The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  Even as the demon loomed above him, he saw another figure, lithe, clothed entirely in black, knife-blades slashing out, cutting deep along the beast's right shoulder.

  The demon shrieked — pain, outrage — as, skidding, it twisted round to face this new attacker.

  Who was no longer there, who was somehow now on its opposite side, limbs weaving, every motion strangely blurred to Brokeface's wide, staring eyes. The knives licked out once more. Flinching back, the demon came up against the wall opposite, ember eyes flaring.

  From down the hallway, more demons were approaching, yet slowing their ferocious pace, claws clattering—

  As the figure moved suddenly among them. The gleam of the blades, now red, seemed to dance in the air, here, there, wheeling motion from the figure, arms writhing like serpents; and with matching grace, he saw a foot lash out, connect with a beast's head — which was as big as a horse's, only wider — and that head snapped round at the impact, shoulders following, then torso, twisting round in strange elegance as the entire demon was lifted into the air, back-end now vertical, head down, in time to meet the side wall.

  Where bricks exploded, the wall crumpling, caving in to some room beyond, the demon's body following into the cloud of dust.

  Wild, crowded confusion in the hallway, and suddenly the figure stood motionless at Brokeface's side, daggers still out, dripping blood.

  A woman, black-haired, now blocking the doorway.

  Skittering sounds along the tiles, and he looked down to see two small, bird-like skeletons flanking her. Their snouts were open and hissing sounds emerged from those empty throats. Spiny tails lashed back and forth. One darted forward, a single hop, head dipping—

  And the gathered demons flinched back.

  Another reptilian hiss, this one louder — coming from a creature trapped in one demon's jaws. Brokeface saw in its terrible eyes a deathly fear, rising to panic—

  The woman spoke quietly, clearly addressing Brokeface: 'Follow the wizard and his sister — they found a bolt-hole behind the dais — enough time, I think, to make good their escape. And yours, if you go now.'

  'I don't want to,' he said, unable to keep from weeping. 'I just want to die.'

  That turned her gaze from the demons facing her.

  He looked up into exquisite, elongated eyes, black as ebony. And in her face, there was no mirror, no twist of revulsion. No, naught but a simple regard, and then, some­thing that might have been... sorrow.

  'Go to the Temple of Soliel,' she said.

  'She is ever turned away—'

  'Not today she isn't. Not with Ganoes Paran holding her by the scruff of her neck. Go. Be healed.'

  This was impossible, but how could he deny her?

  'Hurry, I don't know how Curdle and Telorast are managing this threat, and there's no telling how long it will last—'

  Even as she said those words, a bellowing roar came from further down the hallway, and the demons bunched close before the threshold, yelping in desperate frenzy.

  'That's it,' she murmured, lifting her knives.

  Brokeface leapt to his feet and ran into the altar chamber.

  ****

  Disbelief. Quick Ben could not understand what had held the Hounds up — he'd caught sounds, of fighting, fierce, snapping snarls, squeals of pain, and in one glance back, moments before carrying Torahaval through the back passage, he'd thought he'd seen... something. Someone, ghostly in shadows, commanding the threshold.

  Whatever this chance clash, it had purchased his life. And his sister's. Currency Quick Ben would not squander.

  Throwing Torahaval over his shoulder, he entered the narrow corridor and ran as fast as he could manage.

  Before too long he heard someone in pursuit. Swearing, Quick Ben swung round, the motion crunching Torahaval's head against a wall — at which she moaned.

  A man, his face deformed — no, horse-bitten, the wizard realized — rushed to close. 'I will help you,' he said. 'Quickly! Doom comes into this temple!'

  Had it been this man facing down the Hounds? No matter. 'Take her legs then, friend. As soon as we're off sanctified ground, we can get the Hood out of here—'

  ****

  As the Hounds gathered to rush Apsalar, she sheathed her knives and said, 'Curdle, Telorast, stop your hissing. Time to leave.'

  'You're no fun, Not-Apsalar!' Curdle cried.

  'No she isn't, is she?' Telorast said, head bobbing in vague threat motions, that were now proving less effective.

  'Where is she?' Curdle demanded.

  'Gone!'

  'Without us!'

  'After her!'

  ****

  Poliel, Grey Goddess of pestilence, of disease and suffering, was trapped in her own tortured nightmare. All strength gone, all will bled away. The shard of deadly otataral im­paling her hand, she sat on her throne, convulsions racking her.

  Betrayals, too many betrayals — the Crippled God's power had fled, abandoning her — and that unknown mortal, that cold-eyed murderer, who had understood nothing. In whose name? For whose liberation was this war being fought? The damned fool.

  What curse was it, in the end, to see flaws unveiled, to see the twisted malice of mortals dragged to the surface, exposed to day's light? Who among these followers did not ever seek, wilful or mindless, the purity of self-destruction? In obsession they took death into themselves, but that was but a paltry reflection of the death they delivered upon the land, the water, the very air. Self-destruction making victim the entire world.

  Apocalypse is rarely sudden; no, among these mortals, it creeps slow, yet inevitable, relentless in its thorough obliteration of life, of health, of beauty.

  Diseased minds and foul souls had drawn her into this world; for the sake of the land, for the chance that it might heal in the absence of its cruellest inflicters of pain and degradation, she sought to expunge them in the breath of plague — no more deserving a fate was imaginable — for all that, she would now die.

  She railed. Betrayal!.

  Five Hounds of Shadow entered the chamber.

  Her death. Shadowthrone, you fool.

  A Hound flung something from its mouth, something that skidded, spitting and writhing, up against the first step of the dais.

  Even in her agony, a core of clarity remained within Poliel. She looked down, seeking to comprehend — even as the Hounds fled the room, round the dais, into the priest-hole — comprehend this cowering, scaled panther, one limb swollen with infection, its back legs and hips crushed — it could not flee. The Hounds had abandoned it here — why?

  Ah, to share my fate.

  A final thought, meekly satisfying in itself, as the Deragoth arrived, bristling with rage and hunger, Elder as any god, deprived of one quarry, but content to kill what remained.

  A broken T'rolbarahl, shrieking its terror and fury.

  A broken goddess, who had sought to heal Burn. For such was the true purpose of fever, such was the cold arbiter of disease. Only humans, she reminded herself — her last thought — only humans centre salvation solely upon themselves.

  And then the Deragoth, the first enslavers of humanity, were upon her.

  ****

  'She's a carrier now,' Brokeface said, 'and more. No longer protected, the plague runs wild within her, no matter what happens to Poliel. Once begun, these things follow their own course. Please,' he added as he watched the man attempt to awaken Torahaval, 'come with me.'

  The stranger looked up with helpless eyes. 'Come? Where?'

  'The Temple of Soliel.'

  'That indifferent bitch—'

  'Please,' Brokeface insisted. 'You will see. I cannot help but believe her words.'

  'Whose words?'

  'It's not far. She must be healed.' And he reached down once more, collecting the woman's legs. 'As before. It's not far.'

  The man nodded.

  Behind them, a single shriek rose from the temple, pierc­ing enough to send fissures rippling through the building's thick walls, du
st snapping out from the cracks. Groaning sounds pushed up from beneath them as foundations buckled, tugging at the surrounding streets.

  'We must hurry away!' Brokeface said.

  ****

  Dismounting, dragging a stumbling, gasping Noto Boil with one hand, Paran kicked down the doors to the Temple of Soliel — a modest but most satisfying burst of power that was sufficient, he trusted, to apprise the Sweet Goddess of his present frame of mind.

  The girl slipped past him as he crossed the threshold and cast him a surprisingly delighted glance as she hurried ahead to the central chamber.

  On the corridor's walls, paintings of figures kneeling, heads bowed in blessing, beseeching or despair — likely the latter with this damned goddess, Paran decided. Depending in folds from the arched ceiling were funeral shrouds, no doubt intended to prepare worshippers for the worst.

  They reached the central chamber even as the ground shook — the Grand Temple was collapsing. Paran pulled Noto Boil to his side, then pushed him stumbling towards the altar. With luck it'll bury the damned Deragoth. But I’m not holding my breath.

  He drew out a card and tossed it onto the floor. 'Soliel, you are summoned.'

  The girl, who had been standing to the right of the altar, suddenly sagged, then looked up, blinking owlishly. Her smile broadened.

  Paran vowed, then, that he would seek to recall every detail of the goddess's upon her enforced appearance, so exquisite her bridling fury. She stood behind the altar, as androgynous as her now-dead sister, her long fingers — so perfect for closing eyelids over unseeing eyes — clutching, forming fists at her side, as she said in a grating voice, 'You have made a terrible mistake—'

  'I'm not finished yet,' he replied. 'Unleash your power, Soliel. Begin the healing. You can start with Noto Boil here, in whom you shall place a residue of your power, sufficient in strength and duration to effect the healing of the afflicted in the encamped army outside the city. Once you are done with him, others will arrive, Poliel's cast-offs. Heal them as well, and send them out—' His voice hardened. 'Seven Cities has suffered enough, Soliel.'

  She seemed to study him for a long moment, then she shrugged. 'Very well. As for suffering, I leave that to you, and through no choice of mine.'

  Paran frowned, then turned at a surprised shout from behind them.

  The captain blinked, and grinned. 'Quick Ben!'

  The wizard and Brokeface were dragging a woman between them — the one he had last seen in the altar chamber of the Grand Temple — and all at once, Paran understood. Then, immediately thereafter, realized that he understood... nothing.

  Quick Ben looked up at the altar and his eyes narrowed. 'That her? Hood's breath, I never thought... never mind. Ganoes Paran, this was all by your hand? Did you know the Hounds were for me?'

  'Not entirely, although I see how you might think that way. You bargained with Shadowthrone, didn't you? For,' he gestured at the unconscious woman, 'her.'

  The wizard scowled. 'My sister.'

  'He has released the Deragoth,' Soliel said, harsh and accusory. 'They tore her apart!'

  Quick Ben's sister moaned, tried gathering her legs under her.

  'Shit,' the wizard muttered. 'I'd better leave. Back to the others. Before she comes round.'

  Paran sighed and crossed his arms. 'Really, Quick—'

  'You more than anybody should know about a sister's wrath!' the wizard snapped, stepping away. He glanced over at Brokeface, who stood, transfixed, staring up at Soliel. 'Go on,' he said. 'You were right. Go to her.'

  With a faint whimper, Brokeface stumbled forward.

  Paran watched as Quick Ben opened a warren.

  The wizard hesitated, looked over at the captain. 'Ganoes,' he said, 'tell me something.'

  'What?'

  'Tavore. Can we trust her?'

  The question felt like a slap, stinging, sudden. He blinked, studied the man, then said, 'Tavore will do, wizard, what needs to be done.'

  'To suit her or her soldiers?' Quick Ben demanded.

  'For her, friend, there is no distinction.'

  Their gazes locked for a moment longer, then the wizard sighed. 'I owe you a tankard of ale when it's all over.'

  'I will hold you to it, Quick.'

  The wizard flashed that memorable, infuriating grin, and vanished into the portal.

  As it whispered shut behind him, the woman, his sister, lifted herself to her hands and knees. Her hair hung down, obscuring her face, but Paran could hear her clearly as she said, 'There was a wolf.'

  He cocked his head. 'A Hound of Shadow.'

  'A wolf,' she said again. 'The loveliest, sweetest wolf in the world...'

  ****

  Quick Ben opened his eyes and looked around.

  Bottle sat across from him, the only one present in the clearing. From somewhere nearby there was shouting, angry, sounds of rising violence. 'Nicely done,' Bottle said. 'Shadowthrone threw you right into their path, so much of you that, had the Hounds caught you, I'd now be burying this carcass of yours. You used his warren to get here. Very nice — a thread must've survived, wizard, one even Shadowthrone didn't see.'

  'What's going on?'

  The soldier shrugged. 'Old argument, I think. Kalam and Fiddler found Apsalar — with blood on her knives. They figure you're dead, you see, though why—'

  Quick Ben was already on his feet. And running.

  The scene he came upon moments later was poised on the very edge of disaster. Kalam was advancing on Apsalar, his long-knives out, the otataral blade in the lead position. Fiddler stood to one side, looking both angry and helpless.

  And Apsalar. She simply faced the burly, menacing assassin. No knives in her hands and something like resignation in her expression.

  'Kalam!'

  The man whirled, as did Fiddler.

  'Quick!' the sapper shouted. 'We found her! Blood on the blades — and you—'

  'Enough of all that,' the wizard said. 'Back away from her, Kalam.'

  The assassin shrugged, then scabbarded his weapons. 'She wasn't big on explanations,' he said in a frustrated growl. 'As usual. And I would swear, Quick, she was wanting this—'

  'Wanting what?' he demanded. 'Did she have her knives out? Is she in a fighting stance, Kalam? Is she not a Shadow Dancer? You damned idiot!' He glared at Apsalar, and in a lower voice, added, 'What she wants... ain't for us to give...'

  Boots on stones sounded behind him, and Quick Ben swung round to see Bottle, at his side Captain Faradan Sort.

  'There you all are,' the captain said, clearly struggling to keep her curiosity in check. 'We're about to march. With luck, we'll reach the Fourteenth this night. Sinn seems to think so, anyway.'

  'That's good news,' Quick Ben said. 'Lead on, Captain, we're right with you.'

  Yet he held back, until Apsalar walked past him, then he reached out and brushed her sleeved arm.

  She looked over.

  Quick Ben hesitated, then nodded and said, 'I know it was you, Apsalar. Thank you.'

  'Wizard,' she said, 'I have no idea what you are talking about.'

  He let her go. No, what she wants ain't for us to give. She wants to die.

  ****

  Layered in dust, wan with exhaustion, Cotillion strode into the throne room, then paused.

  The Hounds were gathered before the Shadow Throne, two lying down, panting hard, tongues lolling. Shan paced in a circle, the black beast twitching, its flanks slashed and dripping blood. And, Cotillion realized, there were wounds on the others as well.

  On the throne sat Shadowthrone, his form blurred as if within a roiling storm-cloud. 'Look at them,' he said in a low, menacing voice. 'Look well, Cotillion.'

  'The Deragoth?'

  'No, not the Deragoth.'

  'No, I suppose not. Those look like knife cuts.'

  'I had him. Then I lost him.'

  'Had who?'

  'That horrid little thousand-faced wizard, that's who!' A shadowy hand lifted, long fingers curling. 'I had him,
here in this very palm, like a melting piece of ice.' A sudden snarl, the god tilting forward on the throne. 'It's all your fault!'

  Cotillion blinked. 'Hold on, I didn't attack the Hounds!'

  'That's what you think!'

  'What is that supposed to mean?' Cotillion demanded.

  The other hand joined the first one, hovering, clutching the air in spasmodic, trembling rage. Then another snarl — and the god vanished.

  Cotillion looked down at Baran, reached out towards the beast.

  At a low growl, he snatched his hand back. 'I didn't!' he shouted.

  The Hounds, one and all staring at him, did not look convinced.

  ****

  Dusk muted the dust in the air above the camp as Captain Ganoes Paran — leading his horse — and the cutter Noto Boil, and the girl — whose name was Naval D'natha — climbed the slope and passed through the first line of pickets.

  The entire camp looked as if it had been struck by a freak storm. Soldiers worked on repairing tents, re-splicing ropes, carrying stretchers. Horses loose from their paddocks still wandered about, too skittish to permit anyone close enough to take their bits.

  'The Hounds,' Paran said. 'They came through here. As did, I suspect, the Deragoth. Damned unfortunate — I hope there weren't too many injuries.'

  Noto Boil glanced over at him, then sneered. 'Captain Kindly? You have deceived us. Ganoes Paran, a name to be found on the List of the Fallen in Dujek's own logs.'

  'A name with too many questions hanging off it, cutter.'

  'Do you realize, Captain, that the two remaining Malazan armies in Seven Cities are commanded by brother and sister? For the moment at least. Once Dujek's back on his feet—'

  'A moment,' Paran said.

  Hurlochel and Sweetcreek were standing outside the command tent. Both had seen Paran and his companions.

  Something in the outrider's face...

  They reached them. 'Hurlochel?' Paran asked.

  The man looked down.

  Sweetcreek cleared her throat. 'High Fist Dujek Onearm died two bells ago, Captain Paran.'

  'As for suffering, I leave that to you, and through no choice of mine.'

  She had known. Soliel had already known.

  Sweetcreek was still talking, '... fever broke a short while ago. They're conscious, they've been told who you are — Ganoes Paran, are you listening to me? They've read Dujek's logs — every officer among us has read them. It was required. Do you understand? The vote was unanimous. We have proclaimed you High Fist. This is now your army.'