The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Itkovian saw the suddenly closed expression of the warlord, Caladan Brood, and wondered at the hammer’s responsibilities that Keruli had so blithely mentioned.

  The standing, grey-haired warrior broke the ensuing silence with a barking laugh. ‘You conveniently forgot yourself, Priest. Of the Mask Council, yet unmasked. Indeed, unwelcome in their company, it seems. Your companions make their gods plain, but not you, and why is that?’

  Keruli’s smile was benign, unperturbed. ‘Dear Kallor, how you’ve withered under your curse. Do you still cart that meaningless throne with you? Yes, I had guessed as much—’

  ‘I thought it was you,’ Kallor hissed. ‘Such a paltry disguise—’

  ‘Issues of physical manifestation have proved problematic.’

  ‘You’ve lost your power.’

  ‘Not entirely. It has … evolved, and so I am forced to adjust, and learn.’

  The warrior reached for his sword. ‘In other words, I could kill you now—’

  ‘I am afraid not,’ Keruli sighed. ‘Only in your dreams, perhaps. But then, you no longer dream, do you, Kallor? The Abyss takes you into its embrace each night. Oblivion, your own personal nightmare.’

  Without turning, Brood rumbled, ‘Remove your hand from your weapon, Kallor. My patience with you has stretched to its limit.’

  ‘This is no priest sitting before you, Warlord!’ the warrior rasped. ‘It is an Elder God! K’rul himself.’

  ‘I had gathered as much,’ Brood sighed.

  For a half-dozen heartbeats no-one spoke, and Itkovian could almost hear the grating, jarring shift of power. An Elder God was among them. Seated, expression benign, at this table.

  ‘A limited manifestation,’ Keruli said, then, ‘to be more precise.’

  ‘It had better be,’ Gruntle interjected, his feline eyes fixed squarely on him, ‘given Harllo’s fate.’

  Sorrow flitted across the Elder God’s smooth, round features.

  ‘Profoundly so, at the time, I am afraid. I did all that I could, Gruntle. I regret that it proved insufficient.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Well!’ Rath’Shadowthrone snapped. ‘You can hardly sit on the Mask Council, then, can you?’

  The Malazan named Whiskeyjack burst out laughing, the sound startling everyone at the table.

  Stonny twisted in her seat to the High Priest of Shadow. ‘Does your god truly know how small your brain really is? What is the issue? Elder Gods don’t know the secret handshake? His mask is too realistic?’

  ‘He’s immortal, you slut!’

  ‘Kind of guarantees seniority,’ Gruntle commented. ‘Eventually…’

  ‘Do not make light of this, eater of rats!’

  ‘And if you dare throw that word again at Stonny, I will kill you,’ the Daru said. ‘As for making light, it is hard not to. We’re all trying to swallow the implications of all this. An Elder God has stepped into the fray … against what we’d thought to be a mortal empire – by the Abyss, what have we got ourselves into? But you, your first and solitary thought is fixated on membership in your paltry, overinflated council. Shadowthrone must be cringing right now.’

  ‘He’s likely used to it,’ Stonny grated, sneering at the High Priest, ‘when it comes to this bag of slime.’

  Rath’Shadowthrone gaped at her.

  ‘Let’s get back to the task before us,’ Brood said. ‘Your words are accepted, K’rul. The Pannion Domin concerns all of us. As gods and priests, no doubt you can find your own roles in countering whatever threats are manifesting against the pantheon and the warrens – though we both know that the source of those threats is not directly associated with the Pannion Seer. My point is, we are here to discuss the organization of the forces that will now march with us south of the river, into the heart of the Domin. Mundane considerations, but essential none the less.’

  ‘Accepted,’ K’rul replied. ‘Provisionally,’ he added.

  ‘Why provisionally?’

  ‘I anticipate a few masks coming off in these proceedings, Warlord.’

  Humbrall Taur cleared his throat. ‘The course is simple enough,’ he growled. ‘Cafal.’

  His son nodded. ‘A division of forces, lords. One to Setta, the other to Lest. Convergence at Maurik, then onward to Coral. The White Face Barghast shall march with Onearm’s Host, for it was by their efforts that we are here and my father likes this man’s sense of humour’ – he gestured towards Whiskeyjack, whose brows rose – ‘as do our gods. It is further advisable that the Grey Swords, now recruiting from the Tenescowri, be in the other army, for the White Faces will not abide said recruits.’

  The company’s new Shield Anvil spoke. ‘Agreeable, assuming Caladan Brood and his disparate forces can stomach our presence.’

  ‘Can you truly find anything worthwhile in such creatures?’ Brood asked her.

  ‘We are all worthwhile, sir, once we assume the burden of forgiveness and the effort of absolution.’ She looked over then and met Itkovian’s eyes.

  And this is my lesson? he wondered. Then why am I both proud and pained by her words? No, not her words, precisely. Her faith. A faith that, to my sorrow, I have lost. This is envy you feel, sir. Discard it.

  ‘We shall manage, then,’ Caladan Brood said after a moment.

  Dujek Onearm sighed and reached for his cup of wine. ‘So resolved. Easier than you’d imagined, Brood, wouldn’t you say?’

  The warlord bared his teeth in a satisfied, if hard, grin. ‘Aye. We’re all riding the same track. Good.’

  ‘Time to proceed, then,’ Rath’Burn said, eyes on Caladan Brood, ‘to other issues. You are the one who was gifted the hammer, the focus of Burn’s power. To you was entrusted the task of awakening her at the time of her greatest need—’

  The warlord’s grin grew feral. ‘And so destroy every civilization on this world, aye. No doubt you judge her need as sufficiently pressing, High Priestess.’

  ‘And you dare not?’ she snapped, leaning forward with both hands on the table. ‘You have deceived her!’

  ‘No. I have constrained her.’

  His reply left her momentarily speechless.

  ‘There’s a rug-seller’s shop,’ Gruntle said, ‘in Darujhistan. To cross its floor is to scale layer upon layer of woven artistry. Thus are the lessons of mortals laid down before the gods. Pity that they keep stumbling so – you’d think they’d have learned by now.’

  Rath’Burn wheeled on him. ‘Silence! You know nothing of this! If Brood does not act, Burn will die! And when she dies, so too does all life on this world! That is the choice, you fool! Topple a handful of corrupt civilizations or absolute annihilation – what would you choose?’

  ‘Well, since you’re asking—’

  ‘I withdraw the question, for you are clearly as insane as the warlord here. Caladan Brood, you must yield the hammer. To me. Here and now. In the name of Burn, the Sleeping Goddess, I demand it.’

  The warlord rose, unslung the weapon. ‘Here, then.’ He held it out in his right hand.

  Rath’Burn’s eyes blinked, then she shot upright, strode round the table.

  She grasped the hammer’s copper-wrapped handle in both hands.

  Brood released it.

  The weapon plunged earthward. The snaps of the woman’s wrist bones cut through the air. Then she screamed, even as the hill trembled to the impact of the hammer’s massive head. Cups bounced on the table, splashed red wine across its surface. Rath’Burn had fallen to her knees, no longer holding the weapon, her broken arms cradled on her lap.

  ‘Artanthos,’ Dujek said, his eyes on Brood – who looked down on the woman with a dispassionate regard – ‘find us a healer. A good one.’

  The soldier standing behind the High Fist headed off.

  The warlord addressed the High Priestess. ‘The difference between you and your goddess, woman, is faith. A simple thing, after all. You see only two options open to me. Indeed, so did the Sleeping Goddess, at first. She gave to me the weapon, and gave to m
e the freedom to choose. It has taken a long while for me to understand what else she gave to me. I have withheld acting, withheld making that choice, and thought myself a coward. Perhaps I still am, yet a small measure of wisdom has finally lodged itself in my head—’

  ‘Burn’s faith,’ K’rul said. ‘That you would find a third choice.’

  ‘Aye. Her faith.’

  Artanthos reappeared with another Malazan, but Brood held out a hand to halt them. ‘No, I will heal her myself. She was not to know, after all.’

  ‘Too generous,’ K’rul murmured. ‘She abandoned her goddess long ago, Warlord.’

  ‘No journey is too long,’ Brood replied, lowering himself to kneel before Rath’Burn.

  Itkovian had last seen High Denul unveiled by Destriant Karnadas, and that fraught with the infection poisoning the warrens. What he saw now was … clean, unaffected, and appallingly powerful.

  K’rul rose suddenly, looked around.

  Rath’Burn gasped.

  The Elder God’s odd actions drew Itkovian’s attention, and he followed K’rul’s gaze. To see that another group had arrived on the hilltop, standing at a distance to the right of the tarp. Captain Paran was the only one among the four newcomers that Itkovian recognized, and he was not the man at whom the Elder God was looking.

  A dark-skinned, tall and lean man, faintly smiling, was watching the proceedings from the back of the group, focused, it seemed, on Brood. After a moment, some instinct made him glance at K’rul. The man answered the Elder God’s rapt attention with a slight, strangely uneven shrug – as if some invisible weight burdened his left shoulder.

  Itkovian heard K’rul sigh.

  Rath’Burn and Caladan Brood rose together, then. Her bones had been knitted. No swelling or bruising marred her bared forearms. She stood as if in shock, leaning against the warlord.

  ‘What is this?’ Kallor demanded. ‘That warren bore no sign of poison.’

  ‘Indeed,’ K’rul smiled. ‘It seems the illness has been pushed back from this location. Temporary, yet sufficient. Perhaps this is another lesson in the powers of faith … which I shall endeavour to heed…’

  Itkovian’s eyes narrowed. He speaks with two meanings. One, for us. A deeper second meaning, for that man standing over there.

  A moment later the large, heavy-set woman standing beside Captain Paran approached the table.

  Seeing her, Kallor backed off a step.

  ‘Careless,’ she drawled to the warlord, who spun at her words, ‘dropping your hammer like that.’

  ‘Silverfox. We’d wondered if we would see you again.’

  ‘Yet you sent Korlat out to track me, Warlord.’

  ‘Only to ascertain your whereabouts and direction of travel. It appears she got lost, for she has yet to return.’

  ‘A temporary misdirection. My T’lan Ay now surround her and are guiding her back here. Unharmed.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear that. By your words, I assume that the Second Gathering has taken place.’

  ‘It has.’

  Whiskeyjack had seen Captain Paran and was approaching him for a private word. The tall, dark-skinned man moved to join them.

  ‘Tell us, then,’ the warlord continued, ‘has another army joined in the proceedings?’

  ‘My T’lan Imass have tasks before them that will require a journey to the Pannion Domin. To your advantage, should there be more K’Chain Che’Malle K’ell Hunters, for we will deal with them.’

  ‘Presumably, you’ve no intention of elaborating on these tasks that you mentioned.’

  ‘Warlord, they are private matters, and have no bearing on you or your war.’

  ‘Don’t believe her,’ Kallor growled. ‘They want the Seer, for they know what he is – a Jaghut Tyrant.’

  Silverfox faced Kallor. ‘And should you capture the Pannion Seer, what would you do with him? He is insane, his mind twisted by the taint of the Warren of Chaos and the Crippled God’s manipulations. Execution is the only option. Leave that to us, for we exist to kill Jaghut—’

  ‘Not always,’ Dujek interjected.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did not one of your T’lan Imass accompany the Adjunct Lorn when she freed the Jaghut Tyrant south of Darujhistan?’

  Silverfox looked troubled. ‘The Clanless One. Yes. An event I do not as yet understand. None the less, that Tyrant was awakened from a cursed sleep, only to die in truth—’

  A new voice spoke. ‘Actually, while a little worse for wear, Raest was admirably animate the last time I saw him.’

  Silverfox spun. ‘Ganoes, what do you mean? The Tyrant was slain.’

  The small, round man now standing beside Captain Paran drew a handkerchief from a sleeve and mopped his brow. ‘Well, as to that … not quite, Kruppe reluctantly advises. Matters were somewhat confused, alas—’

  ‘A House of the Azath took the Jaghut Tyrant,’ K’rul explained. ‘The Malazan plan, as I understand it, was to force Anomander Rake’s hand – a confrontation that was intended to weaken him, if not see him slain outright. Raest never did come face to face with the Lord of Moon’s Spawn, as it turned out—’

  ‘I see little relevance in all this,’ Silverfox cut in. ‘If the Clanless One has indeed broken his vow, then he will have to answer to me.’

  ‘My point was,’ Dujek said, ‘you make a claim that the T’lan Imass and what they do or don’t do is separate from everyone and everything else. You insist on detachment, but, as a veteran of the Malazan campaigns, I tell you that what you assert is patently untrue.’

  ‘Perhaps indeed the Logros T’lan Imass grew … confused. If so, such ambivalence is past. Unless, of course, you would challenge the authority that I was born to.’

  No-one spoke in answer to that.

  Silverfox nodded. ‘Very well. You have been told of the position of the T’lan Imass. We will have this Jaghut Tyrant. Does anyone here wish to counter our claim?’

  ‘From the implicit threats in your tone, woman,’ Brood grated, ‘that would be a foolhardy position to take. I for one will not squabble and tug the Seer’s limbs.’ He swung to Dujek. ‘High Fist?’

  The one-armed soldier grimaced, then shook his head.

  Itkovian’s attention was drawn to the short, fat Daru, for some reason he could not have hoped to explain. A benign smile curved those full, slightly greasy lips.

  This is a most fell gathering of powers here. Yet why do I believe that the very epicentre of efficacy lies with this strange little man? He holds even K’rul’s regard, as would an admiring companion rest eyes upon a lifelong … prodigy of sorts, perhaps. A prodigy whose talents have come to overwhelm his master’s. But there is no envy in that regard, nor even pride – which always whispers of possessiveness, after all. No, the emotion is far more subtle, and complex …

  ‘We have matters of supply to discuss,’ Caladan Brood finally said. The High Priestess still leaned on him. He now guided her back to her chair, with surprising gentleness, and spoke to her in low tones. She nodded in reply.

  ‘The Barghast,’ Cafal said, ‘have come prepared. Your numbers are manageable.’

  ‘And the price?’ Dujek asked.

  The young warrior grinned. ‘You’ll find it palatable … more or less.’

  Silverfox strode away, as if she had said all she’d intended to say and had no interest in the mundane matters still needing discussion. Itkovian noted that Captain Paran, his dark-skinned companion and Whiskeyjack had already departed. Gruntle seemed to have begun dozing in his chair, oblivious of Stonny’s scowl opposite him. Rath’Hood and Rath’Shadowthrone were slumped in their chairs, masks angled into morose expressions – leaving Itkovian to wonder at how much control the priests had over those lacquered, hinged contrivances.

  The new Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords sat motionless, her gaze fixed on Itkovian with unveiled sorrow.

  And … pity.

  I am a distraction. Very well. He stepped back, turned about and made his way towards the ba
ck of the tarp.

  He was surprised to find Paran, Whiskeyjack and the dark-skinned man waiting there. A tall, martial woman with midnight skin had joined them and now studied Itkovian with extraordinary, almond-shaped eyes the colour of sun-bleached grass.

  Meeting that gaze, Itkovian almost staggered. Fener’s tusks, such sadness – an eternity of loss … empty existence—

  She broke the contact with a startled, then alarmed, expression.

  Not for me. Not for my embrace. Not that. Some wounds can never be healed, some memories should never be reawakened. Cast no light upon that darkness, sir. It is too much—He came then to another realization. Fener was gone, and with the god had vanished his protection. Itkovian was vulnerable as he had never been before. Vulnerable to the world’s pain, to its grief.

  ‘Itkovian, we were hoping,’ Captain Paran said, ‘that you’d come. This is my commander, Whiskeyjack. And Quick Ben, of the Bridgeburners. And the Tiste Andii is Korlat, second to Anomander Rake. We are pleased with your company, Itkovian. Will you join us?’

  ‘I’ve a restless cask of Gredfallan ale in my tent,’ Whiskeyjack said.

  My vow— ‘A welcome invitation, sirs. I accept. Thank you. Mistress,’ he added to Korlat, ‘my deepest apologies.’

  ‘They are mine to make,’ she replied. ‘I was unguarded, and carelessly unmindful of all that you are.’

  The three Malazans looked back and forth at the two of them, but none ventured a query or comment.

  ‘Allow me,’ Whiskeyjack finally said, setting off down the slope towards the Host’s camp.

  The Bridgeburner, Quick Ben, paced alongside Itkovian. ‘Well, it seems Silverfox has surprised us all this day.’

  ‘I do not know her, sir, and so can make no observation as to her disposition.’

  ‘You sensed nothing from her?’

  ‘I did not say that’

  The man flashed a white grin. ‘True enough. You didn’t’

  ‘She has done a terrible wrong, sir, yet upon her shoulders it weighs nothing.’

  The breath hissed between Quick Ben’s teeth. ‘Nothing? Are you certain? Hood’s breath, that’s not good. Not good at all.’

  ‘Nightchill,’ Paran said behind them.