I must atone. I must give answer. To every death. Every death.
He was lost within the storm, his embrace incapable of closing around the sheer immensity of anguish assailing him. Yet he struggled on. The gift of peace. The stripping away of pain’s trauma, to free the souls to find their way … to the feet of countless gods, or Hood’s own realm, or, indeed, to the Abyss itself. Necessary journeys, to free souls trapped in their own tortured deaths.
I am the … the Shield Anvil. This is for me … to hold … hold on. Reach – gods! Redeem them, sir! It is your task. The heart of your vows – you are the walker among the dead in the field of battle, you are the bringer of peace, the redeemer of the fallen. You are the mender of broken lives. Without you, death is senseless, and the denial of meaning is the world’s greatest crime to its own children. Hold, Itkovian … hold fast—
But he had no god against which to set his back, no solid, intractable presence awaiting him to answer his own need. And he was but one mortal soul …
Yet, I must not surrender. Gods, hear me! I may not be yours. But your fallen children, they are mine. Witness, then, what lies behind my cold face. Witness!
In the plaza, amidst a dreadful silence, Paran and the others watched as Itkovian slowly settled to his knees. A rotting, lifeless corpse was slumped in his arms. The lone, kneeling figure seemed – to the captain’s eyes – to encompass the exhaustion of the world, an image that burned into his mind, and one that he knew would never leave him.
Of the struggles – the wars – still being waged within the Shield Anvil, little showed. After a long moment, Itkovian reached up with one hand and unstrapped his helm, lifting it clear to reveal the sweat-stained leather under-helm. The long, dripping hair plastered against his brow and neck shrouded his face as he knelt with head bowed, the corpse in his arms crumbling to pale ash. The Shield Anvil was motionless.
The uneven rise and fall of his frame slowed.
Stuttered.
Then ceased.
Captain Paran, his heart hammering loud in his chest, darted close, grasped Itkovian’s shoulders and shook the man. ‘No, damn you! This isn’t what I’ve come here to see! Wake up, you bastard!’
—peace – I have you now? My gift – ah, this burden—
The Shield Anvil’s head jerked back. Drew a sobbing breath.
Settling … such weight! Why? Gods – you all watched. You witnessed with your immortal eyes. Yet you did not step forward. You denied my cry for help. Why?
Crouching, the Malazan moved round to face Itkovian. ‘Mallet!’ he shouted over a shoulder.
As the healer ran forward, Itkovian, his eyes finding Paran, slowly raised a hand. Swallowing his dismay, he managed to find words. ‘I know not how,’ he rasped, ‘but you have returned me…’
Paran’s grin was forced. ‘You are the Shield Anvil.’
‘Aye,’ Itkovian whispered. And Fener forgive me, what you have done is no mercy … ‘I am the Shield Anvil.’
‘I can feel it in the air,’ Paran said, eyes searching Itkovian’s. ‘It’s … it’s been cleansed.’
Aye.
And I am not yet done.
* * *
Gruntle stood watching as the Malazan and his healer spoke with the Grey Sword commander. The fog of his thoughts – which had been closed around him for what he now realized was days – had begun to thin. Details now assailed him, and the evidence of the changes within himself left him alarmed.
His eyes saw … differently. Unhuman acuity. Motion – no matter how slight or peripheral – caught his attention, filled his awareness. Judged inconsequential or defined as threat, prey or unknown: instinctive decisions yet no longer buried deep, now lurking just beneath the surface of his mind.
He could feel his every muscle, every tendon and bone, could concentrate on each one to the exclusion of all the others, achieving a spatial sensitivity that made control absolute. He could walk a forest floor in absolute silence, if he so wished. He could freeze, shielding even the breath he drew, and become perfectly motionless.
But the changes he felt were far more profound than these physical manifestations. The violence residing within him was that of a killer. Cold and implacable, devoid of compassion or ambiguity.
And this realization terrified him.
The Tiger of Summer’s Mortal Sword. Yes, Trake, I feel you. I know what you have made of me. Dammit, you could’ve at least asked.
He looked upon his followers, knowing them to be precisely that Followers, his very own Sworn. An appalling truth. Among them, Stonny Menackis – no, she isn’t Trake’s. She’s chosen Keruli’s Elder God. Good. If she was ever to kneel before me we wouldn’t be thinking religious thoughts … and how likely is that? Ah, lass …
Sensing his gaze, she looked at him.
Gruntle winked.
Her brows rose, and he understood her alarm, making him even more amused – his only answer to his terror at the brutal murderer hiding within him.
She hesitated, then approached. ‘Gruntle?’
‘Aye. I feel like I’ve just woken up.’
‘Yeah, well, the hangover shows, believe me.’
‘What’s been going on?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I think I do, but I’m not entirely sure … of myself, of my own memories. We defended our tenement, and it was uglier than what’s between Hood’s toes. You were wounded. Dying. That Malazan soldier there healed you. And there’s Itkovian – the priest in his arms has just turned to dust – gods, he must’ve needed a bath—’
‘Beru fend us all, it really is you, Gruntle. I’d thought you were lost to m—to us for good.’
‘I think a part of me is, lass. Lost to us all.’
‘Since when were you the worshipping type?’
‘That’s the joke on Trake. I’m not. He’s made a terrible choice. Show me an altar and I’m more likely to piss on it than kiss it.’
‘You might have to kiss it, so I’d suggest you reverse the gestures.’
‘Ha ha.’ He shook himself, rolling his shoulders, and sighed.
Stonny recoiled slightly at the motion. ‘Uh, that was too cat-like for me – your muscles rippled under that barbed skin.’
‘And it felt damned good. Rippled? You should be considering new … possibilities, lass.’
‘Keep dreaming, oaf.’
The banter was brittle, and they both sensed it.
Stonny was silent for a moment, then the breath hissed between her teeth. ‘Buke. I guess he’s gone—’
‘No, he’s alive. Circling overhead right now, in fact. That sparrowhawk – Keruli’s gift to help the man keep an eye on Korbal Broach. He’s Soletaken, now.’
Stonny was glaring skyward, hands on her hips. ‘Well, that’s just great!’ She swung a venomous look upon Keruli – who was standing well off to one side, hands within sleeves, unnoticed, watching all in silence. ‘Everybody gets blessed but me! Where’s the justice in that?’
‘Well, you’re already blessed with incomparable beauty, Stonny—’
‘Another word and I’ll cut your tail off, I swear it.’
‘I haven’t got a tail.’
‘Precisely.’ She faced him. ‘Now listen, we’ve got something to work out. Something tells me that for both of us, heading back to Darujhistan isn’t likely – at least not for the next while, anyway. So, now what? Are we about to part ways, you miserable old man?’
‘No rush on all that, lass. Let’s see how things settle—’
‘Excuse me.’
Both turned at the voice, to find that Rath’Trake had joined them.
Gruntle scowled at the masked priest. ‘What?’
‘I believe we have matters to discuss, you and I, Mortal Sword.’
‘You believe what you like,’ the Daru replied. ‘I’ve already made it plain to the Whiskered One that I’m a bad choice—’
Rath’Trake seemed to choke. ‘The Whiskered One?’ he sputtered in indignation.
Stonny laughed, and clouted the priest on the shoulder. ‘He’s a reverent bastard, ain’t he just?’
‘I don’t kneel to anyone,’ Gruntle growled. ‘And that includes gods. And if scrubbing would do it, I’d get these stripes off my hide right now.’
The priest rubbed his bruised shoulder, the eyes within the feline mask glaring at Stonny. At Gruntle’s words he faced the Daru again. ‘These are not matters open to debate, Mortal Sword. You are what you are—’
‘I’m a caravan guard captain, and damned good at it. When I’m sober, that is.’
‘You are the master of war in the name of the Lord of Summer—’
‘We’ll call that a hobby.’
‘A – a what!?’
They heard laughter. Captain Paran, still crouching beside Itkovian, was looking their way, and had clearly heard the conversation. The Malazan grinned at Rath’Trake. ‘It never goes how you think it should, does it, priest? That’s the glory of us humans, and your new god had best make peace with that, and soon. Gruntle, keep playing by your own rules.’
‘I hadn’t planned otherwise, Captain,’ Gruntle replied. ‘How fares the Shield Anvil?’
Itkovian glanced over. ‘I am well, sir.’
‘Now that’s a lie,’ Stonny said.
‘None the less,’ the Shield Anvil said, accepting Mallet’s shoulder as he slowly straightened.
Gruntle looked down at the two white cutlasses in his hands. ‘Hood take me,’ he muttered, ‘but these have turned damned ugly.’ He forced the blades into their scarred, tattered sheaths.
‘They are not to leave your hands until this war is done,’ Rath’Trake snapped.
‘Another word from you, priest,’ Gruntle said, ‘and you’ll be done.’
* * *
No-one else had ventured onto the plaza. Corporal Picker stood with the other Bridgeburners at the alley mouth, trying to determine what was going on. Conversations surrounded her, as the soldiers conjectured in time-honoured fashion, guessing at the meaning of the gestures and muted exchanges they witnessed among the dignitaries.
Picker glared about. ‘Blend, where are you?’
‘Here,’ she replied at the corporal’s shoulder.
‘Why don’t you sidle out there and find out what’s happening?’
She shrugged. ‘I’d get noticed.’
‘Really?’
‘Besides, I don’t need to. It’s plain to me what’s happened.’
‘Really?’
Blend made a wry face. ‘You lose your brain when you gave up those torcs, Corporal? Never seen you so consistently wide-eyed before.’
‘Really,’ Picker repeated, this time in a dangerous drawl. ‘Keep it up and you’ll regret it, soldier.’
‘An explanation? All right. Here’s what I think I’ve been seeing. The Grey Swords had some personal business to clear up, which they’ve done, only it damn near ripped that commander to pieces. But Mallet, drawing on Hood-knows whose powers, has lent some strength – though I think it was the captain’s hand that brought the man back from the dead – and no, I never knew Paran had it in him, and if we’ve been thinking lately that he was more than just a willow-spined noble-born officer, we’ve just seen proof of our suspicions. But I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing for us – he won’t stick a sword in our backs, Corporal. He might step in front of one heading our way, in fact. As for Gruntle, well, I think he’s just shaken himself awake – and that masked priest of Trake’s ain’t happy about it – but no-one else gives a damn, because sometimes a smile is precisely what we all need.’
Picker’s reply was a grunt.
‘And finally, after watching all that,’ Blend continued, ‘it’s time for Humbrall Taur and his Barghast…’
Humbrall Taur had raised his axe high, and had begun walking towards the Thrall’s gate. Warchiefs and shouldermen and women emerged from the gathered tribes, crossing the plaza in the giant warrior’s wake.
Trotts pushed his way through the knot of Bridgeburners and joined them.
Staring at his back, Picker snorted.
‘He goes to meet his gods,’ Blend murmured. ‘Give him that, Corporal.’
‘Let’s hope he stays with them,’ she replied. ‘Hood knows, he don’t know how to command—’
‘But Captain Paran does,’ Blend said.
She glanced at her companion, then shrugged. ‘I suppose he does at that.’
‘Might be worth cornering Antsy,’ Blend continued in a low tone, ‘and anyone else who’s been talking through their cracks of late…’
‘Cornering, aye. Then beating them senseless. Sound plan, Blend. Find us Detoran. Seems we got personal business, too, to clear up.’
‘Well. Guess your brain’s working after all.’
Picker’s only reply was another grunt.
Blend slipped back into the crowd.
Personal business. I like the sound of that. We’ll straighten ’em up for ya, Captain. Hood knows, it’s the least I can do …
* * *
Circling high overhead, the sparrowhawk’s sharp eyes missed nothing. The day was drawing to a close, shadows lengthening. Banks of dust on the plain to the west revealed the retreating Pannions – still being driven ever westward by elements of Humbrall Taur’s Barahn clan.
In the city itself, still more thousands of Barghast moved through the streets. Clearing away dead, whilst tribes worked to excavate vast pits beyond the north wall, which had begun filling as commandeered wagons began filing out from Capustan. The long, soul-numbing task of cleansing the city had begun.
Directly below, the plaza’s expanse was now threaded with figures, Barghast moving in procession from streets and alley mouths, following Humbrall Taur as the warchief approached the Thrall’s gate. The sparrowhawk that had once been Buke heard no sound but the wind, lending the scene below a solemn, ethereal quality.
None the less, the raptor drew no closer. Distance was all that kept it sane, was all that had been keeping it sane since the dawn.
From here, far above Capustan, vast dramas of death and desperation were diminished, almost into abstraction. Tides of motion, the blurring of colours, the sheer muddiness of humanity – all diminished, the futility reduced to something strangely manageable.
Burned-out buildings. The tragic end of innocents. Wives, mothers, children. Desperation, horror and grief, the storms of destroyed lives—
No closer.
Wives, mothers, children. Burned-out buildings.
No closer.
Ever again.
The sparrowhawk caught an updraught, swept skyward, eyes now on the livening stars as night swallowed the world below.
There was pain in the gifts of the Elder Gods.
But sometimes, there was mercy.
Chapter Eighteen
The birth of Barghast gods rang like a hammer on the anvil of the pantheon. Primordial in their aspect, these ascended spirits emerged from the Hold of the Beast, that most ancient of realms from the long-lost Elder Deck. Possessors of secrets and mysteries born in the bestial shadow of humanity, theirs was a power wreathed in antiquity.
Indeed, the other gods must have felt the tremor of their rising, rearing their heads in alarm and consternation. One of their own, after all, had just been abandoned in the mortal realm, whilst a First Hero assumed the warrior mantle in his place. More, the Fallen One had returned to the game in dire malice, corrupting the warrens to announce his deadly desire for vengeance and, it must be said in clear-eyed retrospect, domination.
Burn’s sleep was fevered. Human civilization floundered in countless lands, drowning in the mire of spilled blood. These were dark times, and it was a darkness that seemed made for the dawn of the Barghast gods …
IN THE WAKE OF DREAMS
IMRYGYN TALLOBANT THE YOUNGER
The wizard’s eyes opened.
To see, squatting atop a backpack directly in front of him, a small figure of wrapped sticks and knotted twine, its head an acorn, th
at now cocked slightly to one side.
‘Awake. Yes. A mind once more sound.’
Quick Ben grimaced. ‘Talamandas. For a moment there, I thought I was reliving a particularly unpleasant nightmare.’
‘By your ravings these past few days and nights, Ben Adaephon Delat, you’ve lived through more than a few unpleasant nightmares, yes?’
Light rain was pattering on the tent’s sloped walls. The wizard pushed the furs from his body and slowly sat up. He found he was wearing little more than his thin wool undergarments: leather armour and quilted tunic had been removed. He was sweat-chilled, the grubby, coarse wool damp. ‘Ravings?’
The sticksnare’s laugh was soft. ‘Oh yes. And I listened, I listened indeed. So, you know the cause of the illness besetting the Sleeping Goddess. You would set yourself in the Crippled God’s path, match his wits if not his power, and defeat all he seeks. Mortal, yours is a surpassing conceit … which I cannot but applaud.’
Quick Ben sighed, scanning the tumbled contents of the tent. ‘Mockingly, no doubt. Where are the rest of my clothes?’
‘I do not mock you, Wizard. Indeed, I am humbled by the depth of your … integrity. To find such, in a common soldier, one serving a malevolent, spiteful Empress who sits on a blood-stained throne, ruling an empire of murderers—’
‘Now hold on, you misbegotten puppet—’
Talamandas laughed. ‘Oh, but it has always been so, has it not? Within the rotting corpse hide diamonds! Pure of heart and stalwart with honour, yet besieged within their own house by the foulest of masters. And when the historians are done, the ink drying, may the house shine and sparkle even as it burns!’
‘You’ve lost me, runt,’ Quick Ben muttered. ‘How long have I been … out?’
‘Long enough. With the city retaken, the Thrall yielding the bones of our Founders, and the Pannions driven into the maw of Brood and your Malazan kin, well, you have missed most of the fun. For the moment, in any case. The tale’s far from done, after all.’
The wizard found his quilted tunic. ‘All of that,’ he muttered as he pulled the heavy garment on, ‘would have been nice to witness, but given my present lack of efficacy—’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 224