The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘And have you that singular will?’

  Darist slowly lowered the tip to the ground. ‘Had I, human, this would not be your last day this side of Hood’s gate. Now, I suggest you draw your weapons. The Edur have discovered the path and now approach.’

  Cutter found his hands were trembling as he drew out his leading knives. He possessed four others, two under each arm, sheathed in leather and peace-looped by thongs—which he now pulled clear. These four were weighted for throwing. Once done, he adjusted his grip on the knives in his hands, then had to dry his palms and repeat the task.

  A soft whisper of sound made him look up, to see that Darist had slipped into a fighting stance, though the tip of the sword still rested on the flagstones.

  And Cutter saw something else. The leaf clutter and detritus on the flagstones was in motion, crawling as if pushed by an unseen wind, gathering towards the gate’s end of the courtyard, and out to heap against the walls to either side.

  ‘Keep your eyes slitted,’ Darist said in a low tone.

  Slitted?

  There was movement in the gloom beyond the gateway, furtive, then three figures stepped into view beneath the arch.

  As tall as Darist, their skin a dusky pallor. Long brown hair, knotted and snarled with fetishes. Necklaces of claws and canines competed with the barbarity of their roughly tanned leather armour that was stitched with articulating strips of bronze. Their helms, also bronze, were shaped like bear or wolf skulls.

  Among them, there was nothing of the natural majesty evident in Darist—or in Anomander Rake. A far more brutal cast, these Edur. Tip-heavy black-bladed scimitars were in their hands, sealskin-covered round shields on their forearms.

  They hesitated before Darist, then the one in the centre snarled something in a language Cutter could not understand.

  The silver-haired Tiste Andii shrugged, said nothing.

  The Edur shouted something that was clearly a demand. Then they readied their weapons and swung their shields around.

  Cutter could see more of the savage warriors gathered on the trail beyond the gate.

  The three stepped from the archway, spread out to form a slight pincer position—the centre Edur a step further away than his companions on either side.

  ‘They don’t know how you will do this,’ Cutter murmured. ‘They’ve never fought against—’

  The flankers moved forward in perfect unison.

  Darist’s sword snapped upward, and with that motion, a fierce gust of wind lifted in the courtyard, and the air around the three Edur was suddenly filled with skirling leaves and dust.

  Cutter watched as the Tiste Andii attacked. The blade tipped horizontal, point threatening the Edur on the right, but the actual attack was with the pommel, against the warrior on the left. A blurring sideways dip to close, then the pommel struck the swiftly upraised shield, splitting it clean in half. Darist’s left hand slipped off the pommel and slapped the warrior’s sword away even as the Tiste Andii dropped into a squat, drawing the edge of Grief down his opponent’s front.

  It seemed there was no contact at all, yet blood gushed from a rent that began above the Edur’s left collar bone and descended in a straight line down to his crotch.

  The squat became a backward springing motion that landed Darist two paces back, his blade already hissing to fend off the other two warriors, both of whom leapt away in alarm.

  The wounded Edur crumpled in a pool of his own blood, and as he fell Cutter saw that Grief had cut through the collar bone and every rib in the cage down the left side.

  The warriors beyond the archway screamed battlecries and surged into the wind-whipped courtyard.

  Their only chance of success lay in closing on Darist, inside the man’s reach, closing and fouling that whispering blade, and the Edur lacked nothing in courage.

  Cutter saw another cut down, then a third took the pommel on the side of his helm, and the bronze collapsed inward far too deep—the warrior’s limbs flailed in strange jerking motions as he fell to the flagstones.

  Both leading knives were in the Daru’s left hand, and his right reached to a throwing knife. He sent the weapon darting out with a back-handed throw, saw it sink to the hilt in an Edur’s eye socket—and knew the tip had snapped against the inside of the man’s skull at the back. He threw the second one and swore as a shield lifted to take it.

  In the storm of spinning leaves Darist’s sword seemed to be everywhere at once, blocking attack after attack, then an Edur flung himself forward to grapple, and managed to wrap both arms around the Tiste Andii’s legs.

  A scimitar lashed in. There was a spray of blood from Darist’s right shoulder. Grief’s pommel dented the helm of the grappling warrior, and the Edur sagged. Another swing chopped into the Tiste Andii’s hip, the blade bouncing back out from the bone. Darist staggered.

  Cutter rushed forward as the remaining Edur closed. Through spinning, clattering leaves, into the calmed air at the centre. The Daru had already learned that direct, head-on confrontation was not an ideal tactic when fighting with knives. He chose an Edur whose attention was fixed solely on Darist and was therefore turned slightly away—the warrior caught sight of him peripherally, and was quick to react.

  A back-handed slash of the scimitar, followed by the shield swinging round.

  Cutter punched his left knife at the blade, to intercept a third of the way down from the tip. Simultaneously, he stop-hit the swing with his other knife, midway along the man’s forearm—the point of his weapon punching through leather and stabbing between the bones with both edges on. The hilt of his other weapon then contacted the scimitar—and knocked the weapon from a numbed hand.

  The Edur’s grunt was loud, and he swore as, yanking on the knife, Cutter moved past him. The blade was reluctant to pull free and dragged the impaled arm after it. The warrior’s legs tangled and he fell to one knee.

  Even as he lifted his shield, Cutter’s free knife darted in over it, spearing him through the throat.

  The shield’s rim cracked hard against the Daru’s out-thrust wrist, nearly springing the knife loose, but he managed to retain his grip.

  Another tug and the other knife tore free of the Edur’s forearm.

  A shield struck him a body blow from his left, lifting Cutter upward, his moccasins leaving the flagstones. He twisted and slashed out at the attacker, and missed. The shield’s impact had turned his left side into a mass of thrumming pain. He hit the ground and folded into a roll.

  Something thumped in pursuit, bounced once, then twice, and as the Daru regained his feet an Edur’s decapitated head cracked hard against his right shin.

  The agony of this last blow—absurdly to his mind—overwhelmed all else thus far. He screamed a curse, hopped backward one-legged.

  An Edur was rushing him.

  A fouler word grated out from Cutter. He flung the knife from his left hand. Shield surged up to meet it, the warrior ducking from view.

  Grimacing, Cutter lunged after the weapon—while the Edur remained blind—and stabbed overhand above the shield. The knife sank down behind the man’s left collar-bone, sprouting a geyser of blood as he pulled it back out.

  There were shouts now in the courtyard—and suddenly it seemed the fighting was everywhere, on all sides. Cutter reeled back a step to see that other Tiste Andii had arrived—and, in their midst, Apsalar.

  Three Edur were on the ground in her wake, all writhing amidst blood and bile.

  The rest, barring their kin who had fallen to Apsalar, Cutter and Darist, were retreating, back through the archway.

  Apsalar and her Tiste Andii companions pursued only so far as the gate.

  Slowly, the spinning wind dwindled, the leaf fragments drifting down like ash.

  Cutter glanced over to see Darist still standing, though he leaned against a side wall, his long, lean frame sheathed in blood, helm gone, his hair matted and hanging down over his face, dripping. The sword Grief remained in his two hands, point once more on the flagston
es.

  One of the new Tiste Andii moved to the three noisily dying Edur and unceremoniously slit their throats. When finished, she raised her gaze to study Apsalar for a long moment.

  Cutter realized that all of Darist’s kin were white-haired, though none were as old—indeed, they appeared very young, in appearance no older than the Daru himself. They were haphazardly armed and armoured, and none held their weapons with anything like familiarity. Quick, nervous glances were thrown at the gateway—then over to Darist.

  Sheathing her Kethra knives, Apsalar strode up to Cutter. ‘I am sorry we were late.’

  He blinked, then shrugged. ‘I thought you’d drowned.’

  ‘No, I made shore easily enough—though everything else went with you. There was sorcerous questing, then, but I evaded that.’ She nodded to the youths. ‘I found these camped a fair distance inland. They were…hiding.’

  ‘Hiding. But Darist said—’

  ‘Ah, so that is Darist. Andarist, to be more precise.’ She turned a thoughtful gaze on the ancient Tiste Andii. ‘It was by his command. He didn’t want them here…because I imagine he expected they would die.’

  ‘And so they shall,’ Darist growled, finally lifting his head to meet her eyes. ‘You have condemned them all, for the Edur will now hunt them down in earnest—the old hatreds, rekindled once more.’

  She seemed unaffected by his words. ‘The throne must be protected.’

  Darist bared red-stained teeth, his eyes glittering in the half-shadows. ‘If he truly wants it protected, then he can come here and do it himself.’

  Apsalar frowned. ‘Who?’

  Cutter answered, ‘His brother, of course. Anomander Rake.’

  It had been a guess, but Darist’s expression was all the affirmation needed. Anomander Rake’s younger brother. In his veins, nothing of the Son of Darkness’s Draconian blood. And in his hands, a sword that its maker had judged insufficient, when compared to Dragnipur. But this knowledge alone was barely a whisper—the twisted, dark storm of all that existed between the two siblings was an epic neither man was ever likely to orate, or so Cutter suspected.

  And the skein of bitter grievances proved even more knotted than the Daru had first imagined, for it was then revealed that the youths were, one and all, close kin to Anomander—grandchildren. Their parents had one and all succumbed to their sire’s flaw, the hunger for wandering, for vanishing into the mists, for shaping private worlds in forgotten, isolated places. ‘The search for loyalty and honour’, Darist had said, with a sneer, whilst Phaed—the young woman who had shown mercy to Apsalar’s victims—bound his wounds.

  A task not done quickly. Darist—Andarist—had been slashed at least a dozen times, each time the heavy scimitar parting chain then flesh down to the bone, in various places on his body. How he had managed to stand upright, much less continue fighting, belied his earlier claim that his will was not of sufficient purity to match the sword, Grief. Now that the skirmish had been suspended, however, the force that had fired the old warrior fast dissipated. His right arm was incapacitated; the wound on his hip dragged him onto the flagstones—and he could not rise again without help.

  There were nine dead Tiste Edur. Their retreat had probably been triggered by a desire to regroup rather than being hard-pressed.

  Worse, they were but an advance party. The two ships just off the shore were massive: each could easily hold two hundred warriors. Or so Apsalar judged, having scouted the inlet where they were moored.

  ‘There is plenty of wreckage in the water,’ she added, ‘and both Edur ships have the look of having been in a fight—’

  ‘Three Malazan war dromons,’ Cutter said. ‘A chance encounter. Darist says the Malazans gave a good account of themselves.’

  They were seated on some tumbled rubble a dozen paces from the Tiste Andii, watching the youths hover and fuss over Darist. Cutter’s left side ached, and though he did not look beneath his clothes he knew that bruises were spreading. He struggled to ignore the discomfort and continued eyeing the Tiste Andii.

  ‘They are not what I expected,’ he said quietly. ‘Not even schooled in the art of fighting—’

  ‘True. Darist’s desire to protect them could prove a fatal one.’

  ‘Now that the Edur know they exist. Not a part of Darist’s plan.’

  Apsalar shrugged. ‘They were given a task.’

  He fell silent, pondering that brusque statement. He’d always believed that a singular capacity to inflict death engendered a certain wisdom—of the fragility of the spirit, of its mortality—as he had known, and experienced first-hand, with Rallick Nom in Darujhistan. But Apsalar revealed nothing of such wisdom; her words were hard with judgement, often flatly dismissive. She had taken focus and made of it a weapon…or a means of self-defence.

  She had not intended any of the three Edur she had taken down to die swiftly. Yet it seemed she drew no pleasure, as a sadist might. It is more as if she was trained to do so…trained as a torturer. Yet Cotillion—Dancer—was no torturer. He was an assassin. So where does the vicious streak come from? Does it belong to her own nature? An unpleasant, disturbing thought.

  He lifted his left arm, gingerly, wincing. Their next fight would likely be a short one, even with Apsalar at their side.

  ‘You are in no condition to fight,’ she observed.

  ‘Nor is Darist,’ Cutter retorted.

  ‘The sword will carry him. But you will prove a liability. I would not be distracted by protecting you.’

  ‘What do you suggest? I kill myself now so I’m not in your way?’

  She shook her head—as if the suggestion had been, on its face, entirely reasonable, just not what she had in mind—and spoke in a low voice. ‘There are others on this island. Hiding well, but not well enough to escape my notice. I want you to go to them. I want you to enlist their help.’

  ‘Who are these others?’

  ‘You yourself identified them, Cutter. Malazans. Survivors, I would assume, from the three war dromons. There is one of power among them.’

  Cutter glanced over at Darist. The youths had moved the old man so that he sat with his back against the wall beside the inside doorway, opposite the gate. His head was lowered, bearded chin to chest, and only the faint rise and fall of his chest indicated that he still lived. ‘All right. Where will I find them?’

  The forest was filled with ruins. Crumbled, moss-covered, often little more than overgrown heaps, but it was evident to Cutter as he padded along the narrow, faint trail Apsalar had described for him that this forest had risen from the heart of a dead city—a huge city, dominated by massive buildings. Pieces of statuary lay scattered here and there, figures of enormous stature, constructed in sections and fixed together with a glassy substance he did not recognize. Although mostly covered in moss, he suspected the figures were Edur.

  An oppressive gloom suffused all that lay beneath the forest canopy. A number of living trees showed torn bark, and while the bark was black, the smooth, wet wood underneath was blood red. Fallen companions revealed that the fierce crimson turned black with death. The wounded upright trees reminded Cutter of Darist—of the Tiste Andii’s black skin and the deep red cuts slashing through it.

  He found he was shivering in the damp air as he padded along. His left arm was now entirely useless, and though he had retrieved his knives—including the broken-tipped one—he doubted that he would be able to put up much of a fight should the need arise.

  He could make out his destination directly ahead. A mound of rubble, pyramidal and particularly large, its summit sunbathed. There were trees on its flanks, but most were dead in the strangling grip of vines. A gaping hole of impenetrable darkness yawned from the side nearest Cutter.

  He slowed, then, twenty paces from the cave, halted. What he was about to do ran against every instinct. ‘Malazans!’ he called out, then winced at his own loudness. But the Edur are closing on the Throne—no-one nearby to hear me. I hope. ‘I know you are within! I would speak w
ith you!’

  Figures appeared at the flanking edges of the cave, two on each side, crossbows cocked and trained on Cutter. Then, from the centre, emerged three more, two women and a man. The woman on the left gestured and said, ‘Come closer, hands out to your sides.’

  Cutter hesitated, then stretched out his right hand. ‘My left arm won’t lift, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Come ahead.’

  He approached.

  The speaker was tall, muscular. Her hair was long, stained red. She wore tanned leathers. A longsword was scabbarded at her hip. Her skin was a deep bronze in hue. Cutter judged she was ten or more years older than him, and he felt a shiver run through him when he lifted his gaze and met her tilted, gold-hued eyes.

  The other woman was unarmed, older, and her entire right side, head, face, torso and leg, was horrifically burned—the flesh fused with wisps of clothing, mangled and melted by the ravages of a sorcerous attack. It was a wonder that she was standing—or even alive.

  Hanging back a step from these two was the man. Cutter guessed that he was Dal Honese, dusky-skinned, grey-shot black curled hair on his head cut short—though his eyes were, incongruously, a deep blue. His features were even enough, though crisscrossed with scars. He wore a battered hauberk, a plain longsword at his belt, and an expression so closed he could be Apsalar’s brother.

  The flanking marines were in full armour, helmed and visored.

  ‘Are you the only survivors?’ Cutter asked.

  The first woman scowled.

  ‘I have little time,’ the Daru went on. ‘We need your help. The Edur are assailing us—’

  ‘Edur?’

  Cutter blinked, then nodded. ‘The seafarers you fought. Tiste Edur. They are seeking something on this island, something of vast power—and we’d rather it not fall into their hands. And why should you help? Because if it does fall into their hands, the Malazan Empire is likely finished. In fact, so is all of humanity—’