The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Karnadas slowly bowed.

  * * *

  As the spell faded, Quick Ben sighed, glanced to his right. ‘Well?’

  Seated against the tent’s wall on that side, Whiskeyjack leaned forward to refill their goblets with Gredfallan ale. ‘They’ll fight,’ the bearded man said, ‘for a while at least. That commander looks a tough sword-hacker, but it might be all show and no iron – he must be a shrewd enough man of business to know the value of appearances. What was that you called him?’

  ‘Mortal Sword. Not likely – once, long ago, that title was for real. Long before the Deck of Dragons acknowledged the place of Knights of the High Houses, Fener’s cult had its own. They’ve got the serious titles down with exactness. Destriant … Hood’s breath, there hasn’t been a real Destriant in the cult for a thousand years. The titles are for show, Whiskeyjack—’

  ‘Indeed,’ the commander cut in, ‘then why keep it a secret from the Fener priest on the Mask Council?’

  ‘Uh. Well … Oh, it’s simple. That priest would know it for a lie, of course. There, easy answer to your question.’

  ‘Easy answer, as you say. So, are easy answers always, right answers, Quick?’

  Ignoring the question, the wizard drained his goblet. ‘In any case, I’d count the Grey Swords as best among the bunch over there, but that’s not saying much.’

  ‘Were they fooled by the “accidental” contact?’

  ‘I think so. I’d shaped the spell to reflect the company’s own nature – whether greedy and rapacious, or honourable or whatever. I admit, though, I didn’t expect it to find pious faith. Still, the spell was intended to be malleable, and so it was.’

  Whiskeyjack climbed to his feet, wincing as he put his weight down on his bad leg. ‘I’d better track down Brood and Dujek, then.’

  ‘At the head of the column, is my guess,’ Quick Ben said.

  ‘You’re sharp tonight,’ the commander noted as he made his way out.

  A moment later, when Whiskeyjack’s sarcasm finally seeped into Quick Ben’s thoughts, he scowled.

  * * *

  On the other side of the street, opposite the barracks gate and behind an ancient bronze fence, was a cemetery that had once belonged to one of Capustan’s founding tribes. The sun-fired columns of mud with their spiral incisions – each one containing an upright corpse – rose like the boles of a crowded forest in the cemetery’s heart, surrounded on all sides by the more mundane Daru stone urns. The city’s history was a tortured, bizarre tale, and it had been Itkovian’s task among the company to glean its depths. The Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords was a position that demanded both scholarly pursuits and military prowess. While many would hold the two disciplines as distinct, the truth was in fact the opposite.

  From histories and philosophies and religions came an understanding of human motivation, and motivation lay at the heart of tactics and strategy. Just as people moved in patterns, so too did their thoughts. A Shield Anvil must predict, anticipate, and this applied to the potential actions of allies as well as enemies.

  Before the arrival of Daru peoples from the west, the tribes that had founded Capustan had only a generation before been nomadic. And their dead are left standing. Free to wander in their unseen spirit world. That restless mobility resided still in the minds of the Capan, and since the Daru communities held to their own, it was scarcely diluted despite the now dozens of generations who had lived and died in this one place.

  Yet much of Capustan’s early history remained mysterious, and Itkovian found himself pondering what little he could piece together of those times, as he led the two wings of riders down the wide, cobbled street towards Jelarkan’s Concourse, and beyond it to the south-facing Main Gate.

  The rain was abating, the dawn’s steel smear pushing through the heavy clouds to the east, the wind falling off into fitful gusts.

  The districts making up the city were called Camps, and each Camp was a distinct, self-contained settlement, usually circular, with a private open ground at the central hub. The wide, uneven spaces between each Camp formed Capustan’s streets. This pattern changed only in the area surrounding the old Daru Keep – now the Thrall and home to the Mask Council – called the Temple District, which represented the sole Daru-style imposition of a gridwork layout of streets.

  The Camps, Itkovian suspected, had once been precisely that. Tribal encampments, tightly bound in ties of kinship. Positioned on the banks of the Catlin River among sea-fearing peoples, this site had become a focus for trade, encouraging sedentary behaviour. The result was one of the oddest-looking cities Itkovian had ever seen. Wide, open concourses and avenues defined by curving walls; random clay stands of burial pillars; well pools surrounded by sandpits; and, moving through Capustan’s winding spaces, Daru and Capan citizens, the former holding to the disparate styles and ornamentation of their heritage – no two dressed alike – whilst the latter, kin-bound, wore the bright colours of their families, creating a flow in the streets that sharply contrasted with the plain, unpainted architecture. The beauty of Capustan lies in its people, not in its buildings … Even the Daru temples had bowed to the local, modest style of architecture. The effect was that of ceaseless movement, dominating its fixed, simple surroundings. The Capan tribes celebrated themselves, colours in a colourless world.

  The only unknowns in Itkovian’s scenario were the old keep that the Grey Swords now occupied, and Jelarkan’s Palace. The old keep had been built before the coming of both the Capan and the Daru, by unknown hands, and it had been constructed almost in the shadow of the palace.

  Jelarkan’s fortress was a structure unlike anything Itkovian had ever seen before. It predated all else, its severe architecture throughly alien and strangely unwelcoming. No doubt the royal line of Capustan had chosen to occupy it for its imposing prominence rather than any particular notions of its defensive capacities. The stone walls were perilously thin, and its absence of windows or flat rooftops made those within it blind to all that occurred on the outside. Worse, there was but one entrance – the main approach, a wide ramp leading into a courtyard. Previous princes had raised guard houses to either side of the entrance, and a walkway along the courtyard’s walls. Actual additions to the palace itself had a habit of falling down – the palace’s stone facings refused to take mortar, for some reason, and the walls were not deemed strong enough to assume additional burdens of a substantial nature. In all, a curious edifice.

  Passing out through the crowded Main Gate – harsh black iron and dark leather amidst streams of saturated colours – the troop swung right, rode a short distance down the south caravan road, then left it and its traffic as soon as they reached open plain, riding due west, past the few goat, cattle and sheep farms and their low stone walls breaking up the landscape, out onto unoccupied prairie.

  As they moved further inland, the overcast above them began to clear, until by the midday break – fourteen leagues from Capustan – the sky above them was an unbroken blue. The meal was brief, conducted with few words among the thirty soldiers. They had crossed no-one’s trail as yet, which, given it was nearing the height of caravan season, was unusual.

  As the Grey Swords completed repacking their kits, the Shield Anvil addressed them for the first time since leaving the barracks. ‘Raptor formation at slow canter. Outrider Sidlis twenty lengths to point Everyone track-hunting.’

  One soldier, a young woman acolyte and the only recruit in the company, asked, ‘What kind of tracks are we looking for, sir?’

  Ignoring the impropriety, Itkovian replied. ‘Any kind, soldier. Wings mount up.’

  He watched as the soldiers swung into their saddles in perfect unison, barring the recruit who struggled a moment before settling and closing up the reins.

  Few words were offered at this early stage of training – the recruit either would quickly follow the example set by the experienced soldiers, or would not stay long in the company. She had been taught to ride, well enough not to fall off her horse at a
canter, and was wearing her weapons and armour to get used to their weight. Schooling in the art of wielding those weapons would come later. If the wings found themselves in a skirmish, two veterans would guard the recruit at all times.

  At the moment, the young woman’s master was her horse. The chestnut gelding knew its place in the crooked wing shape of the raptor formation. If trouble came, it would also know enough to pull its rider away from danger.

  It was enough that she had been chosen to accompany the patrol. Train the soldier in the real world was one of the company’s tenets.

  Spread out into the formation, with Itkovian as the raptor’s head, the troop rode on at a slow canter. A league, then another as the heat slowly became oppressive.

  The sudden slowing of the north wing pulled the others round as if invisible ropes bound every animal together. A trail had been found. Itkovian glanced ahead to see Outrider Sidlis slow her horse, wheel it round, confirming that both she and her mount had sensed the shift in motion behind them. She held position, watching.

  The Shield Anvil slowed his horse as he approached his right-flanking riders.

  ‘Report.’

  ‘Recruit caught the trail first, sir,’ the wing’s spokesman said. ‘The tip of a spiral. The pattern of discovery that followed suggests a northwest direction. Something upright, on two legs, sir. Large. Three-toed and taloned.’

  ‘Just the one set?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Passed this way this morning, sir.’

  A second glance at Sidlis brought her riding back towards the troop.

  ‘Relieve the outrider, Nakalian. We’ll pick up this trail and pursue.’

  ‘Sir,’ the spokesman acknowledged. He hesitated, then said, ‘Shield Anvil, the span between the steps is … vast. The creature was moving with speed.’

  Itkovian met the soldier’s eyes. ‘How fast, sir? A canter? Gallop?’

  ‘Hard to know for certain. I’d judge twice a canter, sir.’

  We have, it seems, found our demonic apparition. ‘Archers on the tips. All others barring Torun, Farakalian and the recruit, lances to hand. Named soldiers, coils out.’

  Nakalian now in the lead, the wings moved out once again, the riders at the very ends with arrows fitted to their short, recurved bows. Torun and Farakalian rode to either side of the Shield Anvil, lasso and rope coils in hand.

  The sun crawled across the sky. Nakalian held them to the trail without much difficulty, the tracks now a straight, direct line north-west. Itkovian had opportunity to see the imprints in the hard earth himself. A huge animal indeed, to have driven such deep impressions. Given its obvious speed, the Shield Anvil suspected they would never catch up with the creature.

  Unless, of course, Itkovian silently added as he watched Nakalian suddenly rein in at the top of a low rise ahead, the beast decided to stop and wait for us.

  The troop slowed, all eyes on the soldier on point. Nakalian’s attention remained fixed on something only he could see. He had drawn his lance but was not readying for a charge. His horse shied nervously beneath him, and as Itkovian and the others neared, the Shield Anvil could see the animal’s fear.

  They reached the rise.

  A basin stretched out before them, the grasses trampled and scattered in a wide swathe – the recent passing of a herd of wild bhederin – cutting diagonally across the plain. Towards the centre, at a distance of at least two hundred paces, stood a grey-skinned creature, two-legged, long-tailed, its snout two rows of jagged fangs. Broad-bladed swords flashed from the ends of its arms. Motionless, its head, torso and tail almost horizontal as it balanced on its two legs, the creature was watching them.

  Itkovian’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  ‘I judge,’ Nakalian said at his side, ‘five heartbeats to cover the distance between us, Shield Anvil.’

  ‘Yet it makes no move.’

  ‘With that speed, sir, it needn’t bother.’

  Until it elects to, at which point it will be upon us. We ‘d best test this apparition’s abilities. ‘Let us choose our own timing, sir,’ Itkovian said. ‘Lancers – hit the beast low and leave your weapons in, foul its stride if you can. Archers, go for the eyes and neck. One down the throat as well if the opportunity presents itself. A staggered pass, random evasion once you’ve planted your weapons, then draw swords. Torun and Farakalian’ – he drew his longsword – ‘you’re with me. Very well, canter to gallop at fifty, sooner if the beast reacts.’

  The wings rode forward, down the gentle slope, lances levelling.

  The creature continued to watch them, unmoving. With a hundred paces remaining between them, it slowly raised its blades, head dropping enough for the riders to see its ridged shoulders behind what was clearly some kind of helmet.

  At seventy paces the creature swung round to face them, swords out to the sides, tail twitching.

  Out on the tips the archers rose high in their stirrups, drew taut on the strings of their squat, powerful bows, held them motionless for a long moment, then loosed.

  The arrows converged on the creature’s head. Barbed heads plunged into its black eye sockets. Seemingly indifferent to the arrows buried deep, the beast took a step forward.

  Fifty paces. Again the bowstrings thrummed. Shafts sprouted on either side of the neck. The archers angled their mounts away to maintain distance in their pass. The lancers’ horses stretched their necks, and the closing charge had begun.

  Blinded, yet not blind. I see no blood Fener, reveal to me the nature of this demon. A command to evade—

  The creature darted forward with unbelievable speed. At once, it was among the Grey Swords. Lances skewered it from all sides, then the huge blades flashed. Screams. Blood flying in gouts. Itkovian saw the rump of a horse plunge down in front of him, saw the soldier’s right leg, foot still in the stirrup, falling outward. Without comprehension, he watched the rump – legs kicking spasmodically – twist round, revealing that the front half of the horse was gone. Severed spine, curved rows of rib stubs, intestines tumbling out, blood spraying from red flesh.

  His own horse leapt high to clear the animal wreckage.

  Crimson rain splashed the Shield Anvil’s face as the creature’s massive jaws – studded with arrows – snapped out at him. He leaned to his left, barely avoiding the meat-strewn fangs, and swung a wild backhand slash with his longsword as he rode past. The blade clashed against armour.

  In mid-leap, his horse shrieked as something clipped it from behind. Plunging down on its forelimbs and still screaming, it managed a stagger forward before its rump sank down behind Itkovian. Knowing that something had gone desperately wrong with the beast’s rocking, horrible stumble, he pulled free his heart-knife, leaned forward and opened the animal’s jugular with a single slash. Then, kicking free of the stirrups, the Shield Anvil pitched forward and to the left even as he yanked the dying horse’s head to the right.

  They struck the ground, rolled apart.

  Completing his tumble at a crouch, Itkovian spared a glance at his horse, to see the animal kicking in the air. The two hind legs ended just above the fetlocks. Both hooves had been sliced off. The dead animal quickly stilled.

  The bodies of mounts and soldiers lay on both sides of the creature, which was now slowly turning to face Itkovian. Blood and gore painted its long, leathery arms. A woman’s red-streaked brown hair had snagged in thick tufts between the beast’s smeared fangs.

  Then Itkovian saw the lassos. Both hung loose, one around the creature’s neck, the other high on its right leg.

  Earth thumped as the demon took a step towards the Shield Anvil. Itkovian raised his longsword.

  As it lifted a three-toed foot for another stride, the two ropes snapped taut, neck to the left, leg to the right. The creature was thrown upward by the savage, perfectly timed yanks to opposite sides. Leg tore away from hip in a dry, ripping snap, even as the head parted from the neck with an identical sickly sound.

  Torso and
head struck the earth with heavy, bone-breaking thumps.

  No movement. The beast was dead.

  Suddenly trembling, Itkovian slowly straightened.

  Torun had taken three riders with him. Farakalian had done the same. Ropes wound around each saddlehorn, the force behind the sudden, explosive tightening – four warhorses to each side – had managed what weapons could not.

  The pair of archers rode up to the Shield Anvil. One reached down an arm. ‘Quickly, sir, the stirrup’s clear.’

  Unquestioningly, Itkovian clasped the wrist and swung himself up behind the rider. And saw what approached.

  Four more demons, four hundred paces away and closing with the speed of boulders tumbling down a mountainside.

  ‘We’ll not outrun them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So we split up,’ Itkovian said.

  The rider kicked his mount into a gallop. ‘Yes, sir. We’re the slowest – Torun and Farakalian will engage – give us time—’

  The horse swerved suddenly beneath them. Caught unprepared, the Shield Anvil’s head snapped back, and he tumbled from the saddle. He hit the hard-packed soil, the air bursting from his lungs, then rolled, stunned, to come to a stop against a pair of legs hard as iron.

  Blinking, gasping, Itkovian found himself staring up at a squat, fur-clad corpse. The dark-brown, withered face beneath the antlered head-dress tilted downward. Shadowed sockets studied him.

  Gods, what a day.

  ‘Your soldiers approach,’ the apparition rasped in Elin. ‘From this engagement … you are relieved.’

  The archer was still struggling with his startled horse, cursing, then he hissed in surprise.

  The Shield Anvil frowned up at the undead figure. ‘We are?’

  ‘Against undead,’ the corpse said, ‘arises an army in kind.’

  Distantly, Itkovian heard the sounds of battle – no screams, simply the clash of weapons, relentless, ever growing. With a groan, he rolled onto his side. A headache was building in the back of his skull, waves of nausea rippling through him. Gritting his teeth, he sat up.