The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  The Barahn were the first to break. Witnessing the ensuing slaughter of their kin had solidified the resolve of the Ahkrata, and they held until midday, when Taur detached the Gilk from the drive into the city and sent the turtle-shell-armoured warriors to their aid. A plains clan whetted on interminable wars against mounted enemies, the Gilk locked horns with the Betrullid and became the fulcrum for a renewed offensive by the Ahkrata, shattering the Betaklites and seizing the pontoon bridges and barges. The last of the Pannion medium infantry were driven into the river’s shallows, where the water turned red. Surviving elements of the Betrullid disengaged from the Gilk and retreated north along the coast to the marshlands – a fatal error, as their horses foundered in the salty mud. The Gilk pursued to resume a mauling that would not end until nightfall. Septarch Kulpath’s reinforcements had been annihilated.

  Humbrall Taur’s push into the city triggered a panicked rout. Units of Seerdomin, Urdomen, Beklite, Scalandi and Betaklite were caught up and driven apart by the tens of thousands of Tenescowri fleeing before the Barghast hook-swords and lances. The main avenues became heaving masses of humanity, a swirling flood pushing westward, pouring through the breaches on that side, out onto the plain.

  Taur did not relent in his clans’ vigorous pursuit, driving the Pannions ever westward.

  Crouched on the rooftop, Picker looked down on the screaming, panic-stricken mob below. The tide had torn into the ramp, cutting swathes through it, each one a narrow gully winding between walls of cold flesh. Every path was choked with figures, whilst others scrambled overtop, at times less than a long pike’s reach from the Malazan’s position.

  Despite the horror she was witnessing below, she felt as if a vast burden had been lifted from her. The damned torcs no longer gripped her arm. The closer they had come to the city, the tighter and hotter they had grown – burns still ringed her upper arm and a deep ache still lingered in the bones. There were questions surrounding all that, but she was not yet prepared to mull on them.

  From a few streets to the east came the now familiar sound of slaughter, the discordant battle-chants of the Barghast a rumbling undercurrent. A Pannion rearguard of sorts had formed, ragged elements of Beklite, Urdomen and Seerdomin joining ranks in an effort to blunt the White Face advance. The rearguard was fast disintegrating, overwhelmed by numbers.

  There would be no leaving the rooftop until the routed enemy had passed, despite Hedge’s moans about foundation cracks and the like. Picker was well pleased with that. The Bridgeburners were in the city; it’d been hairy outside the wall and north gate, but apart from that things had gone easy – easier than she’d expected. Moranth munitions had a way of evening out the odds, if not swinging them all the way round.

  Not a single clash of blades yet. Good. We ain’t as tough as we used to be, never mind Antsy’s bravado.

  She wondered how far away Dujek and Brood were. Captain Paran had sent Twist to make contact with them as soon as it was clear that Humbrall Taur had unified his tribes and was ready to announce the command to march south to Capustan. With Quick Ben out of the action, and Spindle too scared to test his warrens, there was no way of knowing whether the Black Moranth had made it.

  Who knows what’s happened to them. Tales among the Barghast of undead demonic reptiles on the plains … and those fouled warrens – who’s to say that poison isn’t some nasty’s road? Spindle says the warrens are sick. What if they’ve just been taken over? Could be they’re being used right now. Someone could have come through and hit them hard. There might be thirty thousand corpses rotting on the plain right now. We might be all that’s left of Onearm’s Host.

  The Barghast did not seem interested in committing to the war beyond the liberation of Capustan. They wanted the bones of their gods. They were about to get them, and once that happened they’d probably head back home.

  And if we’re then on our own … what will Paran decide? That damned noble looks deathly. The man’s sick. His thoughts ride nails of pain, and that ain’t good. Ain’t good at all.

  Boots crunched beside her as someone stepped to the roof’s edge. She looked up, to see the red-haired woman Mallet had brought back from almost-dead. A rapier snapped a third of the way down the blade was in her right hand. Her leather armour was in tatters, old blood staining countless rents. There was a brittleness to her expression, as well as something of … wonder.

  Picker straightened. The screams from below were deafening. She moved closer and said, ‘Won’t be much longer, now. You can see the front ranks of the Barghast from here.’ She pointed.

  The woman nodded, then said, ‘My name is Stonny Menackis.’

  ‘Corporal Picker.’

  ‘I’ve been talking with Blend.’

  ‘That’s a surprise. She ain’t the talkative type.’

  ‘She was telling me about the torcs.’

  ‘Was she now? Huh.’

  Stonny shrugged, hesitated, then asked, ‘Are you … are you sworn to Trake or something? Lots of soldiers are, I gather. The Tiger of Summer, Lord of Battle—’

  ‘No,’ Picker growled. ‘I’m not. I just figured they were charms – those torcs.’

  ‘So you didn’t know that you had been chosen to deliver them. To … to Grande…’

  The corporal glanced over at the woman. ‘That’s what’s got you kind of confused, is it? Your friend Gruntle. You never would’ve figured him for what … for whatever he’s now become.’

  Stonny grimaced. ‘Anyone but him, to be honest. The man’s a cynical bastard, prone to drunkenness. Oh, he’s smart, as far as men go. But now, when I look at him…’

  ‘You ain’t recognizing what you see.’

  ‘It’s not just those strange markings. It’s his eyes. They’re a cat’s eyes, now, a damned tiger’s. Just as cold, just as inhuman.’

  ‘He says he fought for you, lass.’

  ‘I was his excuse, you mean.’

  ‘Can’t say as I’d argue there was a difference.’

  ‘But there is, Corporal.’

  ‘If you say so. Anyway, the truth’s right there in front of you. In this damned cryptorium of a building. Hood take us, it’s there in Gruntle’s followers – he ain’t the only one all dappled, is he? The man stood between the Pannions and you, and that was a solid enough thing to pull in all the others. Did Treach shape all this? I guess maybe he did, and I guess I played a part in that, too, with me showing up with those torcs on my arm. But now I’m quit of the whole thing and that suits me fine.’ And I ain’t going to think on it no more.

  Stonny was shaking her head. ‘I won’t kneel to Trake. By the Abyss, I’ve gone and found myself before the altar of another god – I’ve already made my choice, and Trake isn’t it.’

  ‘Huh. Maybe, then, your god found the whole thing with Gruntle and all that somehow useful. Humans ain’t the only ones who spin and play with webs, right? We ain’t the only ones who sometimes walk in step, or even work together to achieve something of mutual benefit – without explaining a damned thing to the rest of us. I ain’t envying you, Stonny Menackis. It’s deadly attention, when it’s a god’s. But it happens…’ Picker fell silent.

  Walk in step. Her eyes narrowed. And keeping the rest of us in the dark.

  She swung about, searched the group around the tents until she spied Paran. The corporal raised her voice, ‘Hey, Captain!’

  He looked up.

  And how about you, Captain? Keeping secrets, maybe? Here’s a hunch for you. ‘Any word from Silverfox?’ she asked.

  The Bridgeburners nearby all fixed their attention on the nobleborn officer.

  Paran recoiled as if he had been struck. One hand went to his stomach as a spasm of pain took him. Jaws bunching, he managed to lift his head and meet Picker’s eyes. ‘She’s alive,’ he grated.

  Thought so. You’d been too easy with this by far, Captain. Meaning, you have been keeping things from us. A bad decision. The last time us Bridgeburners was kept in the dark, that dark swallowed dam
n near every one of us. ‘How close? How far away, Captain?’

  She could see the effect of her words, yet a part of her was angry, enough to harden herself. Officers always held out. It was the one thing the Bridgeburners had learned to despise the most when it came to their commanders. Ignorance was fatal.

  Paran slowly forced himself straight. He drew a deep breath, then another as he visibly clamped down on the pain. ‘Humbrall Taur is driving the Pannions into their laps, Corporal. Dujek and Brood are maybe three leagues away—’

  Sputtering, Antsy asked, ‘And do they know what’s coming down on them?’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant.’

  ‘How?’

  Good question. Just how tight is this contact between you and Tattersail-reborn? And why ain’t you told us? We’re your soldiers. Expected to fight for you. So it’s a damned good question.

  Paran scowled at Antsy, but made no reply.

  The sergeant wasn’t about to let go, now that he’d taken the matter from Picker’s hands and was speaking for all the Bridgeburners. ‘So here we damn near got our heads lopped off by the White Faces, damn near got roasted by Tenescowri, and all the while thinking we might be alone. Completely alone. Not knowing if the alliance has held or if Dujek and Brood have ripped each other apart and there’s nothing but rotting bones to the west. And yet, you knew. So, if you was dead … right now, sir…’

  We’d know nothing, not a damned thing.

  ‘If I was dead, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,’ Paran replied. ‘So why don’t we just pretend, Sergeant?’

  ‘Maybe we don’t pretend at all,’ Antsy growled, one hand reaching for his sword.

  From nearby, where he had been crouching near the roof’s edge, Gruntle slowly turned, then straightened.

  Now wait a minute. ‘Sergeant!’ Picker snapped. ‘You think Tattersail will turn a smile on you the next time she sees you? If you go ahead and do what you’re thinking of doing?’

  ‘Quiet, Corporal,’ Paran ordered, eyes on Antsy. ‘Let’s get it over with. Here, I’ll make it even easier.’ The captain turned his back to the sergeant, waited.

  So sick he wants it ended. Shit. And worse … all this, in front of an audience.

  ‘Don’t even think it, Antsy,’ Mallet warned. ‘None of this is as it seems—’

  Picker turned on the healer. ‘Well, now we’re getting somewhere! You was jawing enough with Whiskeyjack before we left, Mallet. You and Quick Ben. Out with it! We got a captain hurting so bad he wants us to kill him and ain’t nobody’s telling us a damned thing – what in Hood’s name is going on?’

  The healer grimaced. ‘Aye, Silverfox is reaching out to the captain – but he’s been pushing her away – so there hasn’t been some kind of endless exchange of information going on. He knows she’s alive, as he says, and I guess he can make out something of just how far away she is, but it goes no further than that. Damn you, Picker. You think you and the rest of us Bridgeburners have been singled out for yet another betrayal, just because Paran’s not talking to you? He’s not talking to anyone! And if you had as many holes burned through your guts as he does, you’d be pretty damned tight-lipped yourself! Now, all of you, just cut it! Look to yourselves and if that’s shame you see it’s damned well been earned!’

  Picker fixed her gaze on the captain’s back. The man had not moved. Would not face his company. Could not – not now. Mallet had a way of turning things right over. Paran was a sick man, and sick people don’t think right. Gods, I had torcs biting my arm and I was losing it fast. Oh, ain’t I just stepped in a pile of dung. Swearing someone else’s to blame all the while, too. I guess Pale’s burns are a far way from healing. Damn. Hood’s heel on my rotted soul, please. Down and twist hard.

  * * *

  Paran barely heard the shouted exchanges behind him. He felt assailed by the pressure of Silverfox’s presence, leading to a dark desire to be crushed lifeless beneath it – if such a thing was possible – rather than yield.

  A sword between his shoulder-blades – no god to intervene this time. Or a final, torrential gush of blood into his stomach as its walls finally gave way – a painful option, but none the less as final as any other. Or a leap down into the mob below, to get torn apart, trampled underfoot. Futility whispering of freedom.

  She was close indeed, as if she strode a bridge of bones stretching from her to where he now stood. No, not her. Her power, that was so much more than just Tattersail. Making its relentless desire to break through his defences much deadlier of purpose than a lover’s simple affection; much more, even, than would be born of strategic necessity. Unless Dujek and Brood and their armies are under assault … and they’re not. Gods, I don’t know how I know, but I do. With certainty. This – this isn’t Tattersail at all. It’s Nightchill. Bellurdan. One or both. What do they want?

  He was suddenly rocked by an image, triggering an almost audible snap within his mind. Away. Towards. Dry flagstones within a dark cavern, the deeply carved lines of a card of the Deck, stone-etched, the image seeming to writhe as if alive.

  Obelisk. One of the Unaligned, a leaning monolith … now of green stone. Jade. Towering above wind-whipped waves – no, dunes of sand. Figures, in the monolith’s shadow. Three, three in all. Ragged, broken, dying.

  Then, beyond the strange scene, the sky tore.

  And the furred hoof of a god stepped onto mortal ground.

  Terror.

  Savagely pulled into the world – oh, you didn’t choose that, did you? Someone pulled you down, and now …

  Fener was as good as dead. A god trapped in the mortal realm was like a babe on an altar. All that was required was a knife and a wilful hand.

  As good as dead.

  Bleak knowledge flowered like deadly nightshade in his mind. But he wanted none of it. Choices were being demanded of him, by forces ancient beyond imagining. The Deck of Dragons … Elder Gods were playing it … and now sought to play him.

  And this is to be the role of the Master of the Deck, if that is what I’ve become? A possessor of fatal knowledge and, now, a Hood-damned mitigator? I see what you’re telling me to do. One god falls, push another into its place? Mortals sworn to one, swear them now to another? Abyss below, are we to be shoved – flicked – around like pebbles on a board?

  Rage and indignation fanned white hot in Paran’s mind. Obliterating his pain. He felt himself mentally wheel round, to face that incessant, alien presence that had so hounded him. Felt himself open like an explosion.

  All right, you wanted my attention. You’ve got it. Listen, and listen well, Nightchill – whoever – whatever you really are. Maybe there have been Masters of the Deck before, long ago, whom you could pluck and pull to do your bidding. Hood knows, maybe you’re the one – you and your Elder friends – who selected me this time round. But if so, oh, you’ve made a mistake. A bad one.

  I’ve been a god’s puppet once before. But I cut those strings, and if you want details, then go ask Oponn. I walked into a cursed sword to do it, and I swear, I’ll do it again – with far less mercy in my heart – if I get so much as a whiff of manipulation from you.

  He sensed cold amusement in reply, and the bestial blood within Paran responded. Raised hackles. Teeth bared. A deep, deadly growl.

  Sudden alarm.

  Aye, the truth of it. I won’t be collared, Nightchill. And I tell you this, now, and you ‘d do well to take heed of these words. I’m taking a step forward. Between you and every mortal like me. I don’t know what that man Gruntle had to lose, to arrive where you wanted him, but I sense the wounds in him – Abyss take you, is pain your only means of making us achieve what you want? It seems so. Know this, then: until you can find another means, until you can show me another way – something other than pain and grief – I’ll fight you.

  We have our lives. All of us, and they’re not for you to play with. Not Picker’s life, not Gruntle’s or Stonny’s.

  You’ve opened this path, Nightchill. Connecting us. Fine. Good. Gi
ve me cause, and I’ll come down it. Riding the blood of a Hound of Shadow – do you know, I think, if I wanted to, I could call the others with it. All of them.

  Because I understand something, now. Come to a realization, and one I know to be truth. In the sword Dragnipur … two Hounds of Shadow returned to the Warren of Darkness. Returned, Nightchill Do you grasp my meaning? They were going home.

  And I can call them back, without doubt. Two souls of untamed Dark. Grateful souls, beloved spawn of destruction—

  A reply came, then, a woman’s voice unknown to Paran. ‘You have no idea what you threaten, mortal. My brother’s sword hides far more secrets than you can contemplate.’

  He smiled. Worse than that, Nightchill. The hand now wielding Dragnipur belongs to Darkness. Anomander Rake, the son of the mother. The pathway has never been so straight, so direct or so short, has it? Should I tell him what has happened within his own weapon—

  ‘Should Rake learn that you found a way into Dragnipur and that you freed the two Hounds he had slain … he would kill you, mortal.’

  He might. He’s already had a few chances to do so, and just reasons besides. Yet he stayed his hand. I don’t think you understand the Lord of Moon’s Spawn as well as you think you do. There is nothing predictable in Anomander Rake – perhaps that is what frightens you so.

  ‘Pursue not this course.’

  I will do whatever I have to, Nightchill, to cut your strings. In your eyes, we mortals are weak. And you use our weakness to justify manipulating us.

  ‘The struggle we face is far vaster – far deadlier – than you realize.’

  Explain it. All of it. Show me this vast threat of yours.

  ‘To save your sanity, we must not, Ganoes Paran.’