Thank Oponn for that. ‘The captain been by since?’
‘No. The bitch. We’re going to kill her, you know.’
‘Really. Well, I won’t shed any tears. Who is this “we” anyway?’
‘Me and Cuttle. He’ll distract her, I’ll stick a knife in her back. Tonight.’
‘Fist Keneb will have you strung up, you know.’
‘We’ll make it look like an accident.’
Distant horns sounded. ‘All right, everyone,’ Strings said from the road. ‘Let’s move.’
Groaning wagon wheels, clacking and thumping on the uneven cobbles, rocking in the ruts, the lowing of oxen, thousands of soldiers lurching into motion, the sounds a rising clatter and roar, the first dust swirling into the air.
Koryk fell in alongside Bottle. ‘They won’t do it,’ he said.
‘Do what? Kill the captain?’
‘I got a long look at her,’ he said. ‘She’s not just from Korelri. She’s from the Stormwall.’
Bottle squinted at the burly warrior. ‘How do you know that?’
‘There’s a silver tracing on her scabbard. She was a section commander.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Koryk. First, standing the Wall isn’t something you can just resign from, if what I’ve heard is true. Besides, this woman’s a captain, in the least-prepared Malazan army in the entire empire. If she’d commanded a section against the Stormriders, she’d rank as Fist at the very least.’
‘Only if she told people, Bottle, but that tracing tells another story.’
Two strides ahead of them, Strings turned his head to regard them. ‘So, you saw it too, Koryk.’
Bottle swung round to Smiles and Cuttle. ‘You two hearing this?’
‘So?’ Smiles demanded.
‘We heard,’ Cuttle said, his expression sour. ‘Maybe she just looted that scabbard from somewhere… but I don’t think that’s likely. Smiles, lass, we’d best put our plans on a pyre and strike a spark.’
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘What’s this Stormwall mean, anyway? And how come Koryk thinks he knows so much? He doesn’t know anything, except maybe the back end of a horse and that only in the dark. Look at all your faces – I’m saddled with a bunch of cowards!’
‘Who plan on staying alive,’ Cuttle said.
‘Smiles grew up playing in the sand with farm boys,’ Koryk said, shaking his head. ‘Woman, listen to me. The Stormwall is leagues long, on the north coast of Korelri. It stands as the only barricade between the island continent and the Stormriders, those demonic warriors of the seas between Malaz Island and Korelri – you must have heard of them?’
‘Old fishers’ tales.’
‘No, all too real,’ Cuttle said. ‘I seen them myself, plying those waters. Their horses are the waves. They wield lances of ice. We slit the throats of six goats to paint the water in appeasement.’
‘And it worked?’ Bottle asked, surprised.
‘No, but tossing the cabin boy over the side did.’
‘Anyway,’ Koryk said after a moment of silence, ‘only chosen warriors are given the task of standing the Wall. Fighting those eerie hordes. It’s an endless war, or at least it was…’
‘It’s over?’
The Seti shrugged.
‘So,’ Smiles said, ‘what’s she doing here? Bottle’s right, it doesn’t make sense.’
‘You could ask her,’ Koryk replied, ‘assuming you survive this day’s march.’
‘This isn’t so bad,’ she sniffed.
‘We’ve gone a hundred paces, soldier,’ Strings called back. ‘So best save your breath.’
Bottle hesitated, then said to Smiles. ‘Here, give me that – that captain ain’t nowhere about, is she?’
‘I never noticed nothing,’ Strings said without turning round.
‘I can do this—’
‘We’ll spell each other.’
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, then she shrugged. ‘If you like.’
He took the second pack from her.
‘Thanks, Bottle. At least someone in this squad’s nice to me.’
Koryk laughed. ‘He just doesn’t want a knife in his leg.’
‘We got to stick together,’ Bottle said, ‘now that we got ourselves a tyrant officer over us.’
‘Smart lad,’ Strings said.
‘Still,’ Smiles said, ‘thanks, Bottle.’
He smiled sweetly at her.
‘They’ve stopped moving,’ Kalam muttered. ‘Now why would that be?’
‘No idea,’ Quick Ben said at his side.
They were lying flat on the summit of a low ridge. Eleven Moon’s Spawns hovered in an even row above another rise of hills two thousand paces distant. ‘So,’ the assassin asked, ‘what passes for night in this warren?’
‘It’s on its way, and it isn’t much.’
Kalam twisted round and studied the squad of soldiers sprawled in the dust of the slope behind them. ‘And your plan, Quick?’
‘We make use of it, of course. Sneak up under one—’
‘Sneak up? There’s no cover, there’s nothing to even throw shadows!’
‘That’s what makes it so brilliant, Kalam.’
The assassin reached out and cuffed Quick Ben.
‘Ow. All right, so the plan stinks. You got a better one?’
‘First off, we send this squad behind us back to the Fourteenth. Two people sneaking up is a lot better than eight. Besides, I’ve no doubt they can fight but that won’t be much use with a thousand K’Chain Che’Malle charging down on us. Another thing – they’re so cheery it’s a struggle to keep from dancing.’
At that, Sergeant Gesler threw him a kiss.
Kalam rolled back round and glared at the stationary fortresses.
Quick Ben sighed. Scratched his smooth-shaven jaw. ‘The Adjunct’s orders…’
‘Forget that. This is a tactical decision, it’s in our purview.’
Gesler called up from below, ‘She don’t like us around either, Kalam.’
‘Oh? And why’s that?’
‘She keeps cracking up in our company. I don’t know. We was on the Silanda, you know. We went through walls of fire on that ship.’
‘We’ve all led hard lives, Gesler…’
‘Our purview?’ Quick Ben asked. ‘I like that. You can try it on her, later.’
‘Let’s send them back.’
‘Gesler?’
‘Fine with us. I wouldn’t follow you two into a latrine, begging your sirs’ pardon.’
Stormy added, ‘Just hurry up about it, wizard. I’m getting grey waiting.’
‘That would be the dust, Corporal.’
‘So you say.’
Kalam considered, then said, ‘We could take the hairy Falari with us, maybe. Care to come along, Corporal? As rearguard?’
‘Rearguard? Hey, Gesler, you were right. They are going into a latrine. All right, assuming my sergeant here won’t miss me too much.’
‘Miss you?’ Gesler sneered. ‘Now at least I’ll get women to talk to me.’
‘It’s the beard puts them off,’ Stormy said, ‘but I ain’t changing for nobody.’
‘It’s not the beard, it’s what lives in the beard.’
‘Hood take us,’ Kalam breathed, ‘send them away, Quick Ben, please.’
Four leagues north of Ehrlitan, Apsalar stood facing the sea. The promontory on the other side of A’rath Strait was just visible, rumpling the sunset’s line on the horizon. Kansu Reach, which stretched in a long, narrow arm westward to the port city of Kansu. At her feet prowled two gut-bound skeletons, pecking at grubs in the dirt and hissing in frustration as the mangled insects they attempted to swallow simply fell out beneath their jaws.
Even bone, or the physical remembrance of bone, held power, it seemed. The behaviour patterns of the lizard-birds the creatures once were had begun to infect the ghost spirits of Telorast and Curdle. They now chased snakes, leapt into the air after rhizan and capemoths, duelled each other in dominance contests, s
trutting, spitting and kicking sand. She believed they were losing their minds.
No great loss. They had been murderous, vile, entirely untrustworthy in their lives. And, perhaps, they had ruled a realm. As usurpers, no doubt. She would not regret their dissolution.
‘Not-Apsalar! Why are we waiting here? We dislike water, we have discovered. The gut bindings will loosen. We’ll fall apart.’
‘We are crossing this strait, Telorast,’ Apsalar said. ‘Of course, you and Curdle may wish to stay behind, to leave my company.’
‘Do you plan on swimming?’
‘No, I intend to use the warren of Shadow.’
‘Oh, that won’t be wet.’
‘No,’ Curdle laughed, prancing around to stand before Apsalar, head bobbing. ‘Not wet, oh, that’s very good. We’ll come along, won’t we, Telorast?’
‘We promised! No, we didn’t. Who said that? We’re just eager to stand guard over your rotting corpse, Not-Apsalar, that’s what we promised. I don’t understand why I get so confused. You have to die eventually. That’s obvious. It’s what happens to mortals, and you are mortal, aren’t you? You must be, you have been bleeding for three days – we can smell it.’
‘Idiot!’ Curdle hissed. ‘Of course she’s mortal, and besides, we were women once, remember? She bleeds because that’s what happens. Not all the time, but sometimes. Regularly. Or not. Except just before she lays eggs, which would mean a male found her, which would mean…’
‘She’s a snake?’ Telorast asked in a droll tone.
‘But she isn’t. What were you thinking, Telorast?’
The sun’s light was fading, the waters of the strait crimson. A lone sail from a trader’s carrack was cutting a path southward into the Ehrlitan Sea.
‘The warren feels strong here,’ Apsalar said.
‘Oh yes,’ Telorast said, bony tail caressing Apsalar’s left ankle. ‘Fiercely manifest. This sea is new.’
‘That is possible,’ she replied, eyeing the jagged cliffs marking the narrows. ‘Are there ruins beneath the waves?’
‘How would we know? Probably. Likely, absolutely. Ruins. Vast cities. Shadow Temples.’
Apsalar frowned. ‘There were no Shadow Temples in the time of the First Empire.’
Curdle’s head dipped, then lifted suddenly. ‘Dessimbelackis, a curse on his multitude of souls! We speak of the time of the Forests. The great forests that covered this land, long before the First Empire. Before even the T’lan Imass—’
‘Shhh!’ Telorast hissed. ‘Forests? Madness! Not a tree in sight, and those who were frightened of shadows never existed. So why would they worship them? They didn’t, because they never existed. It’s a natural ferocity, this shadow power. It’s a fact that the first worship was born of fear. The terrible unknown—’
‘Even more terrible,’ Curdle cut in, ‘when it becomes known! Wouldn’t you say, Telorast?’
‘No I wouldn’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve been babbling too many secrets, none of which are true in any case. Look! A lizard! It’s mine!’
‘No, mine!’
The two skeletons scrambled along the rocky ledge. Something small and grey darted away.
A wind was picking up, sweeping rough the surface of the strait, carrying with it the sea’s primal scent to flow over the cliff where she stood. Crossing stretches of water, even through a warren, was never a pleasant prospect. Any waver of control could fling her from the realm, whereupon she would find herself leagues from land in dhenrabi-infested waters. Certain death.
She could, of course, choose the overland route. South from Ehrlitan, to Pan’potsun, then skirting the new Raraku Sea westward. But she knew she was running out of time. Cotillion and Shadowthrone had wanted her to take care of a number of small players, scattered here and there inland, but something within her sensed a quickening of distant events, and with it the growing need – a desperate insistence – that she be there without delay. To cast her dagger, to affect, as best she could, a host of destinies.
She assumed Cotillion would understand all of this. That he would trust her instincts, even if she was, ultimately, unable to explain them.
She must… hurry.
A moment’s concentration. And the scene before her was transformed. The cliff now a slope, crowded with collapsed trees, firs, cedars, their roots torn loose from dark earth, the boles flattened as if the entire hillside had been struck by some unimaginable wind. Beneath a leaden sky, a vast forested valley clothed in mist stretched out across what had moments before been the waters of the strait.
The two skeletons pattered up to crowd her feet, heads darting.
‘I told you there’d be a forest,’ Telorast said.
Apsalar gestured at the wreckage on the slope immediately before them. ‘What happened here?’
‘Sorcery,’ Curdle said. ‘Dragons.’
‘Not dragons.’
‘No, not dragons. Telorast is right. Not dragons.’
‘Demons.’
‘Yes, terrible demons whose very breath is a warren’s gate, oh, don’t jump down those throats!’
‘No breath, Curdle,’ Telorast said. ‘Just demons. Small ones. But lots of them. Pushing trees down, one by one, because they’re mean and inclined to senseless acts of destruction.’
‘Like children.’
‘Right, as Curdle says, like children. Children demons. But strong. Very strong. Huge, muscled arms.’
‘So,’ Apsalar said, ‘dragons fought here.’
‘Yes,’ Telorast said.
‘In the Shadow Realm.’
‘Yes.’
‘Presumably, the same dragons that are now imprisoned within the stone circle.’
‘Yes.’
Apsalar nodded, then began making her way down. ‘This will be hard going. I wonder if I will save much time traversing the forest.’
‘Tiste Edur forest,’ Curdle said, scampering ahead. ‘They like their forests.’
‘All those natural shadows,’ Telorast added. ‘Power in permanence. Blackwood, bloodwood, all sorts of terrible things. The Eres were right to fear.’
In the distance a strange darkness was sliding across the treetops. Apsalar studied it. The carrack, casting an ethereal presence into this realm. She was seeing both worlds, a common enough occurrence. Yet, even so… someone is on that carrack. And that someone is important…
T’rolbarahl, ancient creature of the First Empire of Dessimbelackis, Dejim Nebrahl crouched at the base of a dead tree, or, rather, flowed like a serpent round the bleached, exposed roots, seven-headed, seven-bodied and mottled with the colours of the ground, the wood and the rocks. Fresh blood, slowly losing its heat, filled the D’ivers’ stomachs. There had been no shortage of victims, even in this wasteland. Herders, salt-miners, bandits, desert wolves, Dejim Nebrahl had fed continuously on this journey to the place of ambush.
The tree, thick-boled, squat, with only a few twisted branches surviving the centuries since it had died, rose from a crack in the rock between a flat stretch that marked the trail and an upthrust tower of pitted, wind-worn stone. The trail twisted at this point, skirting the edge of a cliff, the drop below ten or more man-heights to boulders and jagged rubble.
On the other side of the trail, more rocks rose, heaped, the stone cracked and shelved.
The D’ivers would strike here, from both sides, lifting free of the shadows.
Dejim Nebrahl was content. Patience easily purchased by fresh meat, the echoing screams of death, and now it need but await the coming of the victims, the ones the Nameless Ones had chosen.
Soon, then.
Plenty of room between the trees, a cathedral of shadows and heavy gloom, the flow of damp air like water against her face as Apsalar jogged onward, flanked by the darting forms of Telorast and Curdle. To her surprise, she was indeed making good time. The ground was surprisingly level and tree-falls seemed nonexistent, as if no tree in this expanse of forest ever died. She had seen no wildlife, had come up
on no obvious game trail, yet there had been glades, circular sweeps of moss tightly ringed by evenly spaced cedars, or, if not cedar, then something much like it, the bark rough, shaggy, black as tar. The circles were too perfect to be natural, although no other evidence of intent or design was visible. In these places, the power of shadow was, as Telorast had said, fierce.
Tiste Edur, Kurald Emurlahn, their presence lingered, but only in the same manner as memories clung to graveyards, tombs and barrows. Old dreams snarled and fading in the grasses, in the twist of wood and the crystal latticework of stone. Lost whispers in the winds that ever wandered across such death-laden places. The Edur were gone, but their forest had not forgotten them.
A darkness ahead, something reaching down from the canopy, straight and thin. A rope, as thick round as her wrist, and, resting on the needle-strewn humus of the floor, an anchor.
Directly in her path. Ah, so even as I sensed a presence, so it in turn sensed me. This is, I think, an invitation.
She approached the rope, grasped it in both hands, then began climbing.
Telorast hissed below, ‘What are you doing? No, dangerous intruder! Terrible, terrifying, horrible, cruel-faced stranger! Don’t go up there! Oh, Curdle, look, she’s going.’
‘She’s not listening to us!’
‘We’ve been talking too much, that’s the problem.’
‘You’re right. We should say something important, so she starts listening to us again.’
‘Good thinking, Curdle. Think of something!’
‘I’m trying!’
Their voices faded away as Apsalar continued climbing. Among thick-needled branches now, old cobwebs strung between them, small, glittering shapes scampering about. The leather of her gloves was hot against her palms and her calves were beginning to ache. She reached the first of a series of knots and, planting her feet on it, she paused to rest. Glancing down, she saw nothing but black boles vanishing into mist, like the legs of some giant beast. After a few moments, she resumed her climb. Knots, now, every ten or so arm-lengths. Someone was being considerate.
The ebon hull of the carrack loomed above, crusted with barnacles, glistening. Reaching it, she planted her boots against the dark planks and climbed the last two man-heights to where the anchor line ran into a chute in the gunnel. Clambering over the side, she found herself near the three steps leading to the aft deck. Faint smudges of mist, slightly glowing, marked where mortals stood or sat: here and there, near rigging, at the side-mounted steering oar, one perched high among the shrouds. A far more substantial, solid figure was standing before the mainmast.
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