The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  The old man, squinting fiercely as he scanned each face, finally came to a halt before Coltaine. “A most dreadful occurrence, Fist,” he gasped in his tremulous voice.

  Duiker only now heard a restlessness rising from the refugee encampment stretched up the trader track. “Tumlit, what has happened?”

  “Another emissary, I’m afraid. Brought through in secret. Met with the Council—I sought to dissuade them but failed, alas. Pullyk and Nethpara have swayed the others. Fist, the refugees shall cross the river, under the benign protection of Korbolo Dom—”

  Coltaine spun to his warlocks. “To your clans. Send Bult and the captains to me.”

  Shouts now sounded from the Wickans in the clearing as the mass of refugees surged forward, pushing through, down to the ford. The Fist found a nearby soldier. “Have the clan war chiefs withdraw their warriors from their path—we cannot contest this.”

  He’s right—we won’t be able to stop the fools.

  Bult and the captains arrived in a rush and Coltaine snapped out his commands. Those orders made it clear to Duiker that the Fist was preparing for the worst. As the officers raced off, Coltaine faced the historian.

  “Go to the sappers. By my command they are to join the refugee train, insignia and uniforms exchanged for mundane garb—”

  “That won’t be necessary, Fist—they all wear assorted rags and looted gear anyway. But I’ll have them tie their helms to their belts.”

  “Go.”

  Duiker set off. The sky was lightening, and with that burgeoning glow the butterflies stirred on all sides, a silent shimmering that sent shivers through the historian for no obvious reason. He worked his way up the seething train, skirting one edge and pushing through the ranks of infantry who were standing back and watching the refugees without expression.

  He spied a ragtag knot of soldiers seated well back from the trail, almost at the edge of the flanking picket line. The company ignored the refugees and seemed busy with the task of coiling ropes. A few glanced up as Duiker arrived.

  “Coltaine commands you join the refugees,” the historian said. “No arguments—take off your helms, now—”

  “Who’s arguing?” one squat, wide soldier muttered.

  “What are you planning with the ropes?” Duiker demanded.

  The sapper looked up, his eyes narrow slashes in his wide, battered face. “We did some reconnoitring of our own, old man. Now if you’d shut up we can get ready, right?”

  Three soldiers appeared from the forest side, approaching at a jog. One carried a severed head by its braid, trailing threads of blood. “This one’s done his last nod at post,” the man commented, dropping his prize to thud and roll on the ground. No one else took notice, nor did the three sappers report to anyone.

  The entire company seemed to complete their preparations all at once, ropes around one shoulder, helms strapped to belts, crossbows readied, then hidden beneath loose raincapes and telaban. In silence they rose and began making their way toward the mass of refugees.

  Duiker hesitated. He turned to look down at the crossing. The head of the refugee column had pushed out into the ford, which was proving waist-deep, at least forty paces wide, its bottom thick, cloying mud. Butterflies swarmed above the mass of humanity in sunlit explosions of pallid yellow. A dozen Wickan horsewarriors had been sent ahead to guide the column. Behind them came the wagons of the noble blood—the only refugees staying dry and above the chaotic tumult. The historian glanced over at the surging train where the sappers had gone but they were nowhere to be seen, swallowed up in the crowds. From somewhere farther up the trader track came the terrible lowing of cattle being slaughtered.

  The flanking infantry were readying weapons—Coltaine was clearly anticipating a rearguard defense of the landing.

  Still the historian hesitated. If he joined the refugees and the worst came to pass, the ensuing panic would be as deadly as any slaughter visited upon them by Korbolo Dom’s forces. Hood’s breath! We are now truly at that bastard’s mercy.

  A hand closed on his arm and he spun around to see his nameless marine at his side.

  “Come on,” she said. “Into the mob—we’re to support the sappers.”

  “In what? Nothing has befallen the refugees yet—and they’re near to halfway across—”

  “Aye, and look at the heads turning to look downstream. The rebels have made a floating bridge—no, you can’t see it from here, but it’s there, packed with pikemen—”

  “Pikemen? Doing what?”

  “Watching. Waiting. Come on, lover, the nightmare’s about to begin.”

  They joined the mass of refugees, entered that human current as it poured down toward the landing. A sudden roar and muted clash of weapons announced that the rearguard had been struck. The tide’s momentum increased. Packed within that jostling chaos, Duiker could see little to either side or behind—but the slope ahead was revealed, as was the River Vathar itself, which they seemed to be sweeping toward with the swiftness of an avalanche. The entire ford was packed with refugees. Along the edges people were being pushed into deeper water—Duiker saw bobbing heads and arms struggling in the sludge, the current dragging them ever closer to the pikemen on the bridge.

  A great cry of dismay rose from those on the river, faces now turning upstream to something the historian could not yet see.

  The dozen horsewarriors gained the clearing on the opposite bank. He watched them frantically nocking arrows as they turned toward the line of trees farther up the bank. Then the Wickans were reeling, toppling from their mounts, feathered shafts jutting from their bodies. Horses screamed and went down.

  The nobles’ wagons clacked and clattered ashore, then stopped as the oxen pulling them sank down beneath a swarm of arrows.

  The ford was blocked.

  Panic now gripped the refugees, descending in a human wave down to the landing. Bellowing, Duiker was helpless as he was carried along into the yellow-smeared water. He caught a glimpse of what approached from upstream—another floating bridge, packed with pikemen and archers. Crews on both banks gripped ropes, guiding the bridge as the current drew it ever closer to the ford.

  Arrows ripped through the clouds of whirling butterflies, descended on the mass of refugees. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to go.

  The historian found himself within a nightmare. All around him, unarmored civilians died in that ghastly whisper and clatter. The mob surged in every direction now, caught in terrified, helpless eddies. Children vanished underfoot, trampled down into the turbid water.

  A woman fell back against Duiker. He wrapped his arms around her in an effort to keep her upright, then saw the arrow that had driven through the babe in her arms, then into her chest. He cried out in horror.

  The marine appeared at his side, thrusting a reach of rope into his hands. “Grab this!” she shouted. “Hold on tight—we’re through—don’t let go!”

  He twisted the rope around his wrists. Ahead of the marine, the strand stretched on, between the heaving bodies and out of sight. He felt it tighten, was pulled forward.

  Arrows rained down ceaselessly. One grazed the historian’s cheek, another bounced from the leather-sheathed chain protecting his shoulder. He wished to every god that he had donned his helm instead of tying it at his belt—from which it had long since been torn free and lost.

  The pressure on the rope was steady, relentless, dragging him through the mob, over people and under them. More than once he was pulled down under the water, only to rise again half a dozen paces later, choking and coughing. At one point, as he went over the top of the seething press, he caught the flash of sorcery from somewhere ahead, a thundering wave, then he was yanked back down, twisting his shoulder to slide roughly between two screaming civilians.

  The journey seemed unending, battering him with surreal glimpses until he was numb, feeling like a wraith being pulled through the whole of human history, an endless procession of pain, suffering and ignoble death. Fate’s cast of chance wa
s iron-barbed, sky-sent, or the oblivion of all that waited below. There is no escape—another lesson of history. Mortality is a visitor never gone for long—

  Then he was being dragged over wet, muddy corpses and blood-slicked clay. The arrows no longer descended from the sky but sped low over the ground, striking wood and flesh on all sides. Duiker rolled through a deep, twisting rut, then came up against the spoked wheel of a wagon.

  “Let go the rope!” the marine commanded. “We’re here, Duiker—”

  Here.

  He wiped the mud from his eyes, staying low as he looked around for the first time. Wickan horsewarriors, sappers and marines lay amidst dead and dying mounts, all so studded with arrows that the entire landing looked like a reed bed. The nobles’ wagons had been cleared from the end of the ford and arrayed in a defensive crescent, although the fighting had pushed beyond them into the forest itself.

  “Who?” Duiker gasped.

  The woman lying beside him grunted. “Just what’s left of the sappers, the marines…and a few surviving Wickans.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Can’t get anyone else across—and besides, the Seventh and at least two of the clans are fighting in the rearguard. We’re on our own, Duiker, and if we can’t clear these woods…”

  We will be annihilated.

  She reached out to a nearby corpse, dragging it closer to remove the dead Wickan’s helm. “This one looks more your size than mine, old man. Here.”

  “What are we fighting out there?”

  “At least three companies. Mostly archers, though—I think Korbolo wasn’t expecting any soldiers at the front of the column. The plan was to use the refugees to block our deployment and stop us from gaining this bank.”

  “As if Korbolo knew Coltaine would reject the offer, but the nobles wouldn’t.”

  “Aye. The arrow fire’s tailed off—those sappers are pushing them back—gods, they’re mayhem! Let’s find us some useful weapons and go join the fun.”

  “Go ahead,” Duiker said. “But here I stay—within sight of the river. I need to see…”

  “You’ll get yourself skewered, old man.”

  “I’ll risk it. Get going!”

  She hesitated, then nodded and crawled off among the bodies.

  The historian found a round shield and clambered up on the nearest wagon, where he almost stepped on a cowering figure. He stared down at the trembling man. “Nethpara.”

  “Save me, please!”

  Ignoring the nobleborn, Duiker turned his attention back to the river.

  The stream of refugees who reached the south bank could not go forward; they began spreading out along the shoreline. Duiker saw a mob of them discover the rope crew for the upstream bridge, and descend on them with a ferocity that disregarded their lack of armor and weapons. The crew were literally torn apart.

  The slaughter had turned the river downstream into a pink mass of stained insects and bodies, and still the numbers grew. Another flaw in Korbolo’s plan was revealed as the flights of arrows from the upstream bridge dwindled—the archers had already spent their supply. The floating platform upstream had been allowed to drift, closing the gap until the pikemen finally came into contact with the unarmed civilians on the ford. But they had not accounted for the roaring rage that met them. The refugees had been pushed past fear. Hands were slashed as they closed on the pikeheads, but they would not let go. Others clambered forward in a rush to get to the archers behind the wavering line of pikemen. The bridge sagged beneath the weight, then tilted. A moment later the river was solid with flailing, struggling figures—refugees and Korbolo’s companies both—as the bridge tipped and broke apart.

  And over it all, the butterflies swarmed, like a million yellow-petalled flowers dancing on swirling winds.

  Another wave of sorcery erupted, and Duiker’s head turned at the sound. He saw Sormo, out in the center of the mass, astride his horse. The power that rolled from him tumbled toward the bridge downstream, striking the rebel soldiers with sparks that scythed like barbed wire. Blood sprayed into the air, and above the bridge the butterflies went from yellow to red and the stained clouds fell in a fluttering blanket.

  But as Duiker watched, four arrows struck the warlock, one driving through his neck. Sormo’s horse whipped its head around, screaming at the half-dozen arrows embedded in it. The animal staggered, slewing sideways to the edge of the shallows, then into deep water. Sormo reeled, then slowly slid from the saddle, vanishing beneath the sludge. The horse collapsed on top of him.

  Duiker could not draw breath. Then he saw a thin, lean arm thrust skyward a dozen yards downstream.

  Butterflies mobbed that straining, yearning reach, even as it slowly sank back down, then disappeared. The insects were converging, thousands, then hundreds of thousands. On all sides it seemed that the battle, the slaughter, paused and watched.

  Hood’s breath, they’ve come for him. For his soul. Not crows, not as it should be. Gods below!

  A quavering voice rose from beneath the historian. “What has happened? Have we won?”

  The breath that Duiker pulled into his lungs was ragged. The mass of butterflies was a seething, frenzied mound on the spot where Sormo had appeared, a mound as high as a barrow and swelling with every moment that passed, with every staggering beat of the historian’s heart.

  “Have we won? Can you see Coltaine? Call him here—I would speak to him—”

  The moment when all stood still and silent was broken as a thick flight of Wickan arrows struck the soldiers on the downstream bridge. What Sormo had begun, his clan kin completed: the last of the archers and pikemen went down.

  Duiker saw three squares of infantry dog-trot down the north slope, pulled from the rearguard action to enforce order on the crossing. Wickan horsewarriors of the Weasel Clan rode out from the flanking woods, voicing their ululating victory cries.

  Duiker swung about. He saw Malazan soldiers backing away from cover to cover—a handful of marines and less than thirty sappers. The arrow fire was intensifying, getting closer. Gods, they’ve already done the impossible—do not demand more of them—

  The historian drew a breath, then climbed up onto the wagon’s high bench. “Everyone!” he shouted to the milling refugees crowding the bank. “Every able hand! Find a weapon—to the forest, else the slaughter begins again! The archers are retur—”

  He got no further, as the air shook with a savage, bestial roar. Duiker stared down, watching hundreds of civilians rush forward, caring nothing for weapons, intent only on closing with the companies of archers, on answering the day’s carnage with a vengeance no less terrible.

  We are all gripped in madness. I have never seen the like nor heard of such a thing—gods, what we have become…

  The waves of refugees swept over the Malazan positions and, unwavering before frantic, devastating flights of arrows from the treeline, plunged into the forest. Shrieks and screams echoed eerily in the air.

  Nethpara clambered into view. “Where is Coltaine? I demand—”

  Duiker reached down one-handed and gripped the silk scarf wound around the nobleman’s neck. He dragged Nethpara closer. The man squealed, scratching uselessly at the historian’s hand.

  “Nethpara. He could have let you go. Let you cross. Alone. Under the shelter of Korbolo Dom’s glorious mercy. How many have died this day? How many of these soldiers, how many Wickans, have given their lives to protect your hide?”

  “L-let go of me, you foul slave-spawn!”

  A red mist blossomed before Duiker’s eyes. He took the nobleman’s flabby neck in both hands and began squeezing. He watched Nethpara’s eyes bulge.

  Someone battered at his head. Someone yanked at his wrists. Someone wrapped a forearm around his own neck and flexed iron-hard muscles across the throat. The mist dimmed, as if night was falling. The historian watched as hands pried his own from Nethpara’s neck, watched as the man fell away, gasping.

  Then dark’s descent was done.


  Chapter Seventeen

  One who was many

  On the blood trail

  Came hunting his own voice

  Savage murder

  Sprites buzzing in the sun

  Came hunting his own voice

  But Hood’s music is all

  He heard, the siren song

  Called silence.

  SEGLORA’S ACCOUNT

  SEGLORA

  The captain had begun swaying, though not in time with the heaving ship. He poured wine all over the table as well as into the four goblets arrayed before him. “Ordering thick-skulled sailors this way and that makes for a considerable thirst. I expect the food will be along shortly.”

  Pormqual’s treasurer, who did not consider the company worthy of knowing his name, raised painted eyebrows. “But, Captain, we have already eaten.”

  “Have we? That explains the mess, then, though the mess still has some explaining to do, because it must have been awful. You there,” he said to Kalam, “you’re as solid as any Fenn bear, was that palatable? Never mind, what would you know, anyway? I hear Seven Cities natives grow fruit just so they can cat the larvae in them. Gobble the worm and toss the apple, hey? If you want to know how you folk see the world, it’s all there in that one custom. Now that we’re all chums, what were we talking about?”

  Salk Elan reached out and collected his goblet, sniffing cautiously before taking a swallow. “The dear treasurer was surprising us with a complaint, Captain.”

  “Was he now?” The captain leaned over the small table to stare at the treasurer. “A complaint? Aboard my ship? You bring those to me, sir.”

  “I just have,” the man replied, sneering.

  “And deal with it I shall, as a captain must.” He leaned back with an air of satisfaction. “Now, what else should we talk about?”

  Salk Elan met Kalam’s eye, winked. “What if we were to touch on the small matter of those two privateers presently pursuing us?”