Bonehunters Page 5

  Outriders from Leoman’s column had already reached the well, dismounting to inspect it, while the main body of the horse-warriors filed down onto the basin. The storm was past, and stars glistened overhead. Exhausted horses and exhausted rebels made a slow procession over the broken, webbed ground. Capemoths flitted over the heads of the riders, weaving and spinning to escape the hunting rhizan lizards that wheeled in their midst like miniature dragons. An incessant war overhead, punctuated by the crunch of carapaced armour and the thin, metallic death-cries of the capemoths.

  Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas leaned forward on his saddle, the hinged horn squealing, and spat to his left. Defiance, a curse to these clamouring echoes of battle. And to get the taste of grit from his mouth. He glanced over at Leoman, who rode in silence. They had been leaving a trail of dead horses, and almost everyone was on their second or third mount. A dozen warriors had surrendered to the pace this past day, older men who had dreamed of a last battle against the hated Malazans, beneath the blessed gaze of Sha’ik, only to see that opportunity torn away by treachery. There were more than a few broken spirits in this tattered regiment, Corabb knew. It was easy to understand how one could lose hope during this pathetic journey.

  If not for Leoman of the Flails, Corabb himself might have given up long ago, slipping off into the blowing sands to seek his own destiny, discarding the trappings of a rebel soldier, and settling down in some remote city with memories of despair haunting his shadow until the Hoarder of Souls came to claim him. If not for Leoman of the Flails.

  The riders reached the well, spreading out to create a circle encampment around its life-giving water. Corabb drew rein a moment after Leoman had done so, and both dismounted, boots crunching on a carpet of bones and scales from long-dead fish.

  ‘Corabb,’ Leoman said, ‘walk with me.’

  They set off in a northerly direction until they were fifty paces past the outlying pickets, standing alone on the cracked pan. Corabb noted a depression nearby in which sat half-buried lumps of clay. Drawing his dagger, he walked over and crouched down to retrieve one of the lumps. Breaking it open to reveal the toad curled up within it, he dug the creature out and returned to his commander’s side. ‘An unexpected treat,’ he said, pulling off a withered leg and tearing at the tough but sweet flesh.

  Leoman stared at him in the moonlight. ‘You will have strange dreams, Corabb, eating those.’

  ‘Spirit dreams, yes. They do not frighten me, Commander. Except for all the feathers.’

  Making no comment on that, Leoman unstrapped his helm and pulled it off. He stared up at the stars, then said, ‘What do my soldiers want of me? Am I to lead us to an impossible victory?’

  ‘You are destined to carry the Book,’ Corabb said around a mouthful of meat.

  ‘And the goddess is dead.’

  ‘Dryjhna is more than that goddess, Commander. The Apocalyptic is as much a time as it is anything else.’

  Leoman glanced over. ‘You do manage to surprise me still, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas, after all these years.’

  Pleased by this compliment, or what he took for a compliment, Corabb smiled, then spat out a bone and said, ‘I have had time to think, Commander. While we rode. I have thought long and those thoughts have walked strange paths. We are the Apocalypse. This last army of the rebellion. And I believe we are destined to show the world the truth of that.’

  ‘Why do you believe that?’

  ‘Because you lead us, Leoman of the Flails, and you are not one to slink away like some creeping meer-rat. We journey towards something – I know, many here see this as a flight, but I do not. Not all the time, anyway.’

  ‘A meer-rat,’ Leoman mused. ‘That is the name for those lizard-eating rats in the Jen’rahb, in Ehrlitan.’

  Corabb nodded. ‘The long-bodied ones, with the scaly heads, yes.’

  ‘A meer-rat,’ Leoman said again, oddly thoughtful. ‘Almost impossible to hunt down. They can slip through cracks a snake would have trouble with. Hinged skulls…’

  ‘Bones like green twigs, yes,’ Corabb said, sucking at the skull of the toad, then flinging it away. Watching as it sprouted wings and flew off into the night. He glanced over at his commander’s feather-clad features. ‘They make terrible pets. When startled, they dive for the first hole in sight, no matter how small. A woman died with a meer-rat halfway up her nose, or so I heard. When they get stuck, they start chewing. Feathers everywhere.’

  ‘I take it no-one keeps them as pets any more,’ Leoman said, studying the stars once again. ‘We ride towards our Apocalypse, do we? Yes, well.’

  ‘We could leave the horses,’ Corabb said. ‘And just fly away. It’d be much quicker.’

  ‘That would be unkind, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘True. Honourable beasts, horses. You shall lead us, Winged One, and we shall prevail.’

  ‘An impossible victory.’

  ‘Many impossible victories, Commander.’

  ‘One would suffice.’

  ‘Very well,’ Corabb said. ‘One, then.’

  ‘I don’t want this, Corabb. I don’t want any of this. I’m of a mind to disperse this army.’

  ‘That will not work, Commander. We are returning to our birthplace. It is the season for that. To build nests on the rooftops.’

  ‘I think,’ Leoman said, ‘it is time you went to sleep.’

  ‘Yes, you are right. I will sleep now.’

  ‘Go on. I will remain here for a time.’

  ‘You are Leoman of the Feathers, and it shall be as you say.’ Corabb saluted, then strode back towards the encampment and its host of oversized vultures. It was not so bad a thing, he mused. Vultures survived because other things did not, after all.

  Now alone, Leoman continued studying the night sky. Would that Toblakai rode with him now. The giant warrior was blind to uncertainty. Alas, also somewhat lacking in subtlety. The bludgeon of Karsa Orlong’s reasoning would permit no disguising of unpleasant truths.

  A meer-rat. He would have to think on that.

  ‘You can’t come in here with those!’

  The giant warrior looked back at the trailing heads, then he lifted Samar Dev clear of the horse, set her down, and slipped off the beast himself. He brushed dust from his furs, walked over to the gate guard. Picked him up and threw him into a nearby cart.

  Someone screamed – quickly cut short as the warrior swung round.

  Twenty paces up the street, as dusk gathered the second guard was in full flight, heading, Samar suspected, for the blockhouse to round up twenty or so of his fellows. She sighed. ‘This hasn’t started well, Karsa Orlong.’

  The first guard, lying amidst the shattered cart, was not moving.

  Karsa eyed Samar Dev, then said, ‘Everything is fine, woman. I am hungry. Find me an inn, one with a stable.’

  ‘We shall have to move quickly, and I for one am unable to do that.’

  ‘You are proving a liability,’ Karsa Orlong said.

  Alarm bells began ringing a few streets away. ‘Put me back on your horse,’ Samar said, ‘and I will give you directions, for all the good that will do.’

  He approached her.

  ‘Careful, please – this leg can’t stand much more jostling.’

  He made a disgusted expression. ‘You are soft, like all children.’ Yet he was less haphazard when he lifted her back onto the horse.

  ‘Down this side track,’ she said. ‘Away from the bells. There’s an inn on Trosfalhadan Street, it’s not far.’ Glancing to her right, she saw a squad of guards appear further down the main street. ‘Quickly, warrior, if you don’t want to spend this night in a gaol cell.’

  Citizens had gathered to watch them. Two had walked over to the dead or unconscious guard, crouching to examine the unfortunate man. Another stood nearby, complaining about his shattered cart and pointing at Karsa – although only when the huge warrior wasn’t looking.

  They made their way down the avenue running parallel to the ancient wall. Samar scowled a
t the various bystanders who had elected to follow them. ‘I am Samar Dev,’ she said loudly. ‘Will you risk a curse from me? Any of you?’ People shrank back, then quickly turned away.

  Karsa glanced back at her. ‘You are a witch?’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  ‘And had I left you on the trail, you would have cursed me?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  He grunted, said nothing for the next ten paces, then turned once again. ‘Why did you not call upon spirits to heal yourself?’

  ‘I had nothing with which to bargain,’ she replied. ‘The spirits one finds in the wastelands are hungry things, Karsa Orlong. Covetous and not to be trusted.’

  ‘You cannot be much of a witch, then, if you need to bargain. Why not just bind them and demand that they heal your leg?’

  ‘One who binds risks getting bound in return. I will not walk that path.’

  He made no reply to that.

  ‘Here is Trosfalhadan Street. Up one avenue, there, see that big building with the walled compound beside it? Inn of the Wood, it’s called. Hurry, before the guards reach this corner.’

  ‘They will find us nonetheless,’ Karsa said. ‘You have failed in your task.’

  ‘I wasn’t the one who threw that guard into a cart!’

  ‘He spoke rudely. You should have warned him.’

  They reached the double gates at the compound.

  From the corner behind them came shouts. Samar twisted round on the horse and watched the guards rush towards them. Karsa strode past her, drawing free the huge flint sword. ‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘Let me speak with them first, warrior, else you find yourself fighting a whole city’s worth of guards.’

  He paused. ‘They are deserving of mercy?’

  She studied him a moment, then nodded. ‘If not them, then their families.’

  ‘You are under arrest!’ The shout came from the rapidly closing guards.

  Karsa’s tattooed face darkened.

  Samar edged down from the horse and hobbled to place herself between the giant and the guards, all of whom had drawn scimitars and were fanning out on the street. Beyond, a crowd of onlookers was gathering. She held up her hands. ‘There has been a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Samar Dev,’ one man said in a growl. ‘Best you step aside – this is no affair of yours—’

  ‘But it is, Captain Inashan. This warrior has saved my life. My wagon broke down out in the wastes, and I broke my leg – look at me. I was dying. And so I called upon a spirit of the wild-lands.’

  The captain’s eyes widened as he regarded Karsa Orlong. ‘This is a spirit?’

  ‘Most assuredly,’ Samar replied. ‘One who is of course ignorant of our customs. That gate guard acted in what this spirit perceived as a hostile manner. Does he still live?’

  The captain nodded. ‘Knocked senseless, that is all.’ The man then pointed towards the severed heads. ‘What are those?’

  ‘Trophies,’ she answered. ‘Demons. They had escaped their own realm and were approaching Ugarat. Had not this spirit killed them, they would have descended upon us with great slaughter. And with not a single worthy mage left in Ugarat, we would have fared poorly indeed.’

  Captain Inashan narrowed his gaze on Karsa. ‘Can you understand my words?’

  ‘They have been simple enough thus far,’ the warrior replied.

  The captain scowled. ‘Does she speak the truth?’

  ‘More than she realizes, yet even so, there are untruths in her tale. I am not a spirit. I am Toblakai, once bodyguard to Sha’ik. Yet this woman bargained with me as she would a spirit. More, she knew nothing of where I came from or who I was, and so she might well have imagined I was a spirit of the wild-lands.’

  Voices rose among both guards and citizens at the name Sha’ik, and Samar saw a dawning recognition in the captain’s expression. ‘Toblakai, companion to Leoman of the Flails. Tales of you have reached us.’ He pointed with his scimitar at the fur riding Karsa’s shoulders. ‘Slayer of a Soletaken, a white bear. Executioner of Sha’ik’s betrayers in Raraku. It is said you slew demons the night before Sha’ik was killed,’ he added, eyes on the rotted, flailed heads. ‘And, when she had been slain by the Adjunct, you rode out to face the Malazan army – and they would not fight you.’

  ‘There is some truth in what you have spoken,’ Karsa said, ‘barring the words I exchanged with the Malazans—’

  ‘One of Sha’ik’s own,’ Samar quickly said, sensing the warrior was about to say something unwise, ‘how could we of Ugarat not welcome you? The Malazan garrison has been driven from this city and is even now starving in Moraval Keep on the other side of the river, besieged with no hope of succour.’

  ‘You are wrong in that,’ Karsa said.

  She wanted to kick him. Then again, look how that had turned out the last time? All right, you ox, go and hang yourself.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Captain Inashan asked.

  ‘The rebellion is broken, the Malazans have retaken cities by the score. They will come here, too, eventually. I suggest you make peace with the garrison.’

  ‘Would that not put you at risk?’ Samar asked.

  The warrior bared his teeth. ‘My war is done. If they cannot accept that, I will kill them all.’

  An outrageous claim, yet no-one laughed. Captain Inashan hesitated, then he sheathed his scimitar, his soldiers following suit. ‘We have heard of the rebellion’s failure,’ he said. ‘For the Malazans in the keep, alas, it might well be too late. They have been trapped in there for months. And no-one has been seen on the walls for some time—’

  ‘I will go there,’ Karsa said. ‘Gestures of peace must be made.’

  ‘It is said,’ Inashan muttered, ‘that Leoman still lives. That he leads the last army and has vowed to fight on.’

  ‘Leoman rides his own path. I would place no faith in it, were I you.’

  The advice was not well received. Arguments rose, until Inashan turned on his guards and silenced them with an upraised hand. ‘These matters must be brought to the Falah’d.’ He faced Karsa again. ‘You will stay this night at the Inn of the Wood?’

  ‘I shall, although it is not made of wood, and so it should be called Inn of the Brick.’

  Samar laughed. ‘You can bring that up with the owner, Toblakai. Captain, are we done here?’

  Inashan nodded. ‘I will send a healer to mend your leg, Samar Dev.’

  ‘In return, I bless you and your kin, Captain.’

  ‘You are too generous,’ he replied with a bow.

  The squad headed off. Samar turned to regard the giant warrior. ‘Toblakai, how have you survived this long in Seven Cities?’

  He looked down at her, then slung the stone sword once more over his shoulder. ‘There is no armour made that can withstand the truth…’

  ‘When backed by that sword?’

  ‘Yes, Samar Dev. I find it does not take long for children to understand that. Even here in Seven Cities.’ He pushed open the gates. ‘Havok will require a stable away from other beasts… at least until his hunger is appeased.’

  ‘I don’t like the looks of that,’ Telorast muttered, nervously shifting about.

  ‘It is a gate,’ Apsalar said.

  ‘But where does it lead?’ Curdle asked, indistinct head bobbing.

  ‘It leads out,’ she replied. ‘Onto the Jen’rahb, in the city of Ehrlitan. It is where I am going.’

  ‘Then that is where we are going,’ Telorast announced. ‘Are there bodies there? I hope so. Fleshy, healthy bodies.’

  She regarded the two ghosts. ‘You intend to steal bodies to house your spirits? I am not sure that I can permit that.’

  ‘Oh, we wouldn’t do that,’ Curdle said. ‘That would be possession, and that’s difficult, very difficult. Memories seep back and forth, yielding confusion and inconsistency.’

  ‘True,’ Telorast said. ‘And we are most consistent, are we not? No, my dear, we just happen to like bodies. In proximity. They… comfort us
. You, for example. You are a great comfort to us, though we know not your name.’

  ‘Apsalar.’

  ‘She’s dead!’ Curdle shrieked. To Apsalar: ‘I knew you were a ghost!’

  ‘I am named after the Mistress of Thieves. I am not her in the flesh.’

  ‘She must be speaking the truth,’ Telorast said to Curdle. ‘If you recall, Apsalar looked nothing like this one. The real Apsalar was Imass, or very nearly Imass. And she wasn’t very friendly—’

  ‘Because you stole from her temple coffers,’ Curdle said, squirming about in small dust-clouds.

  ‘Even before then. Decidedly unfriendly, where this Apsalar, this one here, she’s kind. Her heart is bursting with warmth and generosity—’

  ‘Enough of that,’ Apsalar said, turning to the gate once more. ‘As I mentioned earlier, this gate leads to the Jen’rahb… for me. For the two of you, of course, it might well lead into Hood’s Realm. I am not responsible for that, should you find yourselves before Death’s Gate.’

  ‘Hood’s Realm? Death’s Gate?’ Telorast began moving from side to side, a strange motion that Apsalar belatedly realized was pacing, although the ghost had sunk part-way into the ground, making it look more like wading. ‘There is no fear of that. We are too powerful. Too wise. Too cunning.’

  ‘We were great mages, once,’ Curdle said. ‘Necromancers, Spiritwalkers, Conjurers, Wielders of Fell Holds, Masters of the Thousand Warrens—’

  ‘Mistresses, Curdle. Mistresses of the Thousand Warrens.’

  ‘Yes, Telorast. Mistresses indeed. What was I thinking? Beauteous mistresses, curvaceous, languid, sultry, occasionally simpering—’

  Apsalar walked through the gate.

  She stepped onto broken rubble alongside the foundations of a collapsed wall. The night air was chill, stars sharp overhead.

  ‘—and even Kallor quailed before us, isn’t that right, Telorast?’

  ‘Oh yes, he quailed.’

  Apsalar looked down to find herself flanked by the two ghosts. She sighed. ‘You evaded Hood’s Realm, I see.’