Deadhouse Gates

'As you say,' Lull muttered. 'Get on with you now, Corporal, you're almost as ugly as me and it's turning my stomach.'

'Got more than a few spare Tiste Andii eyes if you'd like to try one out for a fitting, sir. Last chance.'

'I'll pass, Corporal, but thanks for the offer.'

'Don't mention it. Fare you well, Historian. Sorry we couldn't have done better with Kulp and Heboric.'

'You did better than anyone could have hoped for, Gesler.'

With a shrug, the man turned towards the waiting dory. Then he paused. 'Oh, Commander Bult.'

'Aye?'

'My apologies to the Fist for breaking his hand.'

'Sormo's managed to force-heal that, Corporal, but I'll pass your thoughts on.'

'You know, Commander,' Gesler said a moment before stepping into the boat, 'I just noticed — between you and the captain you got three eyes and three ears and almost a whole head of hair.'

Bult swung around to glare at the corporal. 'Your point?'

'Nothing. Just noticing, sir. See you all in Aren.'

Duiker watched the man row his way across the yellow sludge of the river. See you all in Aren. That was feeble, Corporal Gesler, but well enough meant.

'For the rest of my days,' Lull sighed, 'I'll know Gesler as the man who broke his nose to spite his face.'

Bult grinned, tossed the dregs of his tea onto the muddy ground and rose with a crackling of joints. 'Nephew will like that one, Captain.'

'Was it just a matter of mistrust, Uncle?' Duiker asked, looking up.

Bult stared down for a moment, then shrugged. 'Coltaine would tell you it was so, Historian.'

'But what do you think?'

'I'm too tired to think. If you are determined to know the Fist's thoughts on Korbolo Dom's offer, you might try asking him yourself.'

They watched the commander walk away.

Lull grunted. 'Can't wait to read your account of the Chain of Dogs, old man. Too bad I didn't see you send a trunk full of scrolls with Gesler.'

Duiker climbed to his feet. 'It seems nobody wants to hold hands this night.'

'Might have better luck tomorrow night.'

'Might.'

'Thought you'd found a woman. A marine — what was her name?'

'I don't know. We shared one night…'

'Ah, sword too small for the sheath, eh?'

Duiker smiled. 'We decided it would not do to repeat that night. We each have enough losses to deal with…'

'You are both fools, then.'

'I imagine we are.'

Duiker set off through the restless, sleepless encampment. He heard few conversations, yet a bleak awareness roared around him, a sound only his bones could feel.

He found Coltaine outside his command tent, conferring with Sormo, Nil and Nether. The Fist's right hand was still swollen and mottled, and his pale, sweat-beaded face revealed the trauma of forced healing.

Sormo addressed the historian. 'Where is your Corporal List?'

Duiker blinked. 'I am not sure. Why?'

'He is possessed of visions.'

'Aye, he is.'

The warlock's gaunt face twisted in a grimace. 'We sense nothing of what lies ahead. A land so emptied is unnatural, Historian. It has been scoured, its soul destroyed. How?'

'List says there was a war once, out on the plain beyond the forest. So long ago that all memory of it has vanished. Yet an echo remains, sealed in the very bedrock.'

'Who fought this war, Historian?'

'Yet to be revealed, I'm afraid. A ghost guides List in his dreams, but it will be no certain unveiling.' Duiker hesitated, then sighed. 'The ghost is Jaghut.'

Coltaine glanced east, seemed to study the paling skyline.

'Fist,' Duiker said after a moment, 'Korbolo Dom-'

There was a commotion nearby. They turned to see a nobleman rushing towards them. The historian frowned, then recognition came. 'Tumlit-'

The old man, squinting fiercely as he scanned each face, finally came to a halt before Coltaine. 'A most dreadful occurrence, Fist,' he gasped in his tremulous voice.

Duiker only now heard a restlessness rising from the refugee encampment stretched up the trader track. 'Tumlit, what has happened?'

'Another emissary, I'm afraid. Brought through in secret. Met with the Council — I sought to dissuade them but failed, alas. Pullyk and Nethpara have swayed the others. Fist, the refugees shall cross the river, under the benign protection of Korbolo Dom-'

Coltaine spun to his warlocks. 'To your clans. Send Bult and the captains to me.'

Shouts now sounded from the Wickans in the clearing as the mass of refugees surged forward, pushing through, down to the ford. The Fist found a nearby soldier. 'Have the clan war chiefs withdraw their warriors from their path — we cannot contest this.'

He's right — we won't be able to stop the fools.

Bult and the captains arrived in a rush and Coltaine snapped out his commands. Those orders made it clear to Duiker that the Fist was preparing for the worst. As the officers raced off, Coltaine faced the historian.

'Go to the sappers. By my command they are to join the refugee train, insignia and uniforms exchanged for mundane garb-'

'That won't be necessary, Fist — they all wear assorted rags and looted gear anyway. But I'll have them tie their helms to their belts.'

'Go.'

Duiker set off. The sky was lightening, and with that burgeoning glow the butterflies stirred on all sides, a silent shimmering that sent shivers through the historian for no obvious reason. He worked his way up the seething train, skirting one edge and pushing through the ranks of infantry who were standing back and watching the refugees without expression.

He spied a ragtag knot of soldiers seated well back from the trail, almost at the edge of the flanking picket line. The company ignored the refugees and seemed busy with the task of coiling ropes. A few glanced up as Duiker arrived.

'Coltaine commands you join the refugees,' the historian said. 'No arguments — take off your helms, now-'

'Who's arguing?' one squat, wide soldier muttered.

'What are you planning with the ropes?' Duiker demanded.

The sapper looked up, his eyes narrow slashes in his wide, battered face. 'We did some reconnoitring of our own, old man. Now if you'd shut up we can get ready, right?'

Three soldiers appeared from the forest side, approaching at a jog. One carried a severed head by its braid, trailing threads of blood. 'This one's done his last nod at post,' the man commented, dropping his prize to thud and roll on the ground. No-one else took notice, nor did the three sappers report to anyone.

The entire company seemed to complete their preparations all at once, ropes around one shoulder, helms strapped to belts, crossbows readied, then hidden beneath loose raincapes and telaban. In silence they rose and began making their way towards the mass of refugees.

Duiker hesitated. He turned to look down at the crossing. The head of the refugee column had pushed out into the ford, which was proving waist-deep, at least forty paces wide, its bottom thick, cloying mud. Butterflies swarmed above the mass of humanity in sunlit explosions of pallid yellow. A dozen Wickan horsewarriors had been sent ahead to guide the column. Behind them came the wagons of the noble blood — the only refugees staying dry and above the chaotic tumult. The historian glanced over at the surging train where the sappers had gone but they were nowhere to be seen, swallowed up in the crowds. From somewhere farther up the trader track came the terrible lowing of cattle being slaughtered.

The flanking infantry were readying weapons — Coltaine was clearly anticipating a rearguard defence of the landing.

Still the historian hesitated. If he joined the refugees and the worst came to pass, the ensuing panic would be as deadly as any slaughter visited upon them by Korbolo Dom's forces. Hood's breath! We are now truly at that bastard's mercy.