The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Toc could think of a thousand flaws in the Captain’s plans. First and foremost was the T’lan Imass. Was Paran’s sword its match? In the past, sorcery had been flung at the Imass warriors with a frenzy born of desperation. Nothing had worked. The only way to destroy an Imass was to chop it to pieces. Toc didn’t think the captain’s weapon, god-touched as it was, could do the job, but there was no convincing Paran of anything these days.

  They came upon another raven, its feathers fluttering in the wind, its entrails swollen by the sun and bright red like cherries. Toc rubbed his scar again, and almost fell from the saddle as an image, clear and precise, burgeoned in his head. He saw a small shape, moving so fast as to be but a blur. Horses screamed, and a massive tear opened up in the air. He jolted, as if something large and heavy had struck him, and the tear yawned, swirling darkness beyond. Toc heard his own horse scream. Then it was gone, and he found himself gripping the hinged horn of his saddle with all his strength.

  Paran rode ahead, apparently noticing nothing, his back straight and his gaze fixed southward. One hand played lightly on the sword’s pommel.

  Toc shook himself, leaned to one side and spat. What had he just seen? That tear—how could the air itself be torn like that? The answer came to him. A Warren, an opening Warren could do that. He spurred his horse alongside Paran’s.

  “Captain, we’re heading into an ambush.”

  Paran’s head snapped around. His eyes glittered. “Then prepare yourself.”

  Toc opened his mouth to protest, but he shut it without speaking. What was the use? He strung his bow and loosened the scimitar in its scabbard, then set an arrow against the bowstring. He glanced over at Paran, who had unsheathed his sword and laid it across his thighs. “It’ll come by Warren, Captain.”

  Paran found no need to question Toc’s certitude. He almost looked eager.

  Toc studied the sword, Chance. The dull, hazy light played along the polished blade like water. Somehow it, too, looked eager to Toc’s eye.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ’Tis bloody stirrups when the Jaghut

  ride their souls, a thund’rous charge

  without surcease,

  the hard knots within thud

  drumming fierce the flow of ice

  a certain promise . . .

  ’tis the Jaghut warring the dusk

  on a field of broken stones . . .

  JAGHUT

  FISHER (B.?)

  Quick Ben sat in the hut, his back to the ancient stone tier Wall. Before him rose the five sticks that linked him with Hairlock. The string connecting the sticks was taut. Across from the wizard, near the hide-covered entrance, sat Trotts.

  Kalam had still not recovered enough to accompany Quick Ben, or to guard him as Trotts now did. The wizard had known the Barghast warrior for years, he’d fought alongside him in more battles than he cared to recall, and more than once one of them had saved the other’s skin. And yet Quick Ben realized he really knew very little about Trotts. The one thing he did know, however, comforted him. The Barghast was a savage, brutal fighter, as capable with his throwing axes as he was with the longsword he now cradled in his lap. And he was fearless in the face of sorcery, secure in the fetishes tied into his braids, and in the woad tattoos inscribed by the hand of his clan’s shaman.

  Considering what might fall into their laps, those protections could come in handy.

  The Barghast stared at the wizard with flat, expressionless eyes, unwavering in the dim light.

  Quick Ben shook out the kinks in his hands, then bent forward to study the array of tied sticks. “Hairlock’s crouching inside his Warren,” he said. “Not moving. Seems to be waiting.” He sat back and withdrew his dagger, which he jammed point first into the packed earth. “So we wait, too. And watch.”

  Trotts asked, “Watch what?”

  “Never mind.” Quick Ben sighed. “You have that scrap of bedroll?”

  Trotts removed from a sleeve a torn piece of cloth. He came forward, giving the sticks more room than was necessary, and pushed the scrap into the wizard’s hand.

  Quick Ben set it down on his left. He muttered a few words and passed his hand over it. “Resume your seat,” he said. “And keep your weapon ready in case things go bad.”

  He closed his eyes then, reaching into his Warren. Before him an image formed that made him jerk with surprise. “What,” he whispered, “is Hairlock doing on Rhivi Plain?”

  Paran could feel nothing but the white fire of vengeance, filling his mind, coruscating through his body. Oponn had chosen to use him. Now he would use Oponn, the Twins’ power, that horrifying edge of destruction that came with Ascendancy. And like the gods, he could be cold-blooded in that use, even if it meant pulling Oponn kicking and screaming onto this plain to face whatever lay ahead.

  A hiss of warning that might have been his conscience reached through to him. Toc the Younger was his friend, perhaps the only friend he had. Unprotected by any god, his chance of surviving what was coming was slim. Would there be another death to lay at his feet? Paran pushed aside the possibility. He was here to answer for Tattersail’s murder. The Adjunct had taught him the value of being singleminded. But what did Tattersail teach you?

  “If things get too hot,” he said, “pull out, Toc. Ride for Darujhistan. Find Whiskeyjack.”

  The scout nodded.

  “If I go down—”

  “I heard you, Captain.”

  “Good.”

  Silence fell between them, the only sounds remaining the thump of hooves and the hot west wind that blew like sand whispering across stone.

  Vague anticipations crowded Paran’s head. Was the Adjunct waiting for them? If she recognized him and Toc, she’d have no reason to attack them. For all she knew, the captain had been killed. And Toc was a Claw. There’d be no ambush. The Adjunct would simply step out into the open and hail him, no doubt shocked by his appearance but hardly suspicious.

  And when she came close, Chance would sing. It would be done, and if necessary they’d deal with the Imass afterward. He hoped that the Imass would simply leave with the mission’s collapse. Without the Adjunct, everything would fall through.

  At least, so he hoped. Chance might be a gifted sword, but the T’lan Imass were Elder creations, born of sorceries that made Oponn less than a child.

  Paran’s grip on the sword’s handle was tight. His hand ached, and he could feel sweat between his fingers. Chance felt no different from any other weapon. Should he be expecting something more? He couldn’t recall much of the time he’d last used it, against the Hound. But if there was power in the weapon, should he not be able to sense it? As it was, Chance felt cold, as if he clutched a shard of ice that refused to melt in his grip. If anything, Chance felt awkward, as if he was a novice and held it wrongly.

  What had triggered this sudden crumpling of confidence? Pulling an Ascendant into the fray . . . how precisely do I do that? Of course, if Oponn’s as eager as last time . . . Maybe it was no more than just the tension that came with waiting for something to happen. Was Toc mistaken? He turned to the man beside him and opened his mouth to speak.

  A loud, manic cackle stopped him. Paran pulled savagely on the reins. His horse screamed and reared. The air seemed to rip and a cold wind gusted against them. The captain raised his sword and cursed. The horse screamed again, this time in pain. It crumpled beneath him, as if its bones had been turned to dust. Paran sprawled, the sword flying from his hand as the ground rose up to meet him. The horse’s fall had the sound of a bag filled with rocks and lamp oil, landing beside him and rolling over his legs.

  Toc’s bowstring twanged and an arrow shattered against something hard.

  Paran pushed himself onto his side and looked up.

  The puppet Hairlock floated above the ground twenty feet ahead. A second arrow struck as the captain watched, also shattering.

  Hairlock laughed again, swinging his mad stare to Toc. He gestured.

  Paran cried out, twisting to see
Toc thrown from his mount. The Claw cartwheeled through the air. A jagged tear opened in the air in front of him. Paran shouted a second time in helpless horror as Toc the Younger plunged into that tear and disappeared into swirling mists. The rent closed with a snap, leaving no sign of Paran’s companion.

  Hairlock descended slowly to the ground. The puppet paused to adjust his tattered clothing, then strode toward Paran.

  “I thought it might be you,” Hairlock sniggered. “Isn’t vengeance sweeter than honey, eh, Captain? Your death will be long, protracted, and very, very painful. Imagine my pleasure at seeing you like this!”

  Paran pushed with his legs. The horse’s body fell back, freeing him. He scrambled to his feet and dived for his sword, grasping it while rolling, then regained his feet.

  Hairlock watched in evident amusement and began to advance. “That weapon is not for me, Captain. It’ll not even cut me. So,” the puppet came on, “wail away.”

  Paran raised the weapon, a wave of despair coming over him.

  Hairlock stopped and cocked his head. He whirled to face the north.

  “Impossible!” the puppet snarled.

  Now Paran caught what Hairlock had already heard: the howling of Hounds.

  In the hut Quick Ben had watched the ambush, dumbfounded. What was Paran doing? Where was Tattersail? “Hood’s Path,” he’d whispered angrily, “talk about losing track!” In any case, it had all happened too fast for him to prevent the loss of the one-eyed man accompanying the captain.

  His eyes flew open and he snatched the scrap of cloth. “Sorry,” he hissed. “Sorry! Hear me, woman! I know you. I know who you are. Cotillion, Patron of Assassins, the Rope, I call upon you!”

  He felt a presence enter his mind, followed by a man’s voice. “Well done, Quick Ben.”

  The wizard said, “I have a message for you, Rope. For Shadowthrone.” He felt a heightened tension in his head. “A deal’s been struck. Your lord’s Hounds hunger for vengeance. I haven’t time to explain it all now—leave that to Shadowthrone. I am about to give to you the location of the one Shadowthrone seeks.”

  He heard wry amusement in the Rope’s voice. “I provide the link, correct? The means by which you stay alive in all this. I congratulate you, Quick Ben. Few mortals have ever succeeded in avoiding my lord’s inclination to double-cross. It seems you have outwitted him. Very well, convey to me this location. Shadowthrone will receive it immediately.”

  Quick Ben cast forth Hairlock’s precise position on the Rhivi Plain. He only hoped the Hounds would arrive in time. He had a lot of questions for Paran, and wanted the captain to reach them alive, but he had to admit that the chances of that were slight.

  All that remained for the wizard now was to prevent the puppet’s escape. He smiled again. That was something he looked forward to.

  Onos T’oolan had squatted before the standing stone since dawn. In the hours since, Lorn had wandered the nearby hills, at war with herself. She now knew with a certainty that what they were doing was wrong, that its consequences went far beyond the petty efforts of a mundane Empire.

  The T’lan Imass worked in the span of millennia, their purposes their own. Yet their endless war had become her endless war. Laseen’s Empire was a shadow of the First Empire. The difference lay in that the Imass conducted genocide against another species. Malaz killed its own. Humanity had not climbed up since the dark age of the Imass: it had spiraled down.

  The sun stood high overhead. She had last looked upon Tool an hour past. The warrior had not moved an inch. Lorn climbed yet another hill, already a quarter-mile distant from the standing stone. She hoped to catch a glimpse of Lake Azur, to the west.

  She came to the hill’s summit and found herself not thirty feet from four mounted travelers. It was hard to determine who was more surprised, but the Adjunct moved first, her sword rasping into her hands as she sprang to close the distance.

  Two were essentially unarmed, a boy and a short fat man. They and one other, a gaudily dressed man now unsheathing a dueling rapier, rode mules. But it was the last man who held Lorn’s attention. Fully armored astride a horse, he was the first to react to her charge. Bellowing, he spurred his mount past the others and unsheathed a bastard sword.

  Lorn smiled as the fat man attempted to open a Warren and failed. Her Otataral blade steamed briefly before a cold wash of air poured from it. The fat man, his eyes widening, reeled back in his saddle and promptly rolled over the mule’s rump, landing heavily in the dust. The boy leaped down from his own mount and paused, unsure whether to aid the fat man or remove the dagger from his belt. As the armored man rode past him, he reached his decision and ran to where the fat man had fallen. The one with the rapier had also dismounted and approached in the warrior’s wake.

  Lorn’s eyes caught all this between blinks. Then the warrior was upon her, swinging his bastard sword one-handed down toward her head.

  The Adjunct didn’t bother to parry. Instead, she dodged in front of the horse to come up on the man from his left, away from his sword arm. The horse reared. Lorn darted past, slicing her blade across the man’s thigh, above the plate armor. The Otataral edge sliced through chain links, leather, and flesh with equal ease.

  The warrior grunted and clapped a mailed hand to the spurting wound even as the horse threw him from the saddle.

  Ignoring him, Lorn engaged the duelist, attempting to beat his thin blade aside and close to bring the edge of her weapon into play. But the man was good, deftly disengaging her attempted beat. The sword’s swing unbalanced her before she could slow its momentum preparatory to an uppercut, and in this moment the duelist extended his rapier.

  She cursed as her forward motion brought her onto the blade’s tip. The point pushed through the links of her hauberk and entered her left shoulder. Pain lanced like fire up her arm. Angered by the wound, she swung her sword savagely at the man’s head. The flat of the blade caught him flush on the forehead and he sprawled back like a limp doll.

  Lorn cast a quick glance to where the warrior still struggled to stop the blood gushing from his leg, then whirled to face the last two men. The boy stood before the fat man, who lay unconscious. Though his face was pale, he held a thin-bladed dagger in his left hand and a larger knife in the other. His eyes were hard as he stared at her.

  The thought crossed Lorn’s mind, belatedly, that she need not have attacked these men. She wore mercenary garb, and the T’lan Imass was not even within sight. Words might have achieved the same results, and she’d never liked shedding blood. Well, it was too late for that now. She advanced slowly.

  “We meant no harm,” the boy said in Daru. “Leave us be.”

  Lorn hesitated. The suggestion surprised her. Why not? She straightened. “Agreed,” she answered in the same language. “Patch up your friends and steer clear.”

  “We’ll head back to Darujhistan,” the boy said, looking equally surprised. “We’ll camp here and recover, leave in the morning.”

  The Adjunct stepped back. “Do that, and you’ll stay alive. Try anything else, and I’ll kill you all. Understood?”

  The boy nodded.

  Lorn backed away, angling to the north. She’d head that way for a time, then swing round to the east and come back down to where Tool was. She had no idea what had brought these men out into the hills, but didn’t suspect it had anything to do with her, or even the barrow. As she increased the distance between herself and the hill, she saw the boy rush over to the warrior. In any case, she concluded, there wasn’t much left of that group to cause her worry. The duelist wasn’t dead, but he’d awake to a headache. As for the warrior, it was touch and go. She’d seen a lot of blood come from him. The fat man might have broken his neck, and as a mage he was harmless in her vicinity. That left the boy, and since when had she had cause to fear a boy?

  Lorn quickened her pace.

  ______

  After the startling communication from Quick Ben, Sorry had contacted Shadowthrone. The Lord of Shadows had fumed bri
efly, and after informing the Rope that Ben Adaephon Delat had been a high priest of Shadow, Sorry found herself sharing Shadowthrone’s anger. The man would pay for his many deceits.

  Shadowthrone’s Hounds had indeed been ready, and she was sure that even now they closed the hunt.

  As she resumed her journey through her Warren she met with increasing resistance, a strange pressure with every step she took eastward. Finally, she relented and emerged into the Gadrobi Hills. It was midday, and half a mile ahead rode the Coin Bearer’s party. She closed the gap swiftly until she was no more than a hundred yards behind them, gathering shadows about her as she went—though even this proved increasingly difficult. And that could mean only one thing: a T’lan Imass was nearby.

  To what, and to whom, was the Coin Bearer riding? Had she miscalculated entirely? Were they agents for the Malazan Empire? That possibility ran contrary to Oponn’s influence, but she had trouble arriving at any other conclusion.

  This, she told herself, would prove an interesting day.

  The party was fifty yards ahead, making their way up a hillside. They reached the summit and disappeared briefly from her view. She quickened her pace, only to hear sounds of fighting on the hilltop—a fight in which Otataral was unveiled.

  A flash of rage ran through her. Memory was attached to Otataral, a very personal memory. Cautiously she sought a vantage point at the hill’s crest.

  The exchange had been short, and the Coin Bearer’s party looked near wiped out. In fact, only the Coin Bearer still stood, facing a tall, lithe woman wielding an Otataral blade.

  Sorry recognized Adjunct Lorn. On a mission, no doubt, for her dear Empress, a mission that included a T’lan Imass, still out of sight but close. She caught their conversation. If the boy’s group weren’t agents for the Empire then perhaps their master in Darujhistan had sensed the presence of the Imass out here, and had sent them to investigate.