Great Ravens, wheeling, voicing triumphant cries.
‘Uh, it’s not going to clear…’
The captain frowned at Quick Ben’s strange statement. Clear? What’s not – he snapped his head round, back to Moon’s Spawn. Oh.
The base of the floating mountain was directly opposite, sliding ever closer. So close – towering, filling the sky.
‘I thought Rake would at least come down in person for this,’ the wizard went on. ‘Instead, he’s elected something … uh, less subtle.’
Like obliterating this entire keep and everyone in it. ‘Quick Ben—’
‘Aye, we’d better make our move.’
A huge black panther flowed from the stairwell, paused, lambent eyes taking in the scene on the rooftop, then fixing on the Seer.
Quick Ben was suddenly on his feet. ‘No!’ he shouted to the beast. ‘Wait!’
The panther’s huge head swung to the wizard, eyes blazing, lips peeling back.
‘I don’t think it wants to wait.’
Tail lashing, the panther drew a step closer to the cowering Seer – whose back was to them all—
‘Damn!’ Quick Ben hissed. ‘Time’s now, Talamandas!’
Who?
Moon’s Spawn struck the parapet roof’s wall with a grinding, grating crunch. The inexorable wall of stone ploughed forward—
The Matron screamed—
Wet, streaming basalt pinned the K’Chain Che’Malle where she lay, then seemed to gather her in. Blood sprayed, bones snapped, Moon’s Spawn’s apex edging across the rooftop, leaving in its wake chewed tiles and smears of blood and flesh.
The Seer shrieked, back-pedalled – directly towards the panther, which suddenly coiled—
Moon’s Spawn sank suddenly, dropping a man’s height, punching through the roof.
Tiles dipped beneath Paran, bricks buckling on all sides – the world swayed.
Quick Ben struck. Sorcery tumbling out, hammering into the panther’s flank – sending it flying, claws skittering—
‘Follow me!’ the wizard screamed, lunging forward.
Paran, struggling to maintain his balance, reached and grasped the wizard’s rain-cape, was pulled along. So it’s now – to cheat them all. Gods forgive us.
The Seer spun to them – ‘What?’
‘Talamandas!’ Quick Ben roared as they closed with the Seer, the wizard throwing himself onto the Jaghut—
Warren opening round them—
—and away.
Portal closing – then flaring as the panther plunged through it in pursuit.
Moon’s Spawn settled further, and the parapet burst apart, bricks snapping out to all sides. The two Seguleh darted back from the K’ell Hunters, leapt the low wall behind which Paran and Quick Ben had hidden, and raced for the far end of the roof. Behind them, where the Seer had crouched, a massive chunk of basalt split away from the apex in a gush of saltwater, plunged down to bury the two K’ell Hunters, down, through floor after floor, into the bowels of the keep.
* * *
Gruntle staggered, shoulder striking a wall, leaving a red stain as he slowly slid to a crouch. Before him, bent over in exhaustion or pain, kneeling, or standing, blank-faced and ashen, were eight Capan women. Three little more than children, two others with grey in their tangled, sweat-matted hair, their weapons hanging from trembling hands. All he had left.
His Lestari officer was gone, dead, what was left of his body somewhere out in the killing field beyond the wall.
Gruntle lowered his swords, leaned his head back against the dusty stone facing, and closed his eyes.
He could hear fighting to the west. The Grey Swords had ridden in that direction, searching for Dujek. The Black Moranth had returned to the sky above the westernmost third of the city, and seemed to be concentrated in one particular area, plunging in small groups down into streets as if participating in a desperate defence. The snap of sharpers echoed.
Closer at hand, directly opposite Gruntle and what was left of his legion, a cusser had struck a large tenement. The building was moments from collapsing, raging with flames. Bodies of Pannion soldiers lay amidst rubble in the street.
And, slowly tearing its way through the keep, Moon’s Spawn, bleeding its darkness out into the city, the path of its destruction a chorus of demolition.
His eyes remained closed.
Boots kicked through broken masonry, then one nudged Gruntle’s thigh.
‘Lazy pig!’
The Mortal Sword sighed. ‘Stonny—’
‘This fight ain’t over.’
He opened his eyes, stared up at her. ‘It is. Coral’s fallen – ha, no, it’s falling. And isn’t the victory sweet. Where have you been?’
The dusty, sweat-streaked woman shrugged, glanced down at the rapier in her hand. ‘Here and there. Did what I could, which wasn’t much. The Mott Irregulars are here, did you know that? How in Hood’s name did they manage that? Damn if they weren’t there, inside the gate, when me and the Grey Swords showed up – and we thought we were first.’
‘Stonny—’
The preternatural darkness deepened suddenly.
Moon’s Spawn had drawn clear of the keep in a final toppling of walls. Still canted, still raining water and chunks of black rock, it drifted closer, a few men’s heights above the city’s buildings, filling the sky – now almost above them.
On the high ledge, no-one remained visible. Great Ravens were swinging close to the Moon’s sides, then wheeling away again with loud, echoing shrieks.
‘Abyss take us,’ Stonny whispered, ‘that thing looks like it could fall at any moment. Just drop. Straight down – or in pieces. It’s finished, Gruntle. Finished.’
He could not disagree. The edifice looked ready to break apart.
Salty rain soaked his upturned face, mist from the mountain looming directly overhead. It was, all at once, as dark as an overcast night, and if not for the reflection from the fires spotting the city, Moon’s Spawn would have been virtually invisible. Gods, I wish it was.
The sound of fighting to the west fell away, strangely sudden.
They heard horse hooves pounding the cobbles. A moment later, riding into the glare of the burning buildings opposite, the Destriant of the Grey Swords.
She saw them, slowed her canter and swung her warhorse round to approach, then halt.
‘We have found the High Fist, sirs. He lives, as well as at least eight hundred of his soldiers. The city is taken. I return, now, to our staging area beyond the killing field. Will you accompany me, sirs? There will be a gathering…’
Of survivors. He looked around once more. The T’lan Ay were gone. Without those undead wolves, the K’Chain Che’Malle would have killed everyone outside the city. Perhaps they, too, are gathering around that hill. And what of Itkovian? That damned fool. Does he still kneel before the T’lan Imass? Does he still live? Gruntle sighed, slowly pushed himself upright. His gaze fell once more on his few remaining followers. All this, just to get fifty paces inside the gate. ‘Aye, Destriant, we’ll follow.’
* * *
Wings spread wide, flowing across power-ridden air, Korlat sailed in a slow bank around Moon’s Spawn. Blood-matted feathers and bits of flesh still clung to her claws. At the end, the demonic condors had died easily – proof enough that the Seer had either fled or had been killed. Perhaps her Lord had descended, had drawn Dragnipur to take the Jaghut’s soul. She would discover the truth soon enough.
Head twisting, she glanced at her brother flying beside her, guarding her flank. Orfantal bore wounds, yet did not waver, his power and will still formidable weapons should any surprises rise up to challenge them.
None did.
Their path took them out towards the sea, east of Coral, and within sight of the ocean. Late afternoon’s light still commanded the distance.
And she saw, half a league from shore, four ships of war, sails out, flying the colours of the Malazan Imperial Navy as they skirted the periphery of dying ice floes.<
br />
Artanthos – Tayschrenn … oh, the plans within plans, the games of deceit and misdirection …
Our history, my lost love, our history destroyed us all.
Swinging around yet further, until they approached Coral once more, angling down and away from Moon’s Spawn’s slow path as it continued drifting northward. Below, the shattered gate. Figures, torchlight.
Her eyes found Caladan Brood, soldiers of the Grey Swords, Barghast and others.
Orfantal spoke within her mind. ‘Go down, sister. I will guard the skies. I, our Soletaken kin, and Silanah. Look, Crone descends. Join her.’
I would guard you, Brother—
‘The enemy is destroyed, Korlat. What you would guard, staying with me, is the heart within you. You would fend it from pain. From loss. Sister, he deserves more. Go down, now. To grieve is the gift of the living – a gift so many of our kin have long lost. Do not retreat. Descend, Korlat, to the mortal realm.’
Korlat crooked her wings, spiralled earthward. Brother, thank you.
She sembled as she landed in the modest concourse onto which the north gate opened. Her arrival had forced soldiers to scatter, if only momentarily. Tiste Andii once more, suddenly weak from the wound that Brood had managed to heal but superficially, she stumbled slightly as she made her way to where the Warlord waited just inside the gate. Crone had reported something to him and now rose once more into the darkness.
She had never seen Brood look so … defeated. The notion of victory seemed … irrevelant, in the face of such personal loss. For us all.
As she drew nearer, a man walked up to the warlord. Lean, slope-shouldered, his long, pale hair a tangled mess that sat strangely high on his head.
Korlat watched the man salute, heard him say, ‘High Marshal Stump, sir. Mott Irregulars. About that order—’
‘What order?’ Brood snapped.
The man’s smile revealed long, white teeth. ‘Never mind. We were there, you see—’
‘Where?’
‘Uh, this side of the wall, east of the gate, sir, and there was mages up top. The Bole brothers didn’t like that, so they roughed them up some. Ain’t none breathing any more. Anyway, what do you want us to do now?’
Caladan Brood stared at the man, expressionless, then he shook his head. ‘I have not a clue, High Marshal Stump.’
The man from Mott nodded. ‘Well, we could put out some fires.’
‘Go to it, then.’
‘Yes sir.’
Korlat, who had held back during the exchange, now stepped forward as the High Marshal ambled off.
Brood was staring after the man.
‘Warlord?’
‘We’d left them behind, I’d thought,’ he muttered. ‘But then … they were in the city. They were on the other side of the K’Chain Che’Malle – through the gate or over the wall, taking out mages. Now, how did they…’
‘Warlord, there are Malazan ships. Approaching.’
Brood slowly nodded. ‘So Artanthos informed me, before he travelled by warren to the deck of the command ship. There is an imperial delegation aboard, an ambassador, a legate, a governor—’
‘All three?’
‘No, just one. Lots of titles, depending on the negotiations to follow.’
Korlat drew a deep breath. Hold back on the pain, on the loss – just a short while longer. ‘With Onearm’s Host so badly … damaged … the Malazans won’t be bargaining from a position of strength.’
Brood’s eyes narrowed on her. ‘Korlat,’ he said softly, ‘as far as I am concerned, the Malazans have earned all they might ask for. If they want it, Coral is theirs.’
Korlat sighed. ‘Warlord, the unveiling of Kurald Galain … is a permanent manifestation. The city now lies as much within the Tiste Andii warren as within this world.’
‘Aye, meaning the negotiations are properly between Rake and the Malazans. Not me. Tell me, will your Lord claim Coral? Moon’s Spawn…’
There was no need to continue. The city within the mountain of rock still held, trapped in its deepest chambers, massive volumes of water, weight that could not be withstood for much longer. Moon’s Spawn was dying. It would, she knew, have to be abandoned. A place, our home for so long. Will I grieve? I know not.
‘I have not spoken with Anomander Rake, Warlord. I cannot anticipate his disposition.’ She turned away, began walking towards the gate.
Brood called after her.
Not yet.
She continued on, beneath the gate’s arch, her eyes fixing on the hilltop beyond the shattered corpses carpeting the killing field. Where I will find him. All that is left. His face, gift of memories, now grown cold. I saw the life flee his eyes. That moment of death, of dying. Withdrawing, away from those eyes, withdrawing, back and away. Leaving, leaving me.
Her steps slowed, the pain of loss threatening to overwhelm her.
Dear Mother Dark, do you look down upon me, now? Do you see me, your child? Do you smile, to see me so broken? I have, after all, repeated your fatal errors of old. Yielding my heart, succumbing to the foolish dream – Light’s dance, you longed for that embrace, didn’t you?
And were betrayed.
You left us, Mother … to eternal silence.
Yet …
Mother Dark, with this unveiling, I feel you close. Was it grief that sent you away, sent you so far from your children? When, in our deadly, young way – our appalling insensitivity – we cursed you. Added another layer to your pain.
These steps … you walked them once.
How can you help but smile?
Rain struck her brow, stung the ragged, open gash of her wound. She halted, looked up, to see Moon’s Spawn directly overhead … weeping down upon her …
… and upon the field of corpses surrounding her, and, beyond and to the right, upon thousands of kneeling T’lan Imass. The dead, the abandoned, a wash of deepening colours, as if in the rain the scene, so softly saturated, was growing more solid, more real. No longer the faded tableau of a Tiste Andii’s regard. Life, drawn short, to sharpen every detail, flush every colour, to make every moment an ache.
And she could hold back no longer. Whiskeyjack. My love.
Moments later, her own tears joined the salt-laden water running down her face.
* * *
In the gate’s gloom, Caladan Brood stared out, across the stone bridge, over the mangled plain to where Korlat stood halfway to the hill, surrounded by corpses and shattered K’Chain Che’Malle. Watched as her head tilted back, face slowly lifting to the grey shroud of the rain. The black mountain, fissures widening, groans issuing from the dying edifice, seemed to pause directly over her. A heart, once of stone, made mortal once more.
This image – what he now saw – he knew, with bleak certainty, would never leave him.
* * *
Silverfox had walked for what seemed a long time, heedless of direction, insensate to all that surrounded her, until distant movement caught her attention. She now stood on the barren tundra, beneath solid white overcast, and watched the approach of the Rhivi spirits.
A small band, pitifully small, less than forty individuals, insignificant in the distance, almost swallowed by the immense landscape, the sky, this damp air with its unforgiving chill that had settled into her bones like the blood of failure.
Events had occurred. Elsewhere in this nascent realm. She could sense that much – the hail, deluge of memories, born from she knew not where. And though they had struck her with the same indiscriminate randomness as they struck the ground on all sides, she had felt but the faintest hint of all that they had contained.
If a gift, then a bitter one.
If a curse, then so too is life itself a curse. For there were lives within that frozen rain. Entire lives, sent down to strike the flesh of this world, to seep down, to thaw the soil with its fecundity.
But it has nothing to do with me.
None of this. All that I sought to fashion … destroyed This dreamworld was itself a memory. Gho
stworld of Tellann, remembrance of my own world, from long, long ago. Remembrances, taken from the Bonecaster who was there in my refashioning, taken from the Rhivi spirits, the First Clan, taken from K’rul, from Kruppe. Taken from the slumbering land itself – Burn’s own flesh.
I myself … possessed nothing. I simply stole.
To fashion a world for my mother, a world where she could be young once more, where she could live out a normal life, growing old through the normal span of seasons.
All that I stole from her, I would give back.
Bitterness filled Silverfox. It had begun with that first barrow, outside Pale. This belief in the righteousness, the efficacy, of theft. Justified by the worthiest of ends.
But ownership bereft of propriety was a lie. All that she hoarded was in turn stripped of value. Memories, dreams, lives.
Gone to dust.
The hapless band of Rhivi spirits drew closer, cautiously, hesitating.
Yes. I understand. What demands will I make of you now? How many more empty promises will I voice? I had a people for you, a people who had long since lost their own gods, their own spirits to whom they had once avowed allegiance, were less than the dust they could make of themselves. A people.
For you.
Lost.
What a lesson for four bound souls – no matchmaker, we four.
She did not know what to tell them – these modest, timid spirits.
‘Bonecaster, we greet you.’
Silverfox blinked her eyes clear. ‘Elder Spirit. I have—’
‘Have you seen?’
She saw then, in all their faces, a kind of wonder. And frowned in reply.
‘Bonecaster,’ the foremost Rhivi continued, ‘we have found something. Not far from here – do you know of what we speak?’
She shook her head.
‘There are thrones, Bonecaster. Two thrones. In a long hut of bones and hide.’
Thrones? ‘What – why? Why should there be thrones in this realm? Who—?’
The elder shrugged, then offered her a soft smile. ‘They await, Bonecaster. We can feel the truth of that. Soon. Soon, will come this warren’s true masters.’
‘True masters!’ Anger flared in Silverfox. ‘This realm – it was for you! Who dares seek to usurp—’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 264