The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  The oval stretched, paused, then drew back with a measured precision that was almost sinister—as if the Seventh had become some kind of mechanism. And they’ll do it again. Little surprise the next time, but likely just as deadly. Like a lung drawing breath, a rhythm of calm sleep, again and again.

  His attention was snared by movement among the Foolish Dog. Nil and Nether had emerged from the front line, on foot, the latter leading a Wickan mare. The animal’s head was high, ears pricked forward. Sweat glistened on its ruddy flanks.

  The two warlocks halted to either side of the mare, Nether leaving the reins to dangle, and laid hands on the beast.

  A moment later Duiker was stumbling, as the rear lines of the wedge were pulled forward, up the ramp, as if carried on an indrawn breath.

  “Ready close weapons!” a sergeant shouted nearby.

  Oh, Hood’s wet dream—

  “This is it,” List said beside him, his voice as taut as a bowstring.

  There was no time for a reply, no time for thought itself, for suddenly they were among the enemy. Duiker caught a flash of the scene before him. A soldier stumbling and cursing, his helm slipped down over his eyes. A sword flying through the air. A shrieking Semk warrior being pulled backward by his braid, his scream cut to a wet gurgle as the point of a short sword burst from under his chest amidst a coiled mass of intestines. A woman marine wheeling from an attack, her own urine splattering the tops of her boots. And everywhere…Togg’s three masks and a cacophony of noise, throats making sounds they were never meant to make, blood gushing, people dying—everywhere, people dying.

  “Ware your right!”

  Duiker recognized the voice—his nameless marine companion—and pivoted in time to parry a spear blade, his short sword skittering along the tin-sheathed shaft. He stepped in past the thrust and drove his sword point into a Semk woman’s face. She sank down in red ruin, but it was the historian’s cry of pain that ripped the air, a savage piercing of his soul. He stumbled back and would have fallen if not for a solid shield thudding against his back. The unnamed woman’s voice was close by his ear. “Tonight I’ll ride you till you beg, old man!”

  In that baffling twist that was the human mind, Duiker mentally wrapped himself around those words, not in lust, but as a drowning man clings to a mooring pole. He drew a sobbing breath, straightened away from the shield’s support, stepped forward.

  Ahead battled the front line of marines, horribly thinned, yielding step after step as the Guran heavy infantry pushed down the slope. The wedge was about to shatter.

  Semk warriors ranged in the midst of the marines in wild, frenzied mayhem, and it was these ash-stained warriors that the rear ranks had been driven forward to deal with.

  The task was quickly done, brutal discipline more than a match for individual warriors who held no line, offered no support weapon-side, and heard no voice except their own manic battle cries.

  For all that sudden deliverance, the marines began to buckle.

  Three horns sounded in quick, braying succession: the Imperial call to split. Duiker gaped, spun round to look for List—but the corporal was nowhere in sight. He saw his marine companion and staggered over to her. “Four’s the withdraw, were there four blasts? I heard—”

  She bared her teeth. “Three, old man. Split! Now!”

  She pulled away. Baffled, Duiker followed. The slope was treacherous, blood- and bile-soaked mud over shifting cobbles. They stumbled with the others this side of the divide—the south—toward the high bank, and descended into the narrow ditch, finding themselves ankle-deep in a stream of blood.

  The Guran heavy infantry had paused, sensing a trap—no matter how improbable events had made that possibility—as they shuffled to close ranks four strides down from the crest. A ram’s horn bleated, pulling the formation back to the summit in ragged back-step.

  Duiker turned in time to see, seventy paces farther down the ramp, the Foolish Dog heavy cavalry edging forward, parting around Nil and Nether, who still stood on either side of the stationary mare, their hands pressed against the animal.

  “Lord’s push,” cursed the woman at his side.

  They mean to charge up this ramp, with its bodies and wreckage and mud and stones. A slope steep enough to force the riders onto their mounts’ necks—and all that weight onto their forelegs. Coltaine means them to charge. Into the face of heavy infantry—“No!” the historian whispered.

  Rocks and sand pattered down the bank. Around Duiker helmed heads turned in sudden alarm—someone was on the bank’s top. More dirt slewed down on them.

  A stream of Malazan curses sounded from above, then a helmed head peered over the edge.

  “It’s a Hood-damned sapper!” one of the marines grunted.

  The dirt-smeared face above them grinned. “Guess what turtles do in the winter?” he shouted down, then pulled back and out of sight.

  Duiker glanced back at the Foolish Dog horsewarriors. Their forward motion had ceased, as if suddenly uncertain. The Wickans had their heads raised, gazes fixed on the tops of the banks to either side.

  The Guran heavy infantry and surviving Semk stared as well.

  Through the dust rolling down the ramp from the crest, Duiker squinted toward the north bank. Activity swarmed along it—sappers, wearing shields on their backs, had begun moving forward, dropping down onto the ramp in the body-piled space below the crest.

  Another horn sounded, and the Foolish Dog horsewarriors rolled forward again, pushing their mounts into a trot, then a clambering canter. But now a company of sappers blocked their path to the ridge.

  A turtle burrows come winter. The bastards snuck onto the banks last night—under the very noses of Reloe—and buried themselves. What in Hood’s name for?

  The sappers, still wearing their shields on their backs, milled about, preparing weapons and other gear. One stepped free to wave the Foolish Dog riders forward.

  The ramp trembled.

  The armor-clad horses surged up the steep slope in an explosion of muscle, swifter than the historian thought possible. Broadswords lifted skyward. In their arcane, bizarre armor, the Wickans sat their saddles like demonic conjurations above equally nightmarish mounts.

  The sappers rushed the Guran line. Grenados flew, followed by the rap of explosions and dreadful screams.

  Every munition left to the sappers arced a path into the press of heavy infantry. Sharpers, burners, flamers. The solid line of Reloe’s elite soldiers disintegrated.

  The Foolish Dog’s galloping charge reached the sappers, who went down beneath the hooves in resounding clangs that beat a dreadful rhythm as horse after horse surged over them.

  Into the gutted, chaotic maelstrom that had moments before been a solid line of heavy infantry, the Wickan horsewarriors cleared the crest and plunged, broadswords swinging down in fearful slaughter.

  Another signal wailed above the din.

  The woman at Duiker’s side rapped a gauntleted hand against his chest. “Forward, old man!”

  He took a step, then hesitated. Aye, time for the soldier to go forward. But I’m a historian—I have to see, I have to witness, and to Hood with arrow-fire! “Not this time,” Duiker said, turning to scramble his way up the embankment.

  “See you tonight!” she shouted after him, before joining the rest of the marines as they marched forward.

  Duiker pulled himself to the top, gaining a mouthful of sandy earth in the bargain. Coughing and gagging, he pushed himself to his feet, then looked around.

  The bank’s flat surface was honeycombed with angled shafts. Cocoons of tent cloth lay half in, half out of some of the man-sized holes. The historian stared at them a moment longer in disbelief, then swung his attention to the ramp.

  The marines’ forward momentum had been stalled by the retrieval of the trampled sappers. There were broken bones aplenty, Duiker could see, but the shields—now battered into so much scrap—and their dented helms had for the most part protected the crazed soldiers.


  Beyond the crest, on the flatland to the west, the Foolish Dog horsewarriors pursued the routed remnants of Kamist Reloe’s vaunted elites. The commander’s own tent, situated on a low hill a hundred paces from the crest, was sinking beneath flames and smoke. Duiker suspected that the rebel High Mage had set that fire himself, destroying anything of potential use to Coltaine before fleeing through whatever paths his warren offered him.

  Duiker turned to survey the basin.

  The battle down there still raged. The Seventh’s ring of defense around the wagons of the wounded remained, though distorted by a concerted, relentless push from the Ubari heavy infantry on the northern side. The wagons themselves were rolling southward. Tepasi and Sialk cavalry harried the rear guard, where the Hissari Loyals stood fast…and died by the score.

  We could lose this one yet.

  A double blast of horns from the crest commanded the Foolish Dog’s recall. Duiker could see Coltaine, his black feather cape gray with dust, sitting astride his charger on the crest. The historian saw him gesture to his staff and the recall horns sounded again, in quicker succession. We need you now!

  But those mounts will be spent. They did the impossible. They charged uphill, with a speed that grew and grew, with a speed like nothing I have ever seen before. The historian frowned, then spun around.

  Nil and Nether still stood to either side of the lone mare. A light wind was ruffling the beast’s mane and tail, but it did not otherwise move. A ripple of unease chilled Duiker. What have they done?

  Distant howling caught the historian’s attention. A large mounted force was crossing the river, their standards too distant to discern their identity. Then Duiker spied small tawny shapes streaming out ahead of the riders. Wickan cattle-dogs. That’s the Weasel Clan.

  The horsewarriors broke into a canter as they cleared the river bed.

  The Tepasi and Sialk cavalry were caught completely unawares, first by a wave of ill-tempered dogs that ignored horses to fling themselves at riders, sixty snarling pounds of teeth and muscle dragging soldiers from their saddles, then by the Wickans themselves, who announced their arrival by launching severed heads through the air before them and raising an eerie, blood-freezing cry a moment before striking the cavalry’s flank.

  Within a score of heartbeats the Tepasi and Sialk riders were gone—dead or dying or in full flight. The Weasel horsewarriors barely paused in re-forming before wheeling at a canter to close with the Ubari, the mottle-coated cattle-dogs loping alongside them.

  The enemy broke on both sides, flinching away with a timing that, although instinctive, was precise.

  Foolish Dog riders poured back down the ramp, parting around the warlocks and their motionless horse, then wheeling to the south in pursuit of the fleeing Halafan and Sialk infantry and the Tithansi archers.

  Duiker sank to his knees, suddenly overwhelmed, his emotions a cauldron of grief, anger and horror. Speak not of victory this day. No, do not speak at all

  Somone stumbled onto the bank, breath ragged. Footsteps dragged closer, then a gauntleted hand fell heavily on the historian’s shoulder. A voice that Duiker struggled to identify spoke. “They mock our nobleborn, did you know that, old man? They’ve a name for us in Dhebral. You know what it translates into? The Chain of Dogs. Coltaine’s Chain of Dogs. He leads, yet is led, he strains forward, yet is held back, he bares his fangs, yet what nips at his heels if not those he is sworn to protect? Ah, there’s profundity in such names, don’t you think?”

  The voice was Lull’s, yet altered. Duiker raised his head and stared into the face of the man crouched beside him. A single blue eye glittered from a ravaged mass of torn flesh. A mace had caught him a solid blow, driving the cheek guard into his face, shattering cheek, bursting one eye and tearing away the captain’s nose. The horrifying ruin that was Lull’s face twisted into something like a grin. “I’m a lucky man, Historian. Look, not a single tooth knocked out—not even a wobble.”

  The count of losses was a numbing litany to war’s futility. To the historian’s mind, only Hood himself could smile in triumph.

  The Weasel Clan had awaited the Tithansi lancers and the godling commander who led them. An ambush by earth spirits had taken the Semk warleader down, tearing his flesh to pieces in their hunger to rip apart and devour the Semk god’s remnant. Then the Weasel Clan had sprung their own trap, and it had held its own horror, for the refugees had been the bait, and hundreds had been killed or wounded in the trap’s clinical, cold-blooded execution.

  The Weasel Clan’s warleaders could claim that they had been outnumbered four to one, that some among those they were sworn to protect had been sacrificed to save the rest. All true, and providing a defensible justification for what they did. Yet the warleaders said nothing, and though that silence was met with outrage by the refugees and especially by the Council of Nobles, Duiker saw it in a different light. The Wickan tribe held voiced reasons and excuses in contempt—they accepted none from others and were derisive of those who tried. And in turn, they offered none, because, Duiker suspected, they held those who were sacrificed—and their kin—in a respect that could not survive something so base and self-serving as its utterance.

  It was unfortunate for them that the refugees understood none of this, that for them the Wickans’ silence was in itself an expression of contempt, a disdain for the lives lost.

  The Weasel Clan had, however, offered yet another salute to those refugees who had died. With the slaughter of the Tithansi archers in the basin added to the Weasel Clan’s actions, an entire plains tribe had effectively ceased to exist. The Wickans’ retribution had been absolute. Nor had they stopped there, for they had found Kamist’s army, arriving late to the battle from the east. The slaughter exacted there was a graphic revelation of the fate the Tithansi sought to inflict on the Malazans. This lesson, too, was lost on the refugees.

  For all that scholars tried, Duiker knew there was no explanation possible for the dark currents of human thought that roiled in the wake of bloodshed. He need only look upon his own reaction, when stumbling down to where Nil and Nether stood, their hands gummed with congealing sweat and blood on the flanks of a mare standing dead. Life forces were powerful, almost beyond comprehension, and the sacrifice of one animal to gift close to five thousand others with appalling strength and force of will was on the face of it worthy and noble.

  If not for a dumb beast’s incomprehension at its own destruction beneath the loving hands of two heartbroken children.

  The Imperial Warren’s horizon was a gray shroud on all sides. Details were blurred behind the gauze of the still, thick air. No wind stirred, yet echoes of death and destruction remained, suspended as if trapped outside time itself.

  Kalam settled back in his saddle, eyes on the scene before him.

  Ashes and dust shrouded the tiled dome. It had collapsed in one place, revealing the raw edges of the bronze plates that covered it. A gray haze lay over the gaping hole. From the dome’s curvature, it was clear that less than a third of it was above the surface.

  The assassin dismounted. He paused to pluck at the cloth wrapped over his nose and mouth to loosen the caked grit, glanced back at the others, then approached the structure.

  Somewhere beneath their feet stood a palace or a temple. Reaching the dome, the assassin leaned forward and brushed the ash from one of the bronze tiles. A deeply carved symbol revealed itself.

  A breath of cold recognition swept through him. He had last seen that stylized crown on another continent, in an unexpected war against resistance that had been purchased by desperate enemies. Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake, and the Rhivi and the Crimson Guard. A gathering of disparate foes to challenge the Malazan Empire’s plans for conquest. The Free Cities of Genabackis were a squabbling, back-stabbing lot. Gold-hungry rulers and thieving factors squealed loudest at the threat to their freedom…

  His mind over a thousand leagues away, Kalam lightly touched the engraved sigil. Blackdog…we were warring against mosquitoes an
d leeches, poisonous snakes and blood-sucking lizards. Supply lines cut, the Moranth pulling back when we needed them the most…and this sigil I remember, there on a ragged standard, rising above a select company of Brood’s forces.

  What did that bastard call himself? The High King? Kallor…the High King without a kingdom. Thousands of years old, if legends speak true, perhaps tens of thousands. He claimed to have once commanded empires, each one making the Malazan Empire no larger than a province. He then claimed to have destroyed them by his own hand, destroyed them utterly. Kallor boasted he had made worlds lifeless…

  And this man now stands as Caladan Brood’s second in command. And when I left, Dujek, the Bridgeburners and the reformed Fifth Army were about to seek an alliance with Brood.

  Whiskeyjack…Quick Ben…keep your heads low, friends. There’s a madman in your midst….

  “If you’re done daydreaming…”

  “The thing I hate most about this place,” Kalam said, “is how the ground swallows footfalls.”

  Minala’s startling gray eyes were narrow above the scarf covering the lower half of her face as she studied the assassin. “You look frightened.”

  Kalam scowled, turning back to the others. He raised his voice. “We’re leaving this warren now.”

  “What?” Minala scoffed. “I see no gate!”

  No, but it feels right. We’ve covered enough distance, and I’ve suddenly realized that the power of deliberation is not as much in the traveling as in the arriving. He closed his eyes, shutting Minala and everyone else out as he forced his mind into stillness. One final thought escaped: I hope I’m right.

  A moment later a portal formed, making a tearing sound as it spread wider.

  “You thick-headed bastard,” Minala snapped with sharp comprehension. “A little discussion might have led us to this a little sooner—unless you were deliberately delaying our progress. Hood knows what you’re about, Corporal.”

  Interesting choice of words, woman. I imagine he does.

  Kalam opened his eyes. The gate was an impenetrable black stain a dozen paces away. He grimaced. As simple as that. Kalam, you are a thick-headed bastard. Mind you, fear can focus even the most insipid of creatures.