The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (351 page)

‘I understand. Take your time. Biltar slid right under in any case, and Alrute looks about to the next time. You're doing well.'

He lifted the log once more, rolled it another half-twist. Splashes and gurgling sounds came from the other end.

Then a gasp. ‘Almost there, Teblor. I'm the last. One more—I'll roll myself under it, so it pins me down.'

‘Then you are crushed, not drowned.'

‘In this muck? No worries there, Teblor. I'll feel the weight, true, but it won't cause me much pain.'

‘You lie.'

‘So what? It's not the means, it's the end that matters.'

‘All things matter,' Karsa said, preparing once more. ‘I shall twist it all the way round this time, lowlander. It will be easier now that my own chains are shorter. Are you ready?'

‘A moment, please,' the man sputtered.

Karsa lifted the log, grunting with the immense weight pulling down on his arms.

‘I've had a change of heart—'

‘I haven't.' Karsa spun the log. Then dropped it.

Wild thrashing from the other end, chains sawing the air, then frantic coughing.

Surprised, Karsa looked up. A brown-smeared figure flailed about, sputtering, kicking.

Karsa slowly sat back, waiting for the man to recover. For a while, there was naught but heavy gasping from the other end of the log. ‘You managed to roll back over, then under and out. I am impressed, lowlander. It seems you are not a coward after all. I did not believe there were such as you among the children.'

‘Sheer courage,' the man rasped. ‘That's me.'

‘Whose tooth was it?'

‘Alrute's. Now, no more spinning, if you please.'

‘I am sorry, lowlander, but I must now spin it the opposite way, until the log is as it was before I started.'

‘I curse your grim logic, Teblor.'

‘What is your name?'

‘Torvald Nom, though to my Malazan enemies, I'm known as Knuckles.'

‘And how came you to learn the Sunyd tongue?'

‘It's the old trader language, actually. Before there were bounty hunters, there were Nathii traders. A mutually profitable trade between them and the Sunyd. The truth is, your language is close kin to Nathii.'

‘The soldiers spoke gibberish.'

‘Naturally; they're soldiers.' He paused. ‘All right, that sort of humour's lost on you. So be it. Likely, those soldiers were Malazan.'

‘I have decided that the Malazans are my enemy.'

‘Something we share, then, Teblor.'

‘We share naught but this tree trunk, lowlander.'

‘If you prefer. Though I feel obliged to correct you on one thing. Hateworthy as the Malazans are, the Nathii these days are no better. You've no allies among the lowlanders, Teblor, be sure of that.'

‘Are you a Nathii?'

‘No. I'm Daru. From a city far to the south. The House of Nom is vast and certain families among it are almost wealthy. We've a Nom in the Council, in fact,
in Darujhistan. Never met him. Alas, my own family's holdings are more, uh, modest. Hence my extended travels and nefarious professions—'

‘You talk too much, Torvald Nom. I am ready to turn this log once more.'

‘Damn, I was hoping you'd forgotten about that.'

 

The iron bar's end was more than halfway through the trunk, the flange a blunt, shapeless piece of metal. Karsa could not keep the aching and trembling from his legs, even as the rest periods between efforts grew ever longer. The larger wounds in his chest and back, created by the splinter of wood, had reopened, leaking steadily to mix with the sweat soaking his clothes. The skin and flesh of his ankles were shredded.

Torvald had succumbed to his own exhaustion, shortly after the log had been returned to its original position, groaning in his sleep whilst Karsa laboured on.

For the moment, as the Uryd warrior rested against the clay slope, the only sounds were his own ragged gasps, underscored by softer, shallow breaths from the far end of the trunk.

Then the sound of boots crossed overhead, first in one direction, then back again, and gone.

Karsa pushed himself upright once more, his head spinning.

‘Rest longer, Teblor.'

‘There is no time for that, Torvald Nom—'

‘Oh, but there is. That slavemaster who now owns you will be waiting here for a while, so that he and his train can travel in the company of the Malazan soldiers. For as far as Malybridge, at least. There's been plenty of bandit activity from Fool's Forest and Yellow Mark, for which I acknowledge some proprietary pride, since it was me who united that motley collection of highwaymen and throat-slitters in the first place. They'd have already come to rescue me, too, if not for the Malazans.'

‘I will kill that slavemaster,' Karsa said.

‘Careful with that one, giant. Silgar's not a pleasant man, and he's used to dealing with warriors like you—'

‘I am Uryd, not Sunyd.'

‘So you keep saying, and I've no doubt you're meaner—you're certainly bigger. All I was saying is, be wary of Silgar.'

Karsa positioned himself over the log.

‘You have time to spare, Teblor. There's no point in freeing yourself if you're then unable to walk. This isn't the first time I've been in chains, and I speak from experience: bide your time, an opportunity will arise, if you don't wither and die first.'

‘Or drown.'

‘Point taken, and yes, I understood your meaning when you spoke of courage. I admit to a moment of despair.'

‘Do you know how long you have been chained here?'

‘Well, there was snow on the ground and the lake's ice had just broken.'

Karsa slowly glanced over at the barely visible, scrawny figure at the far end. ‘Torvald Nom, even a lowlander should not be made to suffer such a fate.'

The man's laugh was a rattle. ‘And you call
us
children. You Teblor cut people down as if you were executioners, but among my kind, execution is an act of mercy. For your average condemned bastard, prolonged torture is far more likely. The Nathii have made the infliction of suffering an art—must be the cold winters or something. In any case, if not for Silgar claiming you—and the Malazan soldiers in town—the locals would be peeling the skin from your flesh right now, a sliver at a time. Then they'd lock you inside a box to let you heal. They know that your kind are immune to infections, which means they can make you suffer for a long, long time. There's a lot of frustrated townsfolk out there right now, I'd imagine.'

Karsa began pulling on the bar once more.

He was interrupted by voices overhead, then heavy thumping, as of a dozen or more barefooted arrivals, the sound joined now by chains slithering across the warehouse floor.

Karsa settled back against the opposite trench slope.

The trapdoor opened. A child in the lead, lantern in hand, and then Sunyd—naked but for rough-woven short skirts—making a slow descent, their left ankles shackled with a chain linking them all together. The lowlander with the lantern walked down the walkway between the two trenches. The Sunyd, eleven in all, six men and five women, followed.

Their heads were lowered; none would meet Karsa's steady, cold regard.

At a gesture from the child, who had halted four long paces from Karsa's position, the Sunyd turned and slid down the slope of their trench. Three more lowlanders had appeared, and followed them down to apply the fixed shackles to the Teblor's other ankles. There was no resistance from the Sunyd.

Moments later, the lowlanders were back on the walkway, then heading up the steps. The trapdoor squealed on its hinges, closing with a reverberating thump that sent dust drifting down through the gloom.

‘It is true, then. An Uryd.' The voice was a whisper.

Karsa sneered. ‘Was that the voice of a Teblor? No, it could not have been. Teblor do not become slaves. Teblor would rather die than kneel before a lowlander.'

‘An Uryd…
in chains
. Like the rest of us—'

‘Like the Sunyd? Who let these foul children come close and fix shackles to their legs? No. I am a prisoner, but no bindings shall hold me for long. The Sunyd must be reminded what it is to be a Teblor.'

A new voice spoke from among the Sunyd, a woman's. ‘We saw the dead, lined up on the ground before the hunters' camp. We saw wagons, filled with dead Malazans. Townsfolk were wailing. Yet, it is said there were but three of you—'

‘Two, not three. Our companion, Delum Thord, was wounded in the head, his mind had fallen away. He ran with the dogs. Had his mind been whole, his blood-sword in his hands—'

There was sudden murmuring from the Sunyd, the word
bloodsword
spoken in tones of awe.

Karsa scowled. ‘What is this madness? Have the Sunyd lost
all
the old ways of the Teblor?'

The woman sighed. ‘Lost? Yes, long ago. Our own children slipping away in the night to wander south into the lowlands, eager for the cursed lowlander coins—the bits of metal around which life itself seems to revolve. Sorely used, were our children—some even returned to our valleys, as scouts for the hunters. The secret groves of bloodwood were burned down, our horses slain. To be betrayed by our own children, Uryd, this is what broke the Sunyd.'

‘Your children should have been hunted down,' Karsa said. ‘The hearts of your warriors were too soft. Blood-kin is cut when betrayal is done. Those children ceased being Sunyd. I will kill them for you.'

‘You would have trouble finding them, Uryd. They are scattered, many fallen, many now sold into servitude to repay their debts. And some have travelled great distances, to the great cities of Nathilog and Genabaris. Our tribe is no more.'

The first Sunyd who had spoken added, ‘Besides, Uryd, you are in chains. Now the property of Master Silgar, from whom no slave has ever escaped. You will be killing no-one, ever again. And like us, you will be made to kneel. Your words are empty.'

Karsa straddled the log once more. He grasped hold of the chains this time, wrapping them about his wrists as many times as he could.

Then he threw himself back. Muscles bunching, legs pushing down on the log, back straightening. Grinding, splintering, a sudden loud crack.

Karsa was thrown backward onto the clay slope, chains snapping around him. Blinking the sweat from his eyes, he stared down at the log.

The trunk had split, down its entire length.

There was a low hiss from the other end, the rustle of freed chains. ‘Hood take me, Karsa Orlong,' Torvald whispered, ‘you don't take insults well, do you?'

Though no longer attached to the log, Karsa's wrists and ankles were still chained to the iron bars. The warrior unravelled the chains from his battered, bleeding forearms, then collected one of the bars. Laying the ankle chain against the log, he drove the bar's unflanged end into a single link, then began twisting it with both hands.

‘What has happened?' a Sunyd asked. ‘What was that sound?'

‘The Uryd's spine has snapped,' the first speaker replied in a drawl.

Torvald's laugh was a cold chuckle. ‘The Lord's push for you, Ganal, I'm afraid.'

‘What do you mean, Nom?'

The link popped, sending a piece whipping across the trench to thud against the earthen wall.

Karsa dragged the chain from his ankle shackles. Then he set to splitting the one holding his wrists.

Another popping sound. He freed his arms.

‘What is happening?'

A third crack, as he snapped the chain from the iron bar he had been using—which was the undamaged one, its flange intact, sharp-edged and jagged. Karsa clambered from the trench.

‘Where is this Ganal?' he growled.

All but one of the Sunyd lying in the opposite trench shrank back at his words.

‘I am Ganal,' said the lone warrior who had not moved. ‘Not a broken spine after all. Well then, warrior, kill me for my sceptical words.'

‘I shall.' Karsa strode down the walkway, lifting the iron bar.

‘If you do that,' Torvald said hastily, ‘the others will likely raise a cry.'

Karsa hesitated.

Ganal smiled up at him. ‘If you spare me, there will be no alarm sounded, Uryd. It is night, still a bell or more before dawn. You will make good your escape—'

‘And by your silence, you will all be punished,' Karsa said.

‘No. We were all sleeping.'

The woman spoke. ‘Bring the Uryd, in all your numbers. When you have slain everyone in this town, then you can settle judgement upon us Sunyd, as will be your right.'

Karsa hesitated, then he nodded. ‘Ganal, I give you more of your miserable life. But I shall come once more, and I shall remember you.'

‘I have no doubt, Uryd,' Ganal replied. ‘Not any more.'

‘Karsa,' Torvald said. ‘I may be a lowlander and all—'

‘I shall free you, child,' the Uryd replied, turning from the Sunyd trench. ‘You have shown courage.' He slid down to the man's side. ‘You are too thin to walk,' he observed. ‘Unable to run. Do you still wish for me to release you?'

‘Thin? I haven't lost more than half a stone, Karsa Orlong. I can run.'

‘You sounded poorly earlier on—'

‘Sympathy.'

‘You sought sympathy from an Uryd?'

The man's bony shoulders lifted in a sheepish shrug. ‘It was worth a try.'

Karsa pried the chain apart.

Torvald pulled his arms free. ‘Beru's blessing on you, lad.'

‘Keep your lowlander gods to yourself.'

‘Of course. Apologies. Anything you say.'

Torvald scrambled up the slope. On the walkway, he paused. ‘What of the trapdoor, Karsa Orlong?'

‘What of it?' the warrior growled, climbing up and moving past the lowlander.

Torvald bowed as Karsa went past, a scrawny arm sweeping out in a graceful gesture. ‘Lead me, by all means.'