Authors: Steven Erikson
Fucking Adjunct. Lostara Yil. That bitch of a sister—it’s not fair!
She had been undecided, but no longer. Oh, she’d find the fools, the pompous Perish and the rutting Khundryl who’d weep at a broken pot. She’d deliver all the useless pleas for help to Krughava—another Hood-damned woman—and then she’d be done with it.
I’m not going back. I’ve deserted, right? I’m riding right through them. Saphinand. I can get lost there, it’s ringed in with mountains. I don’t care how squalid it is, it’ll do.
What else did they expect from her? Some heroic return at the head of two armies? Riding to the rescue, snatching them all back from the very gates of Hood? That kind of rubbish belonged to Sinter, or even Masan Gilani, who was riding to find an ally that might not even exist—yes, leave the legend to that northern slut, she had all the necessary traits, after all.
Kisswhere was carved from softer stuff. Not bronze. More like wax. And the world was heating up. They’d saluted her on her way. They’d decided to put all their trust and faith in her.
And I will find them. That is a dust-cloud. I can see
it now. I can reach them, say whatever I need to say. The Adjunct says, O Mortal Sword, that betrayal does not suit the Perish. Nor the Khundryl. Come to her, she asks.
The Adjunct says the sword’s for wearing and wielding, not sitting on. It’s a weapon, it’s not courage, no matter how straight up it holds you. The Adjunct says there is a betrayer among you, and by that betrayer’s words, you doom the Bonehunters. The Adjunct says the blood is on your hands, you frigid cow.
Find whatever means, Sinter had said. Use whatever you need to use. Shame them, shit on them, spit on them. Or turn sly and build up the fires until their boots burn. Blind them by reflecting the blazing sun of their own egos. Beg, plead, drop to your knees and suck them dry.
Use your wiles, Kisswhere, it’s what you do best.
Gods, she hated them all. That knowing look in their eyes, that acceptance of everything that wasn’t good within her. Yes, they knew she’d not come back. And they didn’t care. She was expendable, whipped like an arrow and once it struck, why, it was spent, a shattered thing lying on the ground.
So, a broken arrow she would be. Fine. Why not? They expected nothing more, did they?
Kisswhere kicked her horse into motion. It answered reluctantly. ‘Not much further,’ she said as she worked it into a loose canter. ‘See those riders? Khundryl. Almost there.’
I don’t need to convince them of anything—they’re on their way already. I just need to add a few spurs to their boots. Who knows, maybe it’s what Krughava goes for anyway. She has that look about her, I think.
Here, sweetie, I bring spikes and whips—
The riders of the Vedith Swift drawing towards the lone soldier were commanded by Rafala, who held sharp eyes on the stranger. A Malazan to be sure, she could see. On a tired horse. She tasted the excitement, proof that something was happening, yet another clench of history’s jaws, and no struggle could pull one free. Gall had sent them out ahead, riding hard. Find the Bonehunters. Ride into their column and speak to the Adjunct. Tell her to wait, or indeed to angle her march southward.
The terrible gods were gathering—she could see it in the high clouds building to the southwest, tumbling down off the mountains. The armies must come together and so stand as one, facing down those gods. Such a moment awaited them! Adjunct Tavore, commander of the Bonehunters; Gall, Warleader of the Khundryl Burned Tears; Krughava, Mortal Sword of the Wolves; and Abrastal, Queen of Bolkando and commander of the Evertine Legion.
Oh, and the Gilk, too. Those Barghast know how to roll in the furs, don’t they just. I won’t cringe with them on one flank, that’s for certain.
What sought them in the Wastelands? Some pathetic tribe, no doubt—not much else could survive out here. No secret kingdom or empire, that was obvious. The land was dead, after all. Well, they would crush whoever the fools were,
and then march on, seeking whatever fate the Adjunct knew awaited them all in distant Kolanse. Rafala only hoped she’d get the chance to bloody her blade.
The Malazan soldier was slowing her exhausted mount, as if content to let the Khundryl horses do most of the work. Well enough. The Dal Honese did not look very comfortable on that saddle. For decades the Malazans had been clever in building their armies. They used horse-tribes to create their cavalry, mountain-dwellers for their scouts and skirmishers, and farmers for their infantry. City folk for sappers and coastal folk for marines and sailors. But things had since grown confused. The Dal Honese did not belong on horses.
No matter. I remember the Wickans. I’d barely a month of bleeding then, but I saw them. They humbled us all.
And now it is the Khundryls’ turn to do the same.
She gestured to slow the riders behind her and continued ahead to rein in before the Malazan. ‘I am Rafala—’
‘Happy for you,’ the woman cut in. ‘Just take me to Gall and Krughava—and switch me to a fresher horse, this one’s done.’
‘How many days away?’ Rafala asked as one of her corporals took charge of switching mounts.
The Malazan dropped down from her horse with some difficulty. ‘Who? Oh, not far, I should think. I got lost the first night—thought I could see the mountains on my right. Turned out those were clouds. I’ve been riding south and west for two days now. Is that fool ready yet?’
Rafala scowled. ‘He gives you his finest battle-horse, soldier.’
‘Well, I ain’t paying.’ Wincing, the woman climbed into the saddle. ‘Gods, couldn’t you do with some decent padding? I’m sitting on bones here.’
‘Not my fault,’ drawled Rafala, ‘if you let your muscles get too soft. Let’s ride then, soldier.’
And see if you can keep up with me.
To her Swift she said, ‘Continue on. I will provide her escort and then return to you.’
And then they were off. The Swift resumed riding northward; Rafala and the Malazan struck southward, and, trailing at ever greater distance behind them, the lone corporal followed on the spent horse.
Well
, thought Kisswhere as she and Rafala approached the vanguard,
this will make it easy.
A forest of banners marked the presence of a clash—an old Malaz Island joke—of commanders. She could say what needed saying once and then be done with it.
It was obvious to her that disaster awaited them all.
Too many women holding skillets here.
She’d always preferred men to women. As friends, as lovers, as officers. Men liked to keep things simple. None of that absurd oversensitivity, reacting to every damned expression or glance or gesture. None of that stewing over some careless passing comment. And, most importantly, none of that vicious backstabbing and poison cups so smilingly given. No, she’d long since learned all the nasty lessons of her own gender; she’d seen enough eyes crawling up and down her body and judging the clothes she wore, the cut of her hair, the man at
her side. She’d seen women carving up others when those ones weren’t looking, eyes like blades—
snip slice snip.
And wasn’t it true—beyond all challenge—that women who preferred the company of men were the most hated women of all?
Too many commanders with tits in this mob.
Look at Gall, he’s under siege behind those tattooed tears. And that Barghast, no wonder he’s hiding his face behind all that paint.
‘You can go back now, Rafala,’ Kisswhere said. ‘I won’t get lost.’
‘I need your horse, Malazan.’
‘So I am to walk from now on?’
The young Khundryl looked surprised. ‘Walk where?’
Kisswhere scowled.
They rode through the scattered line of outriders and drew up before the vanguard—the mounted commanders made no concession to their arrival, continuing on at a steady trot, forcing Rafala and Kisswhere to swing round and fall in step beside them. That attitude annoyed Kisswhere—when was the last time they’d even seen each other?
Rafala spoke: ‘Warleader Gall, I bring you a Malazan messenger.’ And then she said to Kisswhere, ‘I will go and find you another horse.’
‘Good. Don’t take too long.’
With a flat look, Rafala pulled her mount round and headed into the trailing columns.
A red-haired woman Kisswhere had never seen before was the first to address her, in the trader tongue. ‘Malazan, where are your kin?’
‘My kin?’
‘Your fellow soldiers.’
‘Not far, I think. You should reach them today, especially at this pace.’
‘Marine,’ said Krughava, ‘what word do you bring us?’
Kisswhere glanced about, noting the various staff officers clumped round the commanders. ‘Can we get a little more private here, Mortal Sword? You and Warleader Gall, I mean—’
‘Queen Abrastal of Bolkando and Warchief Spax of the Gilk White Faces have allied their forces with our own, sir. This said, I will send our staffs a short distance away.’ She faced the Queen. ‘Acceptable, Highness?’
Abrastal’s face registered distaste. ‘Oh yes, they’re worse than flies. Go! All of you!’
Twenty or more riders pulled away from the vanguard, leaving only Krughava, Tanakalian, Gall, the Queen and Spax.
‘Better?’ Krughava asked.
Kisswhere drew a deep breath. She was too tired to have to work at this. ‘Among the seers serving the Adjunct . . . Mortal Sword, I can say this no other way. The threat of betrayal was judged to be very real. I was sent to confirm the alliance.’
The Mortal Sword went deathly pale. Kisswhere saw the foreign Queen cast a sharp look at the young Shield Anvil, Tanakalian.
What? Fuck, they know more of this than I do. Seems the threat is real after all. Sister, you have eyes that see what others do not. No wonder I’m always running away from you.
Warleader Gall was the first to respond. ‘What is your name, soldier?’
‘Kisswhere. Tenth Squad, Third Company, Eighth Legion.’
‘Kisswhere—spirits know, how you Malazans can make a name an invitation never ceases to delight me—I will answer the Adjunct’s fear as the Khundryl must. We shall advance ahead and ride with you with all haste, and so rejoin the Bonehunters as soon as possible.’
‘Sir,’ said Krughava, ‘there will be no betrayal from the Perish. See the pace of our march. We are apprised of imminent danger, and so hasten to reach the Adjunct’s army. It is our added fortune that the Bolkando Queen leads her Evertine Legion and the Gilk and has vowed to give us whatever aid we may require. Tell me, are the Bonehunters beset? What enemy has appeared out of the Wastelands to so assail them?’
You get around to asking this now?
‘As of two days past, Mortal Sword, our only enemy was clouds of biting flies,’ Kisswhere replied.
‘Yet you were dispatched to find us,’ Krughava observed.
‘I was.’
‘Therefore,’ the Mortal Sword continued, ‘some apprehension of danger—beyond that of possible betrayal—must exist to justify such urgency.’
Kisswhere shrugged. ‘There is little more I can tell you, Mortal Sword.’
‘You ride all this way seeking nothing but reassurance?’
At Gall’s question, Kisswhere glanced away for a moment. ‘Yes, it must seem odd to you. All of you. I have no answer. The alliance was perceived to be in jeopardy—that is all I know of the matter.’
No one seemed satisfied.
Too bad. What can I say? My sister’s got a bad feeling. Fid keeps throwing up and the only high priest on Tavore’s staff has been drunk ever since Letheras. And those flies got a vicious bite.
Rafala returned leading a saddled horse, a bay mare with a witless look to her. She led the beast up alongside Kisswhere. ‘Climb over, if you can.’
Scowling, Kisswhere kicked her boots free of the stirrups and drew her right leg over. Rafala pulled the mare a step ahead and the Malazan set her right foot into the stirrup, rose, reaching for the Seven Cities saddle horn, and then pulled herself astride the broad-backed beast.
The transfer was smooth and Rafala’s lips tightened, as if the notion of a compliment threatened nausea. She dropped back to come up behind Kisswhere, taking the reins of her warrior’s battle-horse. Moments later she was leading that mount away.
Kisswhere looked over to see Gall grinning. ‘I know just the place,’ he said.
The Barghast barked a laugh.
‘Ride with the Khundryl then,’ Krughava said to her. ‘Lead them to the Bonehunters.’
Gods below—
how to get out of this? ‘I fear I would only slow them, Mortal Sword. While this mount is fresh I, alas, am not.’
‘Ever slept between two horses?’ Gall asked.
‘Excuse me?’
‘A slung hammock, Kisswhere, with tent poles to keep the beasts apart. This is how we carry wounded whilst on the move.’
All these women, looking at her. Knowing, seeing what the men did not.
Showing all your sharp little teeth, are you? So delighted to see me trapped.
To Gall she said, ‘If it comes to that need, Warleader, I will tell you.’
‘Very good,’ the warrior replied. ‘Then, let us ride to my Burned Tears. Highness, Mortal Sword, when next we meet it shall be in the Adjunct’s command tent. Until then, travel well and may the gods be blinded by your dust.’