The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (754 page)

To that, Ublala Pung shook his head.

Denial? Dismay?

Karsa Orlong addressed Ublala: ‘You must leave when this is done, warrior. You must travel to your islands and gather our people, then bring them here. You are now my army. I am Karsa Orlong, Toblakai and Teblor. I am your war leader.'

‘The marks on your face,' Ublala whispered.

‘What of them?'

‘As shattered as the Tarthenal. As the Toblakai – broken, driven apart. So the oldest legends say – scattered, by ice, by betrayal…'

An icy draught seemed to flow up around Samar Dev, like a cold wave engulfing a rock, and she shivered.
Oh, I dislike the sound of that, since it echoes the truth of things. Too clearly.

‘Yet see my face behind it,' Karsa said. ‘Two truths. What was and what will be. Do you deny this, Ublala of the Tarthenal?'

A mute shake of the head. Then the warrior shot another glance at Samar Dev, before saying, ‘War Leader, I have words. Of…of Rhulad Sengar, the Edur Emperor. Words…of his secret.'

‘Leave us, witch,' Karsa said.

She started. ‘What? Not a chance—'

‘Leave us or I will instruct my warrior to knock your head together.'

‘Oh, so now it's idiocy that inspires you?'

‘Samar Dev,' Karsa said. ‘This warrior has defeated every barrier surrounding this compound. I am not interested in his words. Did you not hear the alarms? He fights as would a Toblakai.'

‘They tried Drowning me too, once,' Ublala said.

Samar Dev snorted. ‘With him around, it truly is a struggle to remain solemn, never mind dignified. A cure for pomposity, Karsa Orlong – be sure to keep this one at your side.'

‘Go.'

She gestured with sudden contempt. ‘Oh, fine, on with you two, then. Later, Karsa, I will remind you of one thing.'

‘What?'

She opened the door behind her. ‘This oaf couldn't even find your room.'

Out in the corridor, Samar Dev heard a stirring from one of the guards, then a groan and then, distinctly: ‘What are all those lights?'

The earthy smell of the dung-fires preceded the first sighting of the Awl army. Beneath the smudged light of a dull moon, the Atri-Preda and Brohl Handar rode with the scout troop to the base of a ridge, where they dismounted and, leaving one soldier with the horses, set out on foot up the slope.

The summit was almost devoid of grasses, knobs of angular bedrock pushing through where the ceaseless winds had eroded away the scant soil. Dropping down low, the half-dozen Letherii and one Tiste Edur edged up between the outcroppings, filling the spaces in the broken spine of basalt.

Beyond, perhaps a third of a league distant, burned the cookfires of the enemy. A sea of fallen, smouldering stars, spreading out to fill the basin of an entire valley, then up the far slope, defining its contours.

‘How many do you judge?' Brohl Handar asked the Atri-Preda in a low voice.

Bivatt sighed. ‘Combatants? Maybe ten, eleven thousand. These armies are more like migrations, Overseer. Everyone tags along.'

‘Then where are the herds?'

‘Probably the other side of the far valley.'

‘So tomorrow, we ride to battle.'

‘Yes. And again, I advise that you and your bodyguard remain with the train—'

‘That will not be necessary,' Brohl Handar cut in, repeating words he had uttered a dozen times in the past three days and nights. ‘There are Edur warriors with you, and they will be used, yes?'

‘If needed, Overseer. But the fight awaiting us looks to be no different from all the others we Letherii have had against these people of the plains. It looks as if Redmask was not able to sway the elders with any new schemes. It's the old tactics – the ones that fail them time and again.' She was silent for a moment, then she continued, ‘The valley behind us is called Bast Fulmar. It has some arcane significance for the Awl. That is where we will meet.'

He turned his head and studied her in the gloom. ‘You are content to let them choose the place of battle?'

She snorted. ‘Overseer, if these lands were filled with defiles, canyons, arroyos or impassable rivers – or forests – then indeed I would think carefully about engaging the enemy where they want us to. But not here. Visibility is not an issue – with our mages the Awl cannot hide in any case. There are no difficult avenues of retreat, no blinds. The fight tomorrow will be brutal in its simplicity. Awl ferocity against Letherii discipline.'

‘And with this Redmask leading them, they will be ferocious indeed.'

‘Yes. But it will fail in the end.'

‘You are confident, Atri-Preda.'

He caught her smile. ‘Relieved, Overseer. This night, I see only what I have seen a dozen times before. Do not imagine, however, that I am dismissing the enemy. It will be bloody.' With that she gestured, and the group began withdrawing from the ridgeline.

As they made their way down to the waiting horses, Brohl Handar said, ‘I saw no pickets, Atri-Preda. Nor mounted outriders. Does that not seem odd to you?'

‘No. They know we are close. They wanted us to see that camp.'

‘To achieve what? Some pointless effort to overawe us?'

‘Something like that, yes.'

You invite me to feel contempt for these Awl. Why? So that you can justify not using the Tiste Edur? The K'risnan? You want this victory on the morrow to be Letherii. You do not want to find yourself beholden to the Edur – not for this grand theft of land and beast, this harvesting of slaves.

So, I suspect, the Factor instructed. Letur Anict is not one to share the spoils.

I, Atri-Preda, am not relieved.

 

‘Stone-tipped arrows – you are truly a fool. They will break against Letherii armour. I can expect nothing from you. At least I discover that now, instead of in the midst of battle.'

Toc Anaster settled back on his haunches and watched Torrent march out of the firelight. Off…somewhere.
Somewhere important. Like the latrines.
He resumed examining the fletching on the Imass arrows.
Gift of an old friend. That clunking, creaking collection of droll bones.
He could barely recall the last time he was among friends. Gruntle, perhaps. Another continent. A drunken evening – was that Saltoan wine? Gredfallan ale? He couldn't recall.

Surrounding him, the murmur of thousands – their moving through the camp, their quiet conversations around the cookfires. Old men and old women, the lame, the young. A fire burning for each and every Awl.

And somewhere out on the plain, Redmask and his warriors – a night without fires, without conversations. Nothing, I imagine, but the soft honing of weapon edges. Iron and stone whispering in the night.

A simple deceit, its success dependent on Letherii expectations. Enemy scouts had spotted this camp, after all. As predicted. Countless fires in the darkness, appropriately close to Bast Fulmar, the site of the impending battle. All the way it was supposed to be.

But Redmask had other plans. And to aid in the deception, Toc suspected, some arcane sorcery from the K'Chain Che'Malle.

An elder appeared, walking into the fire's glow on bowed legs. Toc had seen this one speaking to Redmask, often riding at the war leader's side. He crouched down opposite Toc and studied him for a dozen heartbeats, then spat into the flames, nodded at the answering sizzle, and spoke: ‘I do not trust you.'

‘I'm crushed.'

‘Those arrows, they are bound in ritual magic. Yet no spirit has blessed them. What sort of sorcery is that? Letherii? Are you a creature of the Tiles and Holds? A traitor in our midst. You plot betrayal, vengeance against our abandoning you.'

‘Trying to inspire me, Elder? Sorry to disappoint you, but there are no embers in the ashes, nothing to stir to life.'

‘You are young.'

‘Not as young as you think. Besides, what has that to do with anything?'

‘Redmask likes you.'

Toc scratched the scar where an eye had been. ‘Are your wits addled by age?'

A grunt. ‘I know secrets.'

‘Me too.'

‘None to compare with mine. I was there when Redmask's sister killed herself.'

‘And I suckled at the tit of a K'Chain Che'Malle Matron. If tit is the right word.'

The old man's face twisted in disbelief. ‘That is a good lie. But it is not the game I am playing. I saw with my own eyes the great sea canoes. Upon the north shore. Thousands upon thousands.'

Toc began returning the arrows to the hide quiver. ‘These arrows were made by a dead man. Dead for a hundred thousand years, or more.'

The wrinkled scowl opposite him deepened. ‘I have seen skeletons running in the night – on this very plain.'

‘This body you see isn't mine. I stole it.'

‘I alone know the truth of Bast Fulmar.'

‘This body's father was a dead man – he gasped his last breath even as his seed was taken on a field of battle.'

‘The victory of long ago was in truth a defeat.'

‘This body grew strong on human meat.'

‘Redmask will betray us.'

‘This mouth waters as I look at you.'

The old man pushed himself to his feet. ‘Evil speaks in lies.'

‘And the good know only one truth. But it's a lie, because there's always more than one truth.'

Another throatful of phlegm into the campfire. Then a complicated series of gestures, the inscribing in the air above the flames of a skein of wards that seemed to swirl for a moment in the thin smoke. ‘You are banished,' the elder then pronounced.

‘You have no idea, old man.'

‘I think you should have died long ago.'

‘More times than I can count. Started with a piece of a moon. Then a damned puppet, then…oh, never mind.'

‘Torrent says you will run. In the end. He says your courage is broken.'

Toc looked down into the flames. ‘That may well be,' he said.

‘He will kill you then.'

‘Assuming he can catch me. If there's one thing I know how to do, it's ride a horse.'

With a snarl, the elder stormed off.

‘Courage,' Toc muttered to himself. ‘Yes, there is that. And maybe cowardice truly is bred in the very bones.'
Because let's face it, Anaster was no cold iron. Nor hot, for that matter.

From somewhere in the night came the keening howl of a wolf.

Toc grunted. ‘Yes, well, it's not as if I had the privilege of choice, is it? I wonder if any of us has. Ever.' He raised his voice slightly, ‘You know, Torrent – yes, I see you hulking out there – it occurs to me, given the precedent, that the question of cowardice is one your Awl must face, tomorrow. I have no doubt Redmask – if he has any concerns – is thinking on that right now. Wondering. Can he bully all of you into honour?'

The vague shape that was Torrent moved off.

Toc fell silent, tossed yet another lump of rodara dung onto the fire, and thought about old friends long gone.

 

The lone line of scuffed footprints ended with a figure, trudging up the distant slope of clay and pebbles. That was the thing about following a trail, Hedge reminded himself. Easy to forget the damned prints belonged to something real, especially after what seemed weeks of tracking the bastard.

T'lan Imass, as he had suspected. Those splayed, bony feet dragged too much, especially with an arch so high it left no imprint. True, some bowlegged Wickan might leave something similar, but not walking at a pace that stayed ahead of Hedge for this long. Not a chance of that. Still, it was odd that the ancient undead warrior was walking at all.

Easier traversing this wasteland as dust.

Maybe it's too damp. Maybe it's no fun being mud. I'll have to ask it that.

Assuming it doesn't kill me outright. Or try to, I mean. I keep forgetting that I'm already dead. If there's one thing the dead should remember, it's that crucial detail, don't you think, Fid? Bah, what would you know. You're still alive. And not here either.

Hood take me, I'm in need of company.

Not that damned whispering wind, though. Good thing it had fled, in tatters, unable to draw any closer to this T'lan Imass with – yes – but one arm.
Beat up thing, ain't it just?

He was sure it knew he was here, a thousand paces behind it.
Probably knows I'm a ghost, too. Which is why it hasn't bothered attacking me.

I think I'm getting used to this.

Another third of a league passed before Hedge was able to draw close enough to finally snare the undead warrior's regard. Halting, slowly turning about. The flint weapon in its lone hand was more a cutlass than a sword, its end strangely hooked. A hilt had been fashioned from the palmate portion of an antler, creating a shallow, tined bell-guard polished brown with age. Part of the warrior's face had been brutally smashed: but one side of its heavy jaw was intact, giving its ghastly mien a lopsided cant.

‘Begone, ghost,' the T'lan Imass said in a ravaged voice.

‘Well I would,' Hedge replied, ‘only it seems we're heading in the same direction.'

‘That cannot be.'

‘Why?'

‘Because you do not know where I am going.'

‘Oh, perfect Imass logic. In other words, absurd idiocy. No, I don't know precisely where you are going, but it is undeniably to be found in the same direction as where I am headed. Is that too sharp an observation for you?'

‘Why do you hold to your flesh?'

‘The same reason, I suppose, why you hold on to what's left of yours. Listen, I am named Hedge. I was once a soldier, a Bridgeburner. Malazan marines. Are you some cast-off from Logros T'lan Imass?'

The warrior said nothing for a moment, then, ‘I was once of Kron T'lan Imass. Born in the Season of Blood-from-the-Mountain to the clan of Eptr Phinana. My own blood arrived on the shores of Jagra Til. I am Emroth.'

‘A woman?'

A clattering, uneven shrug.

‘Well, Emroth, what are you doing walking across Hood's forgotten ice-pit?'

‘There is no pit here.'

‘As you say.' Hedge looked round. ‘Is this where abandoned T'lan Imass go, then?'

‘Not here,' Emroth replied. Then the cutlass lifted and slowly pointed.

Ahead. The direction Hedge had decided to call north. ‘What, are we headed towards a huge pile of frozen bones, then?'

Emroth turned and began walking once more.

Hedge moved up alongside the undead creature. ‘Were you beautiful once, Emroth?'

‘I do not remember.'

‘I was hopeless with women,' Hedge said. ‘My ears are too big – yes, that's why I wear this leather cap. And I got knobby knees. It's why I became a soldier, you know. To meet women. And then I discovered that women soldiers are scary. I mean, a lot more scary than normal women, which is saying something. I guess with you Imass, well, everyone was a warrior, right?'

‘I understand,' Emroth said.

‘You do? Understand what?'

‘Why you have no companions, Hedge of the Bridgeburners.'

‘You're not going to turn into a cloud of dust on me, are you?'

‘In this place, I cannot. Alas.'

Grinning, Hedge resumed, ‘It's not like I died a virgin or anything, of course. Even ugly bastards like me – well, so long as there's enough coin in your hand. But I'll tell you something, Emroth, that's not what you'd call love now, is it? So anyway, the truth of it is, I never shared that with anybody. Love. I mean, from the time I stopped being a child, right up until I died.

‘Now there was this soldier, once. She was big and mean. Named Detoran. She decided she loved me, and showed it by beating me senseless. So how do you figure that one? Well, I've got it worked out. You see, she was even less lovable than me. Poor old cow. Wish I'd understood that at the time. But I was too busy running away from her. Funny how that is, isn't it?