The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Picker stumbled into the midst of her soldiers, spitting blood, coughing. Around them, a room littered with dead Beklites, another door, opposite, that looked to have been shattered with a single punch. A lone lantern swung wildly from a hook above them.

  ‘Look!’ someone grunted. ‘A dog’s been chewing on the lieutenant’s chin!’

  Not even a jest – simply the absurd madness of battle. Shaking her head to a spatter of blood, Picker spat again and surveyed her troops through stinging, streaming eyes.

  ‘Blend?’ The name came out mangled but understandable.

  Silence.

  ‘Bucklund – back into the corridor! Find her!’

  The Twelfth Squad’s sergeant was back a moment later, dragging a blood-drenched body through the doorway. ‘She’s breathing – Hood knows how! Her back’s full of stones and shards!’

  Picker dropped to her knees beside her friend. ‘You damned idiot,’ she mumbled.

  ‘We should’ve had Mallet with us,’ Bucklund grumbled beside her.

  Aye, not the only mistake in this fouled-up game.

  ‘Oh!’ a woman’s voice cried. ‘You are not Pannions!’

  Weapons swung to the doorway.

  A woman in a blindingly white telaba stood there, her long black hair shimmering, impossibly clean, perfectly combed. Veiled, stunningly beautiful eyes studied them. ‘Have you, by any chance, seen three masked warriors? They should have passed this way, looking for the throne room, assuming there is one, that is. You might have heard some fighting—’

  ‘No,’ Bucklund growled. ‘I mean, yes, we’ve heard fighting. Everywhere, ma’am. That is—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Picker sighed. ‘No,’ she said to the woman, ‘we ain’t seen no three masked warriors—’

  ‘What of a T’lan Imass?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yeah—’

  ‘Excellent! Tell me, does she still have all those swords impaling her? I can’t imagine she’d leave—’

  ‘What swords?’ Picker demanded. ‘Besides, it was male. I think.’

  ‘It was,’ another soldier piped up, then reddened as her comrades swung to her with broad grins.

  ‘A male T’lan Imass?’ The white-robed woman raised a finger to her full lips, then smiled, ‘Why, that would be Tool! Excellent!’ The smile vanished. ‘Unless, of course, Mok finds him…’

  ‘Who are you?’ Picker demanded.

  ‘You know, dear, it’s growing increasingly difficult to understand what you are saying through all that blood and such. I believe you’re Malazans, yes? Unwitting allies, but you are all so terribly injured. I have an idea, a wonderful idea – as are all my ideas, of course. Wonderful, that is. We are here, you see, to effect the rescue of one Toc the Younger, a soldier of—’

  ‘Toc the Younger?’ Picker repeated. ‘Toc? But he’s—’

  ‘A prisoner of the Seer, alas. A distressing fact, and I dislike being distressed. It irritates me. Immeasurably. Now, as I was saying, I have an idea. Assist me in this rescue, and I will heal those of you who need healing – which seems to be all of you.’

  Picker gestured down at Blend. ‘Deal. Start with her.’

  As the woman stepped into the room, Bucklund shouted and scrabbled back from the doorway.

  Picker looked up. A massive wolf stood in the hallway beyond, eyes gleaming through the dust-shrouded gloom.

  The woman glanced back. ‘Oh, not to worry. That is Baaljagg. Garath has wandered off, I believe. Busy killing Pannions, I expect. He seems to have acquired a taste for Seerdomin … now, this poor woman – well, we’ll have you right in no time, dear…’

  * * *

  ‘What in Hood’s name is happening over there?’

  On the other side of the low wall, a flight of stairs gave access to the parapet overlooking the harbour and the bay beyond – or, rather, so Paran concluded, since nothing else made sense. In any case, some kind of approach was being contested, and from the screams, whatever was on its way to the flat rooftop was wreaking havoc on the defenders.

  Beside Paran, Quick Ben raised his head a fraction. ‘I don’t know and I’m not popping up for a look, either,’ he said in answer to the captain’s question, ‘but let’s hope it proves a worthwhile diversion. I can’t keep us here much longer, without those condors finding us.’

  ‘Something’s keeping them busy,’ Spindle asserted, ‘and you know it, Quick. If one of them took the time to look hard – we’d be feeding the chicks in its nest by now.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Then what in Hood’s name are we still doing here?’

  Good question. Paran twisted round, looked back along the roof to the north. There was a trapdoor there.

  ‘We’re still here,’ Quick Ben grated, ‘because this is where we need to be—’

  ‘Hold it,’ Paran growled, reaching up to wipe what he thought was sweat from his eyes, though the smear on his hand was red – the stitches on his temple had pulled loose. ‘Not quite true, Quick. It’s where you and I need to be. Mallet, if there’s anything left of the Bridgeburners, they need you right now.’

  ‘Aye, Captain, and knowing that’s been eating me up inside.’

  ‘All right. Listen, then. The fiery Abyss has broken loose down in this keep under us. We’ve no idea who’s doing the fighting, but we do know one thing – they’re no friends of the Pannions. So, Mallet, take Spindle and the rest – that trapdoor back there looks flimsy enough to break open if it’s locked.’

  ‘Aye, Captain. Only, how do we get there without being seen?’

  ‘Spindle’s right about those condors – they’re busy with something else, and looking more agitated with every beat of the heart. It’s a short sprint, Healer. But if you’re not willing to risk it—’

  Mallet glanced at Spindle, then at Detoran and Trotts. Finally, at Antsy. The sergeant nodded. Mallet sighed. ‘Aye, sir, we’ll give it ago.’

  Paran glanced at Quick Ben. ‘Any objections, Wizard?’

  ‘No, Captain. At the very least…’ He fell silent.

  At the very least, they’ve a better chance of getting out alive. I hear you, Quick. ‘OK, Mallet, make your run when you’re ready.’

  ‘Push and pull, Captain.’

  ‘And to you, Healer.’

  With a grunted command, the squad scrambled for the trapdoor.

  * * *

  Dujek dragged the wounded soldier through the doorway, and only then noticed that the man’s legs had been left behind, and the trail of blood leading back to the limbs thinned to virtually nothing by the time it reached the threshold. He let the body drop, sagged against the frame.

  The K’Chain Che’Malle had cut through the company in the span of a dozen heartbeats, and though the Hunter had lost an arm, it had not slowed as it thumped westward – in search of another company of hapless Malazans.

  Dujek’s elite bodyguard of Untan heavy infantry lay in a chopped ruin in front of the building into which they had pushed the High Fist. As sworn, they’d given their lives in his defence. At the moment, however, Dujek would rather they’d failed – or, better yet, fled.

  Locked in battle since dawn with Beklites, Urdomen and Seerdomin, Onearm’s Host had more than held its own. And when the first dozen or so K’Chain Che’Malle appeared, Moranth munitions – cussers and burners – destroyed the undead K’ell Hunters. The same fate befell the second wave. By the time the third arrived, the cussers were gone, and soldiers died by the score. The fifth and sixth waves were met only with swords, and battle became slaughter.

  Dujek had no idea how many remained among the five thousand Malazans who had been delivered into the city. He did not think a cohesive defence still existed. The battle had become a hunt, plain and simple. A cleansing by the K’Chain Che’Malle of pockets of Malazan resistance.

  Until recently, he could still hear sounds of battle – of collapsing walls and perhaps sorcery – from the keep, though perhaps, he now reflected, he had been wrong in that – the storm-cl
oud that filled the sky to the south was itself thundering, arcs of lightning splitting the sky to lance at the thrashing seas below. Its rage now overwhelmed all other sounds.

  A scrabble of boots behind him. Dujek swung about, shortsword in hand.

  ‘High Fist!’

  ‘Which company, soldier?’

  ‘Eleventh, sir,’ the woman gasped. ‘Captain Hareb sent a squad to look for you, High Fist. I’m what’s left.’

  ‘Does Hareb still hold?’

  ‘Aye, sir. We’re collecting souvenirs – pieces of K’Chain Che’Malle.’

  ‘And how in Hood’s name are you managing that?’

  ‘Twist, sir, he led a final flight in with the last of the munitions – mostly sharpers and crackers, High Fist – but the sappers are rigging buildings along our retreat, dropping tons of brick and stone on the damned lizards – your pardon, sir – on the Hunters.’

  ‘Where is Hareb’s company right now, soldier?’

  ‘Not far, High Fist. Follow me.’

  Hareb, that Seven Cities nobleborn with the permanent sneer. Gods, I could kiss the man.

  * * *

  Moving to the head of his legion, Gruntle watched the Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords approach. The woman reined in even as he arrived.

  ‘I greet you, sir,’ she said, only the lower half of her face visible beneath the helm’s broad, flaring cheek-guards. ‘We are about to advance upon the enemy – would you flank us?’

  The Daru grimaced. ‘No, Shield Anvil.’

  She hesitated, then gave a brusque nod and gathered up her reins. ‘As you wish, sir. No dishonour in refusing a suicidal engagement.’

  ‘You misunderstand,’ Gruntle interrupted her. ‘My legion leads, you follow in our wake – as close as you can. We’ll drive across that stone bridge and head straight for the gate. Granted, it looks damned solid, but we might still batter it down.’

  ‘We are seeking to relieve Dujek Onearm, agreed, Mortal Sword?’

  ‘Aye.’ And we both know we will fail.

  They turned at the sound of horns, the sudden staccato of Malazan drums.

  The standard-bearer – sorcery swirling from the man like flecks of gold – seemed to have taken command, calling together the company officers. Along the line, shields were readied, locked overlapping. Pikes, twice the height of a man, wavered like wind-tugged reeds above the ranks of soldiery – an uncharacteristic unsteadiness that Grande found disturbing.

  Artanthos had despatched a rider who rode towards the Daru and the Shield Anvil at a gallop.

  The Malazan reined in. ‘Sirs! The High Mage Tayschrenn would know your intentions!’

  Gruntle bared his teeth. ‘Tayschrenn, is it? Let’s hear his, first.’

  ‘Dujek, sirs. These K’Chain Che’Malle must be broken, the gate breached, an assault on the defenders—’

  ‘And what of the High Mage himself?’ the Shield Anvil enquired.

  ‘They’re mages on the walls, sir. Tayschrenn will endeavour to deny their involvement Orfantal and his Tiste Andii will seek to assist us in our attack upon the K’Chain Che’Malle, as will the shouldermen of the White Faces.’

  ‘Inform the High Mage,’ the Shield Anvil said, ‘that Trake’s Legion will initiate the charge, supported by my company.’

  The soldier saluted and rode back towards the Malazan line.

  Gruntle turned to study his followers. He wondered again at the effect that the Lord of Summer’s gift had had upon these grim-faced Capans. Like D’ivers … only in reverse. From many, to one – and such power! They had crossed the land swift as a flowing shadow. Gruntle had found himself looking out upon the world with a tiger’s eyes – no, not simply a tiger, a creature immortal, boundless in strength, a mass of muscle and bone within which was the Legion. His Legion. A will, fused, terrifyingly focused.

  And now they would become that beast once again. This time, to enter battle.

  His god seemed to possess a particular hatred for these K’Chain Che’Malle, as if Treach had a score to settle. The cold killer was giving way to bloodlust – a realization that left Gruntle vaguely troubled.

  His gaze flicked to the hilltop – to see Caladan Brood, Korlat slowly straightening beside him. Distance was irrelevant – she was covered in blood, and he could feel the sickly pain that flowed and ebbed, then flowed again within her.

  Brood’s warren suffers, and if that’s the case, then so too must … He swung round, back to where Artanthos – High Mage Tayschrenn – stood before the Malazan companies. Ah, I see the price he pays … ‘Shield Anvil.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘’Ware the mages on the city wall.’

  ‘We await you, sir.’

  Gruntle nodded.

  A moment later, the Mortal Sword and his Legion were one, bones and muscle merging, identities – entire lives – swept under a deluge of cold, animal rage.

  A tawny swirl, surging, flowing forward.

  Ahead, K’Chain Che’Malle raised weapons. And stood their ground.

  Again. We have done this before – no, not us. Our Lord. Tearing dead flesh … the spray of blood … blood … oh, Hood—

  * * *

  Kurald Galain, the darkness within the soul, flowing outward, filling her limbs, sweeping round to swallow her feelings – the comfort of oblivion. Korlat stood, her back to the three lifeless figures on the hilltop that still lay where they fell. Stood, silent, the power of her warren – flickering, dimming to surges of pain – reaching out, seeking her kin.

  Caladan Brood, hammer unlimbered in his hands, was beside her. He was speaking, his rumbling voice as distant as thunder on the sea’s horizon. ‘Late afternoon. No earlier. It will be over long before then … one way or another. Korlat, please listen to me. You must seek your Lord – that storm-cloud, does Moon’s Spawn hide within it? He said he would come. At the precise moment. He said he would strike…’

  Korlat no longer heard him.

  Orfantal was veering, mere before the now marching Malazan forces, black, blossoming outward, wings spreading, sinuous neck lifting – a thudding pulsation of sorcery and the dragon was in the air, climbing—

  Condors winged out from the keep, a dozen of the demonic creatures, each linked by a writhing chain of chaotic magic.

  On the plain below, the beast that was the Mortal Sword and Trake’s Legion seemed to flow in and out of her vision, blurred, deadly motion – and struck the line of K’Chain Che’Malle.

  Sorcery stained the air around the impact in blood-spattered sheets as within the savage maelstrom blades flashed. A K’ell Hunter reeled away and toppled, its bones shattered. The huge tiger twisted from side to side as swords descended, tore into its flanks. Where each blade struck, human figures fell away from the beast, limbs severed, torsos cut through, heads crushed.

  Sorcery was building along the top of the city wall.

  Korlat saw Artanthos – Tayschrenn – step forward then, to answer it.

  A golden wave appeared suddenly behind the K’Chain Che’Malle, rose for a moment, building, then tumbled forward. The ground it rolled over on its way to the wall burned with fierce zeal, then the wave lifted, climbed towards the Pannion mages.

  This – this is what was launched against Moon’s Spawn. This is what my Lord struggled against. Alone, in the face of such power—

  The ground trembled beneath her boots as the wave crashed into the top of the wall to the west of the gate. Blinding – this is High Telas, the Warren of Fire – child of Tellann—

  Chaotic magic exploded from the conflagration like shrapnel. The raging fire then dispersed.

  The top third of the city wall, from near the gate and westward for at least forty paces, was simply gone. And with it, at least a dozen Pannion mages.

  On the killing field, Trake’s Legion was now surrounded by K’Chain Che’Malle, who were a match for the enormous beast’s lightning speed. K’ell Hunters were falling, but the tiger was being, literally, cut to pieces.

  The Grey Sw
ords, all mounted, were attempting to open an avenue for it on the other side. Long, strangely barbed lances were being driven into Hunters from behind, fouling their steps as they wheeled to lash out at the enemy harrying them. Lassos spun in the air, snapped tight around necks, limbs—

  A grey wave of sorcery raced out from the mages on the wall east of the gate, swept over the heads of those battling on the killing field, clambered through the air like some multilimbed beast – to strike Artanthos.

  Coruscating fire met the assault, and both sorceries seemed to devour each other. When they vanished, Artanthos was on his knees. Soldiers ran towards him from the Malazan lines.

  He is done. Too soon—

  ‘Korlat!’

  The bellow shook her. Blinking, she turned to Brood. ‘What?’

  ‘Call your Lord, Korlat! Call him!’

  Call ? I cannot. Could not – dare not.

  ‘Korlat! Look to that damned storm-cloud!’

  She twisted her head. Beyond the city, rising skyward in a churning, towering column, the storm-cloud was tearing itself apart even as it rose – rose, shreds spinning away, sunlight shafting through—

  Moon’s Spawn … not within – the cloud hid nothing. Nothing but senseless, empty violence. Dissipating.

  Call him? Despair ripped through her. She heard her own dull reply, ‘Anomander Rake is no more, Warlord.’ He is dead. He must be—

  ‘Then help your damned brother, woman! He is assailed—’

  She looked up, saw Orfantal high above, harried by specks. Sorcery lanced at the black dragon like darts.

  Brother … Korlat looked back down, at the Malazan ranks that had now closed with the K’Chain Che’Malle. Darkness shrouded them – Kurald Galain’s whisper. A whisper … and no more than a whisper—

  ‘Korlat!’

  ‘Move away from me, Warlord. I shall now veer … and join my brother.’

  ‘When you two are done with those condors, will you—’

  She turned away from the killing field. ‘This battle is lost, Caladan Brood. I fly to save Orfantal.’ Without awaiting a reply, she strode down the slope, unfolding the power within her as she did so. Draconian blood, cold as ice in her veins, a promise of murder. Brutal, unwavering hunger.