The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  He could only nod as he tucked the scrap in his belt. He looked at the three figures before him, wishing Bult and List had been present for this, but there would be no staged goodbyes, no comfort of roles to step into. Like everything else, the moment was messy, awkward and incomplete.

  “Get on that scrawny beast of yours,” Lull said. “And stay in Hood’s blindside, friend.”

  “I wish the same for you, all of you.”

  Coltaine hissed, wheeling to face north. He bared his teeth. “Not a chance of that, Duiker. We intend to carve a bloody path…right down the bastard’s throat.”

  Flanked by Nil and Nether, Duiker rode at the head of the refugee train, heading toward the tribe on the ridge. The Wickan outriders and those guarding the selected wagons that trundled directly ahead were all very young—boys and girls still with their first weapons. Their collective outrage at having been sent from their clans was a silent storm.

  Yet, if Coltaine has erred in this gamble, they will wield those weapons one more time…one last time.

  “Two riders,” Nil said.

  “Good sign,” Duiker grunted, eyes focusing on the Kherahn pair that now approached at a canter. Both were elders, a man and a woman, lean and weathered, their skin the same hue as the buckskins that clothed them. Hook-bladed swords were slung under their left arms and ornate iron helmets covered their heads; their eyes were framed in robust cheek-plates.

  “Stay here, Nil,” Duiker said. “Nether, with me, please.” He nudged his mare forward.

  They met just beyond the lead wagons, reining in to face each other with a few paces between them.

  Duiker was the first to speak. “These are Kherahn Dhobri lands, recognized by treaty. The Malazan Empire honors all such treaties. We seek passage—”

  The woman, her eyes on the wagons, snapped in unaccented Malazan, “How much?”

  “A collection from all the soldiers of the Seventh,” Duiker said. “In Imperial coin, a worth totalling forty-one thousand silver jakatas—”

  “A full-strength Malazan army’s annual wages,” the woman said, scowling. “This was no ‘collection.’ Do your soldiers know you have stolen their wages to buy passage?”

  Duiker blinked, then said softly, “The soldiers insisted, Elder. This was in truth a collection.”

  Nether then spoke. “From the three Wickan clans, an additional payment: jewelry, cookware, skins, bolts of felt, horseshoes, tack and leather, and an assortment of coins looted in the course of our long journey from Hissar, in an amount approaching seventy-three thousand silver jakatas. All given freely.”

  The woman was silent for a long moment, then her companion said something to her in their own tongue. She shook her head in reply, her flat, dun eyes finding the historian again. “And with this offer, you seek passage for these refugees, and for the Wickan clans, and for the Seventh.”

  “No, Elder. For the refugees alone—and this small guard you see here.”

  “We reject your offer.”

  Lull was right to dread this moment. Dammit—

  “It is too much,” the woman said. “The treaty with the Empress is specific.”

  At a loss, Duiker could only shrug. “Then a portion thereof—”

  “With the remainder entering Aren, where it shall be hoarded uselessly until such time as Korbolo Dom breaches the gates, and so you end up paying him for the privilege of slaughtering you.”

  “Then,” Nether said, “with that remainder, we would hire you as escort.”

  Duiker’s heart stuttered.

  “To the city’s gates? Too far. We shall escort you to Balahn village, and the beginning of the road known as Aren Way. This, however, leaves a portion remaining. We shall sell you food, and what healing may prove necessary and within the abilities of our horsewives.”

  “Horsewives?” Nether asked, her brows rising.

  The elder nodded.

  Nether smiled. “The Wickans are pleased to know the Kherahn Dhobri.”

  “Come forward, then, with your people.”

  The two rode back to their kin. Duiker watched them for a moment, then he wheeled his horse and stood in his stirrups. Far to the north, over Sanimon, hung a dust cloud. “Nether, can you send Coltaine a message?”

  “I can offer him a knowing, yes.”

  “Do so. Tell him: he was right.”

  The sense rose slowly, as if from a body all had believed cold, a corpse in truth, the realization rising, filling the air, the spaces in between. Faces took on a cast of disbelief, a numbness that was reluctant to yield its protective barriers. Dusk arrived, clothing an encampment of thirty thousand refugees in the joining of two silences—one from the land and the night sky with its crushed-glass stars, the other from the people themselves. Dour-faced Kherahnal moved among them, their gifts and gestures belying their expressions and reserve. And to each place they went, it was as if they brought, in their touch, a release.

  Sitting beneath that glittering night sky, surrounded by thick grasses, Duiker listened to the cries that cut through the darkness, wrenching at his heart. Joy wrought with dark, blistering anguish, wordless screams, uncontrolled wailing. A stranger would have believed that some horror stalked the camp, a stranger would not have understood the release that the historian heard, the sounds that his own soul answered with burning pain, making him blink at the stars that blurred and swam overhead.

  The release born of salvation was nevertheless tortured, and Duiker well knew why, well knew what was reaching down from the north—a host of inescapable truths. Somewhere out there in the darkness stood a wall of human flesh, clothed in shattered armor, which still defied Korbolo Dom, which had purchased and was still purchasing this dread salvation. There was no escape from that knowledge.

  Grasses whispered near him and he sensed a familiar presence crouch down beside him.

  “How fares Coltaine?” Duiker asked.

  Nether sighed. “The linkage is broken,” she said.

  The historian stiffened. After a long moment he released a shaky breath. “Gone, then?”

  “We do not know. Nil continues with the effort, but I fear in our weariness our blood ties are insufficient. We sensed no death cry, and we most surely would, Duiker.”

  “Perhaps he’s been captured.”

  “Perhaps. Historian, if Korbolo Dom arrives on the morrow, these Kherahn will pay dearly for this contract. Nor may they prove sufficient in…in—”

  “Nether?”

  She hung her head. “I am sorry, I cannot stop my ears—they may be deluding themselves. Even if we make it to Balahn, to Aren Way, it is still three leagues to the city itself.”

  “I share your misgivings. But out there, well, it’s the gestures of kindness, don’t you see? We none of us have any defense against them.”

  “The release is too soon, Duiker!”

  “Possibly, but there’s not a damned thing we can do about it.”

  They turned at the sound of voices. A group of figures approached from the encampment. A hissing argument was under way, quickly quelled as the group neared.

  Duiker slowly rose, Nether doing the same beside him.

  “I trust we are not interrupting anything untoward,” Nethpara called out, the words dripping.

  “I would suggest,” the historian said, “that the Council retire for the night. A long day of marching awaits us all tomorrow—”

  “And that,” Pullyk Alar said hastily, “is precisely why we are here.”

  “Those of us retaining a measure of wealth,” Nethpara explained, “have succeeded in purchasing from the Kherahn fresh horses for our carriages.”

  “We wish to leave now,” Pullyk added. “Our small group, that is, and make with all haste for Aren—”

  “Where we shall insist the High Fist despatch a force to provide guard for the rest of you,” Nethpara said.

  Duiker stared at the two men, then at the dozen figures behind them. “Where is Tumlit?” he asked.

  “Alas, he fell i
ll three days ago and is no longer among the living. We all deeply mourn his passing.”

  No doubt. “Your suggestion has merit, but is rejected.”

  “But—”

  “Nethpara, if you start moving now, you’ll incite panic, and that is something none of us can afford. No, you travel with the rest of us, and must be content with being the first of the refugees to pass beneath the city gates at the head of the train.”

  “This is an outrage!”

  “Get out of my sight, Nethpara, before I finish what I began at Vathar Crossing.”

  “Oh, do not for a moment believe I have forgotten, Historian!”

  “An additional reason for rejecting your request. Return to your carriages, get some sleep—we’ll be pushing hard tomorrow.”

  “A certainty!” Pullyk hissed. “Korbolo Dom is hardly finished with us! Now that Coltaine’s dead and his army with him, we are to trust our lives to these stinking nomads? And when the escort ends? Three leagues from Aren! You send us all to our deaths!”

  “Aye,” Duiker growled. “All, or none. Now I’m done speaking. Leave.”

  “Oh, are you now that Wickan dog reborn?” He reached for the rapier at his belt. “I hereby challenge you to a duel—”

  The historian’s sword was a blur, the flat of the blade cracking Pullyk Alar’s temple. The nobleborn dropped to the ground unconscious.

  “Coltaine reborn?” Duiker whispered. “No, just a soldier.”

  Nether spoke, her eyes on the prone body. “Your Council will have to pay dearly to have that healed, Nethpara.”

  “I suppose I could have swung harder and saved you the coin,” Duiker muttered. “Get out of my sight, all of you.”

  The Council retreated, carrying their fallen spokesman with them.

  “Nether, have the Wickans watch them.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Balahn village was a squalid collection of low mudbrick houses, home to perhaps forty residents, all of whom had fled days earlier. The only structure less than a century old was the Malazan arched gate that marked the beginning of the Aren Way, a broad, raised military road that had been constructed at Dassem Ultor’s command early in the conquest.

  Deep ditches flanked the Aren Way, and beyond them were high, flat-topped earthen banks on which grew for the entire ten-mile stretch and in two precise rows, tall cedars that had been transplanted from Geleen on the Clatar Sea.

  The Kherahn spokeswoman joined Duiker and the two warlocks in the wide concourse before the Way’s gate. “Payment has been received and all agreements between us honored.”

  “We thank you, Elder,” the historian said.

  She shrugged. “A simple transaction, soldier. No words of thanks are necessary.”

  “True. Not necessary, but given in any case.”

  “Then you are welcome.”

  “The Empress will hear of this, Elder, in the most respectful of terms.”

  Her steady eyes darted away at this. She hesitated, then said, “Soldier, a large force approaches from the north—our rear-guard has seen the dust. They come swiftly.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Perhaps some of you will make it.”

  “We’ll better that if we can.”

  “Soldier?”

  “Aye, Elder?”

  “Are you certain Aren’s gates will open to you?”

  Duiker’s laugh was harsh. “I’ll worry about that when we get there, I think.”

  “There’s wisdom in that.” She nodded, then gathered her reins. “Goodbye, soldier.”

  “Farewell.”

  The Kherahn Dhobri departed, a task that took no more than five minutes, the wagons under heavy escort. Duiker eyed what he could see of the refugee train, their presence overwhelming the small village’s ragged boundaries.

  He’d set a difficult, grueling pace, a day and a night with but the briefest pauses for rest, and the message had clearly reached them, one and all, that safety would be assured only once they were within Aren’s massively fortified walls.

  Three leagues left—it’ll take us until dawn to achieve that. Each league I push them hard slows those that follow. Yet what choice do I have? “Nil, inform your Wickans—I want the entire train through this gate before the sun’s set. Your warriors are to use every means possible to achieve that, short of killing or maiming. The refugees may have forgotten their terror of you—remind them.”

  “There are but thirty in the troop,” Nether reminded him. “And all youths at that—”

  “Angry youths, you mean. Well, let’s offer them an outlet.”

  Aren Way accommodated them in their efforts, for the first third, locally known as Ramp, was a gentle downward slope toward the plain on which the city sat. Cone-shaped hills kept pace with them to the east, and would do so to within a thousand paces of Aren’s north wall. The hills were not natural: they were mass graves, scores of them, from the misguided slaughter of the city’s residents by the T’lan Imass in Kellanved’s time. The hill nearest Aren was among the largest, and was home to the city’s ruling families and the Holy Protector and Falah’dan.

  Duiker left Nil to lead the vanguard and rode at the very rear of the train, where he, Nether and three Wickans shouted themselves hoarse in an effort to hasten the weakest and slowest among the refugees. It was a heartbreaking task, and they passed more than one body that had given out at the pace. There was no time for burial, nor the strength to carry them.

  To the north and slightly east, the clouds of dust grew steadily closer.

  “They’re not taking the road,” Nether gasped, wheeling her mount around to glare at the dust. “They come overland—slower, much slower—”

  “But a shorter route on the map,” Duiker said.

  “The hills aren’t marked, are they?”

  “No, non-Imperial maps show it as a plain—the barrows are too recent an addition, I’d guess.”

  “You’d think Korbolo would have a Malazan version—”

  “It appears not—and that alone may save us, lass…”

  Yet he could hear the false ring in his own words. The enemy was too close—less than a third of a league away, he judged. Even with the burial mounds, mounted troops could cover that distance in a few-score minutes.

  Faint Wickan warcries from the vanguard reached them.

  “They’ve sighted Aren,” Nether said. “Nil shows me through his eyes—”

  “The gates?”

  She frowned. “Closed.”

  Duiker cursed. He rode his mare among the stragglers. “The city’s been sighted!” he shouted. “Not much more! Move!”

  From some hidden, unexpected place, reserves of energy rose in answer to the historian’s words. He sensed, then saw, a ripple run through the masses, a faint quickening of pace, of anticipation—and of fear. The historian twisted in his saddle.

  The cloud loomed above the cone-shaped mounds. Closer, yet not as close as it should have been.

  “Nether! Are there soldiers on Aren’s walls?”

  “Aye, not an inch to spare—”

  “The gates?”

  “No.”

  “How close are we up there?”

  “A thousand paces—people are running now—”

  “What in Hood’s name is wrong with them?”

  He stared again at the dust cloud. “Fener’s hoof! Nether, take your Wickans—ride for Aren!”

  “What about you?”

  “To Hood with me, damn you! Go! Save your children!”

  She hesitated, then spun her horse around. “You three!” she barked at the Wickan youths. “With me!”

  He watched them drive their weary horses forward along one edge of the Way, sweeping past the stumbling, pitching refugees.

  The train had stretched out, those fleeter of foot slipping ever farther ahead. The elderly surrounded the historian, each step a tortured struggle. Many simply stopped and sat down on the road to await the inevitable. Duiker screamed at them, threatened them, but it was n
o use. He saw a child, no more than eighteen months old, wandering lost, arms outstretched, dry-eyed and appallingly silent.

  Duiker rode close, leaned over in his saddle and swept the child into one arm. Tiny hands gripped the torn fragments of his shirt.

  A last row of mounds now separated him and the tail end of the train from the pursuing army.

  The flight had not slowed and that was the only evidence the historian had that the gates had, at last, opened to receive the refugees. Either that or they’re spreading out in frantic, hopeless waves along the wall—but no, that would be a betrayal beyond sanity—

  And now he could see, a thousand paces away: Aren. The north gates, flanked by solid towers, yawned for three-quarters of their height—the last, lowest quarter was a seething mass of figures, pushing, crowding, clambering over each other in their panic. But the tide’s strength was too great, too inexorable to stopper that passageway. Like a giant maw, Aren was swallowing the refugees. The Wickans rode at either side, desperately trying to contain the human river, and Duiker could now see among them soldiers in the uniform of the Aren City Garrison joining in the effort.

  And the army itself? The High Fist’s army?

  They stood on the walls. They watched. Row upon row of faces, figures jostling for a vantage point along the north wall’s entire length. Resplendently dressed individuals occupied the platforms atop the towers flanking the gates, looking down at the starved, bedraggled, screaming mob that thronged the city entrance.

  City Garrison Guards were suddenly among the last of those refugees still moving. On all sides around Duiker, he saw grimfaced soldiers pick people up and carry them at a half-jog toward the gates. Spotting one guardsman bearing the insignia of a captain, the historian rode up to him. “You! Take this child!”

  The man reached up to close his hands around the silent, wide-eyed toddler. “Are you Duiker?” the captain asked.

  “Aye.”

  “You’re to report to the High Fist immediately, sir—there, on the left-hand tower—”

  “That bastard will have to wait,” Duiker growled. “I will see every damned refugee through first! Now run, Captain, but tell me your name, for there may well be a mother or father still alive for that child.”