Oblivion would be preferable.
Yet … the dread within her whispered: what if not even oblivion is for you?
She raised her gaze to the stone ceiling where colossal wild magics had gouged and scarred the root rock. She blinked to clear her vision. The stink of rotting flesh assaulted her nostrils and raised acid in her throat.
I deserve this reek. I should live with it always. A reminder—
No. I should not need reminding. That I would ever need reminding is … unforgivable.
Grit crackled again as she made her way to the next corpse – an elderly man thrust through numerous times. Strong in his Jaghut blood, this one – he appeared to have ignored several mortal wounds to continue fighting – yet without the obvious strong markers of his heritage, the pronounced jaws and tusk-like teeth, the height. Without those. So did communities change over time. Look at the diversity of the peoples she knew – all from a common ancestor.
Ancestors she walked with now, who yet appeared far from her blood with their thick robust bones, their squat build and wide jaws.
Flies swarmed the dark holes that once held this one’s eyes. She was grateful that she did not have to meet his gaze, even a fixed death stare. She suspected it would be too much. She felt she was on a knife’s edge of … shattering. The faintest, most innocuous sound might send her tumbling over that edge to where she could never find herself again.
She’d driven her flesh beyond exhaustion, beyond what it should be expected to endure. Yet that was as nothing to the agony her soul had inflicted upon itself. Could a person choke on self-loathing? She felt she was as much a walking corpse as her companions.
Quick light steps across the littered floor swung her about: she caught a glimpse of a slip of a girl, her glaring eyes bright and wild in the gloom, her shirt and long skirting tattered and scorched, before the child launched herself upon her. Instinctively, Silverfox caught her arms and they rocked there, straining, limbs outstretched.
No reason remained in the hatred and rage pouring from the wide eyes. The broken nails of the clawed fingers stretched for her. Protect yourself! the voice of Tattersail shouted within. Destroy her! the Thelomen bellowed.
Yet Silverfox did not raise the powers of the magery at her command. Instead, she fought to catch those rolling eyes and said, her voice cracking, ‘Why?’
Perhaps it was the strangeness of being addressed – or the strangeness of the question itself – but she felt the girl’s arms ease. The mouth, working and twisted, fell into a frown of disbelief.
‘Why…?’ the girl repeated as if testing the word. ‘Why?’ She pulled away, clasped her hands behind her back as if to restrain them there. ‘You dare ask why? You, who slew my family?’
What could she say? The time for ‘Sorry’ was long past. Ten thousand years past. No, the gulf was too profoundly deep to be bridged by any such gesture. ‘What I mean,’ she said, ‘is why must we kill each other?’
The girl fairly quivered in the grip of emotions no doubt as profound as those afflicting Silverfox herself. Blood-smeared and ragged, she looked like a lost waif. Silverfox had to resist the urge to reach out in an effort to soothe her.
‘You attacked us!’ the girl accused.
‘And who are we?’
‘You are the enemy we thought would never come. A legend. Stories to scare children. The Army of Dust and Bone.’
So that may be the legacy of the Imass, Silverfox mused. A legend. A frightening threat from the dark night of the past. Even that, she decided, would be eminently preferable. She cleared her throat to speak as she could hardly force out the words. ‘Well … it is over. No one will threaten you now. You are in no danger.’
The girl’s frown eased, though she remained wary, her brows clenched in worry. Then she seemed to come to a decision and her mouth twitched upwards in something like a strained mask-like smile. ‘In that case—’ she began, then jerked, her eyes bulging.
The point of a brown flint sword punched through the front of her chest. Yet her eyes held Silverfox’s. As they dimmed, it seemed to the Summoner that they poured forth a child’s hurt at a profound betrayal, and this grief broke Silverfox’s heart. The girl slid off the blade revealing Pran Chole behind. Silverfox stared her horror at the Imass. She whispered, ‘What have you done?’
‘Summoner … she was—’
Silverfox threw up a hand to command his silence. The presence of Tattersail, the old Malazan mage, was now choking her in its outrage. ‘Answer this crime!’ the ghost-presence of the woman demanded.
But no. No more retaliation. She was done with it. Done with them all. The raised hand now waved dismissal, but it was she who staggered off, lurching, almost blind. She wondered why tears would not come. Am I that hardened now? Instead, anger possessed her: a heated sizzling rage. To think they once held her pity! Chained to a ritual sworn ages ago! Unbending. Immovable. Intractable! They will not change.
Suddenly, it was clear what she had to do. If they were incapable of change, then it was up to her to force it upon them. She was, after all, the Summoner.
The entrance was a half-choked glare of light. She kicked her way through the rubble towards it. Her hand was still extended out behind her, daring anyone to follow.
In the darkness behind, broken rock crackled once more as Tolb Bell’al joined Pran Chole. The latter extended his withered foot in its tattered leather remnants to press open the hands of the dead girl. A thin knife blade clattered to the stones, its edge dark with venom.
The two exchanged a silent glance.
‘Shall we ever convince her of it?’ Tolb asked.
Pran shook his head, the leather of his neck creaking. ‘Best not to bring it up again, I think.’
Tolb nodded his agreement. ‘Perhaps so.’
* * *
Silverfox exited the stone portal like a swimmer broaching the surface after a too-long dive. She gasped for breath, lurching, grasping at the wall for support. The waiting ranks of Ifayle and Kron flinched from her as they sensed her rage. She stormed off, up a grass-thatched dune, to a single figure standing alone, her long black hair whipping in the wind.
‘I am done with them,’ Silverfox announced, coming abreast of Kilava.
The ancient Bonecaster crossed her arms. ‘Strange how all those who meet the T’lan Imass eventually come to that conclusion. Those who survive, in any case.’
But Silverfox could not share the woman’s detachment. ‘Tell them to keep their distance. I will go on alone in this. Meet Lanas on my own.’ She paused. ‘That is, unless you wish to witness?’
Kilava pushed her hair from her wide face, the broad cheekbones and thick, almost brutal brow ridge. ‘I would witness.’
CHAPTER XII
Kyle awoke to the hiss of rain and uncontrollable shudders. He was sitting upright against the trunk of a tall spruce amid needles and twisted roots. Yet even here the night’s constant misting rain had found him as it came running down the trunk. He didn’t know the north of these lands, of course, but this was the wettest and most icy spring he could remember. Straightening, he muffled a groan and stretched, then pulled his sodden leathers from his legs and back. He needed a fire to warm up, but there appeared little chance of getting one going. He settled instead for that other way to warm oneself, and set off at a jog in an easterly direction.
Ground-hugging fogs snaked through the woods he threaded. Sodden leaf mulch and moss were silent beneath his soft-soled moccasins. Drops of the icy vapour fell from his hair to his shoulders and ran down the back of his neck. The day was dark, hardly warmer than the night. Banks of cloud obscured the heights where breaks in the tree cover allowed a view. He heard the strong pounding of run-off driving through deep ravines and chasms in the distant slopes, but could see only courses of haze that ran down from the heights like rivers themselves.
Strange spring weather. Felt more like autumn.
He crossed over to an easterly valley and started north. The bruises and sti
ngs from the clashes the night before – he’d jogged an entire day and night since – slowed him with cramps and a tightness round his chest. Pausing, his breath sending up great plumes of steam, he damned Lyan for a fool. She didn’t really think she’d come out on top, did she? Still, she was an experienced war commander – and how many of these Icebloods could there be left anyway? Perhaps it was worth the gamble.
Yet what of Stalker and Badlands and Coots, should he actually find them? A possibility that appeared to be diminishing by the day. What if she and he were to meet on opposite sides? He snorted as he pushed his way through a prickly, dense patch of brush. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, y’damned idiot. Looks like you’re not going to even find any of the Losts.
And if they had any sense, they’d all have packed up long ago, anyway.
* * *
The next day he reached a broad, flat stream bed of washed gravel where the water chained and sheeted in a thin but icy flow, and he followed the course for the morning. His feet became numb blocks of ice themselves, as did his hands, despite his effort to keep them tucked under his armpits as much as he could.
He was hungry, but not unbearably so; he’d endured far worse. Mushrooms, nuts and berries filled the void for the time being. He’d snared a rabbit the night before and kept an eye out for a dry spot, with tinder enough, to build a fire to cook it. So far he’d found nothing.
Towards mid-day, a discolouring wash came streaming down with the waters. The stain was so washed out it took him some time to identify it as thinned blood. He crouched low and continued on, splashing from the cover of one patch of tall grass to another. Slowly, bit by bit, he came across sodden tatters of torn cloth, scraps of leather. Then the heavier litter of a boot, the broken wooden handle of a shovel or a spade.
Shattered equipment lay ahead. He recognized gold-sluices and hand-held sifting frames. Amid the wreckage lay the bodies of its owners. Hands tucked in his shirt, Kyle carefully studied the remains. Unarmoured, in tattered old jerkins and trousers. A pretty ragged lot. Most were poorly armed as well, as nothing larger than broad heavy knives lay in the water.
He felt sickened. A slaughter. A damned slaughter. These prospectors didn’t stand a chance. It was obvious this lot had nothing to do with burning Greathalls, or warring against the Icebloods. Killing them solved nothing. If anything, it invited retaliation.
Stupid. Damned stupid. Such bloodletting only made things worse. Again, the senselessness of vendetta and blood-feud reprisals and vengeance killings impressed itself upon him. Joining the Guard had opened his eyes to how self-defeating and petty these endless cycles of family or clan retribution were.
Something shifted nearby and he straightened, damning himself. Speaking of stupid …
He turned. A man had emerged from the tall green grasses. He was burly, in a torn hide shirt, wide leather wrist-guards, moccasins, and leather leggings up over buckskin trousers. ‘Should’ve run when you saw the bodies, lowlander,’ the fellow growled.
Kyle stared. That voice. The wild mane of kinky black hair – the hair all over, actually.
The man charged, long-knives flashing. Kyle rapidly backed off while trying to get the name out. He swung and Kyle fell into the water to avoid the blade.
‘Badlands!’ he managed, half stuttering in his amazement.
But the Lost brother splashed after him as if in a bloodlust fury – this was not the laughing, easy-going Badlands he knew! He lunged in, thrusting. Kyle drew to cut across his front, hacking off Badlands’ blade in a loud screech of tempered iron.
Badlands flinched away, blinking his disbelief. Kyle rose to a crouch, the frigid water dripping from him. ‘It’s me, Kyle,’ he said.
Badlands retreated another step. He frowned as if half-comprehending. ‘Kyle, lad?’
‘Yes, it’s me. I’ve come to find you and Coots and Stalker!’
Now real confusion wrinkled his hairy brow and he waved the shorn weapon in his hand. ‘But you was in Korel!’
Kyle sheathed the white sword back under his arm, eased out a long breath. ‘I was. Greymane died.’
Badlands dropped his gaze. ‘Yeah. I heard the stories.’ He let out a hiss, dropped the ruined weapon and squeezed his thumb. ‘You cut off the end of my blasted thumb, dammit!’
‘Sorry.’ Kyle fumbled to find a rag or a piece of cloth to tear.
‘Never mind!’ The Lost brother surged forward and clasped Kyle’s shoulders. ‘Look at you now! All growed up. No more the scrawny steppe wolf-pup old Stoop bought from the slave-pen! You look like a damned brigand! Didn’t even recognize you with the moustache ’n’ all.’
He squeezed Badlands’ forearm. ‘Glad to have found you. How’s Coots and Stalker?’
The Lost brother dropped his grin. He half turned away. ‘Coots didn’t make it.’
Coots? How could Coots not make it? He’d always seemed so … indestructible. All Kyle could manage was an unbelieving, ‘I’m sorry.’ Badlands gave a shake of his shoulders as if to brush the topic aside. ‘And Stalker?’
‘Stalk’s his same grim old self. Only more so.’
Kyle didn’t comment that Badlands struck him as very different from his old self. The old Badlands he knew would never have murdered a gang of dirt-poor barely armed prospectors. But then, his brother was dead. His land was being stolen from him. And his culture – his people – were being swept from the face of the world. Understandable, one might say.
The Lost’s thoughts must have run along lines similar to Kyle’s as he clapped him on the shoulder and urged him along. ‘Still – great to see you, lad. Just like old times, hey?’ And he laughed, but rather crazily – or so it sounded to Kyle. ‘Remember ol’ Greymane’s face when we showed up after that big Malazan fracas? He sure wasn’t expecting us.’
Kyle laughed as well, though not nearly so wildly. ‘Yes. He probably thought we were Claws come for him at last.’
Badlands led him north. He sucked on his wounded thumb and glanced back, looking him up and down. An amused, speculative light came into his eyes. ‘So,’ he announced. ‘You are the Whiteblade, then.’
Kyle dropped his gaze, shrugging. ‘Yeah.’
‘Well, well. Ain’t that somethin’?’ He chuckled. ‘We can probably hold off all these damned invaders now.’
The remark annoyed Kyle, as if Badlands had somehow enlisted him into something he might not agree with. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean not only are you Whiteblade, but we all was Crimson Guard together. And damn the old Oddsmaker if that ain’t the oddest thing…’
Now Kyle was thoroughly perplexed. In fact, he wondered about the man’s state of mind. ‘Just what are you getting at?’
‘I mean remember that talk we heard of the missing Fourth Company?’
Kyle remembered hearing how the Guard, after barely repulsing a Malazan expeditionary army sent to Stratem to destroy them, had divided itself into four companies to pursue contracts around the world. Eventually, those contracts brought the First Company, under Shimmer, to southern Assail where he, along with the Lost cousins, had joined. Long before then, though, the Guard had lost contact with the Fourth and none knew of its whereabouts, or fate. ‘What of it?’ he asked.
Badlands laughed. His mirth did not reassure Kyle. Before, the man’s laughter had been of the most innocent, teasing sort. Now, it sounded as dark as a hangman’s welcome. ‘Well … who do you think Stalk found camped on the mountainside, every sword against them? None other than Cal-Brinn and his Fourth!’
Kyle was amazed. The Fourth found? Here of all places? Yet why not? The First, under Shimmer, was in the south. Plenty of warfare and potential patrons up here. ‘How many?’
Badlands nodded at the question. ‘Ah! Just the sole survivors of years of fighting. Sixteen of their Avowed.’
Sixteen Avowed! No wonder the Lost Greathall still stood! Then the thought came, what of the rest in Stratem? ‘We should get word of this to K’azz.’
Badlands co
ntinued nodding as he climbed the slope ahead. ‘Yeah. We talked about that. Cal says they’ll come. He says, eventually, they’ll have to come.’ He gave an eloquent shrug. ‘What he means by that I have no idea. Anyway, the Eithjar sure don’t like them hanging around. They hate them. Told Stalk to get rid of them! Funny that. Competition, maybe, hey?’ and he laughed again, darkly, without humour.
Kyle offered a weak answering laugh then was quiet. He now almost regretted finding his old friend. Compared to the old Badlands, this new one only made him sad.
* * *
Two days of climbing through intermittent rains, fording swollen run-off streams, and crossing high mountain vales brought them to a temperate mist-forest in a narrow valley. Kyle reflected that they must now be at enough of an elevation to have entered the clouds that hugged the highest slopes of the Salt range. That, or the weather was one of persistent low cloud cover. He’d heard of wet springs, of course, but this felt extreme.
They exited the tall mature forest of ash and hemlock to enter a series of what appeared to be overgrown fields. Younger deciduous trees dominated here, birch and poplar, and the ground cover was thicker, high brush and bramble. Kyle judged these particular fields uncultivated for decades. Past these once-cleared tracts they came to a tall grass pasture where a number of cattle grazed, apparently unsupervised. Beyond, up the gentle rise of the vale, rose the grass-covered pitched roof of the Lost Greathall. Badlands led the way.
Fog and a light misty rain that draped down like folds of cloth hugged the colossal structure. Broad, rough-hewn log steps led up to the main entrance, which gaped wide. Kyle noted how wet green moss grew like a carpet over the steps.
Rainwater pattered down across the doorway. Just within stood two guards, bearded, in much-battered layered leather armour that appeared to have once been stained a deep red. Two Avowed, Kyle assumed. They greeted Badlands. Kyle gave them a nodded hello and almost told them he was of the Guard as well, but he stopped himself as he considered how asinine that would sound coming from someone who obviously was not currently of the Guard. Badlands pushed on, the rain pattering from his shoulders.
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 384
