A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

They did not use skin drums. There
was no need. No, they used the hide of the earth, the buried
forest beneath. They pounded the skin of the world until
every beast of the plain trembled, until the bhederin burst
into motion, tens of thousands as one, and ran wild through
the night – and so they too echoed the music of the
Shamans of the Antlers, feeding their dark power.
    'But the land fell away in the end – in grasping eternity,
the shamans slew the very earth itself. This curse is without
rest. This curse would close about our necks – each and
every one of us here – this very night, if it could.'
    Redmask was silent for a time then, as if allowing the terror
to run free through the hearts of his audience.
Eventually he resumed. 'The Shamans of the Antlers
gathered their deathless warriors then, and set out to wage
war. Abandoning this plain – and from that time, only
those who fell in battle were returned here. Broken pieces.
Failed and withered as the plain itself, never again to reach
or even look skyward. Such was their curse.
    'We do not forgive. It is not in us to forgive. But nor will
we forget.
    'Bast Fulmar, the Valley of Drums. The Letherii believe
we hold it in great awe. They believe this valley was the site
of an ancient war between the Awl and the K'Chain
Che'Malle – although the Letherii know not the true name
of our ancient enemy. Perhaps indeed there were
skirmishes, such that memory survives, only to twist and
bind anew in false shapes. Many of you hold to those new
shapes, believing them true. An ancient battle. One we
won. One we lost – there are elders who are bold with the
latter secret, as if defeat was a knife hidden in their
heart-hand.' Redmask shrugged at the notion, dismissing it.
Pale light was creeping close. Birdsong rose from the low
shrubs.
    'Bast Fulmar,' Redmask said again. 'Valley of Drums.
Here, then, is its secret truth. The Shamans of the Antlers
drummed the hide of this valley before us. Until all life was
stolen, all the waters fled. They drank deep, until nothing
was left. For at this time, the shamans were not alone, not
for that fell ritual. No, others of their kind had joined them
– on distant continents, hundreds, thousands of leagues
away, each and all on that one night. To sever their life
from the earth, to sever this earth from its own life.'
    Silence, then, not a single warrior even so much as drawing
breath. Held – too long—
    Redmask released them with another sigh. 'Bast Fulmar.
We rise now to make war. In the Valley of Drums, my warriors,
Letherii sorcery will fail. Edur sorcery will fail . In Bast
Fulmar, there is no water of magic, no stream of power from
which to steal. All used up, all taken to quench the fire that
is life. Our enemy is not aware. They will find the truth this
day. Too late. Today, my warriors, shall be iron against iron.
That and nothing more.'
    Redmask then rose. 'Release the truth – to every warrior.
Then make ready. We march to battle. To victory.'
    Courage surged through Masarch's chest, and he found
he was on his feet, trembling, and now moving off into the
fading gloom, whispering his words to all that he passed.
Again and again.
    'Bast Fulmar sings this day. It sings: there is no magic. There is no magic!'
    Stablers gathering the horses and leading them across the
courtyard behind her, Atri-Preda Yan Tovis left the reins of
her mount in the hands of an aide, then strode towards the
estate's squat, brooding entrance. Thirty leagues south of
the port town of Rennis, Boaral Keep was the birthplace
of the Grass Jackets Brigade, but that was a long century
past and now some third or fourth son of a remotely related
Boaral held this fortress, clinging to the antiquated noble
title of Dresh-Preda, or Demesne Lord. And in his
command, a garrison consisting of barely a dozen soldiers,
at least two of whom – at the outer gate – were drunk.
    Weary, saddlesore, and feeling decidedly short on
patience, Yan Tovis ascended the four broad, shallow steps
to the lintel-capped main doors. No guard in sight. She
wrenched the latch clear, then kicked open the heavy door
and marched into the gloomy foyer within, startling two
old women with buckets and khalit vine mops.
    They flinched back, eyes down, hastily genuflecting.
    'Where is Dresh Boaral?' Twilight demanded as she
tugged free her gauntlets.
    The hags exchanged glances, then one attempted something
like a curtsy before saying, 'Ma'am, he be well
sleeping it off, aye. An'