The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  His heels struck something soft and with a curse he stumbled and fell.

  The marine glanced back. “On your feet, dammit! Someone’s after us!”

  Duiker had tripped over a body, a Tithansi lancer who’d been dragged by his horse before the mangled mess of his left hand finally released the reins. A throwing star was buried deep in his neck. The historian blinked at that—a Claw’s weapon, that star—as he scrambled to his feet. More unseen back-up? Sounds of battle echoed through the mists, as if a full-scale engagement was underway.

  Duiker resumed covering the marine as she continued on, Nil’s limp body hanging like a sack of turnips over one shoulder.

  A moment later three Tithansi warriors plunged out of the fog, tulwars swinging.

  Decades-old training saved the historian from their initial onslaught. He ducked low and closed with the warrior on his right, grunting as the man’s leather-wrapped forearm cracked down on his left shoulder, then gasping as the tulwar it held whipped down—the Tithansi bending his wrist—and chopped deep into Duiker’s left buttock. Even as the pain jolted through him, he’d driven his short sword up and under the warrior’s ribcage, piercing his heart.

  Tearing the blade free, the historian jumped right. There was a falling body between him and the two remaining warriors, both of whom had the added disadvantage of being right-handed. The slashing tulwars missed Duiker by an arm’s length.

  The nearest weapon had been swung with enough force to drive it into the ground. The historian stamped a boot down hard on the flat of the blade, springing the tulwar from the Tithan’s hand. Duiker followed up with a savage chop between the man’s shoulder and neck, snapping through the collarbone.

  He launched himself behind the reeling warrior’s back to challenge the third Tithan, only to see the man face down on the ground, a silver-pommelled throwing knife jutting from between his shoulder blades. A Claw’s sticker—I’d recognize it anywhere!

  The historian paused, glared around, but could see no one. The mists swirled thick, smelling of ash. A hiss from the marine brought him around. She crouched at the inside edge of the picket trench, gesturing him forward.

  Suddenly soaked with sweat and shivering, Duiker quickly joined her.

  The woman grinned. “That was damned impressive sword-play, old man, though I couldn’t make out how you done the last one.”

  “You saw no one else?”

  “Huh?”

  Struggling to draw breath, Duiker only shook his head. He glanced down to where Nil lay motionless on the earthen bank. “What’s wrong with him?”

  The marine shrugged. Her pale-blue eyes were still appraising the historian. “We could use you in the ranks,” she said.

  “What I’ve lost in speed I’ve made up in experience, and experience tells me not to get into messes like this one. Not an old man’s game, soldier.”

  She grimaced, but with good humor, “Nor an old woman’s. Come on, the scrap’s swung east—we shouldn’t have any trouble crossing the trench.” She lifted Nil back onto her shoulder with ease.

  “You nailed the wrong man, you know…”

  “Aye, we’d guessed as much. That Semk was possessed, wasn’t he?”

  They reached the slope and picked their way carefully through the spikes studding the earth. Tents were burning in the Tithansi camp, adding smoke to the fog. Screams and the clash of weapons still echoed in the distance.

  Duiker asked, “Did you see anyone else get out?”

  She shook her head.

  They came upon a score of bodies, a Tithansi patrol who’d been hit with a sharper. The grenado’s slivers of iron had ripped through them with horrific efficiency. Blood trails indicated the recent departure of survivors.

  The fog quickly thinned as they approached the Wickan lines. A troop of Foolish Dog lancers who had been patrolling the wicker barriers spotted them and rode up.

  Their eyes fixed on Nil.

  The marine said, “He lives, but you’d better find Sormo.”

  Two riders peeled off, cantered back to the camp.

  “Any news of the other marines?” Duiker asked the nearest horsewarrior.

  The Wickan nodded. “The captain and one other made it.”

  A squad of sappers emerged from the mists in a desultory dog-trot that slowed to a walk as soon as they saw the group. “Two sharpers,” one was saying, disbelief souring his voice, “and the bastard just got back up.”

  Duiker stepped forward. “Who, soldier?”

  “That hairy Semk—”

  “Ain’t hairy no more,” another sapper threw in.

  “We were the mop-up mission,” the first man said, showing a red-stained grin. “Coltaine’s axe—you were the edge, we were the wedge. We hammered that ogre but it done no good—”

  “Sarge took an arrow,” said the other sapper. “His lung’s bleeding—”

  “Just one of them and it’s a pinprick,” the sergeant corrected, pausing to spit. “The other one’s fine.”

  “Can’t breathe blood, Sarge—”

  “I shared a tent with you, lad—I’ve breathed worse.”

  The squad continued on, arguing over whether or not the sergeant should go find a healer. The marine stared after them, shaking her head. Then she turned to the historian. “I’ll leave you to talk with Sormo, sir, if that’s all right.”

  Duiker nodded. “Two of your friends didn’t make it back—”

  “But one did. Next time for sword practice, I’ll come looking for you, sir.”

  “My joints are already seizing, soldier. You’ll have to prop me up.”

  She gently lowered Nil to the grass, then moved off.

  Ten years younger, I’d have the nerve to ask her…well, never mind. Imagine the arguments at the cooking fire…

  The two Wickan riders returned, flanking a travois harnessed to a brutal-looking cattle-dog. A hoof had connected with its head some time in its past, and the bones had healed lopsided, giving the animal a manic half-snarl that seemed well suited to the vicious gleam in its eyes.

  The riders dismounted and carefully laid Nil on the travois. Disdaining its escort, the dog moved off, back toward the Wickan encampment.

  “That was one ugly beast,” Captain Lull said behind the historian.

  Duiker grunted. “Proof that their skulls are all bone and no brain.”

  “Still lost, old man?”

  The historian scowled. “Why didn’t you tell me we had hidden help, Captain? Who were they, Pormqual’s?”

  “What in Hood’s name are you talking about?”

  He turned. “The Claw. Someone was covering our retreat. Using stars and stickers and moving unseen like a Hood-damned breath on my back!”

  Lull’s eyes widened.

  “How many more details is Coltaine keeping to himself?”

  “There’s no way Coltaine knows anything about this, Duiker,” Lull said, shaking his head. “If you’re certain of what you saw—and I believe you—then the Fist will want to know. Now.”

  For the first time that Duiker could recall, Coltaine looked rattled. He stood perfectly still, as if suddenly unsure that no one hovered behind him, invisible blades but moments from their killing thrust.

  Bult growled low in his throat. “The heat’s got you addled, Historian.”

  “I know what I saw, Uncle. More, I know what I felt.”

  There was a long silence, the air in the tent stifling and still.

  Sormo entered, stopping just inside the entrance as Coltaine pinned him with a glare. The warlock’s shoulders were slumped, as if no longer able to bear the weight they had carried all these months. Shadows pouched his eyes with fatigue.

  “Coltaine has some questions for you,” Bult said to him. “Later.”

  The young man shrugged. “Nil has awakened. I have answers.”

  “Different questions,” the scarred veteran said with a dark, humorless grin.

  Coltaine spoke. “Explain what happened, Warlock.”

&nbs
p; “The Semk god isn’t dead,” Duiker said.

  “I’d second that opinion,” Lull muttered from where he sat on a camp saddlechair, his unbuckled vambraces in his lap, his legs stretched out. He met the historian’s eyes and winked.

  “Not precisely,” Sormo corrected. He hesitated, drew a deep breath, then continued. “The Semk god was indeed destroyed. Torn to pieces and devoured. Sometimes, a piece of flesh can contain such malevolence that it corrupts the devourer—”

  Duiker sat forward, wincing at the pain from the force-healed wound in his backside. “An earth spirit—”

  “A spirit of the land, aye. Hidden ambition and sudden power. The other spirits…suspected naught.”

  Bult’s face twisted in disgust. “We lost seventeen soldiers tonight just to kill a handful of Tithan warchiefs and unmask a rogue spirit?”

  The historian flinched. It was the first time he’d heard the full count of losses. Coltaine’s first failure. If Oponn smiles on us, the enemy won’t realize it.

  “With such knowledge,” Sormo explained quietly, “future lives will be saved. The spirits are greatly distressed—they were perplexed at being unable to detect the raids and ambushes, and now they know why. They did not think to look among their own kin. Now they will deliver their own justice, in their own time—”

  “Meaning the raids continue?” The veteran looked ready to spit. “Will your spirit allies be able to warn us now—as they once did so effectively?”

  “The rogue’s efforts will be blunted.”

  “Sormo,” Duiker said, “why was the Semk’s mouth sewn shut?”

  The warlock half smiled. “That creature is sewn shut everywhere, Historian. Lest that which was devoured escapes.”

  Duiker shook his head. “Strange magic, this.”

  Sormo nodded. “Ancient,” he said. “Sorcery of guts and bone. We struggle with knowledge we once possessed instinctively.” He sighed. “From a time before warrens, when magic was found within.”

  A year ago Duiker would have been galvanized with curiosity and excitement at such comments, and would have relentlessly interrogated the warlock without surcease. Now, Sormo’s words were a dull echo lost in the vast cavern of the historian’s exhaustion. He wanted nothing but sleep, and knew it would be denied him for another twelve hours—the camp outside was already stirring, even though another hour of darkness remained.

  “If that’s the case,” Lull drawled, “why didn’t that Semk burst apart like a bloated bladder when we pricked him?”

  “What was devoured hides deep. Tell me, was this possessed Semk’s stomach shielded?”

  Duiker grunted. “Belts, thick leather.”

  “Just so.”

  “What happened to Nil?”

  “Caught unawares, he made use of that very knowledge we struggle to recall. As the sorcerous attack came, he retreated within himself. The attack pursued but he remained elusive, until the malevolent power spent itself. We learn.”

  Into Duiker’s mind arose the image of the other warlock’s horrific death. “At a cost.”

  Sormo said nothing, but pain revealed itself for a moment in his eyes.

  “We increase our pace,” Coltaine announced. “One less mouthful of water for each soldier each day—”

  Duiker straightened. “But we have water.”

  All eyes turned to him. The historian smiled wryly at Sormo. “I understand Nil’s report was rather…dry. The spirits made for us a tunnel through the bedrock. As the Captain can confirm, the rock weeps.”

  Lull grinned. “Hood’s breath, the old man’s right!”

  Sormo was staring at the historian with wide eyes. “For lack of asking the right questions, we have suffered long—and needlessly.”

  A new energy infused Coltaine, culminating in a taut baring of his teeth. “You have one hour,” the Fist told the warlock, “to ease a hundred thousand throats.”

  From bedrock that split the prairie soil in weathered outcroppings, sweet tears seeped forth. Vast pits had been excavated. The air was alive with joyous songs and the blessed silence of beasts no longer crying their distress. And beneath it all was a warm, startling undercurrent. For once, the spirits of the land were delivering a gift untouched by death. Their pleasure was palpable to Duiker’s senses as he stood close to the north edge of the encampment, watching, listening.

  Corporal List was at his side, his fever abated. “The seepage is deliberately slow but not slow enough—stomachs will rebel—the reckless ones could end up killing themselves…”

  “Aye. A few might.”

  Duiker raised his head, scanning the valley’s north ridge. A row of Tithansi horsewarriors lined its length, watching in what the historian imagined was fearful wonder. He had no doubt that Kamist Reloe’s army was suffering, even though they had the advantage of seizing and holding every known waterhole on the Odhan.

  As he studied them, his eyes caught a flash of white that flowed down the valleyside, then vanished beyond Duiker’s line of sight. He grunted.

  “Did you see something, sir?”

  “Just some wild goats,” the historian said. “Switching sides…”

  The blowing sand had bored holes into the mesa’s sides, an onslaught that began by sculpting hollows, then caves, then tunnels, finally passages that might well exit out of the other side. Like voracious worms ravaging old wood, the wind devoured the cliff face, hole after hole appearing, the walls between them thinning, some collapsing, the tunnels widening. The mantle of the plateau remained, however, a vast cap of stone perched on ever-dwindling foundations.

  Kulp had never seen anything like it. As if the Whirlwind’s deliberately attacked it. Why lay siege to a rock?

  The tunnels shrieked with the wind, each one with its own febrile pitch, creating a fierce chorus. The sand was fine as dust where it spun and swirled on updrafts at the base of the cliff. Kulp glanced back to where Heboric and Felisin waited—two vague shapes huddled against the ceaseless fury of the storm.

  The Whirlwind had denied them all shelter for three days now, ever since it had first descended upon them. The wind assailed them from every direction—as if the mad goddess has singled us out. The possibility was not as unlikely as it first seemed. The malevolent will was palpable. We’re intruders, after all. The Whirlwind’s focus of hate has always been on those who do not belong. Poor Malazan Empire, to have stepped into such a ready-made mythos of rebellion…

  The mage scrambled back to the others. He had to lean close to be heard above the endless roar. “There’s caves! Only the wind’s plunging down their throats—I suspect it’s cut right through the hill!”

  Heboric was shivering, beset since morning by a fever born of exhaustion. He was weakening fast. We all are. It was almost dusk—the unrelieved ochre dimming over their heads—and the mage estimated they had traveled little more than a league in the past twelve hours.

  They had no water, no food. Hood stalked their heels.

  Felisin clutched Kulp’s tattered cloak, pulling him closer. Her lips were split, sand gumming the corners of her mouth. “We try anyway!” she said.

  “I don’t know. That whole hill could come down—”

  “The caves! We go into the caves!”

  Die out here, or die in there. At least the caves offer us a tomb for our corpses. He gave a sharp nod.

  They half dragged Heboric between them. The cliff offered them a score of options with its ragged, honeycombed visage. They made no effort to select one, simply plunging into the first cave mouth they came to, a wide, strangely flattened tunnel that seemed to run level—at least for the first few paces.

  The wind was a hand at their backs, dismissive of hesitation in its unceasing pressure. Darkness swept around them as they staggered on, within a cauldron of screams.

  The floor had been sculpted into ridges, making walking difficult. Fifteen paces on, they stumbled into an outcropping of quartzite or some other crystalline mineral that resisted the erosive wind. They worked their wa
y around it and found in its lee the first surcease from the Whirlwind’s battering force in over seventy hours.

  Heboric sagged in their arms. They set him down in the ankle-deep dust at the base of the outcropping. “I’d like to scout ahead,” Kulp told Felisin, yelling to be heard.

  She nodded, lowering herself to her knees.

  Another thirty paces took the mage to a larger cavern. More quartzite filled the space, reflecting a faint luminescence from what appeared to be a ceiling of crushed glass fifteen feet above him. The quartzite rose in vertical veins, the gleaming pillars creating a gallery effect of startling beauty, despite the racing wind’s dust-filled stream. Kulp strode forward. The piercing shriek dimmed, losing itself in the vastness of the cavern.

  Closer to the center of the cavern rose a heap of tumbled stones, their shapes too regular to be natural. The glittering substance of the ceiling covered them in places—a single side of their vaguely rectangular forms, the mage realized after a moment’s examination. Crouching, he ran a hand along one such side, then bent still lower. Hood’s breath, it’s glass in truth! Multicolored, crushed and compacted…

  He looked up. A large hole gaped in the ceiling, its edges glowing with that odd, cool light. Kulp hesitated, then opened his warren. He grunted. Nothing. Queen’s blessing, no sorcery—it’s mundane.

  Hunching low against the wind, the mage made his way back to the others. He found them both asleep or unconscious. Kulp studied them, feeling a chill at the composed finality he saw in their dehydrated features.

  Might be more merciful not to awaken them.

  As if sensing his presence, Felisin opened her eyes. They filled with instant awareness. “You’ll never have it that easy,” she said.

  “This hill’s a buried city, and we’re under what’s buried.”

  “So?”

  “The wind’s got into one chamber at least, emptied it of sand.”

  “Our tomb.”

  “Maybe.”

  “All right, let’s go.”

  “One problem,” Kulp said, not moving. “The way in is about fifteen feet over our heads. There’s a pillar of quartzite, but it wouldn’t be an easy climb, especially not in our condition.”