The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  The headache was not fading, and the song itself seemed to have poisoned his veins, a music of flesh and bone that hinted of madness. Leave me in peace, damn you. I am naught but a soldier. A soldier…

  Strings sat on the boulder, his head in his hands. He had flung off the helm but had no memory of having done so, and it lay at his feet, blurry and wavering behind the waves of pain that rose and fell like a storm-tossed sea. Voices were speaking around him, seeking to reach him, but he could make no sense of what was being said. The song had burgeoned sudden and fierce in his skull, flowing through his limbs like fire.

  A hand gripped his shoulder, and he felt a sorcerous questing seep into his veins, tentatively at first, then flinching away entirely, only to return with more force—and with it, a spreading silence. Blissful peace, cool and calm.

  Finally, the sergeant was able to look up.

  He found his squad gathered around him. The hand fixed onto his shoulder was Bottle’s, and the lad’s face was pale, beaded with sweat. Their eyes locked, then Bottle nodded and slowly withdrew his hand.

  ‘Can you hear me, Sergeant?’

  ‘Faint, as if you were thirty paces away.’

  ‘Is the pain gone?’

  ‘Aye—what did you do?’

  Bottle glanced away.

  Strings frowned, then said, ‘Everyone else, back to work. Stay here, Bottle.’

  Cuttle cuffed Tarr and the corporal straightened and mumbled, ‘Let’s go, soldiers. There’s pits to dig.’

  The sergeant and Bottle watched the others head off, retrieving their picks and shovels as they went. The squad was positioned on the southwesternmost island, overlooking dunes that reached out to the horizon. A single, sufficiently wide corridor lay directly to the north, through which the enemy—if broken and fleeing—would come as they left the basin. Just beyond it lay a modest, flat-topped tel, on which a company of mounted desert warriors were ensconced, the crest dotted with scouts keeping a careful eye on the Malazans.

  ‘All right, Bottle,’ Strings said, ‘out with it.’

  ‘Spirits, Sergeant. They’re…awakening.’

  ‘And what in Hood’s name has that got to do with me?’

  ‘Mortal blood, I think. It has its own song. They remember it. They came to you, Sergeant, eager to add their voices to it. To…uh…to you.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Strings studied the young mage for a moment, mulling on the taste of that lie, then grimaced and said, ‘You think it’s because I’m fated to die here—at this battle.’

  Bottle looked away once more. ‘I’m not sure, Sergeant. It’s way beyond me…this land. And its spirits. And what it all has to do with you—’

  ‘I’m a Bridgeburner, lad. The Bridgeburners were born here. In Raraku’s crucible.’

  Bottle’s eyes thinned as he studied the desert to the west. ‘But…they were wiped out.’

  ‘Aye, they were.’

  Neither spoke for a time. Koryk had broken his shovel on a rock and was stringing together an admirable list of Seti curses. The others had stopped to listen. On the northern edge of the island Gesler’s squad was busy building a wall of rubble, which promptly toppled, the boulders tumbling down the far edge. Distant hoots and howls sounded from the tel across the way.

  ‘It won’t be your usual battle, will it?’ Bottle asked.

  Strings shrugged. ‘There’s no such thing, lad. There’s nothing usual about killing and dying, about pain and terror.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant—’

  ‘I know it ain’t, Bottle. But wars these days are fraught with sorcery and munitions, so you come to expect surprises.’

  Gesler’s two dogs trotted past, the huge cattle dog trailing the Hengese Roach as if the hairy lapdog carried its own leash.

  ‘This place is…complicated,’ Bottle sighed. He reached down and picked up a large, disc-shaped rock. ‘Eres’al,’ he said. ‘A hand-axe—the basin down there’s littered with them. Smoothed by the lake that once filled it. Took days to make one of these, then they didn’t even use them—they just flung them into the lake. Makes no sense, does it? Why make a tool then not use it?’

  Strings stared at the mage. ‘What are you talking about, Bottle? Who are the Eres’al?’

  ‘Were, Sergeant. They’re long gone.’

  ‘The spirits?’

  ‘No, those are from all times, from every age this land has known. My grandmother spoke of the Eres. The Dwellers who lived in the time before the Imass, the first makers of tools, the first shapers of their world.’ He shook his head, fought down a shiver. ‘I never expected to meet one—it was there, she was there, in that song within you.’

  ‘And she told you about these tools?’

  ‘Not directly. More like I shared it—well, her mind. She was the one who gifted you the silence. It wasn’t me—I don’t have that power—but I asked, and she showed mercy. At least’—he glanced at Strings—‘I gather it was a mercy.’

  ‘Aye, lad, it was. Can you still…speak with that Eres?’

  ‘No. All I wanted to do was get out of there—out of that blood—’

  ‘My blood.’

  ‘Well, most of it’s your blood, Sergeant.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘Belongs to that song. The, uh, Bridgeburners’ song.’

  Strings closed his eyes, settled his head against the boulder behind him. Kimloc, that damned Tanno Spiritwalker in Ehrlitan. I said no, but he did it anyway. He stole my story—not just mine, but the Bridgeburners’—and he made of it a song. The bastard’s gone and given us back to Raraku…

  ‘Go help the others, Bottle.’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant.’

  ‘And…thanks.’

  ‘I’ll pass that along, when next I meet the Eres witch.’

  Strings stared after the mage. So there’ll be a next time, will there? Just how much didn’t you tell me, lad? He wondered if the morrow would indeed be witness to his last battle. Hardly a welcome thought, but maybe it was necessary. Maybe he was being called to join the fallen Bridgeburners. Not so bad, then. Couldn’t ask for more miserable company. Damn, but I miss them. I miss them all. Even Hedge.

  The sergeant opened his eyes and climbed to his feet, collecting then donning his helm. He turned to stare out over the basin to the northeast, to the enemy emplacements and the dust and smoke of the city hidden within the oasis. You too, Kalam Mekhar. I wonder if you know why you’re here…

  The shaman was in a frenzy, twitching and hissing as he scuttled like a crab in dusty circles around the flat slab of bone that steadily blackened on the hearth. Corabb, his mouth filled with a half-dozen of the scarab shells strung round his neck to ward off evil, winced as his chattering teeth crunched down on one carapace, filling his mouth with a bitter taste. He plucked the necklace from his mouth and began spitting out pieces of shell.

  Leoman strode up to the shaman and grabbed the scrawny man by his telaba, lifted him clear off the ground, then shook him. A flurry of cloth and hair and flying spittle, then Leoman set the shaman down once more and growled, ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Armies!’ the old man shrieked, tugging at his nose as if it had just arrived on his face.

  Leoman scowled. ‘Aye, we can see those too, you damned fakir—’

  ‘No! More armies!’ He scrabbled past and ran to the southern crest of the tel, where he began hopping about and pointing at the Malazans entrenching on the island opposite the old drainage channel.

  Leoman made no move to follow. He walked over to where Corabb and three other warriors crouched behind a low wall. ‘Corabb, send another rider to Sha’ik—no, on second thought, you go yourself. Even if she will not bother acknowledging our arrival, I want to know how Mathok’s tribes will be arrayed come the dawn. Find out, once you have spoken with Sha’ik—and Corabb, be certain you speak with her in person. Then return here.’

  ‘I shall do as you command,’ Corabb announced, straighteni
ng.

  Twenty paces away the shaman wheeled round and screamed, ‘They are here! The dogs, Leoman! The dogs! The Wickan dogs!’

  Leoman scowled. ‘The fool’s gone mad…’

  Corabb jogged over to his horse. He would waste no time saddling the beast, especially if it meant hearing more of the shaman’s insane observations. He vaulted onto the animal, tightened the straps holding the lance crossways on his back, then collected the reins and spurred the animal into motion.

  The route to the oasis was twisting and tortured, winding between deep sand and jagged outcrops, forcing him to slow his mount’s pace and let it pick its own way along the trail.

  The day was drawing to a close, shadows deepening where the path wound its way into high-walled gullies closer to the southwestern edge of the oasis. As his horse scrabbled over some rubble and walked round a sharp bend, the sudden stench of putrefaction reached both animal and man simultaneously.

  The path was blocked. A dead horse and, just beyond it, a corpse.

  Heart thudding, Corabb slipped down from his mount and moved cautiously forward.

  Leoman’s messenger, the one he had sent as soon as the troop had arrived. A crossbow quarrel had taken him on the temple, punching through bone then exploding out messily the other side.

  Corabb scanned the jagged walls to either side. If there’d been assassins stationed there he would already be dead, he reasoned. Probably, then, they weren’t expecting any more messengers.

  He returned to his horse. It was a struggle coaxing the creature over the bodies, but eventually he led the beast clear of them and leapt onto its back once more. Eyes roving restlessly, he continued on.

  Sixty paces later and the trail ahead opened out onto the sandy slope, beyond which could be seen the dusty mantles of guldindha trees.

  Breathing a relieved sigh, Corabb urged his horse forward.

  Two hammer blows against his back flung him forward. Without stirrups or saddlehorn to grab on to, Corabb threw his arms out around the horse’s neck—even as the animal squealed in pain and bolted. The motion almost jolted loose his panicked grip, and the horse’s right knee cracked hard, again and again, into his helm, until it fell away and the knobby joint repeatedly pounded against his head.

  Corabb held on, even as he continued slipping down, then around, until his body was being pummelled by both front legs. The encumbrance proved sufficient to slow the animal as it reached the slope, and Corabb, one leg dangling, his heel bouncing over the hard ground, managed to pull himself up under his horse’s head.

  Another quarrel cracked into the ground and skittered away off to the left.

  The horse halted halfway up the slope.

  Corabb brought his other leg down, then pivoted around to the opposite side and vaulted onto the animal once more. He’d lost the reins, but closed both fingers in the horse’s mane as he drove his heels into the beast’s flanks.

  Yet another quarrel caromed from the rocks, then hooves were thudding on sand, and sudden sunlight bathed them.

  Directly ahead lay the oasis, and the cover of trees.

  Corabb leaned onto the mount’s neck and urged it ever faster.

  They plunged onto a trail between the guldindhas. Glancing back, he saw a deep rip running down his horse’s left flank, leaking blood. And then he caught sight of his lance, dangling loose now from his back. There were two quarrels embedded in the shaft. Each had struck at a different angle, and the impact must have been nearly simultaneous, since the splits had bound against each other, halting the momentum of both quarrels.

  Corabb lifted the ruined weapon clear and flung it away.

  He rode hard down the trail.

  ‘A tiger’s barbs,’ she murmured, her eyes veiled behind rust-leaf smoke, ‘painted onto a toad. Somehow, it makes you look even more dangerous.’

  ‘Aye, lass, I’m pure poison,’ Heboric muttered as he studied her in the gloom. There was life in her gaze once more, a sharpness that went beyond the occasional cutting remark, hinting at a mind finally cleared of durhang’s dulling fog. She still coughed as if her lungs were filled with fluid, although the sage mixed in with the rust-leaf had eased that somewhat.

  She was returning his regard with an inquisitive—if slightly hard—expression, drawing steadily on the hookah’s mouthpiece, smoke tumbling down from her nostrils.

  ‘If I could see you,’ Heboric muttered, ‘I’d conclude you’ve improved some.’

  ‘I have, Destriant of Treach, though I would have thought those feline eyes of yours could pierce every veil.’

  He grunted. ‘It’s more that you no longer slur your words, Scillara.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ she asked after a moment.

  ‘Dusk will soon arrive. I would go out to find L’oric, and I would that you accompany me.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then, I would lead you to Felisin Younger.’

  ‘Sha’ik’s adopted daughter.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Scillara glanced away, meditative as she drew deep on the rust-leaf.

  ‘How old are you, lass?’

  She shrugged, ‘As old as I have to be. If I am to take Felisin Younger’s orders, so be it. Resentment is pointless.’

  An awkward conversation, progressing in leaps that left Heboric scrambling. Sha’ik was much the same. Perhaps, he reflected with a grimace, this talent for intuitive thinking was a woman’s alone—he admittedly had little experience upon which he could draw, despite his advanced years. Fener’s temple was predominantly male, when it came to the holy order itself, and Heboric’s life as a thief had, of necessity, included only a handful of close associations. He was, once more, out of his depth. ‘Felisin Younger has, I believe, little interest in commanding anyone. This is not an exchange of one cult for another, Scillara—not in the way you seem to think it is, at any rate. No-one will seek to manipulate you here.’

  ‘As you have explained, Destriant.’ She sighed heavily and sat straighter, setting down the hookah’s mouthpiece. ‘Very well, lead me into the darkness.’

  His eyes narrowed on her. ‘I shall…as soon as it arrives…’

  The shadows were drawing long, sufficient to swallow the entire basin below their position. Sha’ik stood at the crest of the northernmost ramp, studying the distant masses of Malazan soldiery on the far rises as they continued digging in. Ever methodical, was her sister.

  She glanced to her left and scanned Korbolo Dom’s positions. All was in readiness for the morrow’s battle, and she could see the Napan commander, surrounded by aides and guards, standing at the edge of the centre ramp, doing as she herself was doing: watching Tavore’s army.

  We are all in place. Suddenly, the whole thing seemed so pointless. This game of murderous tyrants, pushing their armies forward into an inevitable clash. Coldly disregarding of the lives that would be lost in the appeasement of their brutal desires. What value this mindless hunger to rule? What do you want with us, Empress Laseen? Seven Cities will never rest easy beneath your yoke. You shall have to enslave, and what is gained by that? And what of her own goddess? Was she any different from Laseen? Every claw was outstretched, eager to grasp, to rend, to soak the sand red with gore.

  But Raraku does not belong to you, dear Dryjhna, no matter how ferocious your claims. I see that now. This desert is holy unto itself. And now it rails—feel it, goddess! It rails! Against one and all.

  Standing beside her, Mathok had been studying the Malazan positions in silence. But now he spoke. ‘The Adjunct has made an appearance, Chosen One.’

  Sha’ik dragged her gaze from Korbolo Dom and looked to where the desert warchief pointed.

  Astride a horse from the Paran stables. Of course. Two Wickans on foot nearby. Her sister was in full armour, her helm glinting crimson in the dying light.

  Sha’ik’s eyes snapped back to Korbolo’s position. ‘Kamist Reloe has arrived…he’s opened his warren and now quests towards the enemy. But Tavore’s otataral sword defies him…so
he reaches around, into the army itself. Seeking High Mages…unsuspected allies…’ After a moment she sighed. ‘And finds none but a few shamans and squad mages.’

  Mathok rumbled, ‘Those two Wickans with the Adjunct. They are the ones known as Nil and Nether.’

  ‘Yes. Said to be broken of spirit—they have none of the power that their clans once gave them, for those clans have been annihilated.’

  ‘Even so, Chosen One,’ Mathok muttered, ‘that she holds them within the fog of otataral suggests they are not as weak as we would believe.’

  ‘Or that Tavore does not want their weakness revealed.’

  ‘Why bother if such failure is already known to us?’

  ‘To deepen our doubt, Mathok,’ she replied.

  He curtly gestured, adding a frustrated growl. ‘This mire has no surface, Chosen One—’

  ‘Wait!’ Sha’ik stared once again at Tavore. ‘She has sent her weapon away—Kamist Reloe has withdrawn his questing—and now…ah!’ The last word was a startled cry, as she felt the muted unveiling of power from both Nil and Nether—a power far greater than it had any right to be.

  Sha’ik then gasped, as the goddess within her flinched back—as if stung—and loosed a shriek that filled her skull.

  For Raraku was answering the summons, a multitude of voices, rising in song, rising with raw, implacable desire—the sound, Sha’ik realized, of countless souls straining against the chains that bound them.

  Chains of shadow. Chains like roots. From this torn, alien fragment of warren. This piece of shadow, that has risen to bind their souls and so feeds upon the life-force. ‘Mathok, where is Leoman?’ We need Leoman.

  ‘I do not know, Chosen One.’

  She turned once more and stared at Korbolo Dom. He stood foremost on the ramp, his stance squared, thumbs hitched into his sword-belt, studying the enemy with an air of supreme confidence that made Sha’ik want to scream.

  Nothing—nothing was as it seemed.

  To the west, the sun had turned the horizon into a crimson conflagration. The day was drowning in a sea of flame, and she watched shadows flowing across the land, her heart growing cold.