Deadhouse Gates

She shrugged. 'A simple transaction, soldier. No words of thanks are necessary.'

'True. Not necessary, but given in any case.'

'Then you are welcome.'

'The Empress will hear of this, Elder, in the most respectful of terms.'

Her steady eyes darted away at this. She hesitated, then said, 'Soldier, a large force approaches from the north — our rearguard has seen the dust. They come swiftly.'

'Ah, I see.'

'Perhaps some of you will make it.'

'We'll better that if we can.'

'Soldier?'

'Aye, Elder?'

'Are you certain Aren's gates will open to you?'

Duiker's laugh was harsh. 'I'll worry about that when we get there, I think.'

'There's wisdom in that.' She nodded, then gathered her reins. 'Goodbye, soldier.'

'Farewell.'

The Kherahn Dhobri departed, a task that took no more than five minutes, the wagons under heavy escort. Duiker eyed what he could see of the refugee train, their presence overwhelming the small village's ragged boundaries.

He'd set a difficult, gruelling pace, a day and a night with but the briefest pauses for rest, and the message had clearly reached them, one and all, that safety would be assured only once they were within Aren's massively fortified walls.

Three leagues left — it'll take us until dawn to achieve that. Each league I push them hard slows those that follow. Yet what choice do I have? 'Nil, inform your Wickans — I want the entire train through this gate before the sun's set. Your warriors are to use every means possible to achieve that, short of killing or maiming. The refugees may have forgotten their terror of you — remind them.'

'There are but thirty in the troop,' Nether reminded him. 'And all youths at that-'

'Angry youths, you mean. Well, let's offer them an outlet.'

Aren Way accommodated them in their efforts, for the first third, locally known as Ramp, was a gentle downward slope towards the plain on which the city sat. Cone-shaped hills kept pace with them to the east, and would do so to within a thousand paces of Aren's north wall. The hills were not natural: they were mass graves, scores of them, from the misguided slaughter of the city's residents by the T'lan Imass in Kellanved's time. The hill nearest Aren was among the largest, and was home to the city's ruling families and the Holy Protector and Falah'dan.

Duiker left Nil to lead the vanguard and rode at the very rear of the train, where he, Nether and three Wickans shouted themselves hoarse in an effort to hasten the weakest and slowest among the refugees. It was a heartbreaking task, and they passed more than one body that had given out at the pace. There was no time for burial, nor the strength to carry them.

To the north and slightly east, the clouds of dust grew steadily closer.

'They're not taking the road,' Nether gasped, wheeling her mount around to glare at the dust. 'They come overland — slower, much slower-'

'But a shorter route on the map,' Duiker said.

'The hills aren't marked, are they?'

'No, non-Imperial maps show it as a plain — the barrows are too recent an addition, I'd guess.'

'You'd think Korbolo would have a Malazan version-'

'It appears not — and that alone may save us, lass …'

Yet he could hear the false ring in his own words. The enemy was too close — less than a third of a league away, he judged. Even with the burial mounds, mounted troops could cover that distance in a few-score minutes.

Faint Wickan warcries from the vanguard reached them.

'They've sighted Aren,' Nether said. 'Nil shows me through his eyes-'

'The gates?'

She frowned. 'Closed.'

Duiker cursed. He rode his mare among the stragglers. 'The city's been sighted!' he shouted. 'Not much more! Move!'

From some hidden, unexpected place, reserves of energy rose in answer to the historian's words. He sensed, then saw, a ripple run through the masses, a faint quickening of pace, of anticipation — and of fear. The historian twisted in his saddle.

The cloud loomed above the cone-shaped mounds. Closer, yet not as close as it should have been.

'Nether! Are there soldiers on Aren's walls?'

'Aye, not an inch to spare-'

'The gates?'

'No.'

'How close are we up there?'

'A thousand paces — people are running now-'

'What in Hood's name is wrong with them?'

He stared again at the dust cloud. 'Fener's hoof! Nether, take your Wickans — ride for Aren!'

'What about you?'

'To Hood with me, damn you! Go! Save your children!'

She hesitated, then spun her horse around. 'You three!' she barked at the Wickan youths. 'With me!'

He watched them drive their weary horses forward along one edge of the Way, sweeping past the stumbling, pitching refugees.

The train had stretched out, those fleeter of foot slipping ever farther ahead. The elderly surrounded the historian, each step a tortured struggle. Many simply stopped and sat down on the road to await the inevitable. Duiker screamed at them, threatened them, but it was no use. He saw a child, no more than eighteen months old, wandering lost, arms outstretched, dry-eyed and appallingly silent.

Duiker rode close, leaned over in his saddle and swept the child into one arm. Tiny hands gripped the torn fragments of his shirt.

A last row of mounds now separated him and the tail end of the train from the pursuing army.

The flight had not slowed and that was the only evidence the historian had that the gates had, at last, opened to receive the refugees. Either that or they're spreading out in frantic, hopeless waves along the wall — but no, that would be a betrayal beyond sanity-

And now he could see, a thousand paces away: Aren. The north gates, flanked by solid towers, yawned for three-quarters of their height — the last, lowest quarter was a seething mass of figures, pushing, crowding, clambering over each other in their panic. But the tide's strength was too great, too inexorable to stopper that passageway. Like a giant maw, Aren was swallowing the refugees. The Wickans rode at either side, desperately trying to contain the human river, and Duiker could now see among them soldiers in the uniform of the Aren City Garrison joining in the effort.

And the army itself? The High Fist's army?

They stood on the walls. They watched. Row upon row of faces, figures jostling for a vantage point along the north wall's entire length. Resplendently dressed individuals occupied the platforms atop the towers flanking the gates, looking down at the starved, bedraggled, screaming mob that thronged the city entrance.

City Garrison Guards were suddenly among the last of those refugees still moving. On all sides around Duiker, he saw grim-faced soldiers pick people up and carry them at a half-jog towards the gates. Spotting one guardsman bearing the insignia of a captain, the historian rode up to him. 'You! Take this child!'

The man reached up to close his hands around the silent, wide-eyed toddler. 'Are you Duiker?' the captain asked.

'Aye.'

'You're to report to the High Fist immediately, sir — there, on the left-hand tower-'

'That bastard will have to wait,' Duiker growled. 'I will see every damned refugee through first! Now run,