Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #9)

Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #9) Page 371

Cartographer made the mistake of scratching his temple, and came away with a swath of crinkled skin impaled on his fingernails. He fluttered his fingers to send it drifting away into the night. ‘Because, I imagine, humans are the true heralds of war, don’t you think?’

‘Maybe.’ But she wasn’t so sure. ‘Toc was leading us into the east. If he’s the Herald of War, as you say, then…’

Cartographer nodded. ‘I should think so, Setoc. He was leading you to a place and a time where you will be needed.’

As Destriant to the Wolves of Winter. To gods of war. She looked over to where Baaljagg stood, just beyond the firelight. Deathly and deathly still, the huge teeth for ever bared, the eyes for ever empty.

The skin of war.

And I am to wear it. Her attention snapped over to Gruntle. ‘Cartographer.’

‘Yes?’

‘He said he holds his god in no high esteem. He said he calls what he is a curse.’

‘That is true.’

‘I need to talk to him.’

‘Of course, Setoc.’

The Mortal Sword had sat down by the fire, with the boy perched on one bouncing knee. The barbed tattoos seemed to have inexplicably faded, as had the feline traits of his features. The man looked almost human now, barring the eyes. There was quiet pleasure in the face.

What would Onos Toolan have made of this? Toc, were you bringing us to these ones? She sighed. The skin of war. The Wolves want me to wear it.

But I do not.

‘Take me to him, please.’

Mappo glanced over to see the young woman crouching opposite Gruntle, with Cartographer providing translations. No doubt they had much to discuss. An unknown war in the offing, a clash of desperate mortals and, perhaps, desperate gods. And Icarium? Old friend, you must have no place in what is coming. If thousands needlessly die by your hand, what dire balance would that tip? What cruel fate would that invite? No. I must find you. Take you away. Already, too many have died on your trail.

He heard a ragged sigh to his left. Angling round, he studied the woman lying on a bedroll. ‘You will live, Faint,’ he said.

‘Then-then-’

‘You did not reach him in time. If you had, you would be the one now dead, rather than Master Quell.’

She reached up to her own face, dragged her nails to scrape away the blood crusting the corners of her mouth. ‘Better for you if I had. Now we are stranded.’

He might have replied, But we are now so close. I can feel him-we are almost there. But that was a selfish thought. Delivering Mappo was but half the task. These poor shareholders needed to find a way home, and now they had lost the one man capable of achieving that. So, to Faint’s statement, he had nothing to say.

‘My chest hurts,’ she said.

‘The Che’Malle struck you, its claws scoring deep. I have sewn almost three hundred stitches, from your right shoulder to below your rib cage on the left.’

She seemed to think about that for a moment, and then she said, ‘So we’ve seen the last of Faint’s bouncing tits.’

‘You did not lose them, if that is what you fear. They will still, er, bounce, if perhaps unevenly.’

‘So the gods really do exist. Listen. Precious Thimble-is she still alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we have a chance.’

Mappo winced. ‘She is young, Faint, mostly untutored-’

‘There’s a chance,’ Faint insisted. ‘Beru’s black nipples, this hurts .’

‘She will attempt some healing, in a while,’ said Mappo. ‘It took all of her strength just to keep Jula alive.’

Faint grunted and then gasped. Recovering, she said, ‘Guilt will do that.’

Mappo nodded. The Bole brothers had followed Precious Thimble into this Guild, and she had joined on a whim, or, more likely, to see how far her two would-be lovers would go in their pursuit of her. When love turned into a game, people got hurt, and Precious Thimble had finally begun to comprehend the truth of that. You took them too far, didn’t you?

At the same time without the Boles none of them here would be alive right now. Mappo still found it difficult to believe that a mortal man’s fists could do the damage he’d seen from Jula and Amby Bole. They had simply launched themselves on to the winged Che’Malle, and those oversized knuckles had struck with more power than Mappo’s own mace. He had heard bones crack beneath those blows, had heard the Che’Malle’s gasps of shock and pain. When it lashed out, it had been in frantic self-defence, a blind panic to dislodge its frenzied attackers. The creature’s talons, each one as long as a Semk scimitar, had plunged into Jula’s back, the four tips erupting from the man’s chest. It had flung the man away-and at that moment Amby’s lashing fists found the Che’Malle’s throat. Those impacts would have crushed the neck of a horse, and they proved damaging enough to force the Che’Malle into the air, wings thundering. A back-handed blow scraped Amby off and then the thing was lifting upward.