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  The

  Bonehunters

  Malazan Book of the Fallen

  Book VI

  Steven Erikson

  For all that is made real

  In this age descending

  Where heroes leave naught

  But the iron ring of their names

  From bardic throats

  I stand in this silent heart

  Yearning the fading beat

  Of lives fallen to dust

  And the sifting whisper

  Proclaims glory’s passing

  As the songs fail

  In dwindling echoes

  For all that is made real

  The chambers and halls

  Yawn empty to my cries –

  For someone must

  Give answer

  Give answer

  To all of this

  Someone

  “The Age Descending”

  Torbora Fethena

  Content

  Prologue

  Book One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Book Two

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Book Three

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Book Four

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  1164 Burn’s Sleep

  Istral’fennidahn, the season of D’rek, Worm of Autumn

  Twenty-four days since the Execution of Sha’ik in Raraku

  The webs between the towers were visible in glistening sheets far overhead, and the faint wind coming in from the sea shivered the vast threads so that a mist of rain descended on Kartool City, as it did every morning in the Clear Season.

  Most things a person could get used to, eventually, and since the yellow-banded paralt spiders had been the first to occupy the once infamous towers following the Malazan conquest of the island, and that was decades past now, there had been plenty of time to become inured to such details. Even the sight of gulls and pigeons suspended motionless between the score of towers every morning, before the fist-sized spiders emerged from their upper-floor dens to retrieve their prey, yielded little more than faint revulsion among the citizens of Kartool City.

  Sergeant Hellian of the Septarch District city guard, alas, was an exception to this. There were gods, she suspected, convulsed in perpetual hilarity at her wretched fate, for which they were no doubt responsible. Born in the city, cursed with a fear of all manner of spiders, she had lived the entirety of her nineteen years in unrelieved terror.

  Why not just leave? A question asked by comrades and acquaintances more times than she cared to count. But it wasn’t that simple. It was impossible, in fact. The murky waters of the harbour were fouled with moult-skins and web-fragments and sodden, feather-tufted carcasses bobbing here and there. Inland, things got even worse. The young paralt, upon escaping their elders in the city, struggled to maturity among the limestone cliffs ringing Kartool. And though young, they were no less aggressive or virulent. While traders and farmers told her that one could walk the trails and roads all day without encountering a single one, Hellian didn’t care. She knew the gods were waiting. Just like the spiders.

  When sober, the sergeant noticed things, in a proper and diligent manner suited to a city guard. And while she was not consistently drunk, cold sobriety was an invitation to hysteria, so Hellian endeavoured to proceed steadily on the wobbly rope of not-quite-drunk. Accordingly, she had not known of the odd ship now moored in the Free Docks, that had arrived before sunrise, its pennons indicating that it had come from Malaz Island.

  Ships hailing from Malaz Island were not of themselves unusual or noteworthy; however, autumn had arrived, and the prevailing winds of the Clear Season made virtually all lanes to the south impossible to navigate for at least the next two months.

  Were things less bleary, she might also have noticed – had she taken the time to head down to the docks, which perhaps could have been managed at sword-point – that the ship was not the usual barque or trader, nor a military dromon, but a sleek, gracile thing, styled in a manner not employed in the past fifty years by any shipbuilders of the empire. Arcane carvings adorned the blade-like prow, minuscule shapes detailing serpents and worms, the panels sweeping back along the gunnels almost halfway down the length of the ship. The stern was squared and strangely high, with a side-mounted steering oar. The crew numbered about a dozen, quiet for sailors, and disinclined to leave the ship as it lolled alongside the dock. A lone figure had disembarked as soon as the gangplank had settled, shortly before dawn.

  For Hellian, these details came later. The runner that found her was a local brat who, when he wasn’t breaking laws, loitered around the docks in the hopes of being hired as a guide for visitors. The fragment of parchment he handed her was, she could feel, of some quality. On it was written a terse message, the contents of which made her scowl.

  ‘All right, lad, describe the man gave this to you.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Hellian glanced back at the four guards standing behind her on the street corner. One of them stepped behind the boy and picked him up, one-handed, gripping the back of the ratty tunic. A quick shake.

  ‘Loosed your memory some?’ Hellian asked. ‘I hope so, because I ain’t paying coin.’

  ‘I can’t remember! I looked right into his face, Sergeant! Only… I can’t remember what it looked like!’

  She studied the boy for a moment, then grunted and turned away.

  The guard set the lad down but did not release his grip.

  ‘Let him go, Urb.’

  The lad scampered away.

  With a vague gesture for her guards to follow, she set off.

  The Septarch District was the city’s most peaceful area, not through any particular diligence on Hellian’s part, however. There were few commercial buildings, and those residences that existed served to house acolytes and support staff of the dozen temples commanding the district’s main avenue. Thieves who wanted to stay alive did not steal from temples.

  She led her squad onto the avenue, noting once again how decrepit many of the temples had become. The paralt spiders liked the ornate architecture and the domes and lesser towers, and it seemed the priests were losing the battle. Chitinous rubbish crackled and crunched underfoot as they walked.

  Years ago, the first night of Istral’fennidahn, just past, would have been marked with an island-wide fete, filled with sacrifices and propitiations to Kartool’s patron goddess, D’rek, the Worm of Autumn, and the archpriest of the Grand Temple, the Demidrek, would lead a procession through the city on a carpet of fecund rubbish, his bared feet sweeping through maggot-and worm-ridden refuse. Children would chase lame dogs down the alleys, and those they cornered they would stone to death whilst shrieking their goddess’s name. Convicted criminals sentenced to execution would have their skins publicly flailed, their long-bones broken, then the hapless victims would be flung into pits aswarm with carrion beetles and red fireworms, that would devour them over the course of four or five days.

  All of this was before the Malazan conquest, of course. The Emperor’s principal target had been the cult of D’rek. He’d well understood that
the heart of Kartool’s power was the Grand Temple, and the island’s master sorcerors were the priests and priestesses of D’rek, ruled over by the Demidrek. Further, it was no accident that the night of slaughter that preceded the naval battle and the subsequent invasion, a night led by the infamous Dancer and Surly, Mistress of the Claw, had so thoroughly obliterated the cult’s sorcerors, including the Demidrek. For the archpriest of the Grand Temple had only recently gained his eminence via an internal coup, and the ousted rival had been none other than Tayschrenn, the Emperor’s new – at the time – High Mage.

  Hellian had but heard tales of the celebrations, since they had been outlawed as soon as the Malazan occupiers settled the imperial mantle upon the island, but she had been told often enough about those glorious days of long ago, when Kartool Island had been at the pinnacle of civilization.

  The present sordid condition was the fault of the Malazans, everyone agreed. Autumn had in truth arrived upon the island and its morose inhabitants. More than the cult of D’rek had been crushed, after all. Slavery was abolished, the execution pits had been scoured clean and permanently sealed. There was even a building hosting a score of misguided altruists who adopted lame dogs.

  They passed the modest temple of the Queen of Dreams and, squatting on the opposite side, the much-hated Temple of Shadows. There had once been but seven religions permitted upon Kartool, six subservient to D’rek – hence the district’s name. Soliel, Poliel, Beru, Burn, Hood and Fener. Since the conquest, more had arrived – the two aforementioned, along with Dessembrae, Togg and Oponn. And the Grand Temple of D’rek, still the largest of all the structures in the city, was in a pathetic state of disrepair.

  The figure standing before the broad-stepped entrance wore the garb of a Malazan sailor, faded waterproofed leathers, a worn shirt of thin, ragged linen. His dark hair was in a queue, hanging down between his shoulders and otherwise unadorned. As he turned at their approach, the sergeant saw a middle-aged face with even, benign features, although there was something odd about the man’s eyes, something vaguely fevered.

  Hellian drew a deep breath to help clear her sodden thoughts, then raised the parchment between them. ‘This is yours, I presume?’

  The man nodded. ‘You are the guard commander in this district?’

  She smiled. ‘Sergeant Hellian. The captain died last year of a septic foot. We’re still waiting for a replacement.’

  Brows rose with irony. ‘Not a promotion, Sergeant? One presumes, therefore, that sobriety would be a decisive virtue for a captain.’

  ‘Your note said there’s trouble at the Grand Temple,’ Hellian said, ignoring the man’s rudeness and turning to study the massive edifice. The double doors, she noted with a frown, were closed. On this day of all days, this was unprecedented.

  ‘I think so, Sergeant,’ the man said.

  ‘Had you come to pay your respects to D’rek?’ Hellian asked him, as faint unease struggled through the alcoholic haze. ‘Are the doors locked? What’s your name and where are you from?’

  ‘I am named Banaschar, from Malaz Island. We arrived this morning.’

  A grunt from one of the guards behind her, and Hellian thought about it. Then she shot Banaschar a more careful look. ‘By ship? At this time of year?’

  ‘We made what haste we could. Sergeant, I believe we need to break into the Grand Temple.’

  ‘Why not just knock?’

  ‘I have tried,’ Banaschar replied. ‘No-one comes.’

  Hellian hesitated. Break into the Grand Temple? The Fist will have my tits on a fry pan for this.

  ‘There are dead spiders on the steps,’ Urb said suddenly.

  They turned.

  ‘Hood’s blessing,’ Hellian muttered, ‘lots of them.’ Curious now, she walked closer. Banaschar followed, and after a moment the squad fell in.

  ‘They look…’ She shook her head.

  ‘Decayed,’ Banaschar said. ‘Rotting. Sergeant, the doors, please.’

  Still she hesitated. A thought occurred to her and she glared at the man. ‘You said you made all haste to get here. Why? Are you an acolyte of D’rek? – You don’t look it. What brought you here, Banaschar?’

  ‘A presentiment, Sergeant. I was… many years past… a priest of D’rek, in the Jakatakan temple on Malaz Island.’

  ‘A presentiment brought you all the way to Kartool? Do you take me for a fool?’

  Anger flashed in the man’s eyes. ‘Clearly you’re too drunk to smell what I can smell.’ He eyed the guards. ‘Do you share your sergeant’s failings, or am I alone in this matter?’

  Urb was frowning, then he said, ‘Sergeant, we should kick in these doors, I think.’

  ‘So do it then, damn you!’

  She watched as her guards battered away at the door. The noise attracted a crowd, and Hellian saw, threading to the forefront, a tall, robed woman who was clearly a priestess from one of the other temples. Oh, now what?

  But the woman’s eyes were fixed on Banaschar, who had in turn noted her approach and stared steadily back, his expression setting hard.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ the woman demanded.

  ‘Have you sensed nothing, High Priestess? Complacency is a disease fast spreading, it seems.’

  The woman’s gaze shifted to the guards kicking at the doors. ‘What has happened?’

  The door on the right splintered, then was knocked back by a final kick.

  Hellian gestured for Urb to enter then followed, Banaschar behind her.

  The stench was overwhelming, and in the gloom was visible great splashes of blood on the walls, fragments of meat scattered on the polished tiles, and pools of bile, blood and faeces, as well as scraps of clothing and clumps of hair.

  Urb had taken no more than two steps and now stood, staring down at what he was standing in. Hellian edged past him, her hand of its own accord reaching for the flask tucked in her belt. Banaschar’s hand stayed her. ‘Not in here,’ he said.

  She roughly shook him off. ‘Go to Hood,’ she growled, pulling the flask loose and tugging free the stopper. She drank three quick mouthfuls. ‘Corporal, go find Commander Charl. We’ll need a detachment to secure the area. Have word sent to the Fist, I want some mages down here.’

  ‘Sergeant,’ said Banaschar, ‘this is a matter for priests.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot.’ She waved at her remaining guards. ‘Conduct a search. See if there’s any survivors—’

  ‘There are none,’ Banaschar pronounced. ‘The High Priestess of the Queen of Dreams has already left, Sergeant. Accordingly, all of the temples will be informed. Investigations will begin.’

  ‘What sort of investigations?’ Hellian demanded.

  He grimaced. ‘Priestly sorts.’

  ‘And what of you?’

  ‘I have seen enough,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t even think of going anywhere, Banaschar,’ she said, scanning the scene of slaughter. ‘First night of the Clear Season in the Grand Temple, that used to involve an orgy. Looks like it got out of hand.’ Two more quick swallows from the flask, and blessed numbness beckoned. ‘You’ve a lot of questions you need to answer—’

  Urb’s voice cut in, ‘He’s gone, Sergeant.’

  Hellian swung about. ‘Damn! Weren’t you keeping an eye on the bastard, Urb?’

  The big man spread his hands. ‘You was talking away to ’im, Sergeant. I was eyeing the crowd out front. He didn’t get past me, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Get a description out. I want him found.’

  Urb frowned. ‘Uh, I can’t remember what he looked like.’

  ‘Damn you, neither can I.’

  Hellian walked over to where Banaschar had been standing. Squinted down at his footprints in the blood. They didn’t lead anywhere.

  Sorcery. She hated sorcery.

  ‘You know what I’m hearing right now, Urb?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m hearing the Fist. Whistling. You know why he’s whistling?’

  ‘No. L
isten, Sergeant—’

  ‘It’s the fry pan, Urb. It’s that nice, sweet sizzle that makes him so happy.’

  ‘Sergeant—’

  ‘Where will he send us, do you think? Korel? That one’s a real mess. Maybe Genabackis, though that’s quieted down some. Seven Cities, maybe.’ She drained the last of the pear brandy in the flask. ‘One thing’s for sure, we’d better set stones to our swords, Urb.’

  The tramp of heavy boots sounded in the street beyond. A half dozen squads at the very least.

  ‘Don’t get many spiders on ships, right, Urb?’ She glanced over, fought the bleariness and studied the miserable expression on his face. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? Tell me I’m right, damn you.’

  A hundred or so years ago, lightning had struck the huge guldindha tree, the white fire driving like a spear down its heartwood and splitting wide the ancient trunk. The blackened scorch-marks had long since bleached away as the desert sun burned its unceasing light upon the worm-riven wood. Swaths of bark had peeled back and now lay heaped over the bared roots that were wrapped about the hill’s summit like a vast net.

  The mound, misshapen where once it had been circular, commanded the entire basin. It stood alone, an island profoundly deliberate in the midst of a haphazard, random landscape. Beneath the jumbled boulders, sandy earth and snaking dead roots, the capstone that had once protected a slab-walled burial chamber had cracked, collapsing to swallow the space beneath, and in so doing settling an immense weight upon the body interred within.

  The tremor of footfalls reaching down to that body were a rare enough occurrence – perhaps a handful of times over the past countless millennia – that the long-slumbering soul was stirred into wakefulness, then intense awareness, upon the sensation of not one set of feet, but a dozen, ascending the steep, rough slopes and assembling at last around the shattered tree.