Pon-lor knew a drink wouldn’t be forthcoming but his ferocious thirst demanded he nod the affirmative. Jak signed for a skin of water. He took a long drink then stoppered it and handed it off, all the while holding his laughing gaze on Pon-lor’s eyes. He edged a half-step closer.
‘I’m going to break you, noble brat,’ he purred, his voice silky with pleasure. ‘In a few days you’ll beg to drink my piss.’
‘I’ve had worse,’ Pon-lor managed to grate, barely.
The youth’s arrogant twist of the lips pulled back into rage and his right arm came up. His fist exploded against the side of Pon-lor’s head and sent him to the ground. Darkness and bursts of light warred in his vision. Myint’s hysterical hyena laugh sounded over him. Her knee pressed into his stomach, cutting off his breath. A gag was wrestled over his mouth. He was dragged through the mud and slammed against a tree. More ropes secured him to it.
When his vision cleared and he shook his loosened hair from before his face the troop had disappeared into the jungle. One guard remained. The least of them, a kid named Heng-lon whose appearance had so far evoked only sympathy from Pon-lor: beneath his bristling brush-cut hair the left side of his skull was flattened and pushed in, the eye on that side stared off permanently to the left, he breathed through his mouth, and he had the mental age of a five-year-old.
The youth clutched his spear in both hands, scanning the jungle, obviously terrified to be alone. Seeing Pon-lor awake he wet his lips and sidled over. Grinning, he set his spear against the tree then fumbled at the ties of his short trousers.
Pon-lor quickly lowered his head. A warm stream hissed against his crown then splashed over his shoulder and down into his lap. The kid giggled. ‘Always wanted to do that,’ he said. ‘No one c’n top this story!’
This is proving quite the test indeed …
I could give you a story no one could top. ‘How my head got to be on this shelf’ perhaps. Or ‘How I lost all my limbs’. But that would be too easy.
Pon-lor struggled instead with keeping his hands, tied behind him, in the meditative position of forefingers touching thumbs.
‘What’cha doin’?’ Heng-lon asked.
Pon-lor looked up, raising his chin and the gag tied there. The youth reached for the gag then stopped, thinking better of it. He took up his spear and backed away. While Pon-lor meditated, the youth set to starting a fire.
* * *
It took a great deal of effort to force himself to slow his breathing, but Pon-lor finally managed to isolate all the tension, locate the suppressed rage, and mentally uncoil it to ease his flesh into the requisite degree of relaxation. From this point he was able to concentrate upon separating his spirit – the Nak – from its fleshly housing.
What are they up to out there? Well, we shall soon see.
But he’d forgotten the psychic storm that was Ardata’s aura. The punishing stream snatched him and cast him spinning. He knew he was an instant from wandering lost forever when he remembered his lessons and forced himself to re-imagine his presence not as a solid entity but as downy fluff, as dust, as a handful of drifting motes. Now the storm raged on but passed through him, like wind through a tree.
He searched for Jak and his band of pathetic cast-off bandits.
Before he could track down their auras a blazing presence in the psychic landscape screamed for his attention. For an instant he felt himself shrinking in fear: was this her? The Queen of Monsters herself?
But the essence was entirely different. In fact, it was so entirely different it appeared almost alien. What was this thing? Was it a denizen of this jungle? Yet such awesome power. If he were a candle flame of presence flickering in the half-spirit realm then this thing’s projection here towered as a coruscating sky-high pillar. He dared to drift closer to the presence and cast a greeting.
‘Who are you?’
‘Who are you?’ a voice answered in his consciousness – a child’s voice, unbelievably.
‘What are you?’
‘I do not know. What are you?’
‘A mage. A traveller here.’
‘A mage? Ah – a manipulator of interdimensional leakage.’
A what? Pon-lor wondered.
‘The flavour of your art is oddly familiar to me. Why should this be? I must examine you.’
A bulge swelled the side of the towering white-argent pillar. A mountain of puissance descended towards him – enough to scatter his atoms.
Pon-lor snapped away. His chest swelled reflexively, drawing in a panicked breath. He opened his eyes expecting a firestorm about him, the trees drifting away in motes of soot. His palms tingled with sweat and his heart was pounding as if he’d just completed a full course of muscle isolation.
All was quiet. Heng-lon glanced back to him from where he sat poking at the fire, his spear across his lap. It was night. A light rain had begun. They were not alone; someone was approaching. A large party. He sensed them but the kid hadn’t yet. Presently, the lad sprang to his feet, spear levelled in both hands. He jerked the iron point left and right. It trembled in the firelight. The youth backed up until he stood level with Pon-lor. He drew a short-bladed knife from his sash.
Not so stupid after all, then, if his plan is to release me to help in any possible fight to come.
But it was a grinning Thet-mun who emerged from the dark. The firelight glimmered from his teeth and eyes. He looked immensely pleased and went straight to their heaped gear. ‘Where’s the palm wine?’ he demanded. ‘Ha! Here’s my beauty.’ He lifted a skin and took a long pull, wiped his mouth.
‘We have them, turtle-boy! Got them both. You should’ve seen it. It was laughable. They walked right in. Ha!’ He raised the skin and poured another stream into his mouth.
Heng-lon – turtle-boy, apparently – laughed as well, though he obviously had no idea why.
The rest of the bandit crew now came tumbling in from the dark. All were grinning and snorting laughs. Two carried a roped body between them that they threw down next to Pon-lor. A girl, or rather a young woman. She was unconscious.
By the Founders! Was this the witch? Could they have really …
Jak arrived to snatch the skin of palm wine from Thet-mun’s hand. He leaned over Pon-lor, took a sip, then stood staring down at him for some time. Finally, he pulled an exaggerated moue of disappointment. ‘You high and mighties. Look at you. Useless.’ He straightened to peer about, spread his arms wide. ‘I beat you! Me! A lowly cast-out nobody you sneered at! Well … look at you now!’
‘Coming!’ one of the bandits shouted from the jungle.
Coming? What could they …
Heavy measured steps sounded over the pattering of raindrops. They came from beyond the cover of thick wide leaves. Pon-lor straightened where he sat. They’ve done it! Brought it to me! Time to end this ridiculous charade.
A heavy curved blade flashed before his vision to press against his neck. Myint’s head rested on his shoulder from behind. ‘Don’t try anything, sweetie.’ And she blew a kiss into his ear.
Pon-lor let his shoulders drop. Why do I keep underestimating these wretches?
Jak snapped his fingers, gesturing. A spear was thrown to him and he spun it to rest its keen bright iron point against the unconscious woman’s side. The stand of tall ferns shook, tossing raindrops everywhere, then was thrust aside and an armoured giant strode through, a wide bright yataghan blade outstretched before it.
‘Hold!’ Jak called. ‘Or I thrust through your mistress.’
To Pon-lor’s utter astonishment the yakshaka froze.
‘Sheathe your weapon.’
The soldier complied.
Pon-lor stared, dumbfounded. How was this possible? How was its conditioning overcome? He had to discover how. This simply had to be reported to the ruling Circle of Masters.
Jak was nodding to himself and he shot Pon-lor a quick triumphant glance to make certain he was taking this in. ‘Your mistress will be under guard constantly. Someone will always be wi
thin sword’s reach. So behave.’ He pointed to a tree on the far side of the encampment. ‘Sit.’
The armoured giant’s helm turned aside as it regarded the tree. Then it lumbered heavily to the spot and put its back to the trunk to stand glittering in the shadows, arms crossed.
Jak shrugged. ‘Good enough.’ He looked to Pon-lor, jerked his head to the yakshaka. ‘I couldn’t believe it understood me.’ He frowned, lowered his voice. ‘Is there a man in there?’ Then, realizing, he waved the question aside.
‘What about you, sweetmeat?’ Myint breathed into his ear. ‘You gonna behave?’
Pon-lor gave a long slow nod. Yes, he would. At least until he had questioned this witch.
‘Aw.’ Myint pouted her disappointment. It was an awful twisting of her features, given her disfigured lip. She slit the gag, managing to slice his cheek and ear at the same time. ‘Sorry,’ she dropped, not sorry at all, as she walked away.
Pon-lor felt the warm blood drip down his neck while he sat cross-legged, staring straight ahead at the shadowed figure across the camp where the firelight winked and flashed from its mosaic inlay. Perhaps it was only his impression, but it seemed the creature dropped its helmed head as if unable to meet his gaze.
* * *
The next day Pon-lor was awake before everyone, as usual. He waited for the woman to rouse. Through the night the bandits had been trading off watches, keeping someone always close. Now it was Myint’s turn and she hauled the woman up and marched her off – perhaps to see to her morning toilet.
Pon-lor was disappointed by what he saw. She was just a local girl; a peasant from any one of their villages. For a time he’d played with the possibility that she was some sort of agent for Ardata and that by capturing her he could learn secrets of the Witch-Queen’s court in fabled Jakal Viharn. Now, however, he had to wrestle with the mystery of how this peasant could possibly have suborned a yakshaka soldier. The most likely answer was that she had not; that this soldier was flawed and had somehow fixated upon her. She probably had no idea why this thing was following her around, and had become terrified and run off.
Or had been run off by her terrified fellow villagers.
As the bandits broke camp Pon-lor sat, still tied up, and wondered why Jak had brought her back. If she really was an agent of Ardata then he ought to have killed her right away. That would have been the safest course. Like him, then, Jak must have realized that she was no servant of the Witch-Queen. She was merely his convenient guarantor of the yakshaka’s cooperation. Clearly, then, once Jak had delivered his prize, he would still have her for his revenge.
Very greedy is this Kenjak Ashevajak, the Bandit Lord.
And clearly it was about time to end this investigation. A word or two with the girl should settle things one way or the other and then he would be free to collect their wayward property for examination and dissection back in Anditi Pura. This particular soldier must possess some flaw that had allowed it to shake off its immediate orders. But there was no way it would be able to resist the deep-conditioned key command words that lay at the foundation of its reconstructed consciousness.
Pon-lor broke off his musing as he became aware of someone’s steady regard. He turned to see the villager, the young woman, frozen at the edge of camp, staring at him with ferocious intensity. He gave her a small nod that said: yes indeed, I am a Thaumaturg. Then he raised his brows to say: don’t you think we ought to have a chat?
Her reaction surprised him. Instead of deflating, terrified, she raised her chin and waved him off with the back of a hand as if to answer: I will accept no aid from a filthy wretch such as yourself.
Whence came such regal poise? Then he glanced to the silent waiting yakshaka and shook his head in sad regret. Ah, child, just because you may command such a thing for the moment does not mean you have conquered the world.
Myint jabbed with her spear none too gently, urging the young woman onward. Jak, wolfing down the last of his morning meal of rice and boiled plants, came to meet her. He was brushing his hands free of the sticky grains. ‘You surprised me once before, witch,’ he said. ‘But not again. Try anything and you’ll get run through before you can raise your spells. Understand?’
Though her hair was a dirty nest of twigs, her face smudged with dirt, and her skirts sodden and muddy, the young woman still managed to maintain her poise. The answering nod she bestowed upon the bandit was a sneer.
Pon-lor winced, for he knew this was precisely the wrong approach to take with Kenjak Ashevajak. The young man raised his hand to strike her across the face but the grating of stone and the hiss of steel on wood halted him. All eyes turned to the yakshaka; it had taken a step and half drawn its sword.
Jak slowly lowered his hand. ‘For now, bitch,’ he murmured, low. ‘For now.’
Throughout, the young woman hadn’t flinched, and Pon-lor felt a grudging admiration. He also saw now that the woman had adopted this attitude of scornful superiority precisely because it so enraged the bandit – just as he wielded it as well.
Jak turned to the camp where everyone stood or crouched, motionless, watching. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What are you all standing around for? You lazy useless idiots!’ He swung a kick at Thet-mun. ‘Let’s get going!’
Through the last preparations of breaking camp, Pon-lor wondered which course he ought to pursue. Should he slay the lot of them? They were now leading him in entirely the wrong direction. Yet without their guidance he would be utterly lost in this dense green abyss. Coercion or bribery then. He would leave one alive and promise him or her a rich reward for guiding him back – or he would torture the outlaw into cooperation. So, which one?
A point jabbed him in the back and he flinched into motion while glaring over his shoulder. It was a grinning Thet-mun, his livid facial pocks and pimples even worse now, and his hair a matted glistening ropy cascade.
Pon-lor realized that he had his man. They marched through the thick undergrowth, shouldering aside hanging lianas dense with clinging blossoms and pushing through stands of razor-edged grasses. After the line of march had strung everyone out, Pon-lor cleared his throat and murmured, low, ‘That fool Jak treats you like a dog.’
The point jabbed him. ‘Quiet, you.’
‘You deserve better – you’re the best scout here. Where would they be without you?’
He was jabbed again. ‘’Strue,’ the youth snarled. ‘But Jak … He has the plans.’
‘You could too—’
‘Don’t listen to that one,’ a girl cut in from behind.
Pon-lor peered back over his shoulder. The witch paced behind Thet-mun. Myint walked behind her, laughing silently, spear in hand. ‘You should kill him right now,’ the witch continued. ‘His kind mean to bring the Visitor down upon us and wipe all of us from the face of the earth.’
Pon-lor stared back at the young peasant woman. Her answering gaze remained steady and defiant. ‘That’s nonsense. The ruling Circle of Masters would never do such a thing.’
‘How do you know this?’
Pon-lor drew breath to answer, clamped his mouth shut. Because … there are rumours … they’d tried it before. And it had been a disaster.
In the face of his silence Myint laughed her hyena scorn. She set her spearhead alongside the woman’s neck. ‘Speak again and it’ll be gags for both of you.’
Pon-lor turned away. Damn the witch. By the teachings of the ancients, I am now tired of this. I have quite demonstrated my denial of the flesh, my indifferent endurance of arduous conditions. The Masters cannot fault my assiduousness here! At the next stop, when everyone’s gathered together, I’ll put an end to it.
* * *
Towards midday the troop gathered for a break in the march. The sun stabbed down in a punishing blinding glare through gaps in the high canopy. The bird whistles and distant animal hoots and roars had died down with the heat of noon. The ground here was covered by an overlay of twisting knotted roots that supported the surrounding massive trunks, which w
ere bulwarked by enormously wide bases, as large as buildings. Pon-lor made a show of throwing himself down to sit hunched. He drew in great shuddering breaths as if he were utterly spent.
Another of the troop guarded him now, a quiet oldster with a hard cold gaze. Probably a runaway petty criminal. Or maybe not. He mustn’t make the mistake of underestimating these outcasts again. Perhaps the man was a multiple murderer. Or a violent rapist. There was no way to know. He wasn’t certain of his name – not that it mattered. Weenas, perhaps. Something like that.
He turned his head to glance sideways up at the man. ‘Hey … you.’
The eyes snapped to his, then narrowed, calculating. Without a change of his indifferent expression he jabbed the glinting point of his spearhead into Pon-lor’s shoulder. The point withdrew smeared a bright crimson. Pon-lor clamped down on the pain and kept his face flat, determined to match the man’s impassiveness. The oldster, Weeras, studied the wound and licked his lips, smiling.
Sadist. Even worse than I’d imagined. The throat for this one, I think. So vital, that one slim locale. So much going on in such a narrow passage.
Pon-lor pitched his voice low: ‘How can you breathe with…’ then he trailed off as he realized something.
The old man’s face wrinkled up in annoyance. ‘What?’
Pon-lor searched the surrounding jungle. It was silent. The constant hum and susurration of insects had fallen away. No birds called from the canopy. Casting his awareness wide he now detected why: they were surrounded. The yakshaka, he noted, had turned its helmed head to stare off into the dense leaves as if at nothing. He stood, called out, ‘Jak!’
‘Shut the abyss up!’ Weeras snarled, and thrust at him.
He easily sidestepped the point and kicked the old man down. ‘Where are your scouts?’ he called to Jak who now stared, frozen, a handful of rice at his mouth.
Thet-mun, next to the bandit leader, was not so slow to understand. He threw himself flat, disappearing immediately between the thick snaking roots everyone sat upon.
I chose well in that one, Pon-lor congratulated himself.
A hissing like bees sounded all round. Leaves were flicked, then a storm of arrows punished the gathered bandits. Complete chaos engulfed the troop. Everyone scattered. Some even dropped their weapons to run, terrified.
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 306
