The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  The man grinned wryly, squinted out to the east. ‘You think we’ll make it that far, do you, Gruntle? Well, surprise – we won’t live to see the next dawn.’ He fixed wild eyes on the captain. ‘You wouldn’t believe what my masters unleashed – such a nightmare menagerie of servants, guardians, spirit-slayers – and their own powers! Hood take us! Yet all of it barely managed to drive one of those beasts off, and when the other two arrived, we were the ones retreating. That menagerie is nothing but smouldering pieces scattered for leagues across the plain. Gruntle, I saw demons cut to shreds. Aye, these two look unshaken, but believe me, that’s of no account. None at all.’ He lowered his voice still further. ‘They are insane, friend. Thoroughly, ice-blooded, lizard-eyed insane. And poor Mancy’s been with them for three years now and counting – the stories he’s told me…’ The man shuddered.

  ‘Mancy? Oh, Emancipor Reese. Where’s the cat, by the way?’

  Buke barked a laugh. ‘Ran off – just like all our horses and we had an even dozen of them after those stupid bandits attacked us. Ran off, once I’d done prying its claws from Mancy’s back, which was where it jumped when all the warrens broke loose.’

  * * *

  Repairs completed and carriage righted, the journey resumed. A league or two of daylight remained. Stonny once again rode to point, Cafal and Netok taking their places ranging on the flanks. Emancipor guided the carriage, the two sorcerors having retired within.

  Buke and Gruntle walked a few paces ahead of Keruli’s carriage, saying little for a long while, until the captain sighed heavily and glanced at his friend. ‘For what it’s worth, there’s people who don’t want to see you dead, Buke. They see you wasting away inside, and they care enough so that it pains them—’

  ‘Guilt’s a good weapon, Gruntle, or at least it has been for a long time. Doesn’t cut any more, though. If you choose to care, then you better swallow the pain. I don’t give a damn, myself.’

  ‘Stonny—’

  ‘Is worth more than messing herself up with me. I’m not interested in being saved, anyway. Tell her that.’

  ‘You tell her, Buke, and when she puts her fist in your face just remember that I warned you here and now. You tell her – I won’t deliver your messages of self-pity.’

  ‘Back off, Gruntle. I’d hurt you bad before you finished using those cutlasses on me.’

  ‘Oh, that’s sweet – get one of your few remaining friends to kill you. Seems I was wrong, it’s not just self-pity, is it? You’re not obsessed with the tragic deaths of your family, you’re obsessed with yourself, Buke. Your guilt’s an endlessly rising tide, and that ego of yours is a levee and all you do is keep slapping fresh bricks on it. The wall gets higher and higher, and you’re looking down on the world from a lofty height – with a Hood-damned sneer.’

  Buke was pale and trembling. ‘If that’s the way you see it,’ he rasped, ‘then why call me friend at all?’

  Beru knows, I’m beginning to wonder. He drew a deep breath, managed to calm himself down. ‘We’ve known each other a long time. We’ve never crossed blades.’ And you were in the habit of getting drunk for days on end, a habit you broke … but one I haven’t. Took the deaths of everyone you loved to do that, and I’m terrified it might take the same for me.

  Thank Hood the lass married that fat merchant.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like much, Gruntle.’

  We’re two of a kind, you bastard – cut past your own ego and you ‘d see that fast enough. But he said nothing.

  ‘Sun’s almost down,’ Buke observed after a time. ‘They’ll attack when it’s dark.’

  ‘How do you defend against them?’

  ‘You don’t. Can’t. Like chopping into wood, from what I’ve seen, and they’re fast. Gods, they’re fast! We’re all dead, Gruntle. Bauchelain and Korbal Broach ain’t got much left – did you see them sweat mending the carriage? They’re wrung dry, those two.’

  ‘Keruli is a mage as well,’ Gruntle said. ‘Well, more likely a priest.’

  ‘Let’s hope his god’s cocked an eye on us, then.’

  And what are the chances of that?

  With the sun’s light pooling crimson on the horizon behind them, they made camp. Stonny guided the horses and oxen into a makeshift, rope-lined kraal to one side of the carriages – a position that would give them a chance to flee inland if it came to that.

  A kind of resignation descended within the growing gloom as a meal was prepared over a small fire, Harllo electing himself cook. Neither Keruli nor the two sorcerors emerged from their respective carriages to join the small group.

  Moths gathered around the smokeless flames. Sipping mulled wine, Gruntle watched their fluttering, mindless plunges into oblivion with a faintly bitter amusement.

  Darkness closed in, the scatter of stars overhead sharpening. With the supper done, Hetan rose. ‘Harllo, come with me now. Quickly.’

  ‘My lady?’ the man enquired.

  Gruntle sprayed a mouthful of wine. Choking, coughing, with Stonny pounding on his back, it was a while before he managed to recover. Through watering eyes, he grinned at Harllo. ‘You heard the lady.’

  He watched his friend’s eyes slowly grow wide.

  Impatient, Hetan stepped forward and gripped Harllo by one arm. She pulled him to his feet, then dragged him out into the darkness.

  Staring after them, Stonny frowned. ‘What’s all that about?’

  Not a single man spoke up.

  She swung a glare on Gruntle. After a moment, she hissed with understanding. ‘What an outrage!’

  ‘My dear,’ the captain laughed, ‘after Saltoan, that’s a little rich coming from you.’

  ‘Don’t you “dear” me, Gruntle! What are the rest of us supposed to do – sit here and listen to gross grunting and groaning from that hump of grasses over there? Disgusting!’

  ‘Really, Stonny. In the circumstances, it makes perfect sense—’

  ‘It’s not that, you idiot! That woman chose Harllo! Gods, I’m going to be sick! Harllo! Look around this fire – there’s you, and let’s face it, a certain type of uncultured, trashy woman couldn’t resist you. And Buke, tall and weathered with a tortured soul – surely worth a snakefight or three. But Harllo? That tangled-haired ape?’

  ‘He’s got big hands,’ Gruntle murmured. ‘So Hetan observed last … uh, last night’

  Stonny stared, then leaned forward. ‘She had you last night! Didn’t she? That loose, grease-smeared savage had you! I can see the truth in your smug face, Gruntle, so don’t deny it!’

  ‘Well, you just heard her – how could any warm-blooded man resist?’

  ‘Fine, then!’ she snapped, rising. ‘Buke, on your feet, damn you.’

  He flinched back. ‘No – I couldn’t – I, uh, no, I’m sorry, Stonny—’

  Snarling, she whirled on the two silent Barghast.

  Cafal smiled. ‘Choose Netok. He’s yet—’

  ‘Fine!’ She gestured.

  The youth rose unsteadily.

  ‘Big hands,’ Gruntle observed.

  ‘Shut up, Gruntle.’

  ‘Head in the other direction, please,’ he continued. ‘You wouldn’t want to stumble over anything … unsightly.’

  ‘Damn right in that Let’s go, Netok.’

  They walked off, the Barghast trailing like a pup on a leash.

  The captain swung to Buke. ‘You fool.’

  The man just shook his head, staring down at the fire.

  Emancipor Reese reached for the tin pot holding the spiced wine. ‘Two more nights,’ he muttered. ‘Typical.’

  Gruntle stared at the old man for a moment, then grinned. ‘We ain’t dead yet – who knows, maybe Oponn’s smiling down on you.’

  ‘That’d make a change,’ Reese grumbled.

  ‘How in Hood’s name did you get tied up with your two masters, anyway?’

  ‘Long story,’ he muttered, sipping at his wine. ‘Too long to tell, really. My wife, you see … Well, the posting offered travel…
’

  ‘Are you suggesting you chose the lesser of two evils?’

  ‘Heavens forfend, sir.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve regrets now, then.’

  ‘I didn’t say that, neither.’

  A sudden yowl from the darkness startled everyone.

  ‘Which one made that sound, I wonder?’ Gruntle mused.

  ‘None,’ Reese said. ‘My cat’s come back.’

  A carriage door opened. Moments later Bauchelain’s black-clad form appeared. ‘Our sticksnare returns … hastily. I suggest you call in the others and prepare your weapons. Tactically, attempt to hamstring these hunters, and stay low when you close – they prefer horizontal cuts. Emancipor, if you would kindly join us. Captain Gruntle, perhaps you might inform your master, though no doubt he is already aware.’

  Suddenly chilled, Gruntle rose. ‘We’ll be lucky to see anything, dammit’

  ‘That will not be an issue,’ Bauchelain replied. ‘Korbal, dear friend,’ he called out behind him, ‘a broad circle of light, if you please.’

  The area was suddenly bathed in a soft, golden glow, reaching out thirty or more paces on all sides.

  The cat yowled again and Gruntle caught sight of a tawny flash, darting back out into the darkness. Hetan and Harllo approached from one side, hastily tucking in clothing. Stonny and Netok arrived as well. The captain managed a strained grin. ‘Not enough time, I take it,’ he said to her.

  Stonny grimaced. ‘You should be more forgiving – it was the lad’s first try.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘A damned shame, too,’ she added, pulling on her duelling gloves. ‘He had potental, despite the grease.’

  The three Barghast had garnered now, Cafal jabbing a row of lances into the stony earth whilst Hetan busied herself tying a thick cord to join the three of them. Fetishes of feather and bone hung from knots in the cord, and Gruntle judged that the span between each warrior would be five or six arm-lengths. When the other two were done, Netok handed them double-bladed axes. All three set the weapons down at their feet and collected a lance each. Hetan leading, they began a soft, rumbling chant.

  ‘Captain.’

  Gruntle pulled his gaze from the Barghast and found Master Keruli at his side. The man’s hands were folded on his lap, his silk cape shimmering like water. ‘The protection I can offer is limited. Stay close to me, you and Harllo and Stonny. Do not allow yourselves to be drawn forward. Concentrate on defence.’

  Unsheathing his cutlasses, Gruntle nodded. Harllo moved to the captain’s left, his two-handed sword held steady before him. Stonny stood to Gruntle’s right, rapier and sticker readied.

  He feared for her the most. Her weapons were too light for what was coming – he recalled the chop-marks on Bauchelain’s carriage. This would be brutal strength at play here, not finesse. ‘Stay back a step, Stonny,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘I’m not talking chivalry, Stonny. Poking wire-thin holes won’t hurt an undead.’

  ‘We’ll just see, won’t we?’

  ‘Stay close to the master – guard him. That’s an order, Stonny.’

  ‘I hear you,’ she growled.

  Gruntle faced Keruli again. ‘Sir, who is your god? If you call upon him or her, what should we expect?’

  The round-faced man frowned slightly. ‘Expect? I am afraid I have no idea, Captain. My – uh – god’s powers are newly awakened from thousands of years of sleep. My god is Elder.’

  Gruntle stared. Elder? Weren’t the Elder gods abandoned because of their ferocity? What might be unleashed here? Queen of Dreams defend us.

  He watched as Keruli drew forth a thin-bladed dagger and cut deep into his left palm. Blood dripped into the grass at his feet. The air suddenly smelled like a slaughterhouse.

  A small, man-shaped collection of sticks and twigs and twine scurried into the circle of light, trailing sorcery like smoke. The stick-snared shaman.

  Gruntle felt the earth shuddering to fast-approaching steps, a low, relentless drumming like warhorses. No, more like giants. Upright, five pairs, maybe more. They were coming from the east.

  Ghostly shapes loomed into sight, then faded again. The tremors in the earth slowed, scattered, as the creatures spread out.

  The Barghast chant ended abruptly. Gruntle glanced in their direction. The three warriors faced east, lances ready. Coils of fog rose around their legs, thickening. In moments Hetan and her brothers would be completely enveloped.

  Silence.

  The familiar leather-bound grips of the heavy cutlasses felt slick in Gruntle’s hands. He could feel the thud of his heart in his chest. Sweat gathered, dripped from chin and lips. He strained to see into the darkness beyond the sphere of light. Nothing. The soldier’s moment, now, before the battle begins – who would choose such a life? You stand with others, all facing the same threat, all feeling so very alone. In the cold embrace of fear, that sense that all that you are might end in moments. Gods, I’ve no envy for a soldier’s life—

  Flat, wide, fang-bristling faces – sickly pale like snake bellies – emerged from the darkness. Eyes empty pits, the heads seemed to hover for a moment, as if suspended, at a height twice that of a man. Huge black-pocked iron swords slid into the light. The blades were fused to the creatures’ wrists – no hands were visible – and Gruntle knew that a single blow from one of those swords could cut through a man’s thigh effortlessly.

  Reptilian, striding on hind legs like giant wingless birds and leaning forward with the counterweight of long, tapering tails, the undead apparitions wore strangely mottled armour: across the shoulders, on the chest to either side of the jutting sternum, and high on the hips. Skullcap helmets, low and long, protected head and nape, with sweeping cheek-guards meeting over the snout to join and bend sharply to form a bridge-guard.

  At Gruntle’s side Keruli hissed. ‘K’Chain Che’Malle. K’ell Hunters, these ones. Firstborn of every brood. The Matron’s own children. Fading memories even to the Elder gods, this knowledge. Now, in my heart, I feel dismay.’

  ‘What in Hood’s name are they waiting for?’ the captain growled.

  ‘Uneasy – the swirling cloud that is Barghast sorcery. An unknown to their master.’

  Disbelieving, the captain asked, ‘The Pannion Seer commands these—’

  The five hunters attacked. Heads darting forward, blades rising, they were a blur. Three struck for the Barghast, plunging towards that thick, twisting fog. The other two charged Bauchelain and Korbal Broach.

  Moments before reaching the cloud, three lances flashed out, all striking the lead hunter. Sorcery ripped through the beast’s withered, lifeless flesh with a sound like spikes driven into – then through – tree trunks. Dark grey muscle tissue, bronze-hued bone and swaths of burning hide flew in all directions. The hunter’s head wobbled atop a shattered neck. The K’Chain Che’Malle staggered, then collapsed, even as its two kin swept round it and vanished into the sorcerous cloud. Iron on iron rang explosively from within.

  Before Bauchelain and Korbal Broach, the other two hunters were engulfed in roiling, black waves of sorcery before they had taken two strides. The magic lacerated their bodies, splashed rotting, acidic stains that devoured their hides. The beasts drove through without pause, to be met by the two mages – both wearing ankle-length coats of black chain, both wielding hand-and-a-half swords that trailed streamers of smoke.

  ‘’Ware behind us!’ Harllo suddenly screamed.

  Gruntle spun.

  To see a sixth hunter darting through screaming, bolting horses, charging directly for Keruli. Unlike the other K’Chain Che’Malle, this creature’s hide was covered in intricate markings, and bore a dorsal ridge of steel spikes running down its spine.

  Gruntle threw a shoulder against Keruli, sending the man sprawling. Ducking low, he threw up both cutlasses in time to catch a horizontal slash from one of the hunter’s massive blades. The Gadrobi steel rang deafeningly, the impact bolting like shocks up the captain’s arm
s. Gruntle heard more than felt his left wrist snap, the broken ends of the bones grinding and twisting impossibly before suddenly senseless hands released the cutlasses – wheeling, spinning away. The hunter’s second blade should have cut him in half. Instead, it clashed against Harllo’s two-handed sword. Both weapons shattered. Harllo lurched away, his chest and face spraying blood from a savage hail of iron shards.

  A taloned, three-toed foot struck Gruntle on an upward track. Grunting, the captain was thrown into the air. Pain exploded in his skull as he collided with the hunter’s jaw, snapping the creature’s head up with a bone-breaking, crunching sound.

  Stunned, the breath driven from his lungs, Gruntle fell to the ground in a heap. An enormous weight pinned him, talons puncturing armour to pierce flesh. The three toes clenched around his chest, snapping bones, and he felt himself dragged forward. The scales of his armour clicked and clattered, dropping away as he was pulled along through dust and gravel. Twisted buckles and clasps dug into the earth. Blind, limbs flopping, Gruntle felt the talons digging ever deeper. He coughed and his mouth filled with frothy blood. The world darkened.

  He felt the talons shudder, as if resonating from some massive blow. Another followed, then another. The claws spasmed. Then he was lifted into the air again, sent flying. Striking the ground, rolling, crashing up against the shattered spokes of a carriage wheel.

  He felt himself dying, knew himself dying. He forced his eyes open, desperate for one last look upon the world – something, anything to drive away this overwhelming sense of confused sadness. Could it not have been sudden? Instant? Why this lingering, bemused draining away ? Gods, even the pain is gone – why not awareness itself? Why torture me with the knowing of what I am about to surrender?

  Someone was shrieking, the sound one of dying, and Gruntle understood it at once. Oh yes, scream your defiance, your terror and your rage – scream at that web even as it closes about you. Waves of sound out into the mortal world, one last time— The shrieks fell away, and now there was silence, save for the stuttering heart in Gruntle’s chest.

  He knew his eyes were open, yet he could see nothing. Either Korbal Broach’s spell of light had failed, or the captain had found his own darkness.