The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  That regard was failing Itkovian now. He was recoiling like a caged animal cruelly prodded on all sides. Escape was denied to him, yet that denial was self-imposed, a thing born of his conscious will, given shape by the words of his vow. He must assume this burden, no matter the cost. The fires of vengeance had undergone a transformation within him. He would be, at the last, the redemption – for the souls of the fallen in this city.

  Redemption. For everyone else, but not for himself. For that, he could only look to his god. But, dear Fener, what has happened? Where are you? I kneel in place, awaiting your touch, yet you are nowhere to be found. Your realm … it feels … empty.

  Where, now, can I go?

  Aye, I am not yet done. I accept this. And when I am? Who awaits me? Who shall embrace me? A shiver ran through him.

  Who shall embrace me?

  The Shield Anvil pushed the question away, struggled to renew his resolve. He had, after all, no choice. He would be Fener’s grief. And his Lord’s hand of justice. Not welcome responsibilities, and he sensed the toll they were about to exact.

  They neared the plaza before the Thrall. Other Barghast were visible, joining in the convergence. The distant sounds of battle in Jelarkan Concourse, which had accompanied them through most of the afternoon, now fell silent. The enemy had been driven from the city.

  Itkovian did not think the Barghast would pursue. They had achieved what they had come here to do. The Pannion threat to the bones of their gods had been removed.

  Probably, if Septarch Kulpath still lived, he would reform his tattered forces, reassert discipline and prepare for his next move. Either a counterattack, or a westward withdrawal. There were risks to both. He might have insufficient force to retake the city. And his army, having lost possession of their camps and supply routes, would soon suffer from lack of supplies. It was not an enviable position. Capustan, a small, inconsequential city on the east coast of Central Genabackis, had become a many-sided curse. And the lives lost here signified but the beginning of the war to come.

  They emerged onto the plaza.

  The place where Brukhalian had fallen lay directly ahead, but all the bodies had been removed – taken, no doubt, by the retreating Pannions. Flesh for yet another royal feast. It doesn’t matter. Hood came for him. In person. Was that a sign of honour, or petty gloating on the god’s part?

  The Shield Anvil’s gaze held on that stained stretch of flagstones for a moment longer, then swung to the Thrall’s main gate.

  The glow was gone. In the shadows beneath the gate’s arch, figures had appeared.

  Every approach to the plaza had filled with Barghast, but they ventured no further.

  Itkovian turned back to his company. His eyes found his captain – who had been the master-sergeant in charge of training the recruits – then Velbara. He studied their tattered, stained armour, their lined, drawn faces. ‘The three of us, sirs, to the centre of the plaza.’

  The two women nodded.

  The three strode onto the concourse. Thousands of eyes fixed on them, followed by a rumbling murmur, then a rhythmic, muted clashing of blade on blade.

  Another party emerged, from the right. Soldiers, wearing uniforms Itkovian did not recognize, and, in their company, figures displaying barbed, feline tattooing. Leading the latter group, a man Itkovian had seen before. The Shield Anvil’s steps slowed.

  Gruntle. The name was a hammerblow to his chest. Brutal certainty forced his next thoughts. The Mortal Sword of Trake, Tiger of Summer. The First Hero is ascended.

  We … we are replaced.

  Steeling himself, Itkovian resumed his pace, then halted in the centre of the expanse.

  A single soldier in the foreign uniform had moved up alongside Gruntle. He closed a hand around the big Daru’s striped arm and barked something back to the others, who all stopped, while the man and Gruntle continued on, directly towards Itkovian.

  A commotion from the Thrall’s gate caught their attention. Priests and priestesses of the Mask Council were emerging, holding a struggling comrade among them as they hastened forward. In the lead, Rath’Trake. A step behind, the Daru merchant, Keruli.

  The soldier and Gruntle reached Itkovian first.

  Beneath the Daru’s helm, Gruntle’s tiger eyes studied the Shield Anvil. ‘Itkovian of the Grey Swords,’ he rumbled, ‘it is done.’

  Itkovian had no need to ask for elaboration. The truth was a knife in his heart.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ the foreign soldier snapped. ‘I greet you, Shield Anvil. I am Captain Paran, of the Bridgeburners. Onearm’s Host.’

  ‘He is more than that,’ Gruntle muttered. ‘What he claims now—’

  ‘Is nothing I do willingly,’ Paran finished. ‘Shield Anvil. Fener has been torn from his realm. He strides a distant land. You – your company – you have lost your god.’

  And so it is known to all. ‘We are aware of this, sir.’

  ‘Gruntle says that your place, your role, is done. The Grey Swords must step aside, for a new god of war has gained preeminence. But that doesn’t have to be. A path for you has been prepared…’ Paran’s gaze went past Itkovian. He raised his voice. ‘Welcome, Humbrall Taur. Your children no doubt await within the Thrall.’

  The Shield Anvil glanced back over his shoulder to see, standing ten paces behind him, a huge Barghast warchief in coin-threaded armour.

  ‘They can wait a while longer,’ Humbrall Taur growled. ‘I would witness this.’

  Paran grimaced. ‘Nosy bastard—’

  ‘Aye.’

  The Malazan returned his attention to Itkovian and made to speak, but the Shield Anvil interrupted him: ‘A moment, sir.’ He stepped past the two men.

  Rath’Fener jerked and twisted in the grip of his fellow priests. His mask was awry, wisps of grey hair pulled free of the leather strapping. ‘Shield Anvil!’ he cried upon seeing Itkovian’s approach. ‘In the name of Fener—’

  ‘In his name, aye, sir,’ Itkovian cut in. ‘To my side, Captain Norul. The Reve’s law is invoked.’

  ‘Sir,’ the grizzled woman replied, stepping forward.

  ‘You can’t!’ Rath’Fener screamed. ‘For this, only the Mortal Sword can invoke the Reve!’

  Itkovian stood motionless.

  The priest managed to pull one arm forward to jab a finger at the Shield Anvil. ‘My rank is as Destriant! Unless you’ve one to make claim to that title?’

  ‘Destriant Karnadas is dead.’

  ‘That man was no Destriant, Shield Anvil! An Aspirant, perhaps, but my rank was and remains pre-eminent. Thus, only a Mortal Sword can invoke the Reve against me, and this you know.’

  Gruntle snorted. ‘Itkovian, Paran here told me there was a betrayal. Your priest sold Brukhalian’s life to the Pannions. Not only disgusting, but ill-advised. So.’ He paused. ‘Will any Mortal Sword do? If so, I invoke the Reve.’ He bared his teeth at Rath’Fener. ‘Punish the bastard.’

  We are replaced. The Lord of Battle is transformed indeed.

  ‘He cannot!’ Rath’Fener shrieked.

  ‘A bold claim,’ Itkovian said to the masked priest. ‘In order to deny this man’s right to the title, sir, you must call upon our god. In your defence. Do so, sir, and you shall walk from here a free man.’

  The eyes within the mask went wide. ‘You know that is impossible, Itkovian!’

  ‘Then your defence is over, sir. The Reve is invoked. I am become Fener’s hand of justice.’

  Rath’Trake, who had been standing nearby in watchful silence, now spoke, ‘There is no need for any of this, Shield Anvil. Your god’s absence changes … everything. Surely, you understand the implications of the traditional form of punishment. A simple execution – not the Reve’s law—’

  ‘Is denied this man,’ Itkovian said. ‘Captain Norul.’

  She strode to Rath’Fener, reached out and plucked him from the hold of the priests and priestesses. He seemed like a rag doll in her large, scarred hands as she swung him round and threw him belly down on th
e flagstones. She then straddled him, stretching his arms out forward yet side by side. The man shrieked with sudden comprehension.

  Itkovian drew his sword. Smoke drifted from the blade. ‘The Reve,’ he said, standing over Rath’Fener’s outstretched arms. ‘Betrayal, to trade Brukhalian’s life for your own. Betrayal, the foulest crime to the Reve’s law, to Fener himself. Punishment is invoked, in accordance with the Boar of Summer’s judgement.’ He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Pray, sir, that Fener finds what we send to him.’

  ‘But he won’t!’ Rath’Trake cried. ‘Don’t you understand? His realm – your god no longer waits within it!’

  ‘He knows,’ Paran said. ‘This is what happens when it gets personal, and believe me, I’d rather have had no part in this.’

  Rath’Trake swung to the captain. ‘And who are you, soldier?’

  ‘Today. Right now. I am the Master of the Deck, priest. And it seems I am here to negotiate … on you and your god’s behalf. Alas,’ he added wryly, ‘the Shield Anvil is proving admirably … recalcitrant…’

  Itkovian barely heard the exchange. Eyes holding on the priest pinned to the ground before him, he said, ‘Our Lord is … gone. Indeed. So … best pray, Rath’Fener, that a creature of mercy now looks kindly upon you.’

  Rath’Trake whirled back to the Shield Anvil at those words, ‘By the Abyss, Itkovian – there is no crime so foul to match what you’re about to do! His soul will be torn apart! Where they will go, there are no creatures of mercy! Itkovian—’

  ‘Silence, sir. This judgement is mine, and the Reve’s.’

  The victim shrieked.

  And Itkovian swung down the sword. Blade’s edge cracked onto the flagstones. Twin gouts of blood shot out from the stumps of Rath’Fener’s wrists. The hands … were nowhere to be seen.

  Itkovian jammed the flat of his blade against the stumps. Flesh sizzled. Rath’Fener’s screams ceased abruptly as unconsciousness took him. Captain Norul moved away from the man, left him lying on the flagstones.

  Paran began speaking. ‘Shield Anvil, hear me. Please. Fener is gone – he strides the mortal realm. Thus, he cannot bless you. With what you take upon yourself … there is nowhere for it to go, no way to ease the burden.’

  ‘I am equally aware of what you say, sir.’ Itkovian still stared down at Rath’Fener, who was stirring to consciousness once more. ‘Such knowledge is worthless.’

  ‘There’s another way, Shield Anvil.’

  He turned at that, eyes narrowing.

  Paran went on, ‘A choice has been … fashioned. In this I am but a messenger—’

  Rath’Trake stepped up to Itkovian. ‘We shall welcome you, sir. You and your followers. The Tiger of Summer has need for you, a Shield Anvil, and so offers his embrace—’

  ‘No.’

  The eyes within the mask narrowed.

  ‘Itkovian,’ Paran said, ‘this was foreseen … the path prepared for … by Elder powers, once more awake and active in this world. I am here to tell you what they would have you do—’

  ‘No. I am sworn to Fener. If need be, I shall share his fate.’

  ‘This is an offer of salvation – not a betrayal!’ Rath’Trake cried.

  ‘Isn’t it? No more words, sirs.’ On the ground below, Rath’Fener had regained awareness. Itkovian studied the man. ‘I am not yet done,’ he whispered.

  Rath’Fener’s body jerked, a throat-tearing scream erupting from him, his arms snapping as if yanked by invisible, unhuman hands. Dark tattoos appeared on the man’s skin, but not those belonging to Fener – for the god had not been the one to claim Rath’Fener’s severed hands. Writhing, alien script swarmed his flesh as the unknown claimant made its mark, claimed possession of the man’s mortal soul. Words that darkened like burns.

  Blisters rose, then broke, spurting thick, yellow liquid.

  Screams of unbearable, unimaginable pain filled the plaza, the body on the flagstones spasming as muscle and fat dissolved beneath the skin, then boiled, breaking through.

  Yet the man did not die.

  Itkovian sheathed his sword.

  The Malazan was the first to comprehend. His hand snapped forward, closed on the Shield Anvil’s arm. ‘By the Abyss, do not—’

  ‘Captain Norul.’

  Face white beneath the rim of her helm, the woman settled a hand on the grip of her sword. ‘Captain Paran,’ she said in a taut, brittle voice, ‘withdraw your touch.’

  He swung on her. ‘Aye, even you recoil at what he plans—’

  ‘Nevertheless, sir. Release him or I will kill you.’

  The Malazan’s eyes glittered strangely at that threat, but Itkovian could spare no thought for the young captain. He had a responsibility. Rath’Fener had been punished enough. His pain must end.

  And who shall save me?

  Paran relinquished his grip.

  Itkovian bent down to the writhing, barely recognizable shape on the flagstones. ‘Rath’Fener, hear me. Yes, I come. Will you accept my embrace?’

  For all the envy and malice within the tortured priest, all that led to the betrayal, not just of Brukhalian – the Mortal Sword – but of Fener himself, some small measure of mercy remained in the man’s soul. Mercy, and comprehension. His body jerked away, limbs skidding as he sought to crawl from Itkovian’s shadow.

  The Shield Anvil nodded, then gathered the suppurating figure into his arms and rose.

  I see you recoil, and know it for your final gesture. One that is atonement. To this, I cannot but answer in kind, Rath’Fener. Thus. I assume your pain, sir. No, do not fight this gift. I free your soul to Hood, to death’s solace—

  Paran and the others saw naught but the Shield Anvil standing motionless, Rath’Fener in his arms. The rendered, blood-streaked priest continued to struggle for a moment longer, then he seemed to collapse inward, his screams falling into silence.

  The man’s life unfolded in Itkovian’s mind. Before him, the priest’s path to betrayal. He saw a young acolyte, pure of heart, cruelly schooled not in piety and faith, but in the cynical lessons of secular power struggles. Rule and administration was a viper’s nest, a ceaseless contest among small and petty minds with illusory rewards. A life within the cold halls of the Thrall that had hollowed out the priest’s soul. The self filled the new cavern of lost faith, beset by fears and jealousies, to which malevolent acts were the only answer. The need for preservation made every virtue a commodity, to be traded away.

  Itkovian understood him, could see each step taken that led, inevitably, to the betrayal, the trading of lives as agreed between the priest and the agents of the Pannion Domin. And within that, Rath’Fener’s knowledge that he had in so doing wrapped a viper about himself whose kiss was deadly. He was dead either way, but he had gone too far from his faith, too far to ever imagine he might one day return to it.

  I comprehend you, now, Rath’Fener, but comprehension is not synonymous with absolution. The justice that is your punishment does not waver. Thus, you were made to know pain.

  Aye, Fener should have been awaiting you; our god should have accepted your severed hands, so that he might look upon you following your death, that he might voice the words prepared for you and you alone – the words on your skin. The final atonement to your crimes. This is as it should have been, sir.

  But Fener is gone.

  And what holds you now has … other desires.

  I now deny it the possession of you—

  Rath’Fener’s soul shrieked, seeking to pull away once more. Carving words through the tumult: Itkovian! You must not! Leave me with this, I beg you. Not for your soul – I never meant – please, Itkovian—

  The Shield Anvil tightened his spiritual embrace, breaking the last barriers. No-one is to be denied their grief, sir, not even you.

  But barriers, once lowered, could not choose what would pass through.

  The storm that hit Itkovian overwhelmed him. Pain so intense as to become an abstract force, a living entity that was itself a thing
filled with panic and terror. He opened himself to it, let its screams fill him.

  On a field of battle, after the last heart has stilled, pain remains. Locked in soil, in stone, bridging the air from each place to every other, a web of memory, trembling to a silent song. But for Itkovian, his vow denied the gift of silence. He could hear that song. It filled him entire. And he was its counterpoint. Its answer.

  I have you now, Rath’Fener. You are found, and so I … answer.

  Suddenly, beyond the pain, a mutual awareness – an alien presence. Immense power. Not malign, yet profoundly … different From that presence: storm-tossed confusion, anguish. Seeking to make of the unexpected gift of a mortal’s two hands … something of beauty. Yet that man’s flesh could not contain that gift.

  Horror within the storm. Horror … and grief.

  Ah, even gods weep. Commend yourself, then, to my spirit. I will have your pain as well, sir.

  The alien presence recoiled, but it was too late. Itkovian’s embrace offered its immeasurable gift—

  —and was engulfed. He felt his soul dissolving, tearing apart – too vast!

  There was, beneath the cold faces of gods, warmth. Yet it was sorrow in darkness, for it was not the gods themselves who were unfathomable. It was mortals. As for the gods – they simply paid.

  We – we are the rack upon which they are stretched.

  Then the sensation was gone, fleeing him as the alien god succeeded in extracting itself, leaving Itkovian with but fading echoes of a distant world’s grief – a world with its own atrocities, layer upon layer through a long, tortured history. Fading … then gone.

  Leaving him with heart-rending knowledge.

  A small mercy. He was buckling beneath Rath’Fener’s pain and the growing onslaught of Capustan’s appalling death as his embrace was forced ever wider. The clamouring souls on all sides, not one life’s history unworthy of notice, of acknowledgement Not one he would turn away. Souls in the tens of thousands, lifetimes of pain, loss, love and sorrow, each leading to – each riding memories of its own agonized death. Iron and fire and smoke and falling stone. Dust and airlessness. Memories of piteous, pointless ends to thousands and thousands of lives.