Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Yes, it is an unpleasant weapon,’ Paran said.

  ‘In any case, there is yet one more thing to be done.’ A gesture from Karpolan and one of the Pardu shareholders came over, collected the otataral sword that had once belonged to Adjunct Lorn. She carried it a short distance, then set it on the ground and backed away. Another shareholder arrived, cradling in his arms a large two-handed mace. He positioned himself over the wrapped weapon, then swung the mace down. And again, and again. Each blow further shattered the otataral blade. Breathing hard, the man stepped back and looked over at Karpolan Demesand.

  Who then faced Paran once more. ‘Collect your shard, Master of the Deck.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the Malazan replied, walking over. Crouching, he pulled aside the cut and battered hide. He stared down at the rust-hued slivers of metal for a half-dozen heartbeats, then selected a shard about the length of his index finger and not much wider. Carefully folding it inside a fragment of hide, he then tucked it into his belt pouch. He straightened and strode back to the High Mage.

  Karpolan Demesand sighed, slowly rose from the stool. ‘It is time for us to go home.’

  ‘Have a safe journey, High Mage,’ Paran said with a bow.

  The man attempted a smile, and the effort stole all colour from his face. Turning away and helped by one of the shareholders, he made his way to the carriage.

  ‘Pray,’ Ganath said in a low voice at Paran’s side, ‘he encounters no untoward opposition in the warrens.’

  Paran went to his horse. Then, arms resting on the saddle, he looked over at Ganath. ‘In this war,’ he said, ‘Elder forces will be involved. Are involved. The T’lan Imass may well believe that they have annihilated the Jaghut, but clearly that isn’t the case. Here you stand, and there are others, aren’t there?’

  She shrugged.

  From behind them came the tearing sound of a warren opening. Snapping traces, then the rumble of wheels.

  ‘Ganath—’

  ‘Jaghut are not interested in war.’

  Paran studied her for a moment longer, then he nodded. Setting a foot in the stirrup, he pulled himself onto the horse and collected the reins. ‘Like you,’ he said to the Jaghut, ‘I’m feeling a long way from home. Fare well in your travels, Ganath.’

  ‘And you, Master of the Deck.’

  Eastward Paran rode along the length of the valley. The river that had once carved through this land was long gone, although the winding path of its course was evident, with stands of brush and withered trees clustered here and there where the last sinkholes had been, old oxbows and flats of alluvial sands fanning out on the bends. After a league the valley opened out into a shallow basin, raw cliffs to the north and long, sloping slides of rubble to the south. Directly ahead, a trail was visible climbing between deep-cut runoff channels.

  Reaching its base, Paran dismounted and led his mount up the track. The afternoon heat was building, all the more cloying for its unnatural humidity. Far to the west, likely above the Raraku Sea, massive clouds were building. By the time he reached the summit, those clouds had devoured the sun and the breeze at his back was sweet with the promise of rain.

  Paran found himself with a view far to the east, down onto rolling hills dotted with domestic goats, the path leading towards a more substantial road that cut north-south along the edge of the plain, the southern route swinging eastward towards a distant smudge of smoke and dust that was, he suspected, G’danisban.

  Astride his horse once more, he set off at a canter.

  Before long, Paran came to the first herder’s hovel, burned and gutted, where goats were now gathering, driven by habit alone as the day’s light faded. He discerned no obvious sign of graves, and was not inclined to search among the ruins. Plague, the silent, invisible breath of the Grey Goddess. It was likely, he realized, the city ahead was in the grip of that terror.

  The first spatters of rain struck his back, and a moment later, in a rushing sizzle, the downpour was upon him. The rocky trail was suddenly treacherous, forcing Paran to slow his horse to a cautious trot. Visibility reduced to a dozen paces on all sides, the world beyond washed away behind a silver wall. Warm water trickling beneath his clothes, Paran drew up the tattered hood of the military rain-cape covering his shoulders, then hunched over as the rain hammered down.

  The worn trail became a stream, muddy water sluicing along amidst rocks and cobbles. Horse slowing to a walk, they pressed on. Between two low hills, the track sprawling out into a shallow lake, and Paran found himself flanked by two soldiers.

  One gauntleted hand reached out to take the reins. ‘You’re headed the wrong way, stranger,’ growled the man, in Malazan.

  The other held cradled in his arms a crossbow, but it wasn’t loaded, and he now spoke from the shadows beneath his hood: ‘Is that cape loot? Dragged it from the body of a Malazan soldier, did you?’

  ‘No,’ Paran replied. ‘Issued to me, just like your capes were to you, soldier.’ Ahead, he could just make out in a brief easing of the downpour, was an encampment. Two, perhaps three legions, the tents cloaking a series of hills beneath a low ceiling of smoke from cookfires dying in the rain. Beyond it, with the road winding down a slope, rose the walls of G’danisban. He returned his attention to the soldiers. ‘Who commands this army?’

  The one with the crossbow said, ‘How ’bout you answer the questions to start? You a deserter?’

  Well, technically speaking, yes. Then again, I’m supposed to be dead. ‘I wish to speak with your commanding officer.’

  ‘You pretty much ain’t got no choice, now. Off the horse, stranger. We’re arresting you on suspicion of desertion.’

  Paran slipped down from the horse. ‘Fine. Now will you tell me whose army this is?’

  ‘The lad’s push for you. You’re now a prisoner of Onearm’s Host.’

  For all the outward signs, it slowly dawned on Paran that this was not a siege. Companies held the roads leading into G’danisban, and the camp itself formed a half-ring cordon along the north and west sides, no pickets closer than four hundred paces from the unmanned walls.

  One of the soldiers led Paran’s horse towards the temporary stables, whilst the other one guided Paran down avenues between sodden tents. Figures moved about, cloaked and hooded, but none wearing full battle regalia.

  They entered an officer’s tent.

  ‘Captain,’ the soldier said, flipping back his hood, ‘we come upon this man trying to ride into G’danisban from the Raraku road. You see, sir, he’s wearing a Malazan military rain-cape. We think he’s a deserter, probably from the Adjunct’s Fourteenth.’

  The woman he addressed was lying on her back on a cot that ran parallel to the back wall. She was fair-skinned, her petite features surrounded by a mass of long red hair. Head tilting to take in her soldier and Paran, she was silent for a moment, then resumed her stare at the dipping ceiling above her. ‘Take him to the stockade – we have a stockade, don’t we? Oh, and get his details – what regiment, which legion and all that. So it can be recorded somewhere before he’s executed. Now get out, the both of you, you’re dripping water everywhere.’

  ‘Just a moment, Captain,’ Paran said. ‘I wish to speak with the High Fist.’

  ‘Not possible, and I don’t recall giving you permission to speak. Pull out his fingernails for that, Futhgar, will you? When it’s time, of course.’

  Years ago, Paran would have done… nothing. Succumbed to the rules, the written ones and the unwritten ones. He would have simply bided his time. But he was soaked through, in need of a hot bath. He was tired. And, he had gone through something like this once before, long ago and on a distant continent. Back then, of course, it had been a sergeant – same red hair, but a moustache under the nose – even so, the similarity was there, like the poke of an assassin’s knife.

  The soldier, Futhgar, was standing on his left, half a pace back. Paran gave nothing away, simply stepping to his right then driving his left elbow into the soldier’s face. Breaking his
nose. The man dropped to the ground like a sack of melons.

  The captain sat up, legs swinging round, and was on her feet in time for Paran to take a forward step and punch her hard, his knuckles cracking against her jaw. Eyes rolling up, she collapsed back down onto the cot, breaking its wooden legs.

  Massaging his hand, Paran looked round. Futhgar was out cold, as was the captain. The steady downpour outside had ensured that no sounds from the brief fight had been heard beyond the tent.

  He walked over to the captain’s travel chest. Unlocked. He tilted back the lid and began rummaging through the clothes lying atop armour. Before long, he had enough lengths of material suitable to gag and bind the two soldiers. Dragging Futhgar from near the entrance, he removed the man’s eating knife, his sticker and a broad-bladed Kethra gutting knife, then his sword belt. He prepared a wad of cloth for a gag, then bent close to determine if enough air was getting through the man’s broken nose. Not even close. Leaving that for the moment, he tightly bound the wrists and ankles, using a harness strap to link the two behind Futhgar’s back. He then tied a strip round Futhgar’s head, hard against the gaping mouth, leaving room to breathe but no room for the tongue to push outward. He’d be able to make groaning sounds, but not much more than that.

  He bound the captain in an identical manner, then added the wad of cloth fixed in place with another strip of material torn from one of the captain’s shirts. And, finally, he tied both of them to either side of the cot, and the cot to the tent’s centre pole, to hinder their squirming from the tent – which he hoped would give him sufficient time. Satisfied, he took one last look round, then, drawing up his hood, he stepped back outside.

  He found the main avenue and made his way towards the large command tent at the centre of the encampment. Soldiers walked past, paying him no heed. This was Onearm’s Host, but he’d yet to see a single familiar face, which wasn’t too surprising – he had commanded the Bridgeburners, and the Bridgeburners were gone. Most of these soldiers would be newcomers to the army, drawn in from garrisons at Pale, Genabaris and Nathilog. They would have arrived since the Pannion War. Nonetheless, he expected to find at least someone from the original force that had marched all the way to Coral, someone who had been part of that devastating battle.

  Four soldiers stood guard outside Dujek’s command tent. A fifth figure was nearby, holding the reins of a mud-spattered horse.

  Paran walked closer, eyes on the horseman. Familiar – he’d found what he had been looking for. An outrider – but one who’d belonged to Caladan Brood’s army, he believed – though I might be wrong in that. Now, what was his name?

  The man’s pale brown eyes fixed on him as Paran approached. From within the shadow of the hood, there came the flicker of recognition, then confusion. The outrider straightened, then saluted.

  Paran shook his head, but it was too late for that. The four guards all stood to attention as well. Paran answered the salute with a vague, sloppy gesture, then stepped close to the outrider. ‘Soldier,’ he murmured, ‘do you know me? Make your answer quiet, if you please.’

  A nod. ‘Captain Ganoes Paran. I don’t forget faces or names, sir, but we’d heard you were—’

  ‘Aye, and that’s how it stays. Your name?’

  ‘Hurlochel.’

  ‘Now I remember. You acted as chronicler on occasion, didn’t you?’

  A shrug. ‘I keep an account of things, yes, sir. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I need to speak with Dujek.’

  Hurlochel glanced over at the guards, then scowled. ‘Walk with me, sir. Don’t mind them, they’re new enough not to know all the officers.’

  Leading the horse, Hurlochel guided Paran away, down a side alley nearby, where he halted.

  ‘Hurlochel,’ Paran said, ‘why is Dujek’s tent guarded by green soldiers? That doesn’t make sense at all. What’s happened and why are you camped outside G’danisban?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we’ve had a hard time of it. It’s the plague, you see – the legion healers were keeping it from us, but what it’s done to Seven Cities… gods, Captain, there’s bodies in the tens of thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands. Every city. Every village. Caravan camps – everywhere, sir. We had a Gold Moranth accompanying us, you see, a renegade of sorts. Anyway, there’s a temple, in G’danisban. The Grand Temple of Poliel, and it’s where this foul wind is coming from, and it’s getting stronger.’ Hurlochel paused to wipe rain from his eyes.

  ‘So Dujek decided to strike at the heart, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Go on, Hurlochel.’

  ‘We arrived, a month back, and the High Fist formed up companies of his veterans, along with the Gold Moranth. They planned an assault on that damned temple. Well, they expected at least a High Priestess or some other sort, but they were ready for it. What nobody planned on, though, was the Grey Goddess herself.’

  Paran’s eyes widened. ‘Who made it back out?’

  ‘Most of them, sir, except the Gold Moranth. But… they’re all sick, sir. The plague’s got hold of them and they’re only still alive because of the healers… only the healers are losing the battle. So, here we are. Stuck, and nobody skank enough to take real command and make some real decisions.’ Hurlochel hesitated, then said, ‘Unless that’s why you’re here, Captain. I sure hope so.’

  Paran looked away. ‘I’m officially dead, Outrider. Dujek threw us out of the army, myself and a few others—’

  ‘Bridgeburners.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, sir, if anybody earned their days in the sweet sun…’

  Paran grimaced. ‘Aye, I’m sure that sun’s around somewhere. Anyway, I can hardly take command – besides, I’m just a captain—’

  ‘With absolute seniority, sir. Dujek took his officers with him – they were the veterans, after all. So, we got nearly ten thousand soldiers camped here, and the nearest thing to a commander is Captain Sweetcreek, who’s a Falari princess, if you can believe that.’

  ‘Red hair?’

  ‘Wild red, aye, and a pretty face—’

  ‘With a swollen jaw. We’ve met.’

  ‘A swollen jaw?’

  ‘It wasn’t a pleasant meeting.’ Still Paran hesitated, then he swore and nodded. ‘All right. I’ll keep the rank of captain… with seniority. But I need a new name—’

  ‘Captain Kindly, sir.’

  ‘Kindly?’

  ‘Old soldiers talk about him like grandmothers talk monsters to the brats, to keep them in line, sir. Nobody here’s met him – at least nobody who’s not fevered and half out of their minds.’

  ‘Well, where was Kindly last posted?’

  ‘Fourteenth, sir. The Adjunct’s army out west of Raraku. Which direction did you come in from?’

  ‘West.’

  ‘That’ll do, sir, I think. I’ll make it so’s I recognize you. Nobody knows a thing about me, only that the High Fist used me to run messages.’

  ‘So why would I let two soldiers arrest me if I’m supposed to take over command?’

  ‘You did? Well, maybe you wanted to see how we were running things here.’

  ‘All right. One more question, Hurlochel. Why aren’t you still with Caladan Brood on Genabackis?’

  ‘The alliance broke up, sir, not long after the Tiste Andii settled in Black Coral. Rhivi back to the plains, the Barghast back to their hills. The Crimson Guard, who were up north, just vanished – no-one knows where they went. When Onearm shipped out, well, seemed like they were headed somewhere interesting.’

  ‘Regrets?’

  ‘With every heartbeat, sir.’ Hurlochel then frowned. ‘Captain Sweetcreek’s got a swollen jaw, you said?’

  ‘I punched her. Along with some soldier named Futhgar. They’re bound and gagged in the captain’s tent. They might have come round by now.’

  The man grinned, but it was not a pleasant grin. ‘Captain, you knocked out cold a Falari princess – that’s perfect. It fits with what people have heard about
Kindly. That’s brilliant.’

  Paran winced, then rubbed at his face. Gods below, what is it with me and royalty?

  She had slowly emerged from the hidden temple to see a straggling line of battered figures walking the road below. Making her way down the dusty, stony slope, she was within fifteen paces before anyone noticed her. There was a strangeness in that moment of meeting, survivors eye to eye, both recognition and disbelief. Acceptance, a sense of something shared, and beneath it the ineffable flow of sorrow. Few words were exchanged.

  Joining the soldiers in their march, Lostara Yil found herself alongside Captain Faradan Sort, who told her something of Y’Ghatan’s aftermath. ‘Your Fist, Tene Baralta, was hovering on the edge of death, if not of the flesh, then of the spirit. He has lost an arm – it was burned beyond repair – and there was other damage… to his face. I believe he was a vain man.’

  Lostara grunted. ‘That damned beard of his, slick with oil.’ She thought about Tene Baralta for a time. She’d never liked him much. More than just vain. Perhaps, truth be told, something of a coward, despite all his belligerence and posturing. She remembered the way he had led the retreat following her assassination of the elder Sha’ik, and his eagerness to take credit for every success whilst dancing from the path of disaster. There had been a sadistic streak in the man, and Lostara now feared that it would burgeon, as Tene Baralta sought means to feed all that was wounded within him. ‘Why did the army leave all of you behind?’

  Faradan Sort shrugged. ‘They assumed no-one who had been trapped within the city could have survived the firestorm.’ She paused, then added, ‘It was a reasonable assumption. Only Sinn knew otherwise, and something told me to trust the girl. So we kept looking.’

  ‘They’re all wearing rags… and they’re unarmed.’

  ‘Aye, which is why we need to rejoin the army as soon as possible.’

  ‘Can Sinn magically contact the Fourteenth? Or Quick Ben?’

  ‘I have not asked her. I do not know how much of her ability is unformed talent – such creatures occur occasionally, and without the discipline of schooling as an apprentice, they tend to become avatars of chaos. Power, yes, but undirected, wild. Even so, she was able to defeat the wall of fire and so save Fist Keneb’s companies… well, some of them.’