Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  None of it made sense any more.

  Up ahead, the Edur warrior Ahlrada Ahn called out a rest, and Taralack Veed sank down against the sloped, sodden wall of a trench, stared down at his legs, which seemed to end just beneath his knees, the rest invisible beneath an opaque pool of water reflecting the grey sludge of sky.

  The dark-skinned Tiste Edur made his way back along the line, halted before the Gral and the Jhag warrior behind him. ‘Sathbaro Rangar says we are close,’ he said. ‘He will open the gate soon – we have outstayed our welcome in this realm in any case.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Taralack asked.

  ‘It would not do to be seen here, by its inhabitants. True, we would be as apparitions to them, ghostly, simply one more trudging line of soldiers. Even so, such witnessing could create… ripples.’

  ‘Ripples?’

  Ahlrada Ahn shook his head. ‘I myself am unclear, but our warlock is insistent. This realm is like the Nascent – to open the way is to invite devastation.’ He paused, then said, ‘I have seen the Nascent.’

  Taralack Veed watched the Edur walk on, halting to speak every now and then with an Edur or Letherii.

  ‘He commands with honour,’ Icarium said.

  ‘He is a fool,’ the Gral said under his breath.

  ‘You are harsh in your judgement, Taralack Veed.’

  ‘He plays at deceit, Slayer, and they are all taken in, but I am not. Can you not see it? He is different from the others.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Icarium said, ‘but I do not see as you do. Different – how?’

  Taralack Veed shrugged. ‘He fades his skin. I can smell the compound he uses, it reminds me of gothar flowers, which my people use to whiten deer hide.’

  ‘Fades…’ Icarium slowly straightened and looked back down the line. Then he sighed. ‘Yes, now I see. I have been careless—’

  ‘You have been lost inside yourself, my friend.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is not good. You must ready yourself, you must remain mindful, Slayer—’

  ‘Do not call me that.’

  ‘This too is inside yourself, this resistance to the truth. Yes, it is a harsh truth, but only a coward would not face it, would turn away and pretend to a more comforting falsehood. Such cowardice is beneath you.’

  ‘Perhaps not, Taralack Veed. I believe I am indeed a coward. And yet, this is the least of my crimes, if all that you say of me is true—’

  ‘Do you doubt me?’

  ‘There is no hunger within me,’ the Jhag said. ‘No lust to kill. And all that you set at my feet, all that you say I have done – I recall nothing of it.’

  ‘So is the nature of your curse, my friend. Would that I could confess, here and now, that I have deceived you. There have been changes in my soul, and now I feel as if we are trapped, doomed to our fate. I have come to know you better than I ever have before, and I grieve for you, Icarium.’

  The pale grey eyes regarded him. ‘You have told me that we have travelled together a long time, that we have made these journeys of the spirit before. And you have been fierce in your zeal, your desire to see me… unleashed. Taralack Veed, if we have been together for many years… what you now say makes no sense.’

  Sweat prickled beneath the Gral’s clothes and he looked away.

  ‘You claim Ahlrada Ahn is the deceiver among us. Perhaps it takes a deceiver to know his kin.’

  ‘Unkind words from you, my friend—’

  ‘I no longer believe we are friends. I now suspect you are my keeper, and that I am little more than your weapon. And now you voice words of doubt as to its sharpness, as if through mutual uncertainty we may step closer to one another. But I will take no such step, Taralack Veed, except back – away from you.’

  Bastard. He has pretended to be oblivious. But all the while, he has listened, he has observed. And now closes upon the truth. The weapon is clever – I have been careless, invited into being dismissive, and if my words were themselves weapons, I forgot that this Jhag knows how to defend himself, that he possesses centuries of armour.

  He looked up as Ahlrada Ahn strode past them again, heading for the front of the column. ‘Soon,’ the warrior reminded them.

  The journey resumed.

  Captain Varat Taun, second to Atri-Preda Yan Tovis, Twilight, waved his Letherii archers forward. He spat in an effort to get the taste of mud from his mouth, but it was hopeless. The sorcery of the Holds had been let loose here, in coruscating waves of annihilation – the air stank of it, and in the wind he could hear the echoes of ten thousand soldiers dying, and the mud on his tongue was that of pulverized flesh, gritty with fragments of bone.

  Yet perhaps there was a kind of gift in all of this, a measure providing perspective. For, grim as the Letherii Empire under the rule of the Tiste Edur had become, well, there were still green hills, farms, and blue sky overhead. Children were born to mothers and joyous tears flowed easy down warm, soft cheeks, the eyes brimming with love… ah, my darling wife, these memories of you are all that hold me together, all that keep me sane. You and our precious daughter. I will see you again. I promise that. Perhaps soon.

  Ahlrada Ahn was, once more, at the head of the column. Poor man. His facial features gave him away quickly enough, to a soldier hailing from Bluerose, such as Varat Taun. An imposter – what were the reasons for such deception? Survival, maybe. That and nothing more. Yet he had heard from Letherii slaves serving the Tiste Edur there was an ancient enmity between the Edur and the Tiste Andii, and if the Edur knew of the hidden enclaves in Bluerose, of their hated dark-skinned kin, well…

  And so Ahlrada Ahn was among them here. A spy. Varat Taun wished him success. The Onyx Order had been benign rulers, after all – of course, under the present circumstances, the past was an invitation to romantic idealism.

  Even considering that, it could not have been worse that now.

  Another pointless battle awaited them. More Letherii dead. He so wanted Twilight’s respect, and this command could prove a true testing ground. Could Varat command well? Could he show that fine balance between ferocity and caution? Ah, but I have apprenticed myself to the best commander of the Letherii armies since Preda Unnutal Hebaz, have I not?

  That thought alone seemed to redouble the pressure he felt.

  The trench they had been trudging along debouched onto a muddy plain, the surface chewed by horse hoofs and cart wheels and the craters of sorcerous detonations. Here, the reek of rotting flesh hung like a mist. Gravestones were visible here and there, pitched askew or broken, and there was splintered wood – black with sodden decay – and thin white bones amidst the dead still clothed in flesh.

  Perhaps half a league away ran a ridge, possibly a raised road, and figures were visible there, in a ragged line, marching towards the distant battle, pikes on their backs.

  ‘Quickly!’ Sathbaro Rangar hissed, hobbling forward. ‘Stay low, gather round – no, there! Crouch, you fools! We must leave!’

  Steth and Aystar, brother and sister, who had shared memories of pain, hands and feet nailed to wood, ravens at their faces tearing at their eyes – terrible nightmares, the conjurings of creative imaginations, said their mother, Minala – crept forward through the gloom of the fissure, the rocky floor beneath them slick, sharp-edged, treacherous.

  Neither had yet fought, although both voiced their zeal, for they were still too young, or so Mother had decided. But Steth was ten years of age, and Aystar his sister was nine; and they wore the armour of the Company of Shadow, weapons at their belts, and they had trained with the others, as hard and diligently as any of them. And somewhere ahead stood their favourite sentinel, guarding the passage. They were sneaking up on him, their favourite game of all.

  Crouching, they drew closer to where he usually stood.

  And then a grating voice spoke from their left. ‘You two breathe too loud.’

  Aystar squealed in frustration, jumping up. ‘It’s Steth! I don’t breathe at all! I’m just like you!’ She a
dvanced on the hulking T’lan Imass who stood with his back to the crevasse wall. Then she flung herself at him, arms wrapping about his midsection.

  Onrack’s dark, empty gaze settled upon her. Then the withered hand not holding the sword reached up and gingerly patted her on the head. ‘You are breathing now,’ the warrior said.

  ‘And you smell like dust and worse.’

  Steth moved two paces past Onrack’s position and perched himself atop a boulder, squinting into the gloom beyond. ‘I saw a rat today,’ he said. ‘Shot two arrows at it. One came close. Really close.’

  ‘Climb down from there,’ the T’lan Imass said, prying Aystar’s arms from his waist. ‘You present a target in silhouette.’

  ‘Nobody’s coming any more, Onrack,’ the boy said, twisting round as the undead warrior approached. ‘They’ve given up – we were too nasty for them. Mother was talking about leaving—’

  The arrow took him full on the side of the head, in the temple, punching through bone and spinning the boy round, legs sliding out onto a side of the boulder, then, with a limp roll, Steth fell to the ground.

  Aystar began screaming, a piercing cry that rang up and down the fissure, as Onrack shoved her behind him and said, ‘Run. Back, stay along a wall. Run.’

  More arrows hissed down the length of the crevasse, two of them thudding into Onrack with puffs of dust. He pulled them loose and dropped them to the floor, striding forward and taking his sword into both hands.

  Minala’s face looked old, drawn with days and nights of fear and worry, the relentless pressure of waiting, of looking upon her adopted children, rank on rank, and seeing naught but soldiers, who had learned to kill, who had learned to watch their comrades die. All to defend a vacant throne.

  Trull Sengar could comprehend the mocking absurdity of this stand. A ghost had claimed the First Throne, a thing of shadows so faded from this world even the undead T’lan Imass looked bloated with excess beside it. A ghost, a god, a gauze-thin web-tracing of desire, possessiveness and nefarious designs – this is what had claimed the seat of power, over all the T’lan Imass, and would now see it held, blocked against intruders.

  There were broken T’lan Imass out there, somewhere, who sought to usurp the First Throne, to take its power and gift it to the Crippled God – to the force that now chained all of the Tiste Edur. The Crippled God, who had given Rhulad a sword riven with a terrible curse. Yet, for that fallen creature, an army of Edur was not enough. An army of Letherii was not enough. No, it wanted the T’lan Imass.

  And we would stop him, this Crippled God. This pathetic little army of ours.

  Onrack had promised anger, with the battle that would, inevitably, come at last. But Trull knew that anger would not be enough, nor what he himself felt: desperation. Nor Minala’s harsh terror, nor, he now believed, the stolid insensibility of Monok Ochem and Ibra Gholan – that too, was doomed to fail. What a menagerie we are.

  He pulled his gaze from Minala, glanced over to where stood Monok Ochem, motionless before the arched entranceway leading into the throne room. The bonecaster had not moved in at least three cycles of sleeping and waking. The silver-tipped fur on his shoulders shimmered vaguely in the lantern light. Then, as Trull studied the figure, he saw the head cock slightly.

  Well—

  A child’s shrieking, echoing from up the passage, brought Trull Sengar to his feet. His spear leaned against a wall – snatching it in one hand he rushed towards the cries.

  Aystar suddenly appeared, arms outflung, her face a blur of white – ‘Steth’s dead! He’s been killed! He’s dead—’

  And then Minala was in the child’s path, wrapping her in a fierce hug then twisting round. ‘Panek! Gather the soldiers!’

  The second line of defence, halfway between Onrack’s position and the main encampment, was held by Ibra Gholan, and this T’lan Imass turned as Trull Sengar approached.

  ‘Onrack battles,’ Ibra Gholan said. ‘To slow their advance. There are many Tiste Edur this time. And humans. A shaman is among them, an Edur, wielding chaotic power. This time, Trull Sengar, they mean to take the First Throne.’

  He could hear sounds of fighting now. Onrack, alone against a mass of Trull’s own kin. And a damned warlock. ‘Get Monok Ochem up here, then! If that warlock decides to unleash a wave of sorcery, we’re finished.’

  ‘Perhaps you are—’

  ‘You don’t understand, you sack of bones! Chaotic sorcery! We need to kill that bastard!’ And Trull moved forward, leaving Ibra Gholan behind.

  Ahlrada Ahn watched three of his warriors fall to the T’lan Imass’s huge stone sword – the undead bastard had yet to take a step back from the narrow choke-point in the passage. Ahlrada Ahn turned to Sathbaro Rangar. ‘We need to drive that thing back! It won’t tire – it can hold that position for ever!’

  Taralack Veed pushed into view. ‘Send Icarium against it!’

  ‘The Jhag is empty,’ the warlock said dismissively. ‘Withdraw your warriors, Ahlrada Ahn. And get those Letherii to cease with their arrows – I do not want an errant shaft in the back.’ Sathbaro Rangar then moved forward.

  And Ahlrada Ahn saw a figure coming up behind the T’lan Imass, a figure wielding a spear – tall, hidden in shadows, yet… a familiar silhouette, the fluid movement – he saw an arrow hiss past the undead’s shoulder, then saw that spear shaft flick it aside.

  No. This cannot be. I am mistaken. ‘Sathbaro!’

  The T’lan Imass suddenly yielded its position, stepping back into darkness, and then it and the other figure moved away, up the passage—

  Sathbaro Rangar hobbled closer to the choke-point, power building round him, a silver-etched rising wave, flickering argent. The damp stone of the fissure’s walls began snapping, a strange percussive sound as water burst into steam. A large sheet of rock near the narrowed portal suddenly exfoliated, crashing down to shatter on the floor.

  The sorcery lifted higher, fuller, spreading out to the sides, then over Sathbaro’s head, a standing wave of power that crackled and hissed like a thousand serpents.

  Ahlrada Ahn moved forward. ‘Sathbaro! Wait!’

  But the warlock ignored him, and with a roar the seething wave of magic plunged into the choke-point, blistering a path up the channel—

  —where it suddenly shattered.

  The concussion pushed Ahlrada Ahn back three steps, a wave of heat striking him like a fist.

  Sathbaro Rangar screamed.

  As something huge appeared in the choke-point, humped shoulders pushing through the aperture. Gaunt with undeath, its skin a mottled map of grey and black, silver-tipped fur on the neck and reaching along the shoulders like hackles, the creature emerged from the choke-point and rushed on its knuckles and hand-like hind feet – straight for Sathbaro Rangar.

  Ahlrada Ahn shouted out a warning—

  —too late, for the beast reached out and closed enormous hands on the warlock, lifted him into the air, tore off one arm, then the other, blood gouting as the apparition then twisted the shrieking Sathbaro round and bit into the back of the Edur’s neck, huge canines sinking deep. As the jaws clenched, the undead demon’s head snapped back – and ripped half the neck away – Sathbaro’s spine racing out like an anchor-chain, whipping bloody in the air—

  The beast then flung the corpse aside, and advanced on Ahlrada Ahn.

  Icarium stood over the corpse of a child, stared down at the fluids leaking from the broken skull, at the glazed eyes and half-open mouth. The Jhag stood as if rooted, trembling.

  Taralack Veed was before him. ‘Now, Slayer. Now is the time!’

  ‘No need,’ Icarium muttered. ‘No need for this.’

  ‘Listen to me—’

  ‘Be silent. I will not kill children. I will have none of this—’

  A detonation of sorcery ahead, the concussion rolling back, rocking them both. Shouts, then screams. And a bestial snarl. Shrieks, cries of horror from the Letherii and Edur, then the sound of fear.

  ‘Icarium!
A demon is upon us! A demon! No child, no children – do you see? You must act – now! Show them! Show the Edur what is within you!’

  Taralack was dragging at his arm. Frowning, Icarium allowed himself to be pulled forward, through a mass of cowering Edur. No, I do not want this – yet he could feel the pounding of his hearts, rising like war drums with songs of fire—

  The stench of spilled blood and waste, and both warriors arrived to witness the savage death of Sathbaro Rangar.

  And the Soletaken then surged into a charge – and Ahlrada Ahn – the brave warrior, seeking to protect his soldiers – stepped into the creature’s path.

  Icarium found his single-edged sword in his right hand – he did not recall unsheathing it – and he was moving forward, every motion seeming improbably slow, disjointed, as he reached out, grasping the Tiste Edur and throwing him back as if he weighed little more than a cloth hanging; and then the Jhag advanced to meet the undead ape.

  He saw it suddenly recoil.

  Another step forward, as a strange humming filled Icarium’s skull, and the beast backed further away, into the choke-point, then beyond, where it whirled round and fled up the passage.

  Icarium staggered, gasped, threw one hand up against one edge of the narrowed portal – felt its brittle surface beneath his palm. The eerie song in his mind faded—

  And then Edur were plunging past him, rushing through the breach. And once more, ahead, the sounds of battle. Hard iron clashing, all scent of sorcery gone—

  Beyond the choke-point, Ahlrada Ahn saw before him a widening of the fissure, and there, in a ragged line at least three deep, stood soldiers of some kind, weapons wavering, pale smudged faces beneath helms – Sisters take me, they are so young! What is this? Children face us!

  And then he saw the two T’lan Imass, and between them a tall, grey-skinned figure – no. No, it cannot be – we left him, we—

  A savage war-cry from Kholb Harat, echoed almost immediately by Saur Bathrada. ‘Trull Sengar! The traitor is before us!’