The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘And he looked to you and your handful of warriors to guard the refugees. To you, Temul—not just Nil and Nether.’

  Temul’s dark eyes hardened as he studied Strings, then he nodded. ‘I go now to the Adjunct.’

  ‘The Lady’s pull on you, Commander.’

  Temul hesitated, then said, ‘This night…you saw…’

  ‘I saw nothing,’ Strings replied.

  A sharp nod, then the lad was swinging onto the mare, the reins in one long-fingered, knife-scarred hand.

  Strings watched him ride into the darkness. He sat motionless on the boulder for a time, then slowly lowered his head into his hands.

  The three were seated now, in the lantern-glow of the tent’s chamber. Topper’s tale was done, and it seemed that all that remained was silence. Gamet stared down at his cup, saw that it was empty, and reached for the jug. Only to find that it too was empty.

  Even as exhaustion tugged at him, Gamet knew he would not leave, not yet. Tavore had been told of, first, her brother’s heroism, then his death. Not a single Bridgeburner left alive. Tayschrenn himself saw their bodies, witnessed their interment in Moon’s Spawn. But lass, Ganoes redeemed himself—redeemed the family name. He did that much at least. But that was where the knife probably dug deepest. She had made harrowing sacrifices, after all, to resurrect the family’s honour. Yet all along, Ganoes was no renegade; nor had he been responsible for Lorn’s death. Like Dujek, like Whiskeyjack, his outlawry was nothing but a deception. There had been no dishonour. Thus, the sacrifice of young Felisin might have, in the end, proved…unnecessary.

  And there was more. Jarring revelations. It had, Topper explained, been the hope of the Empress to land Onearm’s Host on the north coast, in time to deliver a double blow to the Army of the Apocalypse. Indeed, the expectation all along had been for Dujek to assume overall command. Gamet could understand Laseen’s thinking—to place the fate of the imperial presence on Seven Cities in the hands of a new, young and untested Adjunct was far too long a reach of faith.

  Though Tavore had believed the Empress had done just that. Now, to find this measure of confidence so lacking…gods, this had been a Hood-damned night indeed.

  Dujek Onearm was still coming, with a scant three thousand remaining in his Host, but he would arrive late, and, by both Topper’s and Tayschrenn’s unforgiving assessments, the man’s spirit was broken. By the death of his oldest friend. Gamet wondered what else had happened in that distant land, in that nightmarish empire called the Pannion.

  Was it worth it, Empress? Was it worth the devastating loss?

  Topper had said too much, Gamet decided. Details of Laseen’s plans should have been filtered through a more circumspect, less emotionally damaged agent. If the truth was so important, after all, then it should have been laid out for the Adjunct long before now—when it actually mattered. To tell Tavore that the Empress had no confidence in her, then follow that with the brutal assertion that she was now the empire’s last hope for Seven Cities…well, few were the men or women who would not be rocked to their knees by that.

  The Adjunct’s expression revealed nothing. She cleared her throat. ‘Very well, Topper. Is there more?’

  The Clawmaster’s oddly shaped eyes widened momentarily, then he shook his head and rose. ‘No. Do you wish me to convey a message to the Empress?’

  Tavore frowned. ‘A message? No, there is no message. We have begun our march to the Holy Desert. Nothing more need be said.’

  Gamet saw Topper hesitate, then the Clawmaster said, ‘There is one more thing, Adjunct. There are probably worshippers of Fener among your army. I do not think the truth of the god’s…fall…can be hidden. It seems the Tiger of Summer is the lord of war, now. It does an army little good to mourn; indeed, grief is anathema to an army as we all well know. There may prove some period of difficult adjustment—it would be well to anticipate and prepare for desertions—’

  ‘There will be no desertions,’ Tavore said, the flat assertion silencing Topper. ‘The portal is weakening, Clawmaster—even a box of basalt cannot entirely block the effects of my sword. If you would leave this night, I suggest you do so now.’

  Topper stared down at her. ‘We are badly hurt, Adjunct. And hurting. It is the hope of the Empress that you will exercise due caution, and make no precipitous actions. Suffer no distraction on your march to Raraku—there will be attempts to draw you from the trail, to wear you down with skirmishes and pursuits—’

  ‘You are a Clawmaster,’ Tavore said, sudden iron in her tone. ‘Dujek’s advice I will listen to, for he is a soldier, a commander. Until such time as he arrives, I shall follow my own instincts. If the Empress is dissatisfied, she is welcome to replace me. Now, that is all. Goodbye, Topper.’

  Scowling, the Clawmaster swung about and strode without ceremony into the Imperial Warren. The gate collapsed behind him, leaving only a sour smell of dust.

  Gamet let out a long sigh, pushed himself gingerly from the rickety camp chair. ‘You have my sorrow, Adjunct, on the loss of your brother.’

  ‘Thank you, Gamet. Now, get some sleep. And stop by—’

  ‘T’amber’s tent, aye, Adjunct.’

  She quirked an eyebrow. ‘Is that disapproval I hear?’

  ‘It is. I’m not the only one in need of sleep. Hood take us, we’ve not even eaten this night.’

  ‘Until tomorrow, Fist.’

  He nodded. ‘Aye. Goodnight, Adjunct.’

  There was but one figure seated at the ebbing fire when Strings returned.

  ‘What are you doing up, Cuttle?’

  ‘I’ve done my sleep. You’ll be dragging your feet tomorrow, Sergeant.’

  ‘I don’t think rest will come to me this night,’ Strings muttered, sitting down cross-legged opposite the burly sapper.

  ‘It’s all far away,’ Cuttle rumbled, tossing a last scrap of dung onto the flames.

  ‘But it feels close.’

  ‘At least you’re not walking in the footprints of your fallen companions, Fiddler. But even so, it’s all far away.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure what you mean but I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Thanks for the munitions, by the way.’

  Strings grunted. ‘It’s the damnedest thing, Cuttle. We always find more, and they’re meant to be used, but instead we hoard them, tell no-one we have them—in case they order us to put them to use—’

  ‘The bastards.’

  ‘Aye, the bastards.’

  ‘I’ll use the ones you’ve given me,’ Cuttle avowed. ‘Once I’ve crawled under Korbolo Dom’s feet. I don’t mind going to Hood at the same time, either.’

  ‘Something tells me that’s what Hedge did, in his last moment. He always threw them too close—that man had so many pieces of clay in him you could’ve made a row of pots from his insides.’ He slowly shook his head, eyes on the dying fire. ‘I wish I could have been there. That’s all. Whiskeyjack, Trotts, Mallet, Picker, Quick Ben—’

  ‘Quick’s not dead,’ Cuttle said. ‘There was more after you’d left—I heard from my tent. Tayschrenn’s made your wizard a High Mage.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me, actually. That he’d survive, somehow. I wonder if Paran was still the company’s captain—’

  ‘He was. Died with them.’

  ‘The Adjunct’s brother. I wonder if she grieves this night.’

  ‘Wondering’s a waste of time, Fiddler. We got lads and lasses that need taking care of, right here. Korbolo Dom’s warriors know how to fight. My guess is, we’ll get whipped and sent back with our tails between our legs—and it’ll be another chain, as we stagger back to Aren, only this time we won’t get even close.’

  ‘Well, that’s a cheering prediction, Cuttle.’

  ‘It don’t matter. So long as I kill that Napan traitor—and his mage, too, if possible.’

  ‘And what if you can’t get close?’

  ‘Then I take as many of them with me as I can. I ain’t walking back, Fid, not again.
’

  ‘I’ll remember that if the moment arrives. But what about taking care of these recruits of ours, Cuttle?’

  ‘Well, that’s the walk, isn’t it? This march. We deliver them to that battle, we do that much, if we can. Then we see what kind of iron they’re holding.’

  ‘Iron,’ Strings smiled. ‘It’s been a long time since I last heard that saying. Since we’re looking for revenge, you’ll want it hot, I expect.’

  ‘You expect wrong. Look at Tavore—there won’t be any heat from her. In that she’s just like Coltaine. It’s obvious, Fiddler. The iron needs to be cold. Cold. We get it cold enough, who knows, we might earn ourselves a name.’

  Strings reached across the fire and tapped the finger bone hanging from Cuttle’s belt. ‘We’ve made a start, I think.’

  ‘We might have at that, Sergeant. Them and the standards. A start. She knows what’s in her, give her that. She knows what’s in her.’

  ‘And it’s for us to bring it out into view.’

  ‘Aye, Fid, it is at that. Now, go away. These are the hours I spend alone.’

  Nodding, the sergeant climbed to his feet. ‘Seems I might be able to sleep after all.’

  ‘It’s my scintillating conversation what’s done you in.’

  ‘So it was.’

  As Strings made his way to his small tent, something of Cuttle’s words came back to him. Iron. Cold iron. Yes, it’s in her. And now I’d better search and search hard…to find it in me.

  Book Three

  Something Breathes

  The art of Rashan is found in the tension that binds the games of light, yet its aspect is one of dissipation—the creation of shadow and of dark, although in this case the dark is not absolute, such as is the aspect of the ancient warren, Kurald Galain. No, this dark is particular, for it exists, not through an absence of light, but by virtue of being seen.

  THE MYSTERIES OF RASHAN—A MADMAN’S DISCOURSE

  UNTURAL OF LATO REVAE

  Chapter Twelve

  Light, shadow and dark—

  This is a war unending.

  FISHER

  Glistening silver, the armour lay over a t-shaped stand. Oil had dripped down from the ragged knee-length tassels to form a pool on the flagstoned floor beneath. The sleeves were not loose, but appeared intended to be worn almost skin-tight. It had seen much use, and where mended the rings appeared to be a darker, carbon-stained iron.

  Beside it, on a free-standing iron frame with horizontal hooks, waited a two-handed sword, the scabbard parallel directly beneath it on another pair of hooks. The sword was extraordinarily thin, with a long, tapered tip, edges on both sides, twin-fluted. Its surface was a strangely mottled oily blue, magenta and silver. The grip was round instead of flat, banded in gut, the pommel a single, large oblong sphere of polished haematite. The scabbard was of black wood, banded at the point and at the mouth in silver but otherwise unadorned. The harness belt attached to it was of small, almost delicate, black chain links.

  'Chain gauntlets waited on a wooden shelf on the wall behind the armour. The dull iron helm beside them was little more than a skullcap within a cage of studded bars, the bars reaching down like a massive hand, the gnarled fingers curving down to bridge nose, cheeks and jaw lines. A lobster tail of chain descended from the slightly flared neck rim.

  Standing just within the entrance to the modest, low-ceilinged room, Cutter watched as Darist began preparations for donning his martial accoutrements. The Daru youth was finding it difficult to convince himself that such beautiful weapons and armour—which had clearly seen decades, if not centuries, of use—could belong to this silver-haired man, who carried himself like an absent-minded scholar, whose amber eyes seemed to hold a perpetual look of confused distraction beneath the glowing sheen. Who moved slowly as if protecting brittle bones—

  Yet I have experienced the old Tiste Andii’s strength. And there is a mindfulness to his every movement which I should recognize—for I last saw it on another Tiste Andii, an ocean away. A racial trait? Perhaps, but it whispers like a song of threat, sunk deep in the marrow of my bones.

  Darist stood facing his suit of armour, as if frozen in some startled contemplation—as if he’d forgotten how to put it on.

  ‘These Tiste Edur, Darist,’ Cutter said. ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Will we survive the coming attack, is your question? Unlikely, is my answer. At least five ships survived the storm. Two have reached our shore and managed landing. There would have been more, but they were engaged by a Malazan fleet that happened upon them by chance. We witnessed the clash from the Cliffs of Purahl…’ The Tiste Andii slowly glanced back at Cutter. ‘Your human kin did well—far better than the Edur no doubt anticipated.’

  ‘A sea battle between the Malazans and the Tiste Edur? When was this?’

  ‘Perhaps a week ago. There were but three Malazan war dromons, yet each managed to find company before plunging to the deep. There was a skilled mage among the humans—the exchange of sorcery was impressive—’

  ‘You and your kin watched? Why didn’t you help? You must have known the Edur were seeking this island!’

  Darist stepped towards the armour, lifted it seemingly effortlessly from its frame. ‘We no longer leave this island. For many decades now, we hold to our decision to remain isolated.’

  ‘Why?’

  The Tiste Andii gave no answer. He slipped the mail suit over his shoulders. The sound it made as it flowed down was like liquid. He then reached for the sword.

  ‘That looks as if it would snap with the first block of a heavier weapon.’

  ‘It will not. There are many names for this particular sword.’ Darist lifted it free of the hooks. ‘Its maker named it Vengeance. T’an Aros, in our language. But I call it K’orladis.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Grief.’

  A faint chill rippled through Cutter. ‘Who was its maker?’

  ‘My brother.’ He sheathed the sword, slipped his arms through the chain harness. Then he reached for the gauntlets. ‘Before he found one…more suited to his nature.’ Darist turned, his gaze travelling the length of Cutter, head to toe, then back again. ‘Do you have skill with those knives hidden about your person?’

  ‘Some, though I draw no pleasure from spilling blood.’

  ‘What else are they for?’ the Tiste Andii asked as he donned the helm.

  Cutter shrugged, wishing he had an answer to that question.

  ‘Do you intend to fight the Edur?’

  ‘Since they are seeking the throne, yes.’

  Darist slowly cocked his head. ‘Yet this is not your battle. Why would you choose to borrow this cause?’

  ‘On Genabackis—my homeland—Anomander Rake and his followers chose to fight against the Malazan Empire. It wasn’t their battle, but they have now made it so.’

  He was surprised to see a wry smile twist the Tiste Andii’s weathered features beneath the crooked iron fingers of the guards.

  ‘That is interesting. Very well, Cutter, join me—though I tell you now it will prove your final fight.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  Darist led him from the room, out into the broad hallway once more, then through a narrow, black-wood-framed archway. The passage within appeared to be a tunnel through a single piece of wood, like the hollowed core of a massive, toppled tree trunk. It stretched on into the gloom, inclining slightly upward.

  Cutter walked behind the Tiste Andii, the sound of the man’s armour soft as the hiss of rain on a beach. The tunnel ended abruptly with an upward turn, the ceiling opening to reveal a vertical shaft. A rough ladder of roots climbed towards a small, pale disc of light.

  Darist’s ascent was slow and measured, Cutter impatient on the rungs directly beneath until the thought that he might soon die struck him, at which point a dull lassitude settled into his muscles, and it became a struggle to keep up with the ancient Tiste Andii.

  They eventually emerged onto a leaf-cluttered floor of fl
agstones. Sunlight speared shafts of dust from slitted windows and gaps in the roof overhead—the storm seemed to have missed this place entirely. One wall had mostly collapsed and it was towards this that Darist strode.

  Cutter followed. ‘Some sort of upkeep might well have made this defensible,’ he muttered.

  ‘These surface structures are not Andii—they are Edur, and were in ruin when we first arrived.’

  ‘How close are they?’

  ‘They range through the forest, working inland. Cautious. They know they are not alone.’

  ‘How many can you sense?’

  ‘This first party numbers perhaps a score. We shall meet them in the courtyard, permitting us sufficient room for swordplay yet allowing us a wall to which we can set our backs in the last few moments.’

  ‘Hood’s breath, Darist, if we drive them back you’ll likely die of shock.’

  The Tiste Andii glanced back at the Daru, then gestured. ‘Follow me.’

  A half-dozen similarly ruined chambers were traversed before they came to the courtyard. The vine-latticed walls were twice the height of a human, ragged-topped. Faded frescoes were hinted at beneath the overgrowth. Opposite the inner entrance through which they strode was an arched gateway, beyond which a trail of pine needles, snaking roots and moss-covered boulders wound into the shadows of enormous trees.

  Cutter judged the yard to be twenty paces wide, twenty-five deep. ‘There’s too much room here, Darist,’ he said. ‘We’ll get flanked—’

  ‘I will command the centre. You remain behind, for those who might indeed try to get past me.’

  Cutter recalled Anomander Rake’s battle with the demon on the Darujhistan street. The two-handed fighting style the Son of Darkness had employed demanded plenty of room, and it now appeared that Darist would fight in a similar manner—but the sword’s blade was, to Cutter’s mind, far too thin for such fierce, wheeling swings. ‘Is there sorcery invested in that blade of yours?’ he asked.

  ‘Not as investment is commonly known,’ the Tiste Andii replied, drawing the weapon and wrapping both hands about the grip, one high under the hilt, the other just above the pommel. ‘The power of Grief lies in the focused intent in its creation. The sword demands a singular will in its wielder. With such a will, it cannot be defeated.’