The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Kalam poured himself another cup. ‘I need to eat—’

  But Iskaral Pust was gone.

  He looked around, bemused.

  Sandalled feet approached from the corridor without, then a wild-haired old woman leapt in through the doorway. Dal Honese—not surprisingly. She was covered in cobwebs. She glared about. ‘Where is he? He was here, wasn’t he? I can smell him! The bastard was here!’

  Kalam shrugged. ‘Look, I’m hungry—’

  ‘Do I look appetising?’ she snapped. A quick, appraising glance at Kalam. ‘Mind you, you do!’ She began searching the small room, sniffing at corners, crouching to peer into the jug. ‘I know every room, every hiding place,’ she muttered, shaking her head. ‘And why not? When veered, I was everywhere—’

  ‘You’re a Soletaken? Ah, spiders…’

  ‘Oh, aren’t you a clever and long one!’

  ‘Why not veer again? Then you could search—’

  ‘If I veered, I’d be the one hunted! Oh no, old Mogora’s not stupid, she won’t fall for that! I’ll find him! You watch!’

  She scurried from the room.

  Kalam sighed. With luck, his stay with these two would be a short one.

  Iskaral Pust’s voice whispered in his ear. ‘That was close!’

  Cheekbone and orbital ridge were both shattered, the pieces that remained held in place by strips of withered tendon and muscle. Had Onrack possessed anything more than a shrunken, mummified nugget for an eye, it would have been torn away by the Tiste Liosan’s ivory scimitar.

  There was, of course, no effect on his vision, for his senses existed in the ghostly fire of the Tellann Ritual—the unseen aura hovering around his mangled body, burning with memories of completeness, of vigour. Even so, the severing of his left arm created a strange, queasy sense of conflict, as if the wound bled in both the world of the ritual ghost-shape and in the physical world. A seeping away of power, of self, leaving the T’lan Imass warrior with vaguely confused thoughts, a malaise of ephemeral…thinness.

  He stood motionless, watching his kin prepare for the ritual. He was outside them, now, no longer able to conjoin his spirit with theirs. From this jarring fact there was emerging, in Onrack’s mind, a strange shifting of perspective. He saw only their physicality now—the ghost-shapes were invisible to his sight.

  Withered corpses. Ghastly. Devoid of majesty, a mockery of all that was once noble. Duty and courage had been made animate, and this was all the T’lan Imass were, and had been for hundreds of thousands of years. Yet, without choice, such virtues as duty and courage were transformed into empty, worthless words. Without mortality, hovering like an unseen sword overhead, meaning was without relevance, no matter the nature—or even the motivation behind—an act. Any act.

  Onrack believed he was finally seeing, when fixing his gaze upon his once-kin, what all those who were not T’lan Imass saw, when looking upon these horrific, undead warriors.

  An extinct past refusing to fall to dust. Brutal reminders of rectitude and intransigence, of a vow elevated into insanity.

  And this is how I have been seen. Perhaps how I am still seen. By Trull Sengar. By these Tiste Liosan. Thus. How, then, shall I feel? What am I supposed to feel? And when last did feelings even matter?

  Trull Sengar spoke beside him. ‘Were you anyone else, I would hazard to read you as being thoughtful, Onrack.’ He was seated on a low wall, the box of Moranth munitions at his feet.

  The Tiste Liosan had pitched a camp nearby, a picket line paced out and bulwarks of rubble constructed, three paces between each single-person tent, horses within a staked-out rope corral—in all, the precision and diligence verging on the obsessive.

  ‘Conversely,’ Trull continued after a moment, his eyes on the Liosan, ‘perhaps your kind are indeed great thinkers. Solvers of every vast mystery. Possessors of all the right answers…if only I could pose the right questions. Thankful as I am for your companionship, Onrack, I admit to finding you immensely frustrating.’

  ‘Frustrating. Yes. We are.’

  ‘And your companions intend to dismantle what’s left of you once we return to our home realm. If I was in your place, I’d be running for the horizon right now.’

  ‘Flee?’ Onrack considered the notion, then nodded. ‘Yes, this is what the renegades—those we hunt—did. And yes, now I understand them.’

  ‘They did more than simply flee,’ Trull said. ‘They found someone or something else to serve, to avow allegiance to…while at the moment, at least, that option is not available to you. Unless, of course, you choose those Liosan.’

  ‘Or you.’

  Trull shot him a startled look, then grinned. ‘Amusing.’

  ‘Of course,’ Onrack added, ‘Monok Ochem would view such a thing as a crime, no different from that which has been committed by the renegades.’

  The T’lan Imass had nearly completed their preparations. The bonecaster had inscribed a circle, twenty paces across, in the dried mud with a sharpened bhederin rib, then had scattered seeds and dust-clouds of spores within the ring. Ibra Gholan and his two warriors had raised the equivalent of a sighting stone—an elongated chunk of mortared fired bricks from a collapsed building wall—a dozen paces outside the circle, and were making constant adjustments beneath the confusing play of light from the two suns, under Monok Ochem’s directions.

  ‘That won’t be easy,’ Trull observed, watching the T’lan Imass shifting the upright stone, ‘so I suppose I can expect to keep my blood for a while longer.’

  Onrack slowly swung his misshapen head to study the Tiste Edur. ‘It is you who should be fleeing, Trull Sengar.’

  ‘Your bonecaster explained that they needed only a drop or two.’

  My bonecaster…no longer. ‘True, if all goes well.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it?’

  ‘The Tiste Liosan. Kurald Thyrllan—this is the name they give their warren. Seneschal Jorrude is not a sorcerer. He is a warrior-priest.’

  Trull frowned. ‘It is the same for the Tiste Edur, for my people, Onrack—’

  ‘And as such, the seneschal must kneel before his power. Whereas a sorcerer commands power. Your approach is fraught, Trull Sengar. You assume that a benign spirit gifts you that power. If that spirit is usurped, you may not even know it. And then, you become a victim, a tool, manipulated to serve unknown purposes.’

  Onrack fell silent, and watched the Tiste Edur…as a deathly pallor stole the life from Trull’s eyes, as the expression became one of horrified revelation. And so I give answer to a question you were yet to ask. Alas, this does not make me all-knowing. ‘The spirit that grants the seneschal his power may be corrupted. There is no way to know…until it is unleashed. And even then, malign spirits are highly skilled at hiding. The one named Osseric is…lost. Osric, as humans know him. No, I do not know the source of Monok Ochem’s knowledge in this matter. Thus, the hand behind the seneschal’s power is probably not Osseric, but some other entity, hidden behind the guise and the name of Osseric. Yet these Tiste Liosan proceed unawares.’

  It was clear that Trull Sengar was, for the moment, unable to offer comment, or pose questions, so Onrack simply continued—wondering at the sudden extinction of his own reticence—‘The seneschal spoke of their own hunt. In pursuit of trespassers who crossed through their fiery warren. But these trespassers are not the renegades we hunt. Kurald Thyrllan is not a sealed warren. Indeed, it lies close to our own Tellann—for Tellann draws from it. Fire is life and life is fire. Fire is the war against the cold, the slayer of ice. It is our salvation. Bonecasters have made use of Kurald Thyrllan. Probably, others have as well. That such incursions should prove cause for enmity among the Liosan was never considered. For it seemed there were no Tiste Liosan.

  ‘Monok Ochem considers this, now. He cannot help but consider this. Where are these Liosan from? How distant—how remote—their home? Why are they now awakened to resentment? What does the one hidden behind the guise of Osseric now seek? Where—’

 
‘Stop! Please, Onrack, stop! I need to think—I need—’ Trull rose suddenly, flinging a dismissive gesture at the T’lan Imass, then strode off.

  ‘I think,’ Onrack said quietly to himself as he watched the Tiste Edur storm away, ‘that I will revert to reticence.’

  A small chunk of mortared brick had now been positioned in the centre of the ring; its top was being inscribed with slashes and grooves by the bonecaster, and Onrack realized that Monok Ochem had already discerned the celestial patterns of the two suns and the numerous moons that wheeled overhead.

  Colours played constantly over this landscape in sullen blood hues, occasionally overwhelmed by deep blues that limned everything in a cold, almost metallic sheen. At the moment, magenta dominated, a lurid tone as of reflected conflagration. Yet the air remained still and damp, eternally pensive.

  A world aswarm in shadows. The hounds that Onrack had inadvertently freed from their stone prisons had cast scores of them. The battered warrior wondered where the two beasts had gone. He was fairly certain that they were no longer in this realm, in this place known as the Nascent.

  Shadow and spirit reunited…the beasts had possessed something…unusual. As if each was shaped of two distinct powers, two aspects chained together. Onrack had unleashed those hounds, yet, on second consideration, perhaps not freed them. Shadow from Dark. That which is cast…from that which has cast it. The warrior lowered his gaze to study his own multiple shadows. Was there tension between him and them? Clearly, there was a binding. But he was the master and they his slaves.

  Or so it seemed…Silent kin of mine. You precede. You follow. You strive on my flanks. Huddle beneath me. Your world finds its shape from my bone and flesh. Yet your breadth and length belong to Light. You are the bridge between worlds, yet you cannot be walked. No substance, then. Only perception.

  ‘Onrack, you are closed to us.’

  He lifted his gaze. Monok Ochem stood before him. ‘Yes, Bonecaster. I am closed to you. Do you doubt me?’

  ‘I would know your thoughts.’

  ‘They are…insubstantial.’

  Monok Ochem cocked his head. ‘None the less.’

  Onrack was silent for a long moment. ‘Bonecaster. I remain bound to your path.’

  ‘Yet you are severed.’

  ‘The renegade kin must be found. They are our…shadows. I now stand between you and them, and so I can guide you. I now know where to look, the signs to seek. Destroy me and you shall lose an advantage in your hunt.’

  ‘You bargain for…persistence?’

  ‘I do, Bonecaster.’

  ‘Tell us, then, the path the renegades have taken.’

  ‘I shall…when it becomes relevant.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘No.’

  Monok Ochem stared down at the warrior, then swung away and returned to the circle.

  Tellann commanded that place now. Tundra flowers had erupted from the mud, along with lichen and mosses. Blackflies swarmed at ankle height. A dozen paces beyond stood the four Tiste Liosan, their enamel armour glowing in the strange magenta light.

  Trull Sengar watched from a position fifteen paces to Onrack’s left, his arms tightly crossed about himself, a haunted expression on his lean face.

  Monok Ochem approached the seneschal. ‘We are ready, Liosan.’

  Jorrude nodded. ‘Then I shall begin my prayers, Undead Priest. And there shall be proof that our Master, Osric, is far from lost to us. You shall know his power.’

  The bonecaster said nothing.

  ‘And when,’ Trull asked, ‘shall I start spraying blood around? Which one of you has the pleasure of wounding me?’

  ‘The choice is yours,’ Monok Ochem replied.

  ‘Good. I choose Onrack—he’s the only one here I’m prepared to trust. Apologies to those of you who might take offence at that.’

  ‘That task should be mine,’ Seneschal Jorrude said. ‘Blood lies at the heart of Osric’s power—’

  Onrack was alone noting the slight start from the bonecaster at that, and the warrior nodded to himself. Much answered with those words.

  ‘—and indeed,’ Jorrude continued, ‘I shall have to spill some of my own as well.’

  But Trull Sengar shook his head. ‘No. Onrack…or no one.’ And he then uncrossed his arms, revealing a clay ball in each hand.

  There was a snort from Jorrude, and the Liosan named Enias growled, ‘Grant me leave to kill him, Seneschal. I shall ensure that there is no shortage of Edur blood.’

  ‘Do so, and I guarantee the same lack of shortage,’ Trull responded, ‘concerning Liosan blood. Bonecaster, do you recognize these munitions?’

  ‘They are known by the Malazans as cussers,’ answered Ibra Gholan, the clan leader. ‘One will suffice, given our collective proximities.’

  Trull grinned over at the T’lan Imass warrior. ‘Even that dhenrabi skin on your shoulders won’t help much, will it?’

  ‘True,’ Ibra Gholan replied. ‘While armour is not entirely ineffectual, such value invariably proves wanting.’

  Monok Ochem turned to the seneschal. ‘Agree to the stipulation,’ he said. ‘Begin your prayers, Liosan.’

  ‘Such commands are not for you to utter,’ Jorrude snarled. He glared at Trull. ‘You, Edur, have much to learn. We shall create this gate, and then there will come a reckoning.’

  Trull Sengar shrugged. ‘As you like.’

  Adjusting his bloodstained cloak, the seneschal strode into the centre of the circle. Then he lowered himself onto his knees, chin settling onto his chest, closing his gleaming, silver eyes.

  Blackflies formed a humming cloud around him.

  Whatever link existed between Jorrude and his god proved both strong and swift. God fire flickered into life here and there beyond the circumference of the circle. The remaining three Tiste Liosan returned to their own camp and began packing.

  Monok Ochem strode into the circle, followed by the two clansmen Haran Epal and Olar Shayn. The clan leader faced Onrack and said, ‘Guard your companion close, if you would he survive. Cleave to that singular concern, Onrack. No matter what you might witness.’

  ‘I shall,’ Onrack replied. In many essential matters, the warrior realized, he had no need for a binding of souls with his kin…to know their minds. He strode to Trull Sengar. ‘Follow me,’ he instructed. ‘We must now enter the circle.’

  The Tiste Edur scowled, then nodded. ‘Take the box of munitions, then. My hands are full.’

  Trull had fixed straps to the box. Onrack collected it then led his companion into the circle.

  The three Liosan had completed breaking their camp and were now saddling their white horses.

  The fires continued flickering in and out of existence around the periphery, none large enough to pose a threat. But Onrack could sense the approach of the Liosan god. Or at least the outermost layers of its disguise. Cautious, mistrustful—not of the seneschal, of course—but for this to work, the hidden spirit would have to come to this realm’s very edge.

  And when Jorrude offered up his own blood, the bridge of power between him and his god would be complete.

  The thud of horse hoofs announced the arrival of the other three Liosan, the four mounts in tow.

  Onrack drew forth from beneath rotted furs a small crescent-shaped obsidian knife, single-edged on the inward-curving line, and held it out to Trull. ‘When I so instruct you, Trull Sengar, cut yourself. A few drops will suffice.’

  The Tiste Edur frowned. ‘I thought you were—’

  ‘I would not be distracted, in the moment of crossing.’

  ‘Distracted?’

  ‘Say nothing. Attend to yourself.’

  His frown deepening, Trull crouched to return the two cussers to the box, affixed the lid once more and slung the contrivance over a shoulder, then straightened and accepted the stone blade.

  The flames were now growing, unbroken immediately beyond the inscribed ring. Kurald Thyrllan, but the ascendant shaping it remained unseen. Onrack wonde
red at its nature. If these Liosan were any indication, it found sustenance from purity, as if such a thing was even possible Intransigence. Simplicity.

  The simplicity of blood, a detail whispering of antiquity, of primeval origins. A spirit, then, before whom a handful of savages once bowed. There had been many such entities, once, born of that primitive assertion of meaning to object, meaning shaped by symbols and portents, scratchings on rock-faces and in the depths of caves.

  No shortage…but tribes died out, were winnowed out, were devoured by more powerful neighbours. The secret language of the scratchings, the caves with their painted images that came alive to the pounding of drums—those most mysterious cathedrals of thunder…all lost, forgotten. And with that fading away of secrets, so too the spirits themselves dwindled, usually into oblivion.

  That some lingered was not surprising to Onrack. Even unto usurping the faith of a new tribe. What was new to the warrior, rising like a tightness into his desiccated throat, was the sense of…pathos.

  In the name of purity, the Liosan worship their god. In the name of…of nostalgia, the god worships what was and shall never again return.

  The spilling of blood was the deadliest of games.

  As is about to be seen.

  A harsh cry from the seneschal, and the flames rose into a wall on all sides, raging with unbridled power. Jorrude had laid open his left palm. Within the circle, a swirling wind rose, laden with the smells of a thaw—of spring in some northern clime.

  Onrack turned to Trull. ‘Now.’

  The Tiste Edur slashed the obsidian blade across the edge of his left hand, then stared down disbelieving at the gash—clear, the flesh neatly parted, frighteningly deep.

  The blood emerged a moment later, welling forth, red roots racing and branching down his grey-skinned forearm.

  The gate seemed to tear itself open, surrounding the group within the circle. Spiralling tunnels reached outward from it, each seeming to lead on into eternity. A roar of chaos on the flanks, miasmic grey fire in the spaces between the portals. Onrack reached out to catch a reeling Trull Sengar. The blood was spraying out from his left hand, as if the Edur’s entire body was being squeezed by some unseen, but unrelenting pressure.