Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  ‘These are not normal circumstances. I’m losing my patience here.’

  An expression of mild distaste. ‘Yes, I have first-hand knowledge of what happens when you lose patience, no matter how unjust the situation. It fell to me, I remind you, to heal Captain Sweetcreek’s fractured cheekbone.’ The man stepped to one side of the entrance. ‘Please, Captain, be welcome within.’

  Sighing, Paran strode past the cutter, pulled aside the flap and entered the tent.

  Gloom, the air hot and thick with heavy incense that could only just mask the foul reek of sickness. In this first chamber were four cots, each occupied by a company commander, only two of whom were familiar to Paran. All slept or were unconscious, limbs twisted in their sweat-stained blankets, necks swollen by infection, each drawn breath a thin wheeze like some ghastly chorus. Shaken, the captain moved past them and entered the tent’s back chamber, where there was but one occupant.

  In the grainy, crepuscular air, Paran stared down at the figure in the cot. His first thought was that Dujek Onearm was already dead. An aged, bloodless face marred by dark purple blotches, eyes crusted shut by mucus. The man’s tongue, the colour of Aren Steel, was so swollen it had forced open his mouth, splitting the parched lips. A healer – probably Noto Boil – had packed Dujek’s neck in a mixture of mould, ash and clay, which had since dried, looking like a slave collar.

  After a long moment, Paran heard Dujek draw breath, the sound uneven, catching again and again in faint convulsions of his chest. The meagre air then hissed back out in a rattling whistle.

  Gods below, this man will not last the night.

  The captain realized that his lips had gone numb, and he was having trouble focusing. This damned incense, it’s d’bayang. He stood for another half-dozen heartbeats, looking down on the shrunken, frail figure of the Malazan Empire’s greatest living general, then he turned about and strode from the chamber.

  Two steps across the outer room and a hoarse voice halted him.

  ‘Who in Hood’s name are you?’

  Paran faced the woman who had spoken. She was propped up on her bed, enough to allow her a level gaze on the captain. Dark-skinned, her complexion lacking the weathered lines of desert life, her eyes large and very dark. Stringy, sweat-plastered black hair, cut short yet nonetheless betraying a natural wave, surrounded her round face, which sickness had drawn, making her eyes seem deeper, more hollow.

  ‘Captain Kindly—’

  ‘By the Abyss you are. I served under Kindly in Nathilog.’

  ‘Well, that’s discouraging news. And you are?’

  ‘Fist Rythe Bude.’

  ‘One of Dujek’s recent promotions, then, for I have never heard of you. Nor can I fathom where you hail from.’

  ‘Shal-Morzinn.’

  Paran frowned. ‘West of Nemil?’

  ‘Southwest.’

  ‘How did you come to be in Nathilog, Fist?’

  ‘By the Three, give me some water, damn you.’

  Paran looked round until he found a bladder, which he brought to her side.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ she said. ‘Coming in here. Now you will die with the rest of us. You’ll have to pour it into my mouth.’

  He removed the stopper, then leaned closer.

  She closed her remarkable, luminous eyes and tilted her head back, mouth opening. The weals on her neck were cracked, leaking clear fluid as thick as tears. Squeezing the bladder, he watched the water stream into her mouth.

  She swallowed frantically, gasped then coughed.

  He pulled the bladder away. ‘Enough?’

  She managed a nod, coughed again, then swore in some unknown language. ‘This damned smoke,’ she added in Malazan. ‘Numbs the throat so you can’t even tell when you’re swallowing. Every time I close my eyes, d’bayang dreams rush upon me like the Red Winds.’

  He stood, looking down upon her.

  ‘I left Shal-Morzinn… in haste. On a Blue Moranth trader. Money for passage ran out in a town called Pitch, on the Genabarii coast. From there I made it to Nathilog, and with a belly too empty to let me think straight, I signed up.’

  ‘Where had you intended to go?’

  She made a face. ‘As far as my coin would take me, fool. Crossing the Three is not a recipe for a long life. Blessings to Oponn’s kiss, they didn’t come after me.’

  ‘The Three?’

  ‘The rulers of Shal-Morzinn… for the past thousand years. You seemed to recognize the empire’s name, which is more than most.’

  ‘I know nothing beyond the name itself, which is found on certain Malazan maps.’

  She croaked a laugh. ‘Malazans. Knew enough to make their first visit their last.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware we’d visited at all,’ Paran said.

  ‘The Emperor. And Dancer. The imperial flagship, Twist. Gods, that craft alone was sufficient to give the Three pause. Normally, they annihilate strangers as a matter of course – we trade with no-one, not even Nemil. The Three despise outsiders. Were they so inclined they would have conquered the entire continent by now, including Seven Cities.’

  ‘Not expansionists, then. No wonder no-one’s heard of them.’

  ‘More water.’

  He complied.

  When she’d finished coughing, she met his eyes. ‘You never told me – who are you in truth?’

  ‘Captain Ganoes Paran.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘All right. So why the lie?’

  ‘Dujek decommissioned me. Officially, I am without rank.’

  ‘Then what in Hood’s name are you doing here?’

  He smiled. ‘That’s a long story. At the moment, I have one thing I need to do, and that is, repay a debt. I owe Dujek that much. Besides, it’s not good to have a goddess loose in the mortal realm, especially one who delights in misery.’

  ‘They all delight in misery.’

  ‘Yes, well.’

  She bared a row of even teeth, stained by sickness. ‘Captain, do you think, had we known Poliel was in the temple, we would have gone in at all? You, on the other hand, don’t have that excuse. Leaving me to conclude that you have lost your mind.’

  ‘Captain Sweetcreek certainly agrees with you, Fist,’ Paran said, setting the bladder down. ‘I must take my leave. I would appreciate it, Fist Rythe Bude, if you refer to me as Captain Kindly.’ He walked towards the tent’s exit.

  ‘Ganoes Paran.’

  Something in her tone turned him round even as he reached for the flap.

  ‘Burn my corpse,’ she said. ‘Ideally, fill my lungs with oil, so that my chest bursts, thus freeing to flight my ravaged soul. It’s how it’s done in Shal-Morzinn.’

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  Outside, he found the cutter Noto Boil still standing at his station, examining the bloodied point of the fish spine a moment before slipping it back into his mouth.

  ‘Captain Kindly,’ the man said in greeting. ‘The outrider Hurlochel was just here, looking for you. From him, I gather you intend something… rash.’

  ‘Cutter, when the alternative is simply waiting for them to die, I will accept the risk of doing something rash.’

  ‘I see. How, then, have you planned this assault of yours? Given that you shall face the Grey Goddess herself. I doubt even your reputation will suffice in compelling the soldiers to assail the Grand Temple of Poliel. Indeed, I doubt you will get them to even so much as enter G’danisban.’

  ‘I’m not taking any soldiers, cutter.’

  A sage nod from the gaunt man. ‘Ah, an army of one, then, is it? Granted,’ he added, eyeing Paran speculatively, ‘I have heard tales of your extraordinary… ferocity. Is it true you once dangled a Falah’d over the edge of his palace’s tower balcony? Even though he was an ally of the empire at the time. What was his crime again? Oh yes, a clash of colours in his attire, on the first day of the Emperor’s Festival. What were those colours he had the effrontery to wear?’

  Paran studied t
he man for a moment, then he smiled. ‘Blue and green.’

  ‘But those colours do not clash, Captain.’

  ‘I never claimed good judgement in aesthetic matters, cutter. Now, what were we talking about? Oh yes, my army of one. Indeed. I intend to lead but one man. Together, the two of us shall attack the Grey Goddess, with the aim of driving her from this realm.’

  ‘You chose wisely, I think,’ Noto Boil said. ‘Given what awaits Hurlochel, he displayed impressive calm a few moments ago.’

  ‘And well he should,’ Paran said, ‘since he’s not coming with me. You are.’

  The fish spine speared through the cutter’s upper lip. A look of agony supplanted disbelief. He tore the offending needle from his lip and flung it away, then brought up both hands to clench against the pain. His eyes looked ready to clamber from their sockets.

  Paran patted the man on the shoulder. ‘Get that seen to, will you? We depart in half a bell, cutter.’

  He sat on a kit chest, settled back slowly, until the give of the tent wall ceased, then stretched out his legs. ‘I should be half-drunk right now,’ he said, ‘given what I’m about to do.’

  Hurlochel seemed unable to muster a smile. ‘Please, Captain. We should decamp. Cut our losses. I urge you to abandon this course of action, which will do naught but result in the death of yet another good soldier, not to mention an irritating but competent company cutter.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Noto Boil. Once priest to Soliel, sister goddess of Poliel.’

  ‘Priest no longer, Captain. Disavowed hold no weight with the ascendant so abandoned.’

  ‘Soliel. Mistress of Healing, Beneficence, the Goddess that Weeps Healing Tears. She must have let loose an ocean of them by now, don’t you think?’

  ‘Is it wise to mock her at this threshold, Captain?’

  ‘Why not? How has her infamous, unceasing sorrow for the plight of mortals done them any good, any at all, Hurlochel? It’s easy to weep when staying far away, doing nothing. When you take credit for every survivor out there – those whose own spirits fought the battle, whose own spirits refused to yield to Hood’s embrace.’ He sneered up at the tent roof. ‘It’s the so-called friendly, sympathetic gods who have the most to answer for.’ Paran glared at the man standing before him. ‘Hood knows, the other ones are straightforward and damned clear on their own infamy – grant them that. But to proffer succour, salvation and all the rest, whilst leaving true fate to chance and chance alone – damn me, Hurlochel, to that they will give answer!’

  The outrider’s eyes were wide, unblinking.

  Paran looked away. ‘Sorry. Some thoughts I’d do better to keep to myself. It’s a longstanding fault of mine, alas.’

  ‘Captain. For a moment there… your eyes… they… flared. Like a beast’s.’

  Paran studied the man. ‘Did they now?’

  ‘I’d swear it with one heel on Hood’s own foreskin, Captain.’

  Ganoes Paran pushed himself to his feet. ‘Relay these orders to the officers. This army marches in four days. In three days’ time, I want them in full kit, dressed out with weapons bared for inspection, ready at noon. And when we depart, I want to leave this camp clean, every latrine filled in, the refuse burned.’ He faced Hurlochel. ‘Get these soldiers busy – they’re rotting from the inside out. Do you have all that, Hurlochel?’

  The outrider smiled, then repeated Paran’s orders word for word.

  ‘Good. Be sure to impress on the officers that these days of lying round moping and bitching are at an end. Tell them the order of march will place to the lead post the most presentable company – everyone else eats their dust.’

  ‘Captain, where do we march?’

  ‘No idea. I’ll worry about that then.’

  ‘What of the High Fist and the others in that tent?’

  ‘Chances are, they won’t be up to much for a while. In the meantime—’

  ‘In the meantime, you command the Host, sir.’

  ‘Aye, I do.’

  Hurlochel’s sudden salute was sharp, then he pivoted and strode from the tent.

  Paran stared after him. Fine, at least someone’s damned pleased about it.

  A short time later, he and Noto Boil sat atop their horses at the camp’s edge, looking downslope and across the flat killing-ground to the city’s walls, its bleached-limestone facing a mass of scrawls, painted symbols, hand-prints, skeletal figures. This close, there should have been sounds rising from the other side of those walls, the haze of dust and smoke overhead, and the huge gate should be locked open for a steady stream of traders and hawkers, drovers and work crews. Soldiers should be visible in the windows of the gate’s flanking square towers.

  The only movement came from flocks of pigeons lifting into view then dipping back down, fitful and frantic as an armada of kites rejected by storm-winds; and from the blue-tinted desert starlings and croaking crows lined up like some nightmare army on the battlements.

  ‘Captain,’ the cutter said, the fish spine once more jutting from between his lips – the hole it had made earlier just above those lips was a red, slightly puckered spot, smeared like a popped pimple – ‘you believe me capable of assaulting all that is anathema to me?’

  ‘I thought you were disavowed,’ Paran said.

  ‘My point precisely. I cannot even so much as call upon Soliel for her benign protection. Perhaps your eyes are blind to the truth, but I tell you, Captain, I can see the air roiling up behind those walls – it is the breath of chaos. Currents swirl, heave – even to look upon them, as I do now, makes me ill. We shall die, you and I, not ten paces in from the gate.’

  Paran checked the sword at his belt, then adjusted his helm’s strap. ‘I am not as blind as you believe me to be, cutter.’ He studied the city for a moment, then gathered his reins. ‘Ride close to my side, Noto Boil.’

  ‘Captain, the gate looks closed, locked tight – we are not welcome.’

  ‘Never mind the damned gate,’ Paran said. ‘Are you ready?’

  The man turned wild eyes upon him. ‘No,’ he said in a high voice, ‘I am not.’

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ Paran said, nudging his horse into motion.

  Noto Boil spared one last look over his shoulder, and saw soldiers standing, watching, gathered in their hundreds. ‘Gods,’ he whispered, ‘why am I not among them right now?’

  Then he moved to catch up to Captain Kindly, who had once dangled an innocent man from a tower’s edge. And now does it all over again – to me!

  She had once been sent out to hunt down her younger brother, tracking him through half the city – oh, he’d known she was after him, known that she was the one they’d send, the only one capable of closing a hand on one scrawny ankle, dragging him back, then shaking him until his brain rattled inside his skull. He’d led her a wild trail that night. Ten years old and already completely out of control, eyes bright as marbles polished in a mouthful of spit, the white smile more wicked than a wolf’s snarl, all gangly limbs and cavorting malice.

  He had been collecting… things. In secret. Strands of hair, nail clippings, a rotted tooth. Something, it turned out, from everyone in the entire extended family. Forty-two, if one counted four-month-old Minarala – and he had, the little bastard. A madness less imaginative might have settled for a host of horrid dolls, upon which he could deliver minor but chronic torment to feed his insatiable evil, but not her brother, who clearly believed himself destined for vast infamy. Not content with dolls fashioned in likenesses, he had constructed, from twine, sticks, straw, wool and horn, a tiny flock of forty-two sheep. Penned in a kraal of sticks assembled on the floor of the estate’s attic. Then, from one of his own milk teeth, newly plucked from his mouth, he made for himself the likeness of a wolf fang and then, with tatters of fur, the wolf to which it belonged, of a scale to permit it to devour a sheep-doll in a single gulp.

  In skeins of demented magic, he had set his wolf among the flock.

  Screams and wails in the night, in household aft
er household, unleashed from terrifying nightmares steeped in the reek of panic and lanolin, of clopping hoofs and surges of desperate, hopeless flight. Nips and buffets from the huge roaring wolf, the beast toying with every one of them – oh, she would remember the torment for a long, long time.

  In the course of the following day, as uncles, aunts, nephews and the like gathered, all pale and trembling, and as the revelation arrived that one and all had shared their night of terror, few were slow in realizing the source of their nightmares – of course he had already lit out, off to one of his countless bolt-holes in the city. Where he would hide until such time as the fury and outrage should pass.

  For the crimes committed by children, all fugue eventually faded, as concern rose in its stead. For most children, normal children; but not for Ben Adaephon Delat, who had gone too far. Again.

  And so Torahaval Delat had been dispatched to track down her brother, and to deliver upon him an appropriate punishment. Such as, she had considered at the time, flaying him alive. Sheep, were they? Well, she carried in her pack the wolf doll, and with that she intended most dreadful torture. Though nowhere near as talented as her younger brother, and admittedly far less imaginative, she had managed to fashion a leash of sorts for the creature, and now, no matter where her brother went, she could follow.

  He was able to stay ahead of her for most of a day and the following night, until a bell before dawn when, on a rooftop in the Prelid Quarter of Aren, she caught up with him, holding in her hands the wolf doll, gripping the back legs and pulling them wide.

  The boy, running flat out one moment, flat on his face the next. Squealing and laughing, and, even as she stumbled, that laughter stung so that she gave those legs an extra twist.

  And, screaming, fell onto the pebbled roof, her hips filling with agony.

  Her brother shrieked as well, yet could not stop laughing.

  She had not looked too closely at the wolf doll, and now, gasping and wincing, she sought to do so. The gloom was reluctant to yield, but at last she made out the beast’s bound-up body beneath the tatter of fur – her underclothes – the ones that had disappeared from the clothesline a week earlier – knotted and wrapped tight around some solid core, the nature of which she chose not to deliberate overmuch.