The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  And saw the hunger that was desire.

  The pain expanded, filled her body — then subsided as the clawed hand withdrew, the crusted talons pulling loose.

  Torahaval fell to her knees, slid helplessly in her own sweat that had pooled on the mosaic floor beneath her.

  Ware what you ask for. Ware what you seek.

  The sound of horse hoofs, coming from the Aisle of Glory, getting louder.

  A rider comes. A rider? What — who dares this — gods below, thank you, whoever you are. Thank you. She still clung to the edge. A few breaths more, a few more...

  ****

  Sneering, Brokeface pushed past the cowering priests at the threshold. Paran scanned the three withered, trembling figures, and frowned as they each in turn knelt at the touch of his regard, heads bowing.

  'What ails them?' he asked.

  Brokeface's laugh hacked in the grainy air. 'Well said, stranger. You have cold iron in your spine, I'll give you that.'

  Idiot. I wasn't trying to be funny.

  'Get off that damned horse,' Brokeface said, blocking the doorway. He licked his misshapen lips, both hands shifting on the shaft of the scythe.

  'Not a chance,' Paran said. 'I know how you take care of horses.'

  'You cannot ride into the altar chamber!'

  'Clear the way,' Paran said. 'This beast does not bother biting — it prefers to kick and stamp. Delights in the sound of breaking bones, in fact.'

  As the horse, nostrils flared, stepped closer to the door­way, Brokeface flinched, edged back. Then he bared his crooked teeth and hissed, 'Can't you feel her wrath? Her outrage? Oh, you foolish man!'

  'Can she feel mine?'

  Paran ducked as his horse crossed the threshold. He straightened a moment later. A woman writhed on the tiles to his left, her dark skin streaked in sweat, her long limbs trembling as the plague-fouled air stroked and slipped round her, languid as a lover's caress.

  Beyond this woman rose a dais atop three broad, shallow steps on which were scattered the broken fragments of the altarstone. Centred on the dais, where the altar had once stood, was a throne fashioned of twisted, malformed bones. Commanding this seat, a figure radiating such power that her form was barely discernible. Long limbs, suppurating with venom, a bared chest androgynous in its lack of definition, its shrunken frailty; the legs that extended out­ward seemed to possess too many joints, and the feet were three-toed and taloned, raptorial yet as large as those of an enkar'al. Poliel's eyes were but the faintest of sparks, blurred and damp at the centre of black bowls. Her mouth, broad and the lips cracked and oozing, curled now into a smile.

  'Soletaken,' she said in a thin voice, 'do not frighten me. I had thought, for a moment... but no, you are nothing to me.'

  'Goddess,' Paran said, settling back on his horse, 'I remain turned away. The choice is mine, not yours, and so you see only what I will you to see.'

  'Who are you? What are you?'

  'In normal circumstances, Poliel, I am but an arbiter. I have come to make an offering.'

  'You understand, then,' the Grey Goddess said, 'the truth beneath the veil. Blood was their path. And so we choose to poison it.'

  Paran frowned, then he shrugged and reached into the folds of his shirt. 'Here is my gift,' he said. Then hesitated. 'I regret, Poliel, that these circumstances... are not normal.'

  The Grey Goddess said, 'I do not understand—'

  'Catch!'

  A small, gleaming object flashed from his hand.

  She raised hers in defence.

  A whispering, strangely thin sound marked the impact. Impaling her hand, a shard of metal. Otataral.

  The goddess convulsed, a terrible, animal scream burst­ing from her throat, ripping the air. Chaotic power, shredding into tatters and spinning away, waves of grey fire charging like unleashed creatures of rage, mosaic tiles exploding in their wake.

  On a bridling, skittish horse, Paran watched the con­flagration of agony, and wondered, of a sudden, whether he had made a mistake.

  He looked down at the mortal woman, curled up on the floor. Then at her fragmented shadow, slashed through by... nothing. Well, I knew that much. Time's nearly up.

  ****

  A different throne, this one so faint as to be nothing more than the hint of slivered shadows, sketched across planes of dirty ice — oddly changed, Quick Ben decided, from the last time he had seen it.

  As was the thin, ghostly god reclining on that throne. Oh, the hood was the same, ever hiding the face, and the gnarled black hand still perched on the knotted top of the bent walking stick — the perch of a scavenger, like a one-legged vulture — and emanating from the apparition that was Shadowthrone, like some oversweet incense reaching out to brush the wizard's senses, a cloying, infuriating... smugness. Nothing unusual in all of that. Even so, there was... something...

  'Delat,' the god murmured, as if tasting every letter of the name with sweet satisfaction.

  'We're not enemies,' Quick Ben said, 'not any longer, Shadowthrone. You cannot be blind to that.'

  'Ah but you wish me blind, Delat! Yes yes yes, you do. Blind to the past — to every betrayal, every lie, every vicious insult you have delivered foul as spit at my feet!'

  'Circumstances change.'

  'Indeed they do!'

  The wizard could feel sweat trickling beneath his clothes. Something here was... what?

  Was very wrong.

  'Do you know,' Quick Ben asked, 'why I am here?'

  'She has earned no mercy, wizard. Not even from you.'

  'I am her brother.'

  'There are rituals to sever such ties,' Shadowthrone said, 'and your sister has done them all!'

  'Done them all? No, tried them all. There are threads that such rituals cannot touch. I made certain of that. I would not be here otherwise.'

  A snort. 'Threads. Such as those you take greatest pleasure in spinning, Adaephon Delat? Of course. It is your finest talent, the weaving of impossible skeins.' The hooded head seemed to wag from side to side as Shadowthrone chanted, 'Nets and snares and traps, lines and hooks and bait, nets and snares and—' Then he leaned forward. 'Tell me, why should your sister be spared? And how — truly, how — do you imagine that I have the power to save her? She is not mine, is she? She's not here in Shadow Keep, is she?' He cocked his head. 'Oh my. Even now she draws her last few breaths... as the mortal lover of the Grey Goddess — what, pray tell, do you expect me to do?'

  Quick Ben stared. The Grey Goddess? Poliel? Oh, Torahaval... 'Wait,' he said, 'Bottle confirmed it — more than instinct — you are involved. Right now, wherever they are, it has something to do with you!'

  A spasmodic cackle from Shadowthrone, enough to make the god's thin, insubstantial limbs convulse momen­tarily. 'You owe me, Adaephon Delat! Acknowledge this and I will send you to her! This instant! Accept the debt!'

  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 mto 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, itj 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—