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The hill just south of Erougimon where Coltaine had died had come to be known as the Fall. Countless humps on the summit and slopes indicated where bodies had been buried, the metal-strewn earth already cloaked in grasses and flowers.
Ants had colonized this entire hill, or so it seemed. The ground swarmed with them, their red and black bodies coated in dust yet glittering none the less as they set about their daily tasks.
Gamet, the Adjunct and Tene Baralta had ridden out from the city before dawn. Outside the gates to the west, the army had begun to stir. The march would begin this day. The journey north, to Raraku, to Sha’ik and the Whirlwind. To vengeance.
Perhaps it was the rumours that had drawn Tavore out here to the Fall, but already Gamet regretted her decision to bring him along. This place showed him nothing he wanted to see. Nor, he suspected, was the Adjunct well pleased with what they had found.
Red-stained braids, woven into chains, draped across the summit, and coiled around the twin stumps of the cross that had once stood there. Dog skulls crowded with indecipherable hieroglyphs looked out along the crest through empty sockets. Crow feathers dangled from upright-thrust broken arrow shafts. Ragged banners lay pinned to the ground on which were painted various representations of a broken Wickan long-knife. Icons, fetishes, a mass of detritus to mark the death of a single man.
And all of it was aswarm in ants. Like mindless keepers of this now hallowed ground.
The three riders sat in their saddles in silence.
Finally, after a long while, Tavore spoke. ‘Tene Baralta.’ Inflectionless.
‘Aye, Adjunct?’
‘Who-who is responsible for… for all of this? Malazans from Aren? Your Red Blades?’
Tene Baralta did not immediately reply. Instead, he dismounted and strode forward, his eyes on the ground. Near one of the dog skulls he halted and crouched down. ‘Adjunct, these skulls-the runes on them are Khundryl.’ He pointed towards the wooden stumps. ‘The woven chains, Kherahn Dhobri.’ A gesture to the slope. ‘The banners… unknown, possibly Bhilard. Crow feathers? The beads at their stems are Semk.’
‘ Semk !’ Gamet could not keep the disbelief from his voice. ‘From the other side of Vathar River! Tene, you must be in error…’
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The hill just south of Erougimon where Coltaine had died had come to be known as the Fall. Countless humps on the summit and slopes indicated where bodies had been buried, the metal-strewn earth already cloaked in grasses and flowers.
Ants had colonized this entire hill, or so it seemed. The ground swarmed with them, their red and black bodies coated in dust yet glittering none the less as they set about their daily tasks.
Gamet, the Adjunct and Tene Baralta had ridden out from the city before dawn. Outside the gates to the west, the army had begun to stir. The march would begin this day. The journey north, to Raraku, to Sha’ik and the Whirlwind. To vengeance.
Perhaps it was the rumours that had drawn Tavore out here to the Fall, but already Gamet regretted her decision to bring him along. This place showed him nothing he wanted to see. Nor, he suspected, was the Adjunct well pleased with what they had found.
Red-stained braids, woven into chains, draped across the summit, and coiled around the twin stumps of the cross that had once stood there. Dog skulls crowded with indecipherable hieroglyphs looked out along the crest through empty sockets. Crow feathers dangled from upright-thrust broken arrow shafts. Ragged banners lay pinned to the ground on which were painted various representations of a broken Wickan long-knife. Icons, fetishes, a mass of detritus to mark the death of a single man.
And all of it was aswarm in ants. Like mindless keepers of this now hallowed ground.
The three riders sat in their saddles in silence.
Finally, after a long while, Tavore spoke. ‘Tene Baralta.’ Inflectionless.
‘Aye, Adjunct?’
‘Who-who is responsible for… for all of this? Malazans from Aren? Your Red Blades?’
Tene Baralta did not immediately reply. Instead, he dismounted and strode forward, his eyes on the ground. Near one of the dog skulls he halted and crouched down. ‘Adjunct, these skulls-the runes on them are Khundryl.’ He pointed towards the wooden stumps. ‘The woven chains, Kherahn Dhobri.’ A gesture to the slope. ‘The banners… unknown, possibly Bhilard. Crow feathers? The beads at their stems are Semk.’
‘ Semk !’ Gamet could not keep the disbelief from his voice. ‘From the other side of Vathar River! Tene, you must be in error…’
The large warrior shrugged. He straightened and gestured towards the rumpled hills directly north of them. ‘The pilgrims only come at night-unseen, which is how they will have it. They’re hiding out there, even now. Waiting for night.’
Tavore cleared her throat. ‘Semk. Bhilard-these tribes fought against him. And now they come to worship. How is this? Explain, please, Tene Baralta.’
‘I cannot, Adjunct.’ He eyed her, then added, ‘But, from what I understand, this is… modest, compared with what lines the Aren Way.’
There was silence once more, though Gamet did not need to hear her speak to know Tavore’s thoughts.
This-this is the path we now take. We must walk, step by step, the legacy. We? No. Tavore. Alone. ‘This is no longer Coltaine’s war!’ she said to Temul. But it seems it remains just that. And she now realizes, down in the depths of her soul, that she will stride that man’s shadow… all the way to Raraku.
‘You will both leave me now,’ the Adjunct said. ‘I shall rejoin you on the Aren Way.’
Gamet hesitated, then said, ‘Adjunct, the Crow Clan still claim the right to ride at the forefront. They will not accept Temul as their commander.’
‘I will see to their disposition,’ she replied. ‘For now, go.’ He watched Tene Baralta swing back onto his horse. They exchanged a glance, then both wheeled their mounts and set off at a canter along the track leading to the west gate.
Gamet scanned the rock-studded ground rolling past beneath his horse’s hoofs. This was where the historian Duiker drove the refugees towards the city-this very sweep of empty ground. Where, at the last, that old man drew rein on his weary, loyal mare-the mare that Temul now rode-and watched as the last of his charge was helped through the gate.
Whereupon, it was said, he finally rode into the city.
Gamet wondered what had gone through the man’s mind at that moment. Knowing that Coltaine and the remnants of the Seventh were still out there, fighting their desperate rearguard action. Knowing that they had achieved the impossible.
Duiker had delivered the refugees.
Only to end up staked to a tree. It was beyond him, Gamet realized, to comprehend the depth of that betrayal.
A body never recovered. No bones laid to rest.
‘There is so much,’ Tene Baralta rumbled at Gamet’s side.
