The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Strings studied the man for a moment, then grunted. ‘You wanted to see me about something?’

  Balm shrugged. ‘Not really. Sort of. What do you think of the captain’s new units? Seems a little late to make changes like this…’

  ‘It’s not that new, actually. Greymane’s legions are sometimes set up in the same manner. In any case, our new Fist has approved it.’

  ‘Keneb. Not sure about him.’

  ‘And you are about our fresh-faced captain?’

  ‘Aye, I am. He’s nobleborn, is Ranal. Enough said.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Balm looked away, started tracking a distant bird in flight. ‘Oh, only that he’s likely to get us all killed.’

  Ah. ‘Speak louder, not everyone heard that opinion.’

  ‘Don’t need to, Strings. They share it.’

  ‘Sharing it ain’t the same as saying it.’

  Gesler, Borduke and the sergeants from the 11th and 12th squads came over and muttered introductions went round the group. Moak, of the 11th, was Falari, copper-haired and bearded like Strings. He’d taken a lance down his back, from shoulder to tailbone, and, despite the healer’s efforts, was clearly struggling with badly knitted muscles. The 12th’s sergeant, Thom Tissy, was squat, with a face that might be handsome to a female toad, his cheeks pocked and the backs of his hands covered in warts. He was, the others saw when he removed his helm, virtually hairless.

  Moak squinted at Strings for a long moment, as if seeking to conjure recognition, then he drew out a fish spine from his belt pouch and began picking his teeth. ‘Anybody else hear about that killer soldier? Heavy infantry, not sure what company, not even sure what legion. Named Neffarias Bredd. I heard he killed eighteen raiders all in one night.’

  Strings lifted his gaze to meet Gesler’s, but neither man’s expression changed.

  ‘I heard it was eighteen one night, thirteen the next,’ Thom Tissy said. ‘We’ll have to ask the slope-brows when they show.’

  ‘Well,’ Strings pointed out, ‘there’s one over there.’ He raised his voice. ‘Flashwit! Come join us for a moment, if you please.’

  The ground seemed to tremble with the woman’s approach. She was Napan and Strings wondered if she knew she was female. The muscles of her arms were larger than his thighs. She had cut all her hair off, her round face devoid of ornament barring a bronze nose-ring. Yet her eyes were startlingly beautiful, emerald green.

  ‘Have you heard of another heavy, Flashwit? Neffarias Bredd?’

  Those extraordinary eyes widened. ‘Killed fifty raiders, they say.’

  ‘Which legion?’ Moak asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Not ours, though.’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Well,’ Moak snapped, ‘what do you know?’

  ‘He killed fifty raiders. Can I go now? I have to pee.’

  They watched her walk away.

  ‘Standing up, do you think?’ Thom Tissy asked the others in general.

  Moak snorted. ‘Why don’t you go ask her.’

  ‘Ain’t that eager to get killed. Why don’t you, Moak?’

  ‘Here come the heavy’s sergeants,’ Balm observed.

  Mosel, Sobelone and Tugg could have been siblings. They all hailed from Malaz City, typical of the mixed breed prevalent on the island, and the air of threat around them had less to do with size than attitude. Sobelone was the oldest of the three, a severe-looking woman with streaks of grey in her shoulder-length black hair, her eyes the colour of the sky. Mosel was lean, the epicanthic folds of his eyes marking Kanese blood somewhere in his family line. His hair was braided and cut finger-length in the fashion of Jakatakan pirates. Tugg was the biggest of the three, armed with a short single-bladed axe. The shield strapped on his back was enormous, hardwood, sheathed in tin and rimmed in bronze.

  ‘Which one of you is Strings?’ Mosel asked.

  ‘Me. Why?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Nothing. I was just wondering. And you’—he nodded at Gesler—‘you’re that coastal guard, Gesler.’

  ‘So I am. What of it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  There was a moment of awkward silence, then Tugg spoke, his voice thin, emerging from, Strings suspected, a damaged larynx. ‘We heard the Adjunct was going to the wall tomorrow. With that sword. Then what? She stabs it? It’s a storm of sand, there’s nothing to stab. And aren’t we already in Raraku? The Holy Desert? It don’t feel any different, don’t look any different, neither. Why didn’t we just wait for ’em? Or let ’em stay and rot here in this damned wasteland? Sha’ik wants an empire of sand, let her have it.’

  That fractured voice was excruciating to listen to, and it seemed to Strings that Tugg would never stop. ‘Plenty of questions there,’ he said as soon as the man paused to draw a wheezing breath. ‘This empire of sand can’t be left here, Tugg, because it’s a rot, and it will spread—we’d lose Seven Cities, and far too much blood was spilled conquering it in the first place to just let it go. And, while we’re in Raraku, we’re on its very edge. It may be a Holy Desert, but it looks like any other. If it possesses a power, then that lies in what it does to you, after a while. Maybe not what it does, but what it gives. Not an easy thing to explain.’ He then shrugged, and coughed.

  Gesler cleared his throat. ‘The Whirlwind Wall is sorcery, Tugg. The Adjunct’s sword is otataral. There will be a clash between the two. If the Adjunct’s sword fails, then we all go home…or back to Aren—’

  ‘Not what I heard,’ Moak said, pausing to spit before continuing. ‘We swing east then north if we can’t breach the wall. To G’danisban, or maybe Ehrlitan. To wait for Dujek Onearm and High Mage Tayschrenn. I’ve even heard that Greymane might be recalled from the Korelri campaign.’

  Strings stared at the man. ‘Whose shadow have you been standing in, Moak?’

  ‘Well, it makes sense, don’t it?’

  Sighing, Strings straightened. ‘It’s all a waste of breath, soldiers. Sooner or later, we’re all marching in wide-eyed stupid.’ He strode over to where his squad had set up the tents.

  His soldiers, Cuttle included, were gathered around Bottle, who sat cross-legged and seemed to be playing with twigs and sticks.

  Strings halted in his tracks, an uncanny chill creeping through him. Gods below, for a moment there I thought I was seeing Quick Ben, with Whiskeyjack’s squad crowding round some damned risky ritual…He could hear faint singing from somewhere in the desert beyond the camp, singing that sliced like a sword’s edge through the roar of the Whirlwind Wall. The sergeant shook his head and approached.

  ‘What are you doing, Bottle?’

  The young man looked up guiltily. ‘Uh, not much, Sergeant—’

  ‘Trying a divination,’ Cuttle growled, ‘and as far as I can tell, getting nowhere.’

  Strings slowly crouched down in the circle, opposite Bottle. ‘Interesting style there, lad. Sticks and twigs. Where did you pick that up?’

  ‘Grandmother,’ he muttered.

  ‘She was a witch?’

  ‘More or less. So was my mother.’

  ‘And your father? What was he?’

  ‘Don’t know. There were rumours…’ He ducked his head, clearly uncomfortable.

  ‘Never mind,’ Strings said. ‘That’s earth-aspected, the pattern you have there. You need more than just what anchors the power…’

  All the others were staring at Strings now.

  Bottle nodded, then drew out a small doll made of woven grasses, a dark, purple-bladed variety. Strips of black cloth were wrapped about it.

  The sergeant’s eyes widened. ‘Who in Hood’s name is that supposed to be?’

  ‘Well, the hand of death, sort of, or so I wanted it to be. You know, where it’s going. But it’s not co-operating.’

  ‘You drawing from Hood’s warren?’

  ‘A little…’

  Well, there’s more to this lad than I’d first thought. ‘Never mind Hood. He may hover, but won’t
stride forward until after the fact, and even then, he’s an indiscriminate bastard. For that figure you’ve made, try the Patron of Assassins.’

  Bottle flinched. ‘The Rope? That’s too, uh, close…’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Smiles demanded. ‘You said you knew Meanas. And now it turns out you know Hood, too. And witchery. I’m starting to think you’re just making it all up.’

  The mage scowled. ‘Fine, then. Now stop flapping your lips. I’ve got to concentrate.’

  The squad settled down once more. Strings fixed his gaze on the various sticks and twigs that had been thrust into the sand before Bottle. After a long moment, the mage slowly set the doll down in their midst, pushing the legs into the sand until the doll stood on its own, then carefully withdrew his hand.

  The pattern of sticks on one side ran in a row. Strings assumed that was the Whirlwind Wall, since those sticks began waving, like reeds in the wind.

  Bottle was mumbling under his breath, with a growing note of urgency, then frustration. After a moment the breath gusted from him and he sat back, eyes blinking open. ‘It’s no use—’

  The sticks had ceased moving.

  ‘Is it safe to reach in there?’ Strings asked.

  ‘Aye, Sergeant.’

  Strings reached out and picked up the doll. Then he set it back down…on the other side of the Whirlwind Wall. ‘Try it now.’

  Bottle stared across at him for a moment, then leaned forward and closed his eyes once more.

  The Whirlwind Wall began wavering again. Then a number of the sticks along that row toppled.

  A gasp from the circle, but Bottle’s scowl deepened. ‘It’s not moving. The doll. I can feel the Rope…close, way too close. There’s power, pouring into or maybe out of that doll, only it’s not moving—’

  ‘You’re right,’ Strings said, a grin slowly spreading across his features. ‘It’s not moving. But its shadow is…’

  Cuttle grunted. ‘Queen take me, he’s right. That’s a damn strange thing—I’ve seen enough.’ He rose suddenly, looking nervous and shaken. ‘Magic’s creepy. I’m going to bed.’

  The divination ended abruptly. Bottle opened his eyes and looked around at the others, his face glistening with sweat. ‘Why didn’t he move? Why only his shadow?’

  Strings stood. ‘Because, lad, he isn’t ready yet.’

  Smiles glared up at the sergeant. ‘So, who is he? The Rope himself?’

  ‘No,’ Bottle answered. ‘No, I’m sure of that.’

  Saying nothing, Strings strode from the circle. No, not the Rope. Someone even better, as far as I am concerned. As far as every Malazan is concerned, for that matter. He’s here. And he’s on the other side of the Whirlwind Wall. And I know precisely who he’s sharpened his knives for.

  Now, if only that damned singing would stop…

  He stood in the darkness, under siege. Voices assaulted him from all sides, pounding at his skull. It wasn’t enough that he had been responsible for the death of soldiers; now they would not leave him alone. Now their spirits screamed at him, ghostly hands reaching out through Hood’s Gate, fingers clawing through his brain.

  Gamet wanted to die. He had been worse than useless. He had been a liability, joined now to the multitude of incompetent commanders who had left a river of blood in their wake, another name in that sullied, degrading history that fuelled the worst fears of the common soldier.

  And it had driven him mad. He understood that now. The voices, the paralysing uncertainty, the way he was always cold, shivering, no matter how hot the daytime sun or how highly banked the nightly hearths. And the weakness, stealing through his limbs, thinning the blood in his veins, until it felt as if his heart was pumping muddy water. I have been broken. I failed the Adjunct with my very first test of mettle.

  Keneb would be all right. Keneb was a good choice as the legion’s new Fist. He was not too old, and he had a family—people to fight for, to return to, people that mattered in his life. Those were important things. A necessary pressure, fire for the blood. None of which existed in Gamet’s life.

  She has certainly never needed me, has she? The family tore itself apart, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was only a castellan, a glorified house guard. Taking orders. Even when a word from me could have changed Felisin’s fate, I just saluted and said, ‘Yes, mistress.’

  But he had always known his own weakness of spirit. And there had been no shortage of opportunities in which he could demonstrate his flaws, his failures. No shortage at all, even if she saw those moments as ones displaying loyalty, as disciplined acceptance of orders no matter how horrendous their outcome.

  ‘Loud.’

  A new voice. Blinking, he looked around, then down, to see Keneb’s adopted whelp, Grub. Half naked, sun-darkened skin smeared with dirt, his hair a wild tangle, his eyes glittering in the starlight.

  ‘Loud.’

  ‘Yes, they are.’ The child was feral. It was late, maybe even nearing dawn. What was he doing up? What was he doing out here, beyond the camp’s pickets, inviting butchery by a desert raider?

  ‘Not they. It.’

  Gamet frowned down at him. ‘What are you talking about? What’s loud?’ All I hear is voices—you can’t hear them. Of course you can’t.

  ‘The sandstorm. Roars. Very…very…very very very LOUD!’

  The storm? Gamet wiped grit from his eyes and looked around—to find himself not fifty paces from the Whirlwind Wall. And the sound of sand, racing between rocks on the ground, hissing skyward in wild, cavorting loops, the pebbles clattering here and there, the wind itself whirling through sculpted folds in the limestone—the sound was like…like voices. Screaming, angry voices. ‘I am not mad.’

  ‘Me neither. I’m happy. Father has a new shiny ring. Around his arm. It’s all carved. He’s supposed to give more orders, but he gives less. But I’m still happy. It’s very shiny. Do you like shiny things? I do, even though they hurt my eyes. Maybe it’s because they hurt my eyes. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think much of anything any more, lad.’

  ‘I think you do too much.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Father thinks the same. You think about things there’s no point in thinking about. It makes no difference. But I know why you do.’

  ‘You do?’

  The lad nodded. ‘The same reason I like shiny things. Father’s looking for you. I’m going to go tell him I found you.’

  Grub ambled away, quickly vanishing in the darkness.

  Gamet turned and stared up at the Whirlwind Wall. Its rage buffeted him. The whirling sand tore at his eyes, snatched at his breath. It was hungry, had always been hungry, but something new had arrived, altering its shrill timbre. What is it? An urgency, a tone fraught with…something.

  What am I doing here?

  Now he remembered. He had come looking for death. A raider’s blade across his throat. Quick and sudden, if not entirely random.

  An end to thinking all those thoughts…that so hurt my eyes.

  The growing thunder of horse hoofs roused him once more, and he turned to see two riders emerge from the gloom, leading a third horse.

  ‘We’ve been searching half the night,’ Fist Keneb said as they reined in. ‘Temul has a third of his Wickans out—all looking for you, sir.’

  Sir? That’s inappropriate. ‘Your child had no difficulty in finding me.’

  Keneb frowned beneath the rim of his helm. ‘Grub? He came here?’

  ‘He said he was off to tell you he’d found me.’

  The man snorted. ‘Unlikely. He’s yet to say a word to me. Not even in Aren. I’ve heard he talks to others, when the mood takes him, and that’s rare enough. But not me. And no, I don’t know why. In any case, we’ve brought your horse. The Adjunct is ready.’

  ‘Ready for what?’

  ‘To unsheathe her sword, sir. To breach the Whirlwind Wall.’

  ‘She need not wait for me, Fist.’

  ‘True, but sh
e chooses to none the less.’

  I don’t want to.

  ‘She has commanded it, sir.’

  Gamet sighed, walked over to the horse. He was so weak, he had trouble pulling himself onto the saddle. The others waited with maddening patience. Face burning with both effort and shame, Gamet finally clambered onto the horse, spent a moment searching for the stirrups, then took the reins from Temul. ‘Lead on,’ he growled to Keneb.

  They rode parallel to the wall of roaring sand, eastward, maintaining a respectable distance. Two hundred paces along they rode up to a party of five sitting motionless on their horses. The Adjunct, Tene Baralta, Blistig, Nil and Nether.

  Sudden fear gripped Gamet. ‘Adjunct! A thousand warriors could be waiting on the other side! We need the army drawn up. We need heavy infantry on the flanks. Outriders—archers—marines—’

  ‘That will be enough, Gamet. We ride forward now—the sun already lights the wall. Besides, can you not hear it? Its shriek is filled with fear. A new sound. A pleasing sound.’

  He stared up at the swirling barrier of sand. Yes, that is what I could sense earlier. ‘Then it knows its barrier shall fail.’

  ‘The goddess knows,’ Nether agreed.

  Gamet glanced at the two Wickans. They looked miserable, a state that seemed more or less permanent with them these days. ‘What will happen when the Whirlwind falls?’

  The young woman shook her head, but it was her brother who answered, ‘The Whirlwind Wall encloses a warren. Destroy the wall, and the warren is breached. Making the goddess vulnerable—had we a battalion of Claw and a half-dozen High Mages, we could hunt her down and kill her. But we can achieve no such thing.’ He threw up his hands in an odd gesture. ‘The Army of the Apocalypse will remain strengthened by her power. Those soldiers will never break, will fight on to the bitter end. Especially given the likelihood that that end will be ours, not theirs.’

  ‘Your predictions of disaster are unhelpful, Nil,’ the Adjunct murmured. ‘Accompany me, all of you, until I say otherwise.’

  They rode closer to the Whirlwind Wall, leaning in the face of the fierce, battering wind and sand. Fifteen paces from its edge, the Adjunct raised a hand. Then she dismounted, one gloved hand closing on the grip of her sword as she strode forward.