The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  He sensed the air suddenly tear behind him, the sound like the faintest whisper as of parting fabric. A breath of lifeless wind flowed around him. The Mortal Sword slowly turned.

  A tall, gauntly armoured figured was visible within the warren’s grey-smeared portal. A face of pallid, lined skin over taut bones, eyes set deep within ridged sockets and brow, the glimmer of tusks protruding above the lower lip. The figure’s mouth curved into a faint, mocking smile. ‘Fener’s Mortal Sword,’ he said in the language of the Elin, his voice low and soft, ‘I bring you greetings from Hood, Lord of Death.’

  Brukhalian grunted, said nothing.

  ‘Warrior,’ the apparition continued after a moment, ‘your reaction to my arrival seems almost … laconic. Are you truly as calm as you would have me believe?’

  ‘I am Fener’s Mortal Sword,’ Brukhalian replied.

  ‘Yes,’ the Jaghut drawled, ‘I know. I, on the other hand, am Hood’s Herald, once known as Gethol. The tale that lies behind my present … servitude, is more than worthy of an epic poem. Or three. Are you not curious?’

  ‘No.’

  The face fell into exaggerated despondency, then the eyes flashed. ‘How unimaginative of you, Mortal Sword. Very well, hear then, without comforting preamble, the words of my lord. While none would deny Hood’s eternal hunger, and indeed his anticipation for the siege to come, certain complexities of the greater scheme lead my lord to venture an invitation to Fener’s mortal soldiers—’

  ‘Then you should be addressing the Tusked One himself, sir,’ Brukhalian rumbled.

  ‘Ah, alas, this has proved no longer posssible, Mortal Sword. Fener’s attention is elsewhere. In fact, your lord has been drawn, with great reluctance, to the very edge of his realm.’ The Herald’s unhuman eyes narrowed. ‘Fener is in great peril. The loss of your patron’s power is imminent. The time has come, Hood has decided, for compassionate gestures, for expressions of the true brotherhood that exists between your lord and mine.’

  ‘What does Hood propose, sir?’

  ‘This city is doomed, Mortal Sword. Yet your formidable army need not join in the inevitable crush at Hood’s gate. Such a sacrifice would be pointless, and indeed a great loss. The Pannion Domin is no more than a single, rather minor, element in a far vaster war – a war in which all the gods shall partake … allied one and all … against an enemy who seeks nothing less than the annihilation of all rivals. Thus. Hood offers you his warren, a means of extrication for you and your soldiers. Yet you must choose quickly, for the warren’s path here cannot survive the arrival of the Pannion’s forces.’

  ‘What you offer, sir, demands the breaking of our contract.’

  The Herald’s laugh was contemptuous. ‘As I most vehemently told Hood, you humans are a truly pathetic lot. A contract? Scratchings on vellum? My lord’s offer is not a thing to be negotiated.’

  ‘And in accepting Hood’s warren,’ Brukhalian said quietly, ‘the face of our patron changes, yes? Fener’s … inaccessibility … has made him a liability. And so Hood acts quickly, eager to strip the Boar of Summer’s mortal servants, preferably intact, to thereafter serve him and him alone.’

  ‘Foolish man,’ Gethol sneered. ‘Fener shall be the first casualty in the war with the Crippled God. The Boar shall fall – and none can save him. The patronage of Hood is not casually offered, mortal, to just anyone. To be so honoured—’

  ‘Honoured?’ Brukhalian cut in, his voice the slide of iron on stone, his eyes flickering with a strange light. ‘Allow me, on Fener’s behalf,’ he said in a low whisper, ‘to comment on the question of honour.’ The Mortal Sword’s broadsword hissed in a blur from its scabbard, the blade cleaving upward to strike the Herald across the face. Bone snapped, dark blood sprayed.

  Gethol reared back a step, withered hands rising to his shattered features.

  Brukhalian lowered his weapon, his eyes burning with a deep rage. ‘Come forward again, Herald, and I shall resume my commentary.’

  ‘I do not,’ Gethol rasped through torn lips, ‘appreciate your … tone. It falls to me to answer in kind, not on Hood’s behalf. Not any more. No, this reply shall be mine and mine alone.’ A longsword appeared in each gauntleted hand, the blades shimmering like liquid gold. The Herald’s eyes glittered like mirrors to the weapons. He took a step forward.

  Then stopped, swords lifting into a defensive position.

  A soft voice spoke behind Brukhalian. ‘We greet you, Jaghut.’

  The Mortal Sword turned to see the three T’lan Imass, each one strangely insubstantial, as if moments from assuming new forms, new shapes. Moments, Brukhalian realized, from veering into their Soletaken beasts. The air filled with a stale stench of spice.

  ‘Not your concern, this fight,’ Gethol hissed.

  ‘The fight with this mortal?’ Bek Okhan asked. ‘No. However, Jaghut, you are.’

  ‘I am Hood’s Herald – do you dare challenge a servant of the lord of death?’

  The T’lan Imass’s desiccated lips peeled back. ‘Why would we hesitate, Jaghut? Now ask of your lord, does he dare challenge us?’

  Gethol grunted as something dragged him bodily back, the warren snapping shut, swallowing him. The air swirled briefly in the wake of the portal’s sudden vanishing, then settled.

  ‘Evidently not,’ Bek Okhan said.

  Sighing, Brukhalian sheathed his sword and faced the T’lan Imass Bonecasters. ‘Your arrival has left me disappointed, sirs.’

  ‘We understand this, Mortal Sword. You were doubtless well matched. Yet our hunt for this Jaghut demanded our … interruption. His talent for escaping us is undiminished, it seems, even to the point of bending a knee in the service of a god. Your defiance of Hood makes you a worthwhile companion.’

  Brukhalian grimaced. ‘If only to improve your chances of closing with this Jaghut, I take it.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So we are understood in this.’

  ‘Yes. It seems we are.’

  He stared at the three creatures for a moment, then turned away. ‘I think we can assume the Herald will not be returning to us this evening. Forgive my curtness, sirs, but I wish solitude once again.’

  The T’lan Imass each bowed, then disappeared.

  Brukhalian walked to the hearth, drawing his sword once more. He set the blunt end amongst the cold embers, slowly stirred the ashes. Flames licked into life, the coals burgeoning a glowing red. The spatters and streaks of Jaghut blood on the blade sizzled black, then burned away to nothing.

  He stared down at the hearth for a long time, and despite the unveiled power of the sanctified sword, the Mortal Sword saw before him nothing but ashes.

  * * *

  Up from the darkness, a clawing, gasping struggle. Explosive blooms of pain, like a wall of fire rising behind his eyes, the shivering echoes of wounds; a tearing and puncturing of flesh – his own flesh.

  A low groan escaped him, startled him into an awareness – he lay propped at an angle, taut skins stretched beneath him. There had been motion, a rocking and bumping and scraping, but that had ceased. He opened his eyes, found himself in shadow. A stone wall reared to his left, within reach. The air smelled of horses and dust and, much closer, blood and sweat.

  Morning sunlight bathed the compound to his right, glimmered off the blurred figures moving about there. Soldiers, horses, impossibly huge, lean wolves.

  Boots crunched on gravel and the shadow over him deepened. Blinking, Gruntle looked up.

  Stonny’s face was drawn, spattered with dried blood, her hair hanging in thick, snarled ropes. She laid a hand on his chest. ‘We’ve reached Capustan,’ she said in a ragged voice.

  He managed a nod.

  ‘Gruntle—’

  Pain filled her eyes, and he felt a chill sweep over him.

  ‘Gruntle … Harllo’s dead. They – they left him, buried under rocks. They left him. And Netok – Netok, that dear boy … so wide-eyed, so innocent. I gave him his manhood, Gruntle, I did that, at least. Dead – we
lost them both.’ She reeled away then, out of the range of his vision, though he heard her rushed footsteps, dwindling.

  Another face appeared, a stranger’s, a young woman, helmed, her expression gentle. ‘We are safe now, sir,’ she said, her accent Capan. ‘You have been force-healed. I grieve for your losses. We all do – the Grey Swords, that is. Rest assured, sir, you were avenged against the demons…’

  Gruntle stopped listening, his eyes pulling away, fixing on the clear blue sky directly overhead. I saw you, Harllo. You bastard. Throwing yourself in that creature’s path, between us: I saw, damn you.

  A corpse beneath rocks, a face in the darkness, smeared in dust, that would never again smile.

  A new voice. ‘Captain.’

  Grande turned his head, forced words through the clench of his throat. ‘It’s done, Keruli,’ he said. ‘You’ve been delivered. It’s done. Damn you to Hood, get out of my sight.’

  The priest bowed his head, withdrew through the haze of Gruntle’s anger; withdrew, then was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  The harder the world, the fiercer the honour.

  DANCER

  The bones formed hills, stretching out on all sides. Clattering, shifting beneath Gethol as the Jaghut struggled for purchase against the slope. The blood had slowed its flow down his ruined face, though the vision of one eye was still obscured – blocked by an upthrust shard that glimmered pink-white – and the pain had dulled to a pulsing throb.

  ‘Vanity,’ he mumbled through scabbed lips, ‘is not my curse.’ He gained his balance, straightened, tottering, on the hillside. ‘No predicting mortal humans – no, not even Hood could have imagined such … insolence. But ah! The Herald’s visage is now broken, and that which is broken must be discarded. Discarded…’

  Gethol looked around. The endless hills, the formless sky, the cool, dead air. The bones. The Jaghut’s undamaged eyebrow lifted. ‘None the less, I appreciate the joke, Hood. Ha ha. Here you have tossed me. Ha ha. And now, I have leave to crawl free. Free from your service. So be it.’

  The Jaghut opened his warren, stared into the portal that formed before him, his path into the cold, almost airless realm of Omtose Phellack. ‘I know you, now, Hood. I know who – what – you are. Delicious irony, the mirror of your face. Do you in turn, I now wonder, know me?’

  He strode into the warren. The familiar gelid embrace eased his pain, the fire of his nerves. The steep, jagged walls of ice to either side bathed him in blue-green light. He paused, tested the air. No stench of Imass, no signs of intrusion, yet the power he sensed around him was weakened, damaged by millennia of breaches, the effrontery of T’lan. Like the Jaghut themselves, Omtose Phellack was dying. A slow, wasting death.

  ‘Ah, my friend,’ he whispered, ‘we are almost done. You and I, spiralling down into … oblivion. A simple truth. Shall I unleash my rage? No. After all, my rage is not enough. It never was.’

  He walked on, through the frozen memories that had begun to rot, there, within his reach, ever narrowing, ever closing in on the Jaghut.

  The fissure was unexpected, a deep cleft slashing diagonally across his path. A soft, warm breath flowed from it, sweet with decay and disease. The ice lining its edges was bruised and pocked, riven with dark veins. Halting before it, Gethol quested with his senses. He hissed in recognition. ‘You have not been idle, have you? What is this invitation you set before me? I am of this world, whilst you, stranger, are not.’

  He moved to step past it, his torn lips twisting into a snarl. Then stopped, head slowly turning. ‘I am no longer Hood’s Herald,’ he whispered. ‘Dismissed. A flawed service. Unacceptable. What would you say to me, Chained One?’

  There would be no answer, until the decision was made, until the journey’s end.

  Gethol entered the fissure.

  * * *

  The Crippled God had fashioned a small tent around his place of chaining, the Jaghut saw with some amusement. Broken, shattered, oozing with wounds that never healed, here then was the true face of vanity.

  Gethol halted before the entrance. He raised his voice. ‘Dispense with the shroud – I shall not crawl to you.’

  The tent shimmered, then dissolved, revealing a robed, hooded, shapeless figure sitting on damp clay. A brazier lifted veils of smoke between them, and a mangled hand reached out to fan the sweet tendrils into the hood-shadowed face. ‘A most,’ the Chained One said in a wheeze, ‘a most devastating kiss. Your sudden lust for vengeance was … felt, Jaghut. Your temper endangered Hood’s meticulous plans, you see that, do you not? It was this that so … disappointed the Lord of Death. His Herald must be obedient. His Herald must possess no personal desires, no ambitions. Not a worthy … employer … for one such as you.’

  Gethol glanced around. ‘There is heat beneath me. We chained you to Burn’s flesh, anchored you to her bones – and you have poisoned her.’

  ‘I have. A festering thorn in her side … that shall one day kill her. And with Burn’s death, this world shall die. Her heart cold, lifeless, will cease its life-giving bounty. These chains must be broken, Jaghut.’

  Gethol laughed. ‘All worlds die. I shall not prove the weak link, Crippled God. I was here for the Chaining, after all.’

  ‘Ah,’ the creature hissed, ‘but you are the weak link. You ever were. You thought you could earn Hood’s trust, and you failed. Not the first failure, either, as we both know. When your brother Gothos called upon you—’

  ‘Enough! Who is the vulnerable one here?’

  ‘We both are, Jaghut. We both are.’ The god raised his hand again, waved it slowly between them. Lacquered, wooden cards appeared, suspended in the air, their painted images facing Gethol. ‘Behold,’ the Crippled God whispered, ‘the House of Chains…’

  The Jaghut’s lone functioning eye narrowed. ‘What – what have you done?’

  ‘No longer an outsider, Gethol. I would … join the game. And look more carefully. The role of Herald is … vacant.’

  Gethol grunted. ‘More than just the Herald…’

  ‘Indeed, these are early days. Who, I wonder, will earn the right of King in my House? Unlike Hood, you see, I welcome personal ambition. Welcome independent thought. Even acts of vengeance.’

  ‘The Deck of Dragons will resist you, Chained One. Your House will be … assailed.’

  ‘It was ever thus. You speak of the Deck as an entity, but its maker is dust, as we both know. There is no-one who can control it. Witness the resurrection of the House of Shadows. A worthy precedent. Gethol, I have need of you. I embrace your … flaws. None among my House of Chains shall be whole, in flesh or in spirit. Look upon me, look upon this broken, shattered figure – my House reflects what you see before you. Now cast your gaze upon the world beyond, the nightmare of pain and failure that is the mortal realm. Very soon, Gethol, my followers shall be legion. Do you doubt that? Do you?’

  The Jaghut was silent for a long time, then he growled, ‘The House of Chains has found its Herald. What would you have me do?’

  * * *

  ‘I’ve lost my mind,’ Murillio muttered, but he threw the bones none the less. The carved phalanges bounced and rolled, then came to a stop.

  ‘The Lord’s Push, dear friend, alas for you but not for worthy self!’ Kruppe cried, reaching out to gather the bones. ‘And now Kruppe doubles the bid on a clear skid – ah, exquisite rhyme exquisitely delivered – ho!’ The bones bounced, settled with unmarked sides facing up. ‘Ha! Riches tumble upon Kruppe’s ample lap! Gather them up, formidable wizard!’

  Shaking his head, Quick Ben collected the finger bones. ‘I’ve seen every cheat possible – the bad and the superb – but Kruppe, you continue to evade my sharpest eye.’

  ‘Cheat? Gods forbid! What hapless victims are witness to on this night of nights is naught but cosmic sympathy for worthy Kruppe!’

  ‘Cosmic sympathy?’ Murillio snorted. ‘What in Hood’s name is that?’

  ‘Euphemism for cheating,’ Coll grumbled. ‘Make your ca
ll, Quick, I’m eager to lose still more of my hard-earned coin.’

  ‘It’s this table,’ Murillio said. ‘It skews everything, and somehow Kruppe’s found the pattern – don’t deny it, you block of cheesy lard.’

  ‘Kruppe denies all things patently deniable, dearest companions. No pattern has yet formed, by way of sincerest assurance, for the principal in question has fled from his appointed role. Said flight naught but an illusion, of course, though the enforced delay in self-recognition may well have direst consequences. Fortunate for one and all, Kruppe is here with cogent regard—’

  ‘Whatever,’ Quick Ben cut in. ‘Dark heart where it matters most and skull in the corner.’

  ‘Bold wager, mysterious mage. Kruppe challenges treble with a true hand and not a nudge askew!’

  The wizard snorted. ‘Never seen one of those, ever. Not ever. Not once.’ He sent the bones skidding across the table.

  The polished finger bones came to a stop, arrayed in a spread hand, all the symbols and patterns revealing perfect alignment.

  ‘And now, wondering wizard, you have! Kruppe’s coffers overflow!’

  Quick Ben stared at the skeletal hand on the table’s battered surface.

  ‘What’s the point of this?’ Coll sighed. ‘Kruppe wins every cast. Not subtle, little man – a good cheat makes sure there’s losses thrown in every now and then.’

  ‘Thus Kruppe’s true innocence is displayed! A cheat of successive victories would be madness indeed – no, this sympathy is true and well beyond Kruppe’s control.’

  ‘How did you do that?’ Quick Ben whispered.

  Kruppe removed a mottled silk handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his brow. ‘Warrens suddenly abound, licking the air with invisible flames, aaii! Kruppe withers beneath such scrutiny – mercy, Kruppe begs you, malicious mage!’

  Quick Ben leaned back, glanced over to where Whiskeyjack sat apart from the others, his back to the tent wall, his eyes half closed. ‘There’s something there – I swear it – but I can’t pin him down. He’s slippery – gods, he’s slippery!’