The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (360 page)

The Seven Faces in the Rock never spoke of freedom. The Teblor were their servants.
Their slaves
.

‘You look unwell, Karsa,' Torvald said, approaching. ‘I am sorry for my last words—'

‘There is no need, Torvald Nom,' Karsa said, rising. ‘We should return to our—'

He stopped as the first splashes of rain struck him, then the deck on all sides. Milky, slimy rain.

‘Uh!' Torvald grunted. ‘If this is a god's spit, he's decidedly unwell.'

The water smelled foul, rotten. It quickly coated the ship decks, the rigging and tattered sails overhead, in a thick, pale grease.

Swearing, the Daru began gathering foodstuffs and watercasks to load into their dory below. Karsa completed one last circuit of the decks, examining the weapons and armour he had pulled from the grey-skinned bodies. He found the rack of harpoons and gathered the six that remained.

The downpour thickened, creating murky, impenetrable walls on all sides of the ship. Slipping in the deepening muck, Karsa and Torvald quickly resupplied
the dory, then pushed out from the ship's hull, the Teblor at the oars. Within moments the ship was lost from sight, and around them the rain slackened. Five sweeps of the oars and they were out from beneath it entirely, once again on gently heaving seas under a pallid sky. The strange coastline was visible ahead, slowly drawing closer.

 

On the forecastle of the massive ship, moments after the dory with its two passengers slipped behind the screen of muddy rain, seven almost insubstantial figures rose from the slime. Shattered bones, gaping wounds bleeding nothing, the figures weaved uncertainly in the gloom, as if barely able to maintain their grip on the scene they had entered.

One of them hissed with anger. ‘Each time we seek to draw the knot tight—'

‘He cuts it,' another finished in a wry, bitter tone.

A third one stepped down to the mizzen deck, kicked desultorily at a discarded sword. ‘The failure belonged to the Tiste Edur,' this one pronounced in a rasping voice. ‘If punishment must be enacted, it should be in answer to their arrogance.'

‘Not for us to demand,' the first speaker snapped. ‘We are not the masters in this scheme—'

‘Nor are the Tiste Edur!'

‘Even so, and we are each given particular tasks. Karsa Orlong survives still, and he must be our only concern—'

‘He begins to know doubts.'

‘None the less, his journey continues. It falls to us, now, with what little power we are able to extend, to direct his path onward.'

‘We've had scant success thus far!'

‘Untrue. The Shattered Warren stirs awake once more. The broken heart of the First Empire begins to bleed—less than a trickle at the moment, but soon it will become a flood. We need only set our chosen warrior upon the proper current…'

‘And is that within our power, limited as it still remains?'

‘Let us find out. Begin the preparations. Ber'ok, scatter that handful of otataral dust in the cabin—the Tiste Edur sorcerer's warren remains open and, in this place, it will quickly become a wound…a growing wound. The time has not yet come for such unveilings.'

The speaker then lifted its mangled head and seemed to sniff the air. ‘We must work quickly,' it announced after a moment. ‘I believe we are being hunted.'

The remaining six turned to face the speaker, who nodded in answer to their silent question. ‘Yes. There are kin upon our trail.'

 

The wreckage of an entire land had drawn up alongside the massive stone wall. Uprooted trees, rough-hewn logs, planks, shingles and pieces of wagons and carts were visible amidst the detritus. The verges were thick with matted grasses and rotted leaves, forming a broad plain that twisted, rose and fell on the waves. The
wall was barely visible in places, so high was the flotsam, and the level of the water beneath it.

Torvald Nom was positioned at the bow whilst Karsa rowed. ‘I don't know how we'll get to that wall,' the Daru said. ‘You'd better back the oars now, friend, lest we ground ourselves on that mess—there's catfish about.'

Karsa slowed the dory. They drifted, the hull nudging the carpet of flotsam. After a few moments it became apparent that there was a current, pulling their craft along the edge.

‘Well,' Torvald muttered, ‘that's a first for this sea. Do you think this is some sort of tide?'

‘No,' Karsa replied, his gaze tracking the strange shoreline in the direction of the current. ‘It is a breach in the wall.'

‘Oh. Can you see where?'

‘Yes, I think so.'

The current was tugging them along faster, now.

Karsa continued, ‘There is an indentation in the shoreline, and many trees and logs jammed where the wall should be—can you not hear the roar?'

‘Aye, now I can.' Tension rode the Daru's words. He straightened at the bow. ‘I see it. Karsa, we'd better—'

‘Yes, it is best we avoid this.' The Teblor repositioned himself at the oars. He drew the dory away from the verge. The hull tugged sluggishly beneath them, began twisting. Karsa leaned his weight into each sweep, struggling to regain control. The water swirled around them.

‘Karsa!' Torvald shouted. ‘There's people—near the breach! I see a wrecked boat!'

The breach was on the Teblor's left as he pulled the dory across the current. He looked to where Torvald was pointing, and, after a moment, he bared his teeth. ‘The slavemaster and his men.'

‘They're waving us over.'

Karsa ceased sweeping with his left oar. ‘We cannot defeat this current,' he announced, swinging the craft around. ‘The further out we proceed, the stronger it becomes.'

‘I think that's what happened to Silgar's boat—they managed to ground it just this side of the mouth, stoving it in, in the process. We should try to avoid a similar fate, Karsa, if we can, that is.'

‘Then keep an eye out for submerged logs,' the Teblor said as he angled the dory closer to shore. ‘Also, are the lowlanders armed?'

‘Not that I can see,' Torvald replied after a moment. ‘They look to be in, uh, in pretty bad condition. They're perched on a small island of logs. Silgar, and Damisk, and one other…Borrug, I think. Gods, Karsa, they're starved.'

‘Take a harpoon,' the Teblor growled. ‘That hunger could well drive them to desperation.'

‘A touch shoreward, Karsa, we're almost there.'

There was a soft crunch from the hull, then a grinding, stuttering motion as the current sought to drag them along the verge. Torvald clambered out, ropes in
one hand and harpoon in the other. Beyond him, Karsa saw as he turned about, huddled the three Nathii lowlanders, making no move to help and, if anything, drawing back as far as they could manage on the tangled island. The breach's roar was a still-distant thundering, though closer at hand were ominous cracks, tearing and shifting noises—the logjam was coming loose.

Torvald made fast the dory with a skein of lines tied to various branches and roots. Karsa stepped ashore, drawing his bloodsword, his eyes levelling on Silgar.

The slavemaster attempted to retreat further.

Near the three emaciated lowlanders lay the remains of a fourth, his bones picked clean.

‘Teblor!' Silgar implored. ‘You must listen to me!'

Karsa slowly advanced.

‘I can save us!'

Torvald tugged at Karsa's arm. ‘Wait, friend, let's hear the bastard.'

‘He will say anything,' Karsa growled.

‘Even so—'

Damisk Greydog spoke. ‘Karsa Orlong, listen! This island is being torn apart—we all need your boat. Silgar's a mage—he can open a portal. But not if he's drowning. Understand? He can take us from this realm!'

‘Karsa,' Torvald said, weaving as the logs shifted under him, his grip on the Teblor's arm tightening.

Karsa looked down at the Daru beside him. ‘You trust Silgar?'

‘Of course not. But we've no choice—we'd be unlikely to survive plunging through that breach in the dory. We don't even know this wall's height—the drop on the other side could be endless. Karsa, we're armed and they're not—besides, they're too weak to cause us trouble, you can see that, can't you?'

Silgar screamed as a large section of the logjam sank away immediately behind him.

Scowling, Karsa sheathed his sword. ‘Begin untying the boat, Torvald.' He waved at the lowlanders. ‘Come, then. But know this, Slavemaster, any sign of treachery from you and your friends will be picking your bones next.'

Damisk, Silgar and Borrug scrambled forward.

The entire section of flotsam was pulling away, breaking up along its edges as the current swept it onward. Clearly, the breach was expanding, widening to the pressure of an entire sea.

Silgar climbed in and crouched down beside the dory's prow. ‘I shall open a portal,' he announced, his voice a rasp. ‘I can only do so but once—'

‘Then why didn't you leave a long time ago?' Torvald demanded, as he slipped the last line loose and clambered back aboard.

‘There was no path before—out on the sea. But now, here—someone has opened a gate. Close. The fabric is…weakened. I've not the skill to do such a thing myself. But I can follow.'

The dory scraped free of the crumbling island, swung wildly into the sweeping current. Karsa pushed and pulled with the oars to angle their bow into the torrential flow.

‘Follow?' Torvald repeated. ‘Where?'

To that Silgar simply shook his head.

Karsa abandoned the oars and made his way to the stern, taking the tiller in both hands.

They rode the tumbling, churning sea of wreckage towards the breach. Where the wall had given way there was an ochre cloud of mist as vast and high as a thunderhead. Beyond it, there seemed to be nothing at all.

Silgar was making gestures with both hands, snapping them out as would a blind man seeking a door latch. Then he jabbed a finger to the right. ‘There!' he shrieked, swinging a wild look on Karsa. ‘There! Angle us there!'

The place Silgar pointed towards looked no different from anywhere else. Immediately beyond it, the water simply vanished—a wavering line that was the breach itself. Shrugging, Karsa pushed on the tiller. Where they went over mattered little to him. If Silgar failed they would plunge over, falling whatever distance, to crash amidst a foaming maelstrom that would kill them all.

He watched as everyone but Silgar hunkered down, mute with terror.

The Teblor smiled. ‘Urugal!' he bellowed, half rising as the dory raced for the edge.

Darkness swallowed them.

And then they were falling.

A loud, explosive crack. The tiller's handle split under Karsa's hands, then the stern hammered into him from behind, throwing the Teblor forward. He struck water a moment later, the impact making him gasp—taking in a mouthful of salty sea—before plunging into the chill blackness.

He struggled upward until his head broke the surface, but there was no lessening of the darkness, as if they'd fallen down a well, or had appeared within a cave. Nearby, someone was coughing helplessly, whilst a little farther off another survivor was thrashing about.

Wreckage brushed up against Karsa. The dory had shattered, though the Teblor was fairly certain that the fall had not been overly long—they had arrived at a height of perhaps two adult warriors combined. Unless the boat had struck something, it should have survived.

‘Karsa!'

Still coughing, Torvald Nom arrived alongside the Teblor. The Daru had found the shaft of one of the oars, over which he had draped his arms. ‘What in Hood's name do you think happened?'

‘We passed through that sorcerous gate,' Karsa explained. ‘That should be obvious, for we are now somewhere else.'

‘Not as simple as that,' Torvald replied. ‘The blade of this oar—here, look at the end.'

Finding himself comfortably buoyant in this salty water, it took only a moment for Karsa to swim to the end of the shaft. It had been cut through, as if by a single blow from an iron sword such as the lowlanders used. He grunted.

The distant thrashing sounds had drawn closer. From much farther away, Damisk's voice called out.

‘Here!' Torvald shouted back.

A shape loomed up beside them. It was Silgar, clinging to one of the water casks.

‘Where are we?' Karsa asked the slavemaster.

‘How should I know?' the Nathii snapped. ‘I did not fashion the gate, I simply made use of it—and it had mostly closed, which is why the floor of the boat did not come with us. It was sheared clean off. None the less, I believe we are in a sea, beneath an overcast sky. Were there no ambient light, we'd not be able to see each other right now. Alas, I can hear no coast, though it's so calm there might be no waves to brush the shoreline.'

‘Meaning we could be within a dozen strokes and not know it.'

‘Yes. Fortunately for us, it is a rather warm sea. We must simply await dawn—'

‘Assuming there is one,' Torvald said.

‘There is,' Silgar asserted. ‘Feel the layers in this water. It's colder down where our feet are. So a sun has looked down upon this sea, I am certain of it.'

Damisk swam into view, struggling with Borrug, who seemed to be unconscious. As he reached out to take hold of the water cask Silgar pushed him back, then kicked himself further away.

‘Slavemaster!' Damisk gasped.

‘This cask barely holds my weight as it is,' Silgar hissed. ‘It's near filled with fresh water—which we're likely to need. What is the matter with Borrug?'

Torvald moved along to give Damisk a place at the oar shaft. The tattooed guard attempted to drape Borrug's arms over it as well and Torvald drew closer once more to help.

‘I don't know what's wrong with him,' Damisk said. ‘He may have struck his head, though I can find no wound. He was babbling at first, floundering about, then he simply fell unconscious and nearly slipped under. I was lucky to reach him.'