The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (176 page)

“Why?” the sapper barked.

“I deliver a gift. Gathered in great haste and at vast expense, I might add. I suggest we complete the transaction as quickly as possible, all things considered.”

Crokus now stood beside Fiddler. The Daru was frowning at the carriages. “I know the maker of those,” he said quietly. “Bernuk's, just back of Lakefront. But I've never seen them that big before—gods, I've been away too long.”

Fiddler sighed. “Darujhistan.”

“I'm certain of it,” Crokus said, shaking his head.

Fiddler stepped outside and studied the surroundings. Things seemed, as the merchant had said, calm. Quiescent. Still uneasy, the sapper made his way down the path. He halted two paces from the archway and eyed the merchant warily.

“Karpolan Demesand, sir, of the Trygalle Trade Guild, and this is a run that I and my shareholders shall never regret, yet hope never to repeat.” The man's exhaustion was very evident, and his silks hung soaked in sweat. He gestured and an armored woman with a deathly pale face stepped past him, carrying a small crate. Karpolan continued, “Compliments of a certain mage of the Bridgeburners, who was advised—in timely fashion—of your situation in a general way, by the corporal you share.”

Fiddler accepted the box, now grinning. “The efforts of this delivery surpass me, sir,” he said.

“Me as well, I assure you. Now we must flee—ah, a rude bluntness—I meant ‘depart,' of course. We must depart.” He sighed, looking around. “Forgive me, I am weary, beyond even achieving the expected courtesies of civil discourse.”

“No need for apologies,” Fiddler said. “While I have no idea how you got here and no idea how you'll get back to Darujhistan, I wish you a safe and swift journey. One last question, however: did the mage say anything about where the contents of this crate came from?”

“Oh, indeed he did, sir. From the Blue City's streets. An obscure reference you are clearly fortunate to understand in an instant, I see.”

“Did the mage give you any warning as to the handling of this package, Karpolan?”

The merchant grimaced. “He said we were not to jostle too much. However, this last stretch of our journey was somewhat…rough. I regret to say that some of the crate's contents may well be broken.”

Fiddler smiled. “I am pleased to inform you that they have survived.”

Karpolan Demesand frowned. “You have not yet examined the contents—how can you tell?”

“You'll just have to trust me on that one, sir.”

 

Crokus closed the door once Fiddler had carried the crate inside. The sapper gingerly set the container down and prised open the lid. “Ah, Quick Ben,” he whispered, eyes scanning the objects nestled within, “one day I shall raise a temple in your name.” He counted seven cussers, thirteen masonry crackers and four flamers.

“But how did that merchant get here?” Crokus asked. “From Darujhistan! Hood's breath, Fid!”

“Don't I know it.” He straightened, glanced at the others. “I'm feeling good, comrades. Very good indeed.”

“Optimism!” Pust snarled in a tone close to bursting with disgust. The High Priest yanked at the wispy remnants of his hair. “While that foul monkey pisses terror into the lad's lap!
Optimism
!”

Crokus now held the familiar out from him and stared disbelieving at the stream pouring down to splash the flagstones. “Moby?” The creature was grinning sheepishly.

“Soletaken, you mean!”

“A momentary lapse,” Apsalar said, eyeing the squirming creature. “The realization of what has come about. That, or an odd sense of humor.”

“What are you babbling about?” Pust demanded, eyes narrowing.

“He thought he'd found the Path, thought that what called him here was the ancient promise of Ascendancy—and in a way, Moby was right in thinking that. The bhok'aral there in your hands, Crokus, is demonic. In true form, it could hold you as you now hold it.”

Mappo grunted. “Ah, I see now.”

“Then why not enlighten us?” Crokus snapped.

Apsalar nudged the corpse at her feet. “Tremorlor needed a new guardian. Need I be any clearer?”

Crokus blinked, looking again at Moby, the trembling creature in his hands. “My uncle's familiar?”

“A demon, at the moment somewhat intimidated by expectation, we might assume. But I'm sure the creature will grow into the role.”

Fiddler had been packing the Moranth munitions into his leather sack while this had been going on. Now he rose and gingerly swung the bag over a shoulder. “Quick Ben believed we'd find a portal somewhere in here, a warren's gate—”

“Linking the House!” Pust crowed. “Outrageous audacity—this cunning mage of yours has charmed me, soldier. He should have been a servant of Shadow!”

He was, but never mind that. If your god's of a mind to, he'll tell you—though I wouldn't hold my breath…
“It's time to find that portal—”

“To the T-intersection, down the left passage to the two doors. The one to the left takes us into the tower. Top floor.” Apsalar smiled.

Fiddler stared at her a moment, then nodded.
Your borrowed memories…

Moby led the way, revealing a return of nerve, and something like possessive pride. Just beyond the intersection, in the left-hand passage, there was an alcove set in the wall, on which hung resplendent scale armor suited to a wearer over ten foot tall and of massive girth. Two double-bladed axes leaned against the niche walls, one to either side. Moby paused there to play a tiny, loving hand over one iron-sheathed boot, before wistfully moving on. Crokus stumbled in passing as it momentarily gripped his full attention.

Upon opening the door, they entered the tower's ground floor. A stone staircase spiraled up from its center. At the foot of the saddlebacked steps lay another body, a young, dark-skinned woman who looked as if she had been placed there but an hour before. She was dressed in what were clearly underclothes, though the armor that had once covered them was nowhere to be seen. Vicious wounds crisscrossed her slight form.

Apsalar approached, crouched down and rested a hand on the girl's shoulder. “I know her,” she whispered.

“Eh?” Rellock growled.

“The memory of the one who possessed me, Father,” she said. “His mortal memory—”

“Dancer,” Fiddler said.

She nodded. “This is Dassem Ultor's daughter. The First Sword recovered her after Hood was done using her, and brought her here, it seems.”

“Before breaking his vow to Hood—”

“Aye, before Dassem cursed the god he once served.”

“That was years ago, Apsalar,” Fiddler said.

“I know.”

They were silent, all studying the frail young woman lying at the foot of the stairs. Mappo shifted Icarium's weight in his arms, as if uneasy with the echo he knew he had become, even though it was understood that he would not do with his burden what Dassem Ultor had done.

Apsalar straightened and cast her eyes up the staircase. “If Dancer's memory serves, the portal awaits.”

Fiddler swung to the others. “Mappo? You will join us?”

“Aye, though perhaps not all the way—assuming there's a means to leave that warren when one so chooses—”

“Quite an assumption,” the sapper said.

The Trell simply shrugged.

“Iskaral Pust?”

“Oh, aye. Of course, of course! Why not, why ever not? To walk the maze back out? Insanity! Iskaral Pust is anything but insane, as you all well know. Aye, I shall accompany you…and silently add to naught but myself: perhaps an opportunity for betrayal will yet arise! Betray what? Betray whom? Does it matter? It is not the goal that brings pleasure, but the journey taken to achieve it!”

Fiddler met Crokus's sharp gaze. “Watch him,” he said.

“I shall.”

The sapper then glanced down to Moby. The familiar squatted by the doorway, quietly playing with its own tail. “How does one say goodbye to a bhok'aral?”

“With a boot in the backside, how else?” Pust offered.

“Care to try that with this one?” Fiddler asked.

The High Priest scowled, made no move.

“He was out there when we traveled the storms, wasn't he?” Crokus said, approaching the tiny wizened creature. “Recall those battles we could not see? He was protecting us…all along.”

“Aye,” the sapper said.

“Ulterior motives!” Pust hissed.

“Nonetheless.”

“Gods, he'll be lonely!” Crokus gathered the bhok'aral into his arms. There was no shame to the tears in the lad's eyes.

Blinking, Fiddler turned away, grimacing as he studied the staircase. “It'll do you no good to draw it out, Crokus,” he said.

“I'll find a way to visit,” the Daru whispered.

“Think on what you see, Crokus,” Apsalar said. “He looks content enough. As for being alone, how do you know that will be the case? There are other Houses, other guardians…”

The lad nodded. Slowly he released his grip on the familiar and set it down. “With luck, there won't be any crockery lying around.”

“What?”

Crokus smiled. “Moby always had bad luck around crockery, or should I say it the other way around?” He rested a hand on the creature's blunt, hairless head, then rose. “Let's go.”

 

The bhok'aral watched the group ascend the stairs. A moment later there was a midnight flash from above, and they were gone. The creature listened carefully, cocking its tiny head, but there was no more sound from the chamber above.

It sat unmoving for a few more minutes, idly plucking at its own tail, then swung about and scampered into the hallway, coming to a stop before the suit of armor.

The massive, closed great helm tilted with a soft creak, and a ragged voice came from it. “I am pleased my solitude is at an end, little one. Tremorlor welcomes you with all its heart…even if you have made a mess on the hallway floor.”

 

Dust and gravel sprayed, rapping against Duiker's shield, as the Wickan horsewarrior struck the ground and rolled, coming to a stop at the historian's feet. No more than a lad, the Crow looked almost peaceful, eyes closed as if in gentle sleep. But for him, all dreams had ended.

Duiker stepped over the body and stood for a moment in the dust it had raised. The short sword in his right hand was glued there by blood, announcing every shift of his grip with a thick, sobbing sound.

Riders wheeled across the hoof-churned space before the historian. Arrows sped out from the gaps between them, hummed like tigerflies through the air. He jerked his shield around to catch one darting for his face, and grunted at the solid whack that drove the hide-covered rim against mouth and chin, splitting both.

Tarxian cavalry had broken through and was only moments away from severing the dozen remaining squads from the rest of the company. The Crow counterattack had been savage and furious, but costly. Worst of all, Duiker saw as he moved warily forward, it might well have failed.

The infantry squads had been broken apart and had reformed into four groups—only one of them substantial—which now struggled to re-knit. Less than a score of Crow horsewarriors remained upright, each one surrounded by Tarxians hacking at them with their broad-bladed tulwars. Everywhere horses writhed and screamed on the ground, kicking out in their pain.

The back end of a cavalry horse nearly knocked him over. Stepping around, Duiker closed in and thrust the point of his sword into a Tarxian's leather-clad thigh. The light armor resisted a moment, until the historian threw all his weight behind the stab, feeling the point pierce flesh, sink deep and grate against bone. He twisted the blade.

A tulwar slashed down, biting solidly into Duiker's shield. He bent low, pulling the snagged weapon with him. Fresh blood drenched his sword hand as he yanked his blade free. The historian hacked and chopped at the man's hip until the horse sidestepped, carrying the rider beyond his reach.

He pushed his helm rim clear of his eyes, blinked away grit and sweat, then moved forward again, toward the largest knot of infantry.

Three days since Sanimon Valley and the bloody reprieve granted them by the Khundryl tribe. Their unexpected allies had closed that battle pursuing the remnants of their rival tribes into the hours of dusk, before slipping off to return, presumably, to their own lands. They had not been seen since.

The mauling had driven Korbolo Dom into a rage—that much was patently clear—for the attacks were now incessant, a running battle over forty hours long and with no sign that it would relent any time soon.

The beleaguered Chain of Dogs was struck again and again, from the flanks, from behind, at times from two or three directions at once. What vengeful blades, lances and arrows did not achieve, exhaustion was completing. Soldiers were simply falling to the ground, their armor in tatters, countless minor wounds slowly draining the last of their reserves. Hearts failed, major blood vessels burst beneath skin to blossom into bruises that were deep black, as if some dreadful plague now ran amok through the troops.

The scenes Duiker had witnessed were beyond horror, beyond his ability to comprehend.

He reached the infantry even as the other groups managed to close and link up, wheeling into a bladed wheel formation that no horse—no matter how well trained—would challenge.

Within the ring, a swordsman began beating sword on shield, bellowing to add his voice to the rhythm of blows. The wheel spun, each soldier stepping in time, spun, crossing the ground, spun, slowly returning to where the remaining company still held the line on this, the west flank of the Chain.

Duiker moved with them, part of the outer ring, delivering killing blows to whatever wounded enemy soldier the wheel trampled. Five Crow riders kept pace. They were the last survivors of the counterattack and, of those, two would not fight again.