Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  Dammit. First Kalam and now me. You bastard, Shadowthrone – ‘All right! I owe you! I accept the debt!’

  The Shadow God gestured, a lazy wave of one hand.

  And Quick Ben vanished.

  Alone once again, Shadowthrone settled back in his throne. ‘So fraught,’ he whispered. ‘So… careless, unmindful of this vast, echoing, mostly empty hall. Poor man. Poor, poor man. Ah, what’s this I find in my hand?’ He looked over to see a short-handled scythe now gripped and poised before him. The god narrowed his gaze, looked about in the gloomy air, then said, ‘Well, look at these! Threads! Worse than cobwebs, these! Getting everywhere – grossly indicative of sloppy… housekeeping. No, they won’t do, won’t do at all.’ He swept the scythe’s blade through the sorcerous tendrils, watched as they spun away into nothingness. ‘There now,’ he said, smiling, ‘I feel more hygienic already.’

  Throttled awake by gloved hands at his throat, he flailed about, then was dragged to his knees. Kalam’s face thrust close to his own, and in that face, Bottle saw pure terror.

  ‘The threads!’ the assassin snarled.

  Bottle pushed the man’s hands away, scanned the sandy tableau, then grunted. ‘Cut clean, I’d say.’

  Standing nearby, Fiddler said, ‘Go get him, Bottle! Find him – bring him back!’

  The young soldier stared at the two men. ‘What? How am I supposed to do that? He should never have gone in the first place!’ Bottle crawled over to stare at the wizard’s blank visage. ‘Gone,’ he confirmed. ‘Straight into Shadowthrone’s lair – what was he thinking?’

  ‘Bottle!’

  ‘Oh,’ the soldier added, something else catching his gaze, ‘look at that – what’s she up to, I wonder?’

  Kalam pushed Bottle aside and fell to his hands and knees, glaring down at the dolls. Then he shot upright. ‘Apsalar! Where is she?’

  Fiddler groaned. ‘No, not again.’

  The assassin had both of his long-knives in his hands. ‘Hood take her – where is that bitch?’

  Bottle, bemused, simply shrugged as the two men chose directions at random and headed off. Idiots. This is what they get, though, isn’t it? For telling nobody nothing! About anything! He looked back down at the dolls. Oh my, this is going to be interesting, isn’t it …?

  ‘The fool’s gone and killed himself,’ Captain Sweetcreek said. ‘And he took our best healer with him – right through Hood’s damned gate!’

  Hurlochel stood with crossed arms. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Listen to me,’ Sweetcreek snapped, her corporal Futhgar at her side nodding emphatically as she continued. ‘I’m now in command, and there’s not a single damned thing in this whole damned world that’s going to change—’

  She never finished that sentence, as a shriek rang out from the north side of the camp, then the air split with thunderous howls – so close, so loud that Hurlochel felt as if his skull was cracking open. Ducking, he spun round to see, cartwheeling above tent-roofs, a soldier, his weapon whipping away – and now the sudden snap of guy-ropes, the earth trembling underfoot—

  And a monstrous, black, blurred shape appeared, racing like lightning over the ground – straight for them.

  A wave of charged air struck the three like a battering ram a moment before the beast reached them. Hurlochel, all breath driven from his lungs, flew through the air, landing hard on one shoulder, then rolling – caught a glimpse of Captain Sweetcreek tossed to one side, limp as a rag doll, and Futhgar seeming to vanish into the dirt as the midnight creature simply ran right over the hapless man—

  The Hound’s eyes—

  Other beasts, bursting through the camp – horses screaming, soldiers shrieking in terror, wagons flung aside before waves of power – and Hurlochel saw one creature – no, impossible—

  The world darkened alarmingly as he lay in a heap, paralysed, desperate to draw a breath. The spasm clutching his chest loosed suddenly and sheer joy followed the sweet dusty air down into his lungs.

  Nearby, the captain was coughing, on her hands and knees, spitting blood.

  From Futhgar, a single piteous groan.

  Pushing himself upright, Hurlochel turned – saw the Hounds reach the wall of G’danisban – and stared, eyes wide, as a huge section of that massive barrier exploded, stone and brick facing shooting skyward above a billowing cloud of dust – then the concussion rolled over them—

  A horse galloped past, eyes white with terror—

  ‘Not us!’ Sweetcreek gasped, crawling over. ‘Thank the gods – just passing through – just—’ She began coughing again.

  On watery legs, Hurlochel sank down onto his knees. ‘It made no sense,’ he whispered, shaking his head, as buildings in the city beyond rocked and blew apart—

  ‘What?’

  He looked across at Sweetcreek. You don’t understand – I looked into that black beast’s eyes, woman! ‘I saw… I saw—’

  ‘What?’

  I saw pure terror—

  The earth rumbled anew. A resurgence of screams – and he turned, even as five huge shapes appeared, tearing wide, relentless paths through the encamped army – big, bigger than – oh, gods below—

  ‘He said to wait—’ Noto Boil began, then wailed as his horse flinched so hard he would later swear he heard bones breaking, then the beast wheeled from the temple entrance and bolted, peeling the cutter from its back like a wood shaving.

  He landed awkwardly, felt and heard ribs crack, the pain vanishing before a more pressing distress, that being the fish spine lodged halfway down his throat.

  Choking, sky darkening, eyes bulging—

  Then the girl hovering over him. Frowning for a lifetime.

  Stupid stupid stupid—

  Before she reached into his gaping mouth, then gently withdrew the spine.

  Whimpering behind that first delicious breath, Noto Boil closed his eyes, becoming aware once again that those indrawn breaths in fact delivered stabbing agony across his entire chest. He opened tear-filled eyes.

  The girl still loomed over him, but her attention was, it seemed, elsewhere. Not even towards the temple entrance – but down the main avenue.

  Where someone was pounding infernal drums, the thunder making the cobbles shiver and jump beneath him – causing yet more pain –

  And this day started so well…

  ‘Not Soletaken,’ Paran was saying to the goddess writhing on her throne, the pierced hand and its otataral spike pinning her here, to this realm, to this dreadful extremity, ‘not Soletaken at all, although it might at first seem so. Alas, Poliel, more complicated than that. My outrider’s comment earlier, regarding my eyes – well, that was sufficient, and from those howls we just heard, it turns out the timing is about right.’

  The captain glanced down once more at the woman on the tiles. Unconscious, perhaps dead. He didn’t think the Hounds would bother with her. Gathering the reins, he straightened in his saddle. ‘I can’t stay, I’m afraid. But let me leave you with this: you made a terrible mistake. Fortunately, you won’t have long to regret it.’

  Concussions in the city, coming ever closer.

  ‘Mess with mortals, Poliel,’ he said, wheeling his horse round, ‘and you pay.’

  The man named Brokeface – who had once possessed another name, another life – cowered to one side of the altar chamber’s entranceway. The three priests had fled back down the hallway. He was, for the moment, alone. So very alone. All over again. A poor soldier of the rebellion, young and so proud back then – shattered in one single moment.

  A Gral horse, a breath thick with the reek of wet grass, teeth like chisels driving down through flesh, through bone, taking everything away. He had become an unwelcome mirror to ugliness, for every face turning upon his own had twisted in revulsion, or worse, morbid fascination. And new fears had sunk deep, hungry roots into his soul, flinching terrors that ever drove him forward, seeking to witness pain and suffering in others, seeking to make of his misery a legion, soldiers to a
new cause, each as broken as he.

  Poliel had arrived, like a gift – and now that bastard had killed her, was killing her even now – taking everything away. Again.

  Horse hoofs skidded on tiles and he shrank back further as the rider and his mount passed through the doorway, the beast lifting from trot to canter down the wide corridor.

  Brokeface stared after them with hatred in his eyes.

  Lost. All lost.

  He looked into the altar chamber—

  Quick Ben landed cat-like; then, in the cascade of virulent agony sloughing from the imprisoned goddess not three paces to his right, he collapsed onto his stomach, hands over his head. Oh, very funny, Shadowthrone. He turned his head and saw Torahaval, lying motionless an arm’s reach to his left.

  Poor girl – I should never have tormented her so. But… show me a merciful child and I will truly avow a belief in miracles, and I’ll throw in my back-pay besides. It was her over-sensitivity that done her in. Still, what’s life without a few thousand regrets?

  There was otataral in this room. He needed to collect her and drag her clear, back outside. Not so hard, once he was out of this chaotic madhouse. So, it turned out – to his astonishment – that Shadowthrone had played it true.

  It was then that he heard the howl of the Hounds, in thundering echo from the hallway.

  Paran emerged from the tunnel then sawed his horse hard to the left, narrowly avoiding Shan – the huge black beast plunging past, straight into the Grand Temple. Rood followed, then Baran – and in Baran’s enormous jaws a hissing, reptilian panther, seeking to slow its captor down with unsheathed talons scoring the cobbles, to no avail. In their wake, Blind and Gear.

  As Gear raced into the temple, the Hound loosed a howl, a sound savage with glee – as of some long-awaited vengeance moments from consummation.

  Paran stared after them for a moment, then saw Noto Boil, lying down, the nameless girl hovering over him. ‘For Hood’s sake,’ he snapped. ‘There’s no time for that – get him on his feet. Soliel, we’re now going to your temple. Boil, where in the Abyss is your horse?’

  Straightening, the girl looked back up the street. ‘My sister’s death approaches,’ she said.

  The captain followed her gaze. And saw the first of the Deragoth.

  Oh, I started all this, didn’t I?

  Behind them the temple shook to a massive, wall-cracking concussion.

  ‘Time to go!’

  Quick Ben grasped his sister by the hood of her robe, began dragging her towards the back of the chamber, already realizing it was pointless. The Hounds had come for him, and he was in a chamber suffused with otataral.

  Shadowthrone never played fair, and the wizard had to admit he’d been outwitted this time. And this time’s about to be my last—

  He heard claws rushing closer down the hallway and looked up—

  Brokeface stared at the charging beast. A demon. A thing of beauty, of purity. And for him, there was nothing else, nothing left. Yes, let beauty slay me.

  He stepped into the creature’s path—

  And was shouldered aside, hard enough to crack his head against the wall, momentarily stunning him. He lost his footing and fell on his backside – darkness, swirling, billowing shadows—

  Even as the demon loomed above him, he saw another figure, lithe, clothed entirely in black, knife-blades slashing out, cutting deep along the beast’s right shoulder.

  The demon shrieked – pain, outrage – as, skidding, it twisted round to face this new attacker.

  Who was no longer there, who was somehow now on its opposite side, limbs weaving, every motion strangely blurred to Brokeface’s wide, staring eyes. The knives licked out once more. Flinching back, the demon came up against the wall opposite, ember eyes flaring.

  From down the hallway, more demons were approaching, yet slowing their ferocious pace, claws clattering—

  As the figure moved suddenly among them. The gleam of the blades, now red, seemed to dance in the air, here, there, wheeling motion from the figure, arms writhing like serpents; and with matching grace, he saw a foot lash out, connect with a beast’s head – which was as big as a horse’s, only wider – and that head snapped round at the impact, shoulders following, then torso, twisting round in strange elegance as the entire demon was lifted into the air, back-end now vertical, head down, in time to meet the side wall.

  Where bricks exploded, the wall crumpling, caving in to some room beyond, the demon’s body following into the cloud of dust.

  Wild, crowded confusion in the hallway, and suddenly the figure stood motionless at Brokeface’s side, daggers still out, dripping blood.

  A woman, black-haired, now blocking the doorway.

  Skittering sounds along the tiles, and he looked down to see two small, bird-like skeletons flanking her. Their snouts were open and hissing sounds emerged from those empty throats. Spiny tails lashed back and forth. One darted forward, a single hop, head dipping—

  And the gathered demons flinched back.

  Another reptilian hiss, this one louder – coming from a creature trapped in one demon’s jaws. Brokeface saw in its terrible eyes a deathly fear, rising to panic—

  The woman spoke quietly, clearly addressing Brokeface: ‘Follow the wizard and his sister – they found a bolt-hole behind the dais – enough time, I think, to make good their escape. And yours, if you go now.’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ he said, unable to keep from weeping. ‘I just want to die.’

  That turned her gaze from the demons facing her.

  He looked up into exquisite, elongated eyes, black as ebony. And in her face, there was no mirror, no twist of revulsion. No, naught but a simple regard, and then, something that might have been… sorrow.

  ‘Go to the Temple of Soliel,’ she said.

  ‘She is ever turned away—’

  ‘Not today she isn’t. Not with Ganoes Paran holding her by the scruff of her neck. Go. Be healed.’

  This was impossible, but how could he deny her?

  ‘Hurry, I don’t know how Curdle and Telorast are managing this threat, and there’s no telling how long it will last—’

  Even as she said those words, a bellowing roar came from further down the hallway, and the demons bunched close before the threshold, yelping in desperate frenzy.

  ‘That’s it,’ she murmured, lifting her knives.

  Brokeface leapt to his feet and ran into the altar chamber.

  Disbelief. Quick Ben could not understand what had held the Hounds up – he’d caught sounds, of fighting, fierce, snapping snarls, squeals of pain, and in one glance back, moments before carrying Torahaval through the back passage, he’d thought he’d seen… something. Someone, ghostly in shadows, commanding the threshold.

  Whatever this chance clash, it had purchased his life. And his sister’s. Currency Quick Ben would not squander.

  Throwing Torahaval over his shoulder, he entered the narrow corridor and ran as fast as he could manage.

  Before too long he heard someone in pursuit. Swearing, Quick Ben swung round, the motion crunching Torahaval’s head against a wall – at which she moaned.

  A man, his face deformed – no, horse-bitten, the wizard realized – rushed to close. ‘I will help you,’ he said. ‘Quickly! Doom comes into this temple!’

  Had it been this man facing down the Hounds? No matter. ‘Take her legs then, friend. As soon as we’re off sanctified ground, we can get the Hood out of here—’

  As the Hounds gathered to rush Apsalar, she sheathed her knives and said, ‘Curdle, Telorast, stop your hissing. Time to leave.’

  ‘You’re no fun, Not-Apsalar!’ Curdle cried.

  ‘No she isn’t, is she?’ Telorast said, head bobbing in vague threat motions, that were now proving less effective.

  ‘Where is she?’ Curdle demanded.

  ‘Gone!’

  ‘Without us!’

  ‘After her!’

  Poliel, Grey Goddess of pestilence, of disease and suff
ering, was trapped in her own tortured nightmare. All strength gone, all will bled away. The shard of deadly otataral impaling her hand, she sat on her throne, convulsions racking her.

  Betrayals, too many betrayals – the Crippled God’s power had fled, abandoning her – and that unknown mortal, that cold-eyed murderer, who had understood nothing. In whose name? For whose liberation was this war being fought? The damned fool.

  What curse was it, in the end, to see flaws unveiled, to see the twisted malice of mortals dragged to the surface, exposed to day’s light? Who among these followers did not ever seek, wilful or mindless, the purity of self-destruction? In obsession they took death into themselves, but that was but a paltry reflection of the death they delivered upon the land, the water, the very air. Self-destruction making victim the entire world.

  Apocalypse is rarely sudden; no, among these mortals, it creeps slow, yet inevitable, relentless in its thorough obliteration of life, of health, of beauty.

  Diseased minds and foul souls had drawn her into this world; for the sake of the land, for the chance that it might heal in the absence of its cruellest inflicters of pain and degradation, she sought to expunge them in the breath of plague – no more deserving a fate was imaginable – for all that, she would now die.

  She railed. Betrayal!.

  Five Hounds of Shadow entered the chamber.

  Her death. Shadowthrone, you fool.

  A Hound flung something from its mouth, something that skidded, spitting and writhing, up against the first step of the dais.

  Even in her agony, a core of clarity remained within Poliel. She looked down, seeking to comprehend – even as the Hounds fled the room, round the dais, into the priest-hole – comprehend this cowering, scaled panther, one limb swollen with infection, its back legs and hips crushed – it could not flee. The Hounds had abandoned it here – why?

  Ah, to share my fate.

  A final thought, meekly satisfying in itself, as the Deragoth arrived, bristling with rage and hunger, Elder as any god, deprived of one quarry, but content to kill what remained.

  A broken T’rolbarahl, shrieking its terror and fury.