The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Dujek was rubbing the stump of his left arm, frowning distractedly. “Damn this weather,” he muttered.

  “Mallet could ease that,” Whiskeyjack said.

  “Not necessary,” Dujek replied. “I’m just getting old.” He scratched his jaw. “All of your heavy supplies have been delivered to the drop point. Ready to fly, Sergeant?”

  Whiskeyjack eyed the ridged second saddles on the Quorl where they rose up at the back of the thorax like cowls, then nodded sharply.

  They watched as the squad members emerged from the square doorway, each wearing a raincape and burdened with a heavy pack. Fiddler and Hedge were engaged in a whispering argument, the latter casting a glare back at Trotts who’d trodden on his heel. The Barghast had attached his entire collection of charms, trinkets, and trophies to various parts of his burly body, looking like a bedecked leadwood tree during the Kanese Fête of the Scorpions. Barghast were known for their odd sense of humor. Quick Ben and Kalam flanked Sorry, both men glowering and on edge, while Sorry, ignoring everyone, slowly made her way to the waiting Quorls. Her satchel was no bigger than a bedroll, and the raincape she wore was more like a cloak—not standard issue—reaching down to her ankles. She’d raised the hood. Despite the dawn’s burgeoning light her face remained in shadow. This is all I have left. Whiskeyjack sighed.

  Dujek asked quietly, “How is she doing, Sergeant?”

  “Still breathing,” Whiskeyjack replied stonily.

  The High Fist slowly shook his head. “So damn young these days . . .”

  A memory returned to Whiskeyjack as he considered Dujek’s words. On a brief attachment to the 5th, away from the siege at Pale, in the midst of the Mott Campaign, Sorry had joined them from the new troops arriving at Nathilog. He’d watched her put a knife to three local mercenaries they’d taken prisoner in Graydog—ostensibly to glean information but, he recalled with a shudder, it had been nothing like that. Not an act of expedience. He had stared aghast, horrified, as Sorry set to work on their loins. He remembered meeting Kalam’s gaze, and the desperate gesture that sent the black man surging forward, knives bared. Kalam had pushed past Sorry and with three quick motions had laid open the men’s throats. And then came the moment that still twisted Whiskeyjack’s heart. In their last, frothing words, the mercenaries had blessed Kalam.

  Sorry had merely sheathed her weapon, then walked away.

  Though the woman had been with the squad for two years, still his men called her a recruit, and they would probably do so until the day they died. There was a meaning there, and Whiskeyjack understood it well. Recruits were not Bridgeburners. The stripping away of that label was an earned thing, a recognition brought by deeds. Sorry was a recruit because the thought of having her inextricably enfolded within the Bridgeburners burned like a hot knife in the throat of everyone in his squad. And that was something to which the sergeant himself was not immune.

  As all of this flashed through Whiskeyjack’s thoughts, his usually impassive expression failed him. In his head, he replied: Young? No, you can forgive the young, you can answer their simple needs, and you can look in their eyes and find enough there that is recognizable. But her? No. Best to avoid those eyes, in which there was nothing that was young—nothing at all.

  “Let’s get you moving,” Dujek growled. “Mount everyone up.” The High Fist turned to say a few last words to the sergeant, but what he saw in Whiskeyjack’s face killed those words in his throat.

  ________

  Two muted thunderclaps sounded in the city as the east spread its crimson cloak skyward, the first report followed scant minutes later by the second. The last of the night’s tears churned down gunnels and swirled along street gutters. Muddy puddles filled potholes, reflecting the thinning clouds overhead with an opaque cast. Among the narrow crooked alleys of Pale’s Krael Quarter, the chill and damp of the night clung to the dark spaces with tenacity. Here, the mold-laden bricks and worn cobbles had swallowed the second thunderclap, leaving no echo to challenge the patter of water droplets.

  Down one aisle, winding south along the outer wall, loped a dog the size of a mule. Its massive head was slung low forward in front of the broad, bunched muscles of its shoulders. That it had seen a night without rain was marked by its dusty, dry, mottled gray and black fur. The animal’s muzzle was speckled with gray, and its eyes glowed amber.

  The Hound, marked Seventh among Shadowthrone’s servants and called Gear, hunted. The quarry was elusive, cunning, and swift in its flight. Yet Gear felt close. He knew that it was no human he tracked—no mortal man or woman could have escaped his jaws for so long. Even more astonishing, Gear had yet to catch a glimpse of the quarry. But it had trespassed, with impunity it had entered the Shadow Realm, trailing Shadowthrone himself and strumming all the webs Gear’s lord had spun. The only answer to such an affront was death.

  Soon, the Hound knew, he would be the hunted one, and if those hunters came in numbers and in strength Gear would be hard pressed to continue his search. There were those within the city who had felt the savage partings of the fabric. And less than a minute after passing through the Warren’s gate Gear’s hackles had stiffened, telling him of nearby magic’s burgeoning. Thus far the Hound had eluded detection, but that would not last.

  He moved silent and cautiously through the maze of shanties and lean-tos crouching against the city wall, ignoring the occasional denizen come out to taste the dawn’s rain-cleansed air. He stepped over the beggars sprawled in his path. Local dogs and ratters gave him one glance then slunk away, ears flattened and tail sweeping the muddy ground.

  As Gear rounded the corner of a sunken stone house the morning breeze brought his head round. He paused, eyes searching down the street opposite him. Mist drifted here and there, and the first carts of the lesser merchants were being pulled out by figures wrapped warm against the chill—the Hound was running out of time.

  Gear’s eyes traveled down the length of the street, focusing on a large, walled estate at the far end. Four soldiers lounged before its gate, watching passers-by with little interest and talking among themselves. Gear’s head lifted, his study finding a shuttered window on the estate’s second floor.

  Anticipation and pleasure surged through the Hound. He had found the trail’s end. Lowering his head again, he moved, his gaze unwavering on the four guards.

  _________

  The shift had ended. As the new marines approached they both noticed that the gate was unlocked, ajar.

  “What’s this?” one asked, eyeing the two drawn faces of the soldiers who stood against the wall.

  “It’s been that kind of night,” the elder responded. “The kind where you don’t ask questions.”

  The two new men exchanged glances, then the one who had spoken gave the older man a nod and a grin. “I know the kind. Well, get on, then. Your cots are waiting.”

  The older man shifted his pike and seemed to sag. His gaze flicked to his partner, but the young man had his attention on something up the street. “I’d guess it’s too late now,” the older man said to the newcomers, “meaning it won’t happen and so it don’t matter, but if a woman shows up, a Bridgeburner, you let her through and keep your eyes on the walls.”

  “Look at that dog,” the younger soldier said.

  “We hear you,” said the new man. “Life in the Second—”

  “Look at that dog,” the young marine repeated.

  The others turned to look up the street. The old guard stared, his eyes widening, then he hissed a curse and fumbled with his pike. None of the others managed even that much before the Hound was upon them.

  Sleepless, Tattersail lay flat on her back on the bed in the outer room. Her exhaustion had reached a point where even sleep eluded her so she stared at the ceiling, her thoughts wandering in a disordered review of the past seven days. Despite her initial anger at being embroiled in the Bridgeburners’ schemes, she had to acknowledge the excitement she felt.

  The desire to collect her possessions and open a
Warren, away from the Empire, away from Hairlock’s madness and hunger, away from the field of an endless war, now seemed an ancient one, born of a desperation she no longer felt.

  But it was more than just a renewed sense of humanity that compelled her to stay to see it through—the Bridgeburners, after all, had shown again and again that they could take care of their own affairs. No, she wanted to see Tayschrenn pulled down. It was a truth that frightened her. Hunger for vengeance poisoned the soul. And it was likely that she would have to wait a long time to see Tayschrenn’s just demise. She wondered if, having fed on that poison for so long, she might not end up viewing the world with Hairlock’s shining bright mad eyes.

  “Too much,” she muttered. “Too much all at once.”

  A sound at the door startled her. She sat up. “Oh,” she said, scowling, “you’ve returned.”

  “Safe and sound,” Hairlock said. “Sorry to disappoint you, ’Sail.” The marionette waved one tiny, gloved hand and the door behind him closed, its latch falling into place. “Much feared, these Hounds of Shadow,” he said, sauntering into the room’s center and pirouetting once before sitting down, legs splayed and arms hanging limp. He sniggered. “But in the end nothing more than glorified mutts, stupid and slow and sniffing at every tree. Finding naught of sly Hairlock.”

  Tattersail leaned back and closed her eyes. “Quick Ben was displeased by your sloppiness.”

  “Fool!” Hairlock spat. “I leave him to his watching, I leave him convinced that such knowledge has power over me while I go where I choose. He eagerly lays claim to commanding me, a foolishness I give him now, to make my vengeance sweeter.”

  She had heard it all before and knew he was working on her, seeking to weaken her resolve. Unfortunately he was succeeding in part, for she felt doubt. Maybe Hairlock was telling the truth: maybe Quick Ben had already lost him, yet remained ignorant of the fact. “Keep your vengeance for the man who stole your legs and then your body,” Tattersail said dryly. “Tayschrenn still mocks you.”

  “He’ll pay first!” Hairlock shrieked. Then he hunched down, gripping his sides. “One thing at a time,” he whispered.

  From the compound beyond the window came the first screams.

  Tattersail bolted upright as Hairlock shouted: “Found! I mustn’t be seen, woman!”

  The marionette leaped to his feet and scurried to his box against the far wall. “Destroy the Hound—you’ve no choice!” Scrambling, he opened the box and climbed inside. The lid thudded into place and the nimbus of a protective spell suffused it.

  Tattersail stood by the bed, hesitating. Wood shattered below and the building shook. Men shrieked, weapons clanged. The sorceress pushed herself upright, terror seeping into her limbs like molten lead. Destroy a Hound of Shadow? Heavy thumps rattled the window, as of bodies being flung aside on the floor below, then the thumps reached the foot of the stairs, and the screaming stopped. From the compound she heard soldiers shouting.

  Tattersail drew on her Thyr Warren. Power swept into her and pushed aside the paralyzing fear. She straightened, all exhaustion gone, and swung her gaze on the door. Wood creaked, then the timber panel exploded inward, as if flung from a catapult, and was instantly buffeted aside by Tattersail’s magical shield. The twin impacts shattered it, flinging shards and splinters against the ceiling and walls. Glass broke behind her, the window’s shutters springing open. An icy wind roiled into the room.

  The Hound appeared, its eyes yellow flames, the muscles of its high shoulders taut, rippling under its skin. The creature’s power swept like a wave over Tattersail and she drew a sharp breath. The Hound was old, older than anything she had ever encountered. It paused in the doorway, sniffing the air, blood dripping from its black lips. Then its gaze fixed on the iron-bound box against the wall to Tattersail’s left. The beast stepped forward.

  “No,” she said.

  The Hound froze. Its massive head swung slow and measured to her, as if it was noticing her for the first time. Its lips peeled back to reveal the luminescent gleam of canines the length of a man’s thumb.

  Damn you, Hairlock! I need your help! Please!

  A white strip flashed above the Hound’s eyes as the lids snapped back. It charged.

  The attack was so swift that Tattersail was unable to raise her hands before the beast was upon her, surging through her outer magic as if it was no more than a brisk wind. Her closest defenses, a layering of High Wards, met the Hound’s charge like a stone wall. She felt cracks streak outward, deep fissures reaching through to her arms and chest with a snapping sound immediately replaced by spurting blood. This, and the Hound’s momentum, flung her back through the air. The wards at her back cushioned the blow as she hit the wall beside the window. Mortar puffed into the air around her, and fragments of crushed brick scattered across the floor.

  The Hound had fallen to its knees. Shaking its head, it regained its feet, snorted, then attacked again.

  Tattersail, her wits rocked by the first charge, weakly lifted one blood-streaked arm before her face, unable to do anything else.

  As the Hound sprang into the air, jaws open and reaching for her head, a wave of gray light struck the beast in the side, throwing it into the bed to Tattersail’s right. Wood crunched. With a grunt the Hound was up again, wheeling this time to face Hairlock, who stood perched atop his box, glistening with sweat and arms raised. “Oh, yes, Gear,” he shrilled. “I’m your quarry!”

  Tattersail slumped, then leaned to one side and vomited on the floor. A chaotic Warren swirled in the room, a miasma that churned into her like riotous pestilence. It radiated from Hairlock in visible pulses of grainy gray shot through with black.

  The Hound eyed Hairlock, its sides heaving. It was as if it was trying to dispel the waves of power from its brain. A low growl rumbled in its chest—its first sound. The wide head sagged.

  Tattersail stared, then understanding struck a hammer blow to her chest. “Hound!” she screamed. “He’s reaching for your soul! Escape! Get out of here!”

  The beast’s growl deepened, but it did not move.

  None of the three noticed the door to the inner bedroom opening off to the left, or the halting appearance of Captain Paran, wrapped in the colorless woolen blanket that covered him down to his ankles. Pale and drawn, the man moved forward, a blank cast to his eyes, which were fixed on the Hound. As the invisible battle of wills continued between Gear and Hairlock, Paran stepped closer.

  The movement caught Tattersail’s eye. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but Paran moved first. The blanket parted to reveal a longsword, point flashing outward as he extended into a full lunge. The sword sank into Gear’s chest, even as the man leaped back, withdrawing the lunge, twisting the weapon as he pulled it clear. A bellow thundered from Gear’s throat. The Hound staggered back into the ruins of the bed, biting at the wound gushing blood from its side.

  Hairlock screamed in rage and jumped forward, closing in on Gear.

  Tattersail scythed one foot into the puppet’s path, flinging him against the far wall.

  Gear howled. A dark rift opened around him with the sound of tearing burlap. He whirled and plunged into the deepening shadow. The rent closed and was gone, leaving in its wake a rippling of cold air.

  Astonished beyond her pain, Tattersail swung her attention to Captain Paran and the bloodied sword in his hands. “How?” she gasped. “How could you have pierced the Hound’s magic? Your sword—”

  The captain looked down at it. “Just lucky, I suppose.”

  “Oponn!” Hairlock hissed, as he regained his feet, and glared at Tattersail. “Hood’s Curse on the Fools! And you, woman, this I’ll not forget. You will pay—I swear it!”

  Tattersail looked away and sighed. A smile touched her lips as words uttered earlier now returned with new, grim meaning. “You’ll be too busy staying alive, Hairlock, to start on me. You’ve given Shadowthrone something to think about. And you’ll live to regret his attention, puppet. Deny that if you dare.” />
  “I’m returning to my box,” Hairlock said, scrambling. “Expect Tayschrenn here in minutes. You’ll say nothing, Sorceress.” He clambered inside. “Nothing.” The lid slammed shut.

  Tattersail’s smile broadened, the taste of blood in her mouth like an omen, a silent, visible warning to Hairlock of things to come—a warning she knew he couldn’t see. That made the taste almost sweet.

  She tried to move, but it seemed that a chill had come to her limbs. Within her mind visions floated, but walls of darkness closed in around them before they could register. She felt herself fading.

  A man’s voice spoke close by, urgent. “What do you hear?”

  She frowned, trying to concentrate. Then she smiled. “A spinning coin. I hear a spinning coin.”

  Book Two

  Darujhistan

  What windfall has brushed our senses?

  This rocking thunderhead that scraped

  the lake’s placid waters

  and spun a single day’s

  shadows like a wheel that rolled us

  from dawn to dusk, while we

  tottered our tender ways . . .

  What windlass crackles dire warnings?

  There in the gentle swells that tossed

  a bobbing cork our way

  with its fine magenta scent wafting

  like a panoply of petals

  that might be ashes

  in twilight’s crimson smear . . .

  RUMOR BORN

  FISHER (B.?)

  Chapter Five

  And if this man sees you in his dreams,

  while you rock in the season’s

  brooding night

  ’neath a tree’s stout branch,

  and your shadow is hooded

  above the knotted rope,

  so will the winds of his passing

  twitch your stiffened limbs

  into some semblance of running . . .

  RUMOR BORN

  FISHER (B.?)