‘No.’
‘What started you screaming like that, then?’
‘A dream.’
‘A dream?’
‘Yes. Is there food?’
‘Uh, I’m not sure, it’s mostly padding… around a small wooden box.’
Karsa listened to ripping sounds as Torvald pulled away the padding. ‘There’s a mark branded on it. Looks… Moranth, I think.’ The lid was pried free. ‘More padding, and a dozen clay balls… with wax plugs on them-oh, Beru fend-’ The Daru backed away from the package. ‘Hood’s dripping tongue. I think I know what these are. Never seen one, but I’ve heard about them-who hasn’t? Well…’ He laughed suddenly. ‘If Silgar reappears and comes after us, he’s in for a surprise. So’s anyone else who might mean trouble.’ He edged forward again and carefully replaced the padding, then the lid.
‘What have you found?’
‘Alchemical munitions. Weapons of war. You throw them, preferably as far as you can. The clay breaks and the chemicals within explode. What you don’t want to happen is have one break in your hand, or at your feet. Because then you’re dead. The Malazans have been using these in the Genabackan campaign.’
‘Water, please.’
‘Right. There’s a ladle here… somewhere… found it.’
A moment later Torvald hovered over Karsa, and the Teblor drank, slowly, all the water the ladle contained.
‘Better?’
‘Yes.’
‘More?’
‘Not yet. Free me.’
‘I need to get back into the water first, Karsa. I need to push some planks under this raft.’
‘Very well.’
There seemed to be no day and no night in this strange place; the sky shifted hue occasionally, as if jostled by high, remote winds, the streaks of pewter twisting and stretching, but there was no change otherwise. The air surrounding the raft remained motionless, damp and cool and strangely thick.
The flanges anchoring Karsa’s chains were on the underside, holding him in place in a fashion identical to that in the slave trench at Silver Lake. The shackles themselves had been welded shut. Torvald’s only recourse was to attempt to widen the holes in the planks where the chains went through, using an iron buckle to dig at the wood.
Months of imprisonment had left him weakened, forcing frequent rests, and the buckle made a bloody mess of his hands, but once begun the Daru would not relent. Karsa measured the passing of time by the rhythmic crunching and scraping sounds, noting how each pause to rest stretched longer, until Torvald’s breathing told him the Daru had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Then, the Teblor’s only company was the sullen lap of water as it slipped back and forth across the platform.
For all the wood positioned beneath it, the raft was still sinking, and Karsa knew that Torvald would not be able to free him in time.
He had never before feared death. But now, he knew that Urugal and the other Faces in the Rock would abandon his soul, would leave it to the hungry vengeance of those thousands of ghastly corpses. He knew his dream had revealed to him a fate that was real, and inevitable. And inexplicable. Who had set such horrid creatures upon him? Undead Teblor, undead lowlander, warrior and child, an army of corpses, all chained to him. Why?
Lead us, Warleader.
Where?
And now, he would drown. Here, in this unknown place, far from his village. His claims to glory, his vows, all now mocking him, whispering a chorus of muted creaks, soft groans…
‘Torvald.’
‘Uh… what? What is it?’
‘I hear new sounds-’
The Daru sat up, blinking crusted silt from his eyes. He looked around. ‘Beru fend!’
‘What do you see?’
The Daru’s gaze was fixed on something beyond Karsa’s head. ‘Well, it seems there’s currents here after all, though which of us has done the moving? Ships, Karsa. A score or more of them, all dead in the water, like us. Floating wrecks. No movement on them… that I can see as yet. Looks like there was a battle. With plenty of sorcery being flung back and forth…’
Some indiscernible shift drew the ghostly flotilla into Karsa’s view, an image on its side to his right. There were two distinct styles of craft. Twenty or so were low and sleek, the wood stained mostly black, though where impacts and collisions and other damage had occurred the cedar’s natural red showed like gaping wounds. Many of these ships sat low in the water, a few with their decks awash. They were single-masted, square-sailed, the torn and shredded sails also black, shimmering in the pellucid light. The remaining six ships were larger, high-decked and three-masted. They had been fashioned from a wood that was true black-not stained-as was evinced from the gashes and splintered planks marring the broad, bellied hulls. Not one of these latter ships sat level in the water; all leaned one way or the other, two of them at very steep angles.