the ocean of pain was diminishing, fading to a lingering searing agony that no longer threatened to push her into unconsciousness. She rose and wiped her face, feeling a warm smear – her forearm was sheathed in fresh wet blood. Peering around through narrowed eyes she saw that the cloud of flies had receded. It circled them now at a distance: a churning wall of a million ravenous mouths.
The priest was there and he passed her a cloth. She took it to dab at her face and arms, wincing as the weave rubbed the raw wounds. Jheval rose, hissing and groaning. If she looked anything like him right now she was a mess: his face ran with blood, as did his hands and forearms.
She saw that not one wound scarred Warran. ‘You’re not bitten!’ Damn the man! How was it he escaped? ‘What’s going on?’
‘We had something of a negotiation, he and I.’
‘He?’
Warran held up his opened hands. ‘Well … it.’
‘What is … it?’
‘It is D’ivers. It appears to have haunted these shores of Chaos for some time. It has grown quite powerful, as you see.’
‘Negotiation, you said?’ asked Jheval, his voice clenched with pain.
‘It flees the Whorl,’ Warran explained. Raising his voice, he called: ‘Is that not so?’
As the horde circled, hissing and thrumming, the massed whisperings of the millions of wings changed timbre. The tone rose and fell and incredibly Kiska found she could understand:
The Hole hungers more than I…
‘What name should I call you?’ Warran asked.
We do not remember such things. We are many. No one name can encompass us.
‘Been here too long …’ Jheval muttered.
Kiska stepped forward. ‘We are travelling to solve the mysteries of this Whorl.’
So this Cloaked One with you claims. Beware, then. Many are gathered on its verge, intent upon capturing its power. Dangerous beings. Ones even I choose
not to consume.
‘Our thanks.’
It is nothing. This Whorl troubles me. Remember, all you meet need not be hostile. But beware the Army of Light.
The cloud peeled away, churning and spinning, rising like smoke. It drifted off the way it had been flying – away from the blot of the Whorl. The three watched it go. Kiska jumped then as the twig- and cloth-guide stirred to life under her cloak and leapt high into the eerie non-sky.
Jheval was dabbing at his face. ‘That thing is fleeing exactly what we are headed for.’
‘It can’t eat a hole,’ said Warran.
Kiska eyed the priest. ‘What is this Army of Light?’
Warran cocked his head, indifferent. ‘I assure you I have no idea.’
Jheval muttered something sour. They continued walking. The Seven Cities warrior paced along next to Kiska. ‘I don’t know why you try,’ he said.
‘Try what?’
He jerked his head at the priest. ‘Him. Asking him questions. He’s done nothing but lie to us. He’s hiding something, I’m sure of it. Did you hear what that thing called him? “Cloaked”? He’s a scorpion disguising himself with us.’
‘You have not been so forthcoming yourself,’ the priest called loudly from where he walked some distance off, and Jheval growled his anger. ‘Who is not hiding things, hey, Jheval? Why is it, I wonder, that it is always those with the most to hide who accuse others? Why do you think that is … Jheval?’
Kiska cocked a brow to the Seven Cities native, who glowered, jaws clenched, saying nothing. There was no more talk that day and as the dimness of night gathered they found another of the small pools where pale transparent fish lazed. She and Jheval took turns washing and treating their wounds. Returning from the pool, Jheval was clean of his blood, but the angry red dots of the countless bites on his face and hands made him look like the victim of a particularly virulent pox. She supposed she looked no better.
Lying down on her spread cloak, her rolled gear under her head, she thought of the words of the D’ivers creature. Powerful beings had gathered to the Whorl. Beings even it chose not to attack.
And it had chosen not to attack them. Or rather, perhaps she should say that it had chosen not to attack Warran. There it was again. Cloaked. She agreed with Jheval, of course. Yet maddeningly there was nothing she, or he, could do about it.
The next day they continued on after breaking fast on the raw flesh of the fish. Oddly enough, it was Jheval and she who did all the catching – Warran wouldn’t go near them. Their usual walking order was she and Jheval leading, Warran bringing up the rear. This was how they were when, from beneath disguising layers of sand, armoured figures leapt up to bar their way.
There were more than twenty of them: some sort of patrol or guard, similarly clad in pale enamelled armour of cuirasses with scaled sleeves and leggings and white enamelled helmets. They carried pale shields, cracked and yellowed now, and the blades of their bared curved swords gleamed yellow.
Warran came up to stop beside Kiska. ‘The Army of Light,’ he announced.
Thank you very much.
One called something in a language Kiska did not know. The man tried several more until finally speaking in Talian. ‘Drop your weapons.’
‘Who are you to threaten us?’ Kiska shouted back.
‘Your companion also,’ the man answered.
‘We can take them,’ Jheval murmured, hardly moving his lips.
‘You do not really think this is all of them, do you?’ Warran said. ‘Best comply. Let’s not make a scene.’
‘Easy for you,’ Kiska answered under her breath. Louder, she called, ‘Very well. But this is hardly the way for civilized folk to behave.’ She knelt to set down her staff. Snarling his disgust, Jheval threw down his morningstars.
The party surrounded them, marched them on. The ground became more and more uneven. Their path wended round rocky outcroppings, boulders the size of buildings. At one point their escort stopped and spoke among themselves, their tone surprised. Then the white hound appeared, pushing its way through them to come to Kiska’s side. It paced there for a time with her; dried blood flecked its white and streaked-yellow hair.
‘Not far off enough, were you, hey?’ she told him – though she still dared not reach out to actually pet him.
They climbed a tall slope of loose bare broken stones, winding back and forth across its face until they reached the crest and saw an army spread out before them in a valley of black rock. Kiska was stunned; it was one of the largest gatherings of forces she’d ever seen. Tents dotted away into the distance. Smoke rose from countless fires. Their escort urged them on down the valley slope. As they descended the hound loped off – it seemed he had no interest in entering the encampment. Kiska watched it disappear among the rocks, feeling suddenly alone and vulnerable; for some reason she felt she could count on that beast more than she could trust the two men she travelled with. And what of this force? The Army of Light? Was this one of those gathered to claim the Whorl? One of those the D’ivers would not attack – a hesitation she could well understand. Yet what could they hope to achieve? You couldn’t attack this manifestation. There was nothing there!
They were led down and into the camp. Kiska saw that the force was composed entirely, as far as she could see, of heavily armoured infantry. All were alike with their pale narrow features, white or streaked fair hair. And just who were they anyway? Kiska was urged into a tent, separated from Jheval and the priest. She was alarmed by this but there was nothing she could do.
Within she found a pallet and a small table containing a jug of water, a washbasin, and a platter of food: dried meat of some sort, thin unleavened bread, fruit and cheese. All very plain and austere. Like a goddamned monastery.
A guard entered, helmet under an arm revealing long loose dirty-blonde hair: female. ‘Take off your armour and all your equipment.’
‘Is this how you treat all your visitors?’
‘We are within the shores of Chaos, not the concourses of the Glimmering Commons. Your equipment?’
Sighing, Kiska complied. Each piece of armour, each weapon, the guard took and tossed outside the tent, leaving Kiska in boots, trousers, shirt, vest, and cloak.
‘Boots,’ the woman said.
Kiska set her hands on her hips. ‘Really?’
The woman merely gestured to the opening. ‘Shall I call in my companions and strip you entirely?’
Kiska almost invited her to do so. Almost. She kicked off the boots. Searching them, the guard found the two throwing blades slipped down the lining of each.
‘Cloak.’
Kiska stared, then she laughed. Hood-damned humourless methodical military order. Must be.
She was reduced to the stained silk chemise and shorts she wore for comfort beneath everything. Only then did the woman relent and allow her to dress. When she finished the woman’s only comment was a curt, ‘Follow me.’
Two more guards fell in behind as the woman led her through the camp. It was very well ordered, almost ruthlessly so. Off-duty soldiers sat before their tents repairing equipment or eating. All were quiet; their demeanour surprised Kiska, who was used to the noise and complaints and banter of Malazan troops. She also reflected that she hadn’t seen their tiny guide for some time. Good. The little thing was showing better judgement than they.
She was escorted to a tent and the flap was tossed open to reveal Jheval and the priest. Her guide urged her in. ‘Wait here.’
‘Hurry up and wait,’ Kiska muttered as she entered. She nodded to the other two.
‘You’re all right?’ Jheval asked.
‘Yes. Who are these people?’
‘The Army of Light,’ Warran repeated blandly. ‘I should have thought that was obvious.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘Tiste Liosan.’
Jheval cursed under his breath. The label meant something to him, that was clear, but it meant nothing to her. She knew of the Tiste Andii, of course, t
he Children of Night. She’d even heard of the Tiste Edur, the Children of Shadow. Now the Tiste Liosan? The Children of … Light? ‘What do they want?’
The priest shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘I should think they are here to investigate the Whorl.’
‘In such force?’
Again the maddening shrug. She was about to ask another question when the flap slid open and in walked several of their captors. Four had blades bared while the lead one, the fifth, stood with hands clasped behind his, or her, back. Other than the manner of assured command, there was no way to tell this one apart from the others.
‘What are you doing here?’ the commander asked, the voice revealing her as a woman.
‘We are here to investigate this manifestation, the Whorl.’
‘Whorl? We name him the Devourer.’
‘Him?’ Kiska echoed. ‘Him – someone? But how can it be sentient?’
The commander pulled off her visored helmet and shook out sweaty matted blonde hair. Her features were blunt and heavy, her jaw square, her brow-ridges thick. The eyes captured Kiska’s attention: gold flecked the irises, which shone almost mauve. ‘It is summoned and sustained by a powerful magus,’ she said. ‘And it has broached the borders of Kurald Liosan – among many others.’
Kiska hoped her face betrayed no reaction. A powerful mage. Tayschrenn. Yet … malevolent? Perhaps he has been driven mad … She missed what the woman said next and realized that they were introducing themselves. ‘Kiska,’ she blurted out.
The woman nodded. ‘My name and titles happen to be rather long. I go by Jayashul. Commander Jayashul. I hear you were accompanied by a Hound of Light and that speaks well of you. Please be our guests. Abide by the rules of our camp and you are welcome. Obviously you represent organizations or political entities which are likewise troubled by the Devourer. Rightly so.’ She nodded to Warran. ‘I see from your presence that Shadow, too, is concerned. No doubt your patron resents the loss of any of what little Realm he has left.’
‘Shadow is everywhere,’ Warran replied, rather smugly.
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