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Ruthan Gudd

Page history last edited by Eloth 14 years, 2 months ago

Ruthan Gudd

 

Shurq : She'd even grown used to that broad waxed moustache beneath his misshapen nose.

 

You told me to keep my head low, Greymane.  I've been trying.  It's not working.  But then, something in your eyes told me you knew it wouldn't, because it wasn't working for you either.

Ruthan Gudd clawed at his bead, reminding himself of the stranger's face he now wore.

Let's face it, old friend.  In this world it’s only the dead who don't get noticed. 

 

 

“I am from the island of Strike, Kindly, which lies against the Outer Reach Deeps.  Strike is the most isolated of all the islands in the chain, and our legends hold that we alone are all that remains of the original inhabitants in all of Falar -- the red- and gold-haired folk you see and think of as Falari were in fact invaders from the eastern ocean, from the other side of Seeker’s Deep, or some unknown islands well away from the charted courses across that ocean.  They themselves do not even recall their own homelands, and most of them believe they have always lived in Falar.  But our old maps show different names, Strike names for all of the islands and the kingdoms and peoples, and the word ‘Falar’ does not appear among them.”(BH)

............................................................................................................................................................................ 

She leaned on the railing.  "You're hiding, Captain.  But that's all right.  I'm good at finding things out.  You were among the first list of officers for the 14th.  Meaning you were in Malaz City, already commissioned and awaiting attachment.  Now, which armies washed up on Malaz Island too torn up to keep intact?  The Eighth.  The Thirteenth.  Both from the Korelri Campaign.  Now, the Eighth arrived at about the time the 14th shipped out, but given the slow pace of the military ink-scratchers, it's not likely you were from the Eighth – besides, Faradan Sort was, and she doesn't know you.  I asked.  So, that leaves the Thirteenth.  Which is rather … interesting.  You served under Greymane –"

"I'm afraid you got it all wrong,"  Ruthan Gudd cut in.  "I came in on a transfer from Nok's fleet, Skanarow.  Wasn't even a marine –"

 "Which ship did you serve on?"

 "The Dhenrabi –"

"Which sank off the Strike Bight –"

 "Aye –"

 "About eighty years ago."

He eyed her for a long moment.  "Now, that kind of recall verges on the obsessive, don't you think?"

"As opposed to pathological lying, Captain?"

"That was the first Dhenrabi.  The second one slammed into the Wall at five knots.  Of the two hundred seventy-two on board, five of us were dragged out by the Stormguard."

"You stood the Wall?"

 "No, I was handed over in a prisoner exchange."

"Into the Thirteenth?"

 "Straight back to the fleet, Skanarow.  We'd managed to capture four Mare triremes loaded with volunteers for the Wall – aye, hard to believe anyone would volunteer for that.  In any case, the Stormguard were desperate for the new blood.  So, you can put all your suspicions to rest, Captain.  My history is dull and uneventful and far from heroic.  Some mysteries, Skanarow, aren't worth knowing." (DoD)

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Draconus.

Fuck.

He combed through the damp snarl of his beard.

world shook.  Balls of fire descending, the terrible light filling the sky.  Fists hammering the world.

Wish I'd seen it.

But he remembered the Azath's deathcry.  He remembered the gnarled trees engulfed in pillars of flames, the bitter heat of the soil he clawed through.  He remembered staggering free beneath a crazed sky of lurid smoke, lightning and a deluge of ashes.  He remembered his first thought, riding that breath of impossible freedom.

Jacuruku, you've changed.

One found loyalty under the strangest circumstances.  Penitence and gratitude, arms entwined, a moment's lustful exultation mistaken for worship.  His gaze flicked back to Skanarow.  The shadows and ill hue were gone.  She slept, beauty in repose.  Innocence was so precious.  But do not think of me with love, woman.  Do not force upon me a moment of confession, the truth of foolish vows uttered a lifetime ago.

Let us play this game of blissful oblivion a little while longer.

"It's better this way, Draconus."

"This is Kallor's empire, friend.  Will you not reconsider?"

Reconsider.  Yes, there is that.  "The shore seems welcoming enough.  If I mind my own business…"

He'd smiled at that.

And I smiled back.

Draconus returned to that continent – I felt his footfalls, there inside my seemingly eternal prison.  He returned to see for himself the madness of Kallor.

You were right, Draconus.  I should have minded my own business.  For once.

Can you hear me now?  Draconus?  Are you listening?

I have reconsidered.  At long last.  And so I give you this.  Find me, and one of us will die. (DoD)

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He has troubled dreams.  He speaks in his sleep, in languages I've never heard before."

"Most curious."

"For example, have you ever heard of Ahkrast Kor Valain?"

Kindly frowned.  "Can't say I have, but it sounds Tiste.  For example, the Elder Warrens of Kurald Galain and Emurlahn.  Similar construction, I'd wager.  You might mention it to the High Mage."(DoD)

........................................................................................

 

 

Ruthan Gudd kicked his skittish horse forward, rising in his stirrups.  His sword was in his hand, steam whirling from its white, strangely translucent blade.

He caught sight of it from the corner of his eye.  "Hood's fist!"  The skeins of sorcery that had disguised the weapon – in layers thick and tangled with centuries of magic – had been torn away.  Deathly cold burned his hand.  She answers.  She answers … what? (DoD)

 

She answers – as she has never answered before.  Gods below, spawn of the Azath – I smell – oh, gods no – (K'Chain Nah'ruk skykeeps over the Wastelands)

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Frost glistened from his entire body now, and ice had spread thick as armour to encase the horse beneath him.  It was already dead, he knew, but the ice knew to answer his commands.  He rode a dozen paces ahead of the front line of Malazans, knowing that countless eyes were upon him, knowing they were struggling to understand what they were seeing – not just this alien army so clearly intent on their annihilation, but on Ruthan Gudd himself, out here astride a horse sheathed in ice, the ice murky with hints of the form it had engulfed.

He held the Storm-Rider sword as if it was an extension of his forearm – ice had crept up to his shoulder, gleaming yet flowing as would water.

  

Quick Ben caught sight of Ruthan Gudd and he grunted.  I'll be damned.  A Mael-bit Nerruse-whore-spawn Storm-Rider.  Who knew?

  

Seeing the first line of the nearest phalanx level their bizarre clubs, Ruthan Gudd gritted his teeth.  This Storm-Rider crap had better work.  But gods below, it does hurt to wear.  He wheeled his mount to face the Nah'ruk, and then raised high his sword.

 

The wire-bound clubs in the (Nah'ruk)front line seemed to ignite like torches.  Lightning arced from the blunt heads, two serpentine tendrils snaking into the air.  From each weapon, one of the bolts twisted and spun to sink into one of the strange ceramic packs – a dozen such arcs for each pack.  The second crackling tongue of white fire seemed to throb for an instant, and then as one they lashed out, a score or more converging on the charging, ice-clad rider and horse.

The detonation engulfed Ruthan Gudd and his mount, tore gouts of earth and stone from the ground in a broad, ragged crater.  

 

Horse clambering drunkenly from the crater, Ruthan Gudd shook his head, readying his blazing weapon.  Dirt streamed down his back beneath his smeared, steaming armour.  He spat grit. 

That wasn't so bad now.

Directly in front of him, twenty paces away, looming huge, the front line.  Their eyes glittered like diamonds within the shadows beneath the rims of their ornate helms.  The fangs lining their snouts glistened like shards of iron.

He had an inkling that they had not expected to see him again.  He rode over to say hello.