Deadhouse Gates by Steven Erikson

  'Not for sale, Obarü.'

  'You have not heard my offer!'

  'All Seven Holy Treasures will not sway me,' Kalam growled.

  'Then no more shall be said of such matters.' The man retrieved the wineskin and offered it to Kalam.

  He accepted but did no more than wet his lips.

  'These are sad times,' the bandit leader continued, 'when trust is a rare thing among fellow soldiers. We all ride in Sha'ik's name, after all. We share a single, hated enemy. Nights such as these, granted peace under the stars amidst this holy war, are cause for celebration and brotherhood, friend.'

  'Your words have captured the beauty of our crusade,' Kalam said. Words can so easily glide over mayhem and terror and horror, it's a wonder trust exists at all.

  'You will now give me your horse and that fine weapon at your belt.'

  The assassin's laugh was a soft rumble. 'I count seven of you, four before me, three hovering behind.' He paused, smiling as he met the bandit leader's fire-lit eyes. 'It will be a close thing, but I will be certain to kill you first, friend.'

  The man hesitated, then answered with his own smile. 'You've no sense of humour. Perhaps it is due to travelling so long without company that you have forgotten the games soldiers play. Have you eaten? We came upon a party of Mezla only this morning, and they were all too generous with their food and possessions. We shall visit them again, at dawn. There are women among them.'

  Kalam scowled. 'And this is your war against the Mezla? You are armed, you are mounted—why have you not joined the armies of the Apocalypse? Kamist Reloe needs warriors like you. I ride south to join in the siege of Aren, which must surely come.'

  'As do we—to walk through Aren's yawning gates!' the man replied fervently. 'And more, we bring livestock with us, to help feed our brothers in the army! Do you suggest we ignore the rich Mezla we come upon?'

  'The Odhan will kill them without our help,' the assassin said. 'You have their oxen.' Aren's yawning gates… the Jhistal within. What does that mean? Jhistal, not a familiar word, not Seven Cities. Falari?

  The man's expression had cooled in response to Kalam's words. 'We attack them at dawn. Do you ride with us, Mekral?'

  'They are south of here?'

  'They are. Less than an hour's ride.'

  'Then it is the direction I am already travelling, so I shall join you.'

  'Excellent!'

  'But there is nothing holy in rape,' Kalam growled.

  'No, not holy.' The man grinned. 'But just.'

  They rode in the night, beneath a vast scatter of stars. One of the bandits had stayed behind with the oxen and other booty, leaving Kalam riding with a party of six. All carried short recurved bows, though their supply of arrows was low—not a single quiver held more than three, and all with ragged fletching. The weapons would be effective at close range only.

  Bordu, the bandit leader, told the assassin that the Malazan refugees consisted of one man—a Malazan soldier—two women and two young boys. He was certain that the soldier had been wounded in the first ambush. Bordu did not expect much of a fight. They would take down the men first. Then we can play with the women and boys—perhaps you will change your mind, Mekral.'

  Kalam's only response was a grunt. He knew men such as these. Their courage held so long as they outnumbered their victims, the hollow glory they thirsted for came with overpowering and terrorizing the helpless. Such creatures were common in the world, and a land locked in war left them to run free, the brutal truths behind every just cause. They were given a name in the Ehrlü tongue: e'ptarh le'gebran, the vultures of violence.

  The withered skin of the prairie broke up ahead. Hump-shouldered knobs of granite were visible above the grasses, studding the slopes of a series of low hills. Faint firelight blushed the air behind one such large outcropping. Kalam shook his head. Far too careless in a hostile land—the soldier with them should have known better.

  Bordu raised a hand, slowing them to a halt about fifty paces from the monolithic outcrop. 'Keep your eyes from the hearth,' he whispered to the others. 'Let those fools be cursed with blindness, not us. Now, spread out. The Mekral and I will ride around to the other side. Give us fifty breaths, then attack.'

  Kalam's eyes narrowed on the bandit leader. Coming at the camp from the opposite side, he would run an obvious risk of taking an arrow or three from these attackers in the melee. More soldier's humour, I take it. But he said nothing, pulling away when Bordu did and riding side by side on a route that would circumvent the refugees' camp.

  'Your men are skilled with their bows?' the assassin asked a few minutes later.

  'Like vipers, Mekral.'

  'With about the same range,' Kalam muttered.

  'They'll not miss.'

  'No doubt.'

  'You are afraid, Mekral? You, such a large, dangerous-looking man. A warrior, without doubt. I am surprised.'

  'I've a bigger surprise,' Kalam said, reaching over and sliding a blade across Bordu's throat.

  Blood sprayed. Gurgling, the bandit leader reeled back in his saddle, his head flopping horribly.

  The assassin sheathed his knife. He rode closer in time to prop the man back up in his saddle and hold him balanced there, one hand to Bordu's back. 'Ride with me a while longer,' Kalam said, 'and may the Seven Holies flay your treacherous soul.' As they will mine, when the time comes.

  The glimmering firelight lay ahead. Distant shouts announced the bandits' charge. Horse hooves thumped the hard ground. Kalam tapped his mount into a canter. Bordu's horse matched the pace, the bandit leader's body weaving, his head now lolling almost on its side, ear against one shoulder.

  They reached the hill's slope, which was gentler on this side and mostly unobstructed. The attackers were visible now, riding into the shell of firelight, arrows zinging to thud into the blanket-wrapped figures around the hearth.

  From the sound those arrows made Kalam knew instantly that there were no bodies beneath those blankets. The soldier had proved his worth, had laid a trap. The assassin grinned. He pushed Bordu down over the saddlehorn and gave the bandit leader's horse a slap on the rump. It charged into the light.

  The assassin quickly checked his own mount's canter, slipped to the ground still in the darkness beyond the firelight, and padded forward noiselessly.

  The crisp snap of a crossbow sounded. One of the bandits pitched back in his saddle and tumbled to the ground. The four others had pulled up, clearly confused. Something like a small bag flew into the hearth, landing with a spray of sparks. A moment later the night was lit up in a cascading flame, and the four bandits were clearly outlined. The crossbow loosed again. A bandit shrieked, arching to reach for a quarrel embedded in his back. A moment later he groaned, sagging as his horse stepped in a confused circle.

  Kalam had escaped exposure in the burst of light, but his night vision was gone. Swearing under his breath, he edged forward, long-knife in his right hand, double-edged dagger in his left.

  He heard another rider coming in hard from one side. Both bandits wheeled their mounts to meet the charge. The horse appeared, slowing from what had been a bolt. There was no-one in the saddle.

  The flare-up from the hearth was ebbing. His nerves suddenly tingling, Kalam stopped and crouched down. He watched as the riderless horse trotted aimlessly to the right of the bandits, the animal moving closer to come alongside one of the attackers. In a fluid, graceful motion, the rider swung up into view—a woman, who had been crouching down out of sight over one stirrup—twisting to chop down at the nearest bandit with a butcher's cleaver. The huge blade connected with the man's neck and cut through to lodge in his vertebra.

  Then the woman had both feet on the saddle. Even as the bandit toppled she stepped onto his horse, taking the lance from the saddle holster and jabbing it like a spear at the second bandit.

  Cursing, the man reacted with a warrior's training. Instead of leaning back in what would have been a hopeless effort to avoid the lancehead flashing at his chest,
he drove both heels into his horse, twisting to let the lance slip past. His mount rammed the other horse, chest to flank. With a startled yelp the woman lost her balance and fell heavily to the ground.

  The bandit leapt from the saddle, unsheathing his tulwar.

  Kalam's dagger took him in the throat three paces from the dazed woman. Spitting in fury, hands clutching his neck, the bandit fell to his knees. Kalam approached to deliver a killing thrust.

  'Stand still,' a voice snapped behind him. 'Got a quarrel trained on you. Drop that lizard-sticker. Now!'

  Shrugging, the assassin let the weapon fall from his hand. 'I'm Second Army,' he said. 'Onearm's Host—'

  'Are fifteen hundred leagues away.'

  The woman had regained the breath that had been driven from her lungs. She rose to her hands and knees, long black hair hanging down over her face.

  The last bandit finished dying with a faint, wet gurgle.

  'You're Seven Cities,' the voice behind Kalam said.

  'Aye, yet a soldier of the Empire. Listen, work it out. I rode up from the other side, with the bandits' leader. He was dead before his horse carried him into your camp.'

  'So why does a soldier wear a telaba and no colours and ride alone? Desertion, and that's a death sentence.'

  Kalam hissed in exasperation. 'And clearly you chose to protect your family instead of whatever company you're attached to. By Imperial Military Law that counts as desertion, soldier.' As he spoke the Malazan stepped around, his crossbow still trained on the assassin.

  Kalam saw a man half dead on his feet. Short and wide, he wore the tattered remnants of an Outpost detachment uniform, light-grey leather jerkin, dark-grey surcoat. His face was covered in a network of scratches, as were his hands and forearms. A deep wound marred his bristly chin, and the helm shadowing his eyes was dented. The clasp of his surcoat ranked him a captain.

  The assassin's eyes widened upon seeing that. 'Though a captain deserting is a rare thing…'

  'He didn't desert,' the woman said, now fully recovered and sorting through the weapons of the dead bandits. She found a lightweight tulwar and tested its balance with a few swings. In the firelight Kalam could see she was attractive, medium-boned, her hair streaked with iron. Her eyes were a startling light grey. She collected a belted sword-hoop and strapped it on.

  'We rode out of Orbal,' the captain said, pain evident in his voice. 'A whole company escorting out refugees—our families. Ran smack into a Hood-damned army on the march south.'

  'We're all that's left,' the woman said, turning to gesture into the darkness. Another woman—a younger, thinner version of the other one—and two children stepped cautiously into the light, then rushed to the captain's side.

  The man continued to aim an unsteady crossbow at Kalam. 'Selv, my wife,' he said, gesturing to the woman now at his side. 'Our children, there. And Selv's sister Minala. That's us. Now, let's hear your story.'

  'Corporal Kalam, Ninth Squad… Bridgeburners. Now you know why I'm out of uniform, sir.'

  The man grinned. 'You've been outlawed. So why aren't you marching with Dujek? Unless you've returned to your homeland to join the Whirlwind.'

  'Is that your horse?' Minala asked.

  The assassin turned to see his mount step casually into the camp. 'Aye.'

  'You know your horses,' she said.

  'It cost me a virgin's ransom. I figure if something's expensive it's probably good, and that's how much I know horses.'

  'You still haven't explained why you're here,' the captain muttered, but Kalam could see he was relaxing his guard.

  'Smelled the uprising in the wind,' the assassin said. 'The Empire brought peace to Seven Cities. Sha'ik wants a return to the old days—tyrants, border wars and slaughter. I ride for Aren. That's where the punitive force will land—and if I'm lucky I can slip myself in, maybe as a guide.'

  'You'll ride with us, then, Corporal,' the captain said. 'If you're truly a Bridgeburner you'll know how to soldier, and if that's what you show me on the way to Aren, I'll see you rejoin the Imperial ranks without fuss.'

  Kalam nodded. 'Can I retrieve my weapons now, Captain?'

  'Go ahead.'

  The assassin crouched down, reached for his long-knife, paused. 'Oh, one thing, Captain…'

  The man had sagged against his wife. He swung bleary eyes on Kalam. 'What?'

  'Better my name should change… I mean, officially. I wouldn't welcome the gallows if I'm marked in Aren. Granted, Kalam is common enough, but there's always the chance I'd be recognized—'

  'You're that Kalam? You said the Ninth, didn't you? Hood's breath!' If the captain had planned to say more it was lost as the man's knees buckled. With a soft whimper his wife eased him down to the ground, looked up at her sister with frightened eyes, then over at Kalam.

  'Relax, lass,' the assassin said, straightening. He grinned. 'I'm back in the army now.'

  The two boys, one about seven and the other four, moved with exaggerated caution towards the unconscious man and his wife. She saw them and opened her arms. They rushed to her embrace.

  'He was trampled,' Minala said. 'One of the bandits dragged him behind his horse. Sixty paces before he cut himself free.'

  Women who lived with garrisons were either harlots or wives—there was little doubt which one Minala had been. 'Your husband was in the company as well?'

  'He commanded it, but he's dead.'

  It could have been a statement about the weather for all the emotion expressed, and Kalam sensed the rigid control that held the woman. 'And the captain's your brother-in-law?'

  'His name is Keneb. You've met my sister Selv. The older boy is Kesen, the younger Vaneb.'

  'You're from Quon?'

  'Long ago.'

  Not the talkative type. The assassin glanced over at Keneb. 'Will he live?'

  'I don't know. He has dizzy spells. Blackouts.'

  'Sagging face, slurred words?'

  'No.'

  Kalam went to his horse and gathered up the reins.

  'Where are you going?' Minala demanded.

  'There's one bandit standing guard over food, water and horses. We need all three.'

  'Then we all go.'

  Kalam started to argue but Minala raised a hand. 'Think, Corporal. We have the bandits' horses. We can ride, all of us. The boys sat in saddles before they could walk. And who guards us when you're gone? What happens if you get wounded fighting that last bandit?' She spun to her sister. 'We'll get Keneb over a saddle, Selv. Agreed?'

  She nodded.

  The assassin sighed. 'But leave the guard to me.'

  'We will. It seems you've a reputation, by Keneb's reaction.'

  'Fame, or notoriety?'

  'I expect he'll say more when he comes around.'

  I hope not. The less they know about me the better.

  The sun was still an hour from rising when Kalam raised a hand to bring the party to a halt. 'That old river bed,' he hissed, gesturing a thousand paces ahead. 'All of you wait here. I won't be long.'

  Kalam removed the best of the bandits' recurved bows from its saddle sheath and selected two of the least tattered arrows. 'Load that crossbow,' he said to Minala. 'In case something goes wrong.'

  'How will I know?"

  The assassin shrugged. 'In your gut.' He glanced at Keneb. The captain was laid over a saddle, still unconscious. That wasn't good. Head injuries were always unpredictable.

  'He's still breathing,' Minala said quietly.

  Kalam grunted, then set off at a dogtrot across the plain.

  He saw the glow of the campfire well before he reached the high grass lining the bank. Still careless. A good sign. The voices he could hear weren't. He dropped down and slid forward through the dew-wet grass on his stomach.

  Another party of raiders had arrived. Bearing gifts. Kalam saw the motionless, sprawled bodies of five women flung down around the camp. All had been raped, then murdered. In addition to Bordu's guard there were seven others, all sitting around the fire
. All well armed and armoured in boiled leather.

  Bordu's guard was speaking a dozen words for every breath. '—won't tire the horses. So the prisoners will walk. Two women. Two boys. Like I said. Bordu plans these things. And a horse worthy of a prince. You'll see soon enough—'

  'Bordu will gift the horse,' one of the newcomers growled. Not a question.

  'Of course he will. And a boy too. Bordu is a generous commander, sir. Very generous…'

  Sir. True soldiers of the Whirlwind, then.

  Kalam edged back, then hesitated. A moment later, his eyes coming to rest again on the murdered women, he breathed a silent curse.

  A soft clack sounded almost at his shoulder. The assassin went rigid, then slowly turned his head. Apt crouched beside him, head ducked low, a long thread of drool hanging from its jaws. It blinked knowingly.

  'This time, then?' Kalam whispered. 'Or come to watch?'

  The demon gave nothing away. Naturally.

  The assassin nocked the better of the two arrows, licked his fingers and ran them along the feather guides. There was little gain in elaborate planning. He had eight men to kill.

  Still concealed by the high grass, he rose into a crouch, drawing the bowstring as he took a deep breath. He held both for a long moment.

  It was the shot he needed. The arrow entered the troop commander's left eye and went straight through to the back of the skull, the iron point making a solid crunching sound as it drove into the bone. The man's head snapped back, skullcap helmet flying from his head.

  Kalam was drawing for his second shot even as the body rocked, falling forward from the waist. He chose the man fastest to react, a big warrior with his back to the assassin.

  The arrow went high—betrayed by a warped shaft. Sinking into the warrior's right shoulder, it was deflected off the blade and up under the rim of the helmet. Kalam's luck held as the man pitched forward onto the fire, instantly dead. Sparks rose as the body swallowed up the flames. Darkness swept down like a cloak.

  The assassin dropped the bow and closed swiftly on the shouting, frightened men. A brace of knives in his right hand, Kalam selected his targets. His left hand was a blur as he threw the first knife. A warrior screamed. Another caught sight of the assassin.