Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  Koryk loaded his crossbow, then pounded Tarr on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go take a look. I’m in the mood to kill someone, too.’

  The corporal straightened, then spat over the side. ‘Aren’t we all?’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Twins stood on their tower as the slaughter began below and the knuckles bouncing wild to their delight, now turned sudden sudden and sour and this game they played – the mortals bleeding and crying in the dark – they saw it turn and the game they played tossed to a new wind, a gale not their own – and so the Twins were played, oh how they were played.

  Slayer’s Moon

  Vatan Urot

  *

  Within sight of Rampart Way – the stairs leading up to Mock’s Hold – Kalam Mekhar glanced behind them yet again. Furtive crowds were closing in, moving one and all, it seemed, back towards the harbourfront. Who was behind all of this? What possible reason could there be?

  The Fourteenth would not be dragged down into slaughter. In fact, the only realistic outcome was the very opposite. Hundreds of citizens could well die tonight, before the rest broke and fled. True, there were but a handful of marines at the jetty, but, Kalam well knew, they had Moranth munitions. And then, of course, there was Quick Ben.

  Just don’t use yourself up, friend. I think… The assassin reached beneath the folds of his cloak, reassured himself once again that he still carried the acorn the High Mage had prepared for him. My shaved knuckle in the hole. If it came to it, he could summon Quick. And I’m thinking…

  The Adjunct did not hesitate, beginning her ascent of Rampart Way. The others followed.

  A long climb ahead, a tiring one, rows upon rows of steps that had seen more than their share of spilled blood. Kalam had few pleasant memories of Rampart Way. She’s up there, and so it flows down, ever down. They were above the level of the Upper Estates now, passing through a roiling updraught of mists bitter with woodsmoke. Condensation clung to the stone wall on their left, as if the promontory itself had begun to sweat.

  There was torchlight weaving through the streets below. City Watch alarms sounded here and there, and suddenly an estate was in flames, black smoke rising, eerily lit from beneath. Faint screams reached them.

  And they climbed without pause, not a single word shared among them. Naught but the muted clunk and rustle of armour, the scrape of boots, heavier breaths drawn with each step. The blurred moon emerged to throw a sickly light upon the city below and the bay, illuminating Old Lookout Island at the very outside edge of the harbour, the silvery reeds of Mud Island and, further south, opposite the mouth of Redcave River, Worm Island, where stood the ruins of a long abandoned temple of D’rek. The clear water this side of Mud Island was crowded with the transports, while Nok’s escorts were positioned between those transports and the four Quon dromons of Empress Laseen’s entourage, the latter still moored alongside the Imperial Docks directly beneath Mock’s Hold.

  The world suddenly seemed etched small to Kalam’s eyes, an elaborate arrangement of some child’s toys. If not for the masses of torchlight closing in on the Centre Docks, the faintly seen running figures in various streets and avenues, and the distant cries of a city convulsing upon itself, the panorama would look almost picturesque.

  Was he seeing the Malazan Empire’s death-throes? On the island where it began, so too, perhaps, would its fall be announced, here, this night, in a chaotic, senseless maelstrom of violence. The Adjunct crushed the rebellion in Seven Cities. This should be a triumphal return. Laseen, what have you done? Is this mad beast now broken free of your control?

  Civilization’s veil was so very thin, he well knew. Casting it aside required little effort, and even less instigation. There were enough thugs in the world – and those thugs could well be wearing the raiment of a noble, or a Fist, or indeed a priest’s robes or a scholar’s vestments – enough of them, without question, who lusted for chaos and the opportunities it provided. For senseless cruelty, for the unleashing of hatred, for killing and rape. Any excuse would suffice, or even none at all.

  Ahead of him, the Adjunct ascended without hesitation, as though she was climbing a scaffold, at peace with what the fates had decreed. Was he reading her true? Kalam did not know.

  But the time was coming, very soon now, when he would need to decide.

  And he hoped. He prayed. That the moment, when it arrived, would make his choice obvious, indeed, inevitable. Yet, a suspicion lurked that the choice would prove far harsher than he now dared admit.

  Do I choose to live, or do I choose to die?

  He looked down to his right, at those four ships directly below.

  She brought a lot of people with her, didn’t she?

  Halfway to Raven Hill Park, Bottle drew up against a door, his heart pounding, sweat dripping from his face. Sorcery was roiling through every street. Mockra. Twisting the thoughts of the unsuspecting and the gullible, filling skulls with the hunger for violence. And lone figures making their way against the tide were victims in the waiting – he had been forced to take a roundabout route to this door, along narrow choking alleys, down beneath North Riverwalk, buried up to his ankles in the filthy mud of Malaz River, where insects rose in voracious swarms. But at last, he had arrived.

  He drew a knife and, fearful of making a louder noise, scratched against the door. At the moment the street behind him was empty, but he could hear riots beginning, the splintering of wood, the shrill cry of a dying horse, and everywhere throughout the city, dogs were now barking, as if some ancient wolf memory had been awakened. He scratched again.

  The door suddenly swung open. A tall, grey-haired woman stared down at him, expressionless.

  ‘Agayla,’ Bottle said. ‘My uncle married your aunt’s husband’s sister. We’re family!’

  She stepped back. ‘Get in here, unless you’re of a mind to get torn to pieces!’

  ‘I’m Bottle,’ he said, following her into an apothecary thick with the scents of herbs, ‘that’s not my real name, but—’

  ‘Oh, never mind all that. Your boots are filthy. Where have you come from and why did you choose this night of all nights to visit Malaz City? Tea?’

  Blinking, Bottle nodded. ‘I’m from the Fourteenth Army, Agayla—’

  ‘Well, that was silly of you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You should be hiding in the boats with all the rest, dear boy.’

  ‘I can’t. I mean, the Adjunct sent me—’

  She turned. ‘To see me? Whatever for?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. It was my idea to find you. I’m looking for someone. It’s important – I need your help.’

  Her back to him once more, she poured the herbal brew into two cups. ‘Come get your tea, Bottle.’

  As he stepped forward, Agayla quickly faced him again, reached into the folds of his cloak and snatched free the doll. She studied it for a moment, then, with a scowl, shook the doll in front of Bottle’s face. ‘And what is this? Have you any idea what you are dabbling in, child?’

  ‘Child? Hold on—’

  ‘Is this the man you need to find?’

  ‘Well, yes—’

  ‘Then you leave me no choice, do you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  She stuffed the doll back into the folds of his cloak and turned away once more. ‘Drink your tea. Then we’ll talk.’

  ‘You can help me?’

  ‘Save the world? Well, yes, of course.’

  Save the world? Now, Adjunct, you never mentioned that part.

  Koryk rolled his shoulders to adjust the weight of the heavy chain armour. Longsword and shield were positioned on the damp stones behind him. In his gauntleted hands he held his crossbow. Three paces to his left stood Smiles, a sharper in her right hand, her bared teeth gleaming in the dull moonlight. To his right was Cuttle, crouched down over a collection of munitions laid out on a rain-cape. Among them was a cusser.

  ‘Hold on, Cuttle,’ Koryk said upon seeing that oversized gren
ado. ‘Pass that cusser right back down, will you? Unless you’re planning on blowing up everyone here, not to mention the Silanda and the Froth Wolf.’

  The sapper squinted up at him. ‘If it takes a hundred of ’em with us, I’m happy, Koryk. Don’t mind that one – it’s for the last thing left – you’ll probably be all down by then, anyway’

  ‘But maybe still alive—’

  ‘Try and avoid that, soldier. Unless you’re happy with the mob having fun with what’s left of you.’

  Scowling, Koryk returned his attention to the massing crowd opposite. Twenty paces away, milling, shouting threats and ugly promises. Plenty of serious weapons among them. The City Guard had vanished, and all that seemed to be holding the fools back for the moment was the solid line of shield-locked soldiers facing them. Tarr, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas, Uru Hela, Mayfly, Shortnose and Flashwit. A few rocks and brick fragments had been thrown across the killing ground, and those that came close were met by shields lifting almost languidly to fend them off.

  Burning arrows were being readied along the flanks of the mob.

  They’ll try to fire the ships here first, and that is not good. He didn’t think the Silanda would burn, not after what Gesler had told them. But the Froth Wolf was another matter. He glanced over to see Corporal Deadsmell cross the gangplank back to the jetty, and behind him was Fist Keneb, who then spoke.

  ‘Sergeant Balm.’

  ‘Aye, Fist?’

  Keneb looked around. ‘Where’re Gesler and Fiddler?’

  ‘Scouting, sir.’

  ‘Scouting. I see. So, you’re it, are you?’

  ‘Those arrows, sir—’

  ‘Destriant Run’thurvian assures me our moored craft will be safe. The transports, alas, are another matter. We have signalled the nearest ones, with the command that they withdraw until out of range. What this means, Sergeant, is that you and your soldiers are on your own. The bow ballista on Froth Wolf will provide support.’

  ‘Appreciate that, sir,’ Balm said, a strangely bewildered look in his eyes. ‘Where’s the siege?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Deadsmell cleared his throat and said to Keneb, ‘Don’t mind him, sir. Once the fighting starts he’ll be fine. Fist, you’re saying those arrows won’t light up the ships – once they see that they’ll turn ’em on us.’

  Nodding, Keneb looked over at Cuttle. ‘Sapper, I want you to hit those archers on the flanks. Don’t wait for their first move. Sharpers, assuming they’re within range.’

  Straightening, Cuttle looked over. ‘Easy, sir. Galt, Lobe, get over here and collect yourselves a couple sharpers – not the cusser, Galt, you idiot – those small round ones, right? Two, damn you, no more than that. Come back if you need more—’

  ‘Maybe three—’

  ‘No! Think on it, Lobe. How many hands you got? Where you gonna hold the third one – between your cheeks? Two, and don’t drop ’em or this whole jetty will vanish and us with it.’ He turned. ‘Fist, you want us to hit ’em now?’

  ‘Might as well,’ Keneb replied. ‘With luck, the rest will scatter.’

  Flaming arrows hissed out, seeking the rigging of the Froth Wolf. The sizzling arcs suddenly disappeared.

  Koryk grunted. ‘Cute. Better get to it, Cuttle. The next salvo’s coming our way, I’d wager.’

  Cuttle on the right, Galt and Lobe on the left. Hefting sharpers, then at Cuttle’s command they threw the clay grenados.

  Detonations, snapping like cracks in brittle stone, and bodies were down, writhing, screaming—

  The centre mob, with a guttural roar, charged.

  ‘Shit,’ from one of the heavies up front.

  Smiles launched her sharper into that onrushing midst.

  Another explosion, this one ten paces in front of the shield-wall, which instinctively flinched back, heads ducking beneath raised shields. Shrieks, tumbling figures, blood and bits of meat, bodies underfoot tripping the attackers – the front of that charge had become a chaotic mess, but those behind it pushed on.

  Koryk moved along to the right – he could hear someone shouting orders, a heavy voice, authoritarian – the cadence of a Malazan officer – and Koryk wanted the bastard.

  The ballista mounted on the prow of the Froth Wolf bucked, the oversized missile speeding out, ripping through the crowd in a streak of spraying blood. A quarrel designed to knock holes in hulls punched through flesh and bone effortlessly, one body after another.

  A few arrows raced towards the soldiers on the jetty, and then the mob reached the front line.

  Undisciplined, convinced that the weight of impetus alone would suffice in shattering the shield-wall, they were not prepared for the perfectly timed answering push from the heavies, the large shields hammering into them, blades lashing out.

  The only soldier untrained in holding a wall was Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas, and Koryk saw Smiles move up behind the man as he chopped away at a foe with his cutlass. The man before him was huge, wielding shortswords, one thrusting the other slashing, and Corabb dropped into a sustained defence with his round shield and his weapon – even as Smiles, seeing an opening, threw a knife that took the attacker in the throat. As the man crumpled, Corabb swung and the cutlass crunched down into the unprotected head.

  ‘Back into the gap!’ Smiles screamed, pushing Corabb forward.

  Koryk caught sight of a figure off to one side – not the commander – gods, that’s a mage, and he’s readying a warren – he raised his crossbow, depressed the trigger.

  The quarrel sent the man spinning.

  Three more sharpers detonated further back in the pressing mob. All at once the attack crumpled, and the shield-wall advanced a step, then another, weapons slashing down to finish off the wounded. Figures raced away, and Koryk heard someone in the distance shouting, calling out a rallying point – for the moment, he saw, few were listening.

  One down.

  On the broad loading platform and to either side, scores of bodies littered the cobbles, faint voices crying with sorrow and pain.

  Gods below, we’re killing our own here.

  On the foredeck of the Froth Wolf, Keneb turned to Captain Rynag. He struggled to contain his fury as he said, ‘Captain, there were soldiers in that mob. Out of uniform.’

  The man was pale. ‘I know nothing of that, Fist.’

  ‘What is the point of this? They won’t get their hands on the Fourteenth.’

  ‘I – I don’t know. It’s the Wickans – they want them. A pogrom’s begun and there’s no way of stopping it. A crusade’s been launched, there’s an army marching onto the Wickan Plains—’

  ‘An army? What kind of army?’

  ‘Well, a rabble, but they say it’s ten thousand strong, and there’s veterans among them.’

  ‘The Empress approves? Never mind.’ Keneb turned once more and regarded the city. The bastards were regrouping. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘if this goes on long enough I may defy the orders given me by the Adjunct. And land the whole damned army—’

  ‘Fist, you cannot do that—’

  Keneb spun round. ‘Not long ago you were insisting on it!’

  ‘Plague, Fist! You would unleash devastation—’

  ‘So what? I’d rather give than receive, under the circumstances. Now, unless the Empress has a whole army hidden here in the city, the Fourteenth can put an end to this uprising – the gods know, we’ve got enough experience when it comes to those. And I admit, I am now of a mind to do just that.’

  ‘Fist—’

  ‘Get off this ship, Captain. Now.’

  The man stared. ‘You are threatening me?’

  ‘Threatening? Coltaine was pinned spreadeagled to a cross outside Aren. While Pormqual’s army hid behind the city’s walls. I am sorely tempted, Captain, to nail you to something similar, right here and now. A gift for the unbelievers out there, just to remind them that some of us remember the truth. I am going to draw three breaths and if you’re still here when I’m done—’ The captai
n scrambled.

  Koryk watched the officer rush down the gangplank, then edge round the heavies in their line. He seemed to be making for the nearest crowd that was rallying at the mouth of a broad street.

  Had Koryk considered, he would have found that array of dark thoughts in his mind – each and every one ready to find voice – to give him the excuses he needed. But he did not consider, and as for excuses, there was, for him, no need, no need at all.

  He raised his crossbow.

  Loosed the quarrel.

  Watched it strike the captain between the shoulder-blades, watched the man sprawl forward, arms flung out to the sides.

  Tarr and others in that front line turned to study him, silent, expressions blank beneath the rims of helms.

  Smiles voiced a disbelieving laugh.

  Heavy boots on the gangplank, then Keneb’s harsh demand: ‘Who was responsible for that?’

  Koryk faced the Fist. ‘I was, sir.’

  ‘You just murdered a captain of the Untan Palace Guard, soldier.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  From Tarr: ‘They’re coming back for another try! Looks like you got ’em mad, Koryk.’

  ‘Proof enough for me,’ the halfblood Seti said in a growl, as he began reloading his crossbow. As he waited for Keneb to speak. Waited for the command to Balm to arrest him.

  Instead, the Fist said nothing. He turned about and walked back to the Froth Wolf.

  A hiss from Smiles. ‘Look out, Koryk. Wait till Fid hears about this.’

  ‘Fid?’ snapped Sergeant Balm. ‘What about the Adjunct? You’re gonna get strung up, Koryk.’

  ‘If I am then I am. But I’d do it all over again. Bastard wanted us to hand them the Wickans.’

  Numbed, Keneb stepped back onto the mid deck. ‘… wanted us to hand them the Wickans…’ Marines and sailors were all looking at him, and the Destriant Run’thurvian had appeared from below and now approached.

  ‘Fist Keneb, this night is not proceeding well, is it?’

  Keneb blinked. ‘Destriant?’

  ‘A most grievous breach of discipline—’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Keneb cut in, ‘it’s clear you misunderstand. Some time ago, the Adjunct proclaimed the birth of the Bonehunters. What did she see then? I had but a sense of it – barely a sense. More like a suspicion. But now…’ he shook his head. ‘Three squads on the jetty standing their ground, and why?’