The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Grim statement. Greyfrog must leave your delicious company.’

  Felisin glanced over at the demon. Its four eyes were suddenly glittering, avid with palpable hunger. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Ominous. An invitation from my brother.’

  ‘Is L’oric in trouble?’

  ‘There is darkness this night, yet the Mother’s face is turned away. What comes cannot be chained. Warning. Caution. Remain here, lovely child. My brother can come to no further harm, but my path is made clear. Glee. I shall eat humans this night.’

  She drew her telaba closer about herself and fought off a shiver. ‘I am, uh, pleased for you, Greyfrog.’

  ‘Uncertain admonition. The shadows are fraught—no path is entirely clear, even that of blood. I must needs bob and weave, hop this way and that, grow still under baleful glare, and hope for the best.’

  ‘How long should I wait for you, Greyfrog?’

  ‘Leave not this glade until the sun rises, dearest she whom I would marry, regardless of little chance for proper broods. Besotted. Suddenly eager to depart.’

  ‘Go, then.’

  ‘Someone approaches. Potential ally. Be kind.’

  With that the demon scrambled into the shadows.

  Potential ally? Who would that be?

  She could hear the person on the trail now, bared feet that seemed to drag with exhaustion, and a moment later a woman stumbled into the glade, halting in the gloom to peer about.

  ‘Here,’ Felisin murmured, emerging from the shelter.

  ‘Felisin Younger?’

  ‘Ah, there is but one who calls me that. Heboric has sent you?’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman came closer, and Felisin saw that she was stained with blood, and a heavy bruise marred her jaw. ‘They tried to kill him. There were ghosts. Defending him against the assassins—’

  ‘Wait, wait. Catch your breath. You’re safe here. Does Heboric still live?’

  She nodded. ‘He heals—in his temple. He heals—’

  ‘Slow your breathing, please. Here, I have wine. Say nothing for now—when you are ready, tell me your tale.’

  Shadow-filled hollows rippled the hills that marked the northwest approach to the oasis. A haze of dust dulled the starlight overhead. The night had come swiftly to Raraku, as it always did, and the day’s warmth was fast dissipating. On this night, there would be frost.

  Four riders sat still on motionless horses in one such hollow, steam rising from their lathered beasts. Their armour gleamed pale as bone, the skin of their exposed faces a pallid, deathly grey.

  They had seen the approaching horse warrior from a distance, sufficient to permit them this quiet withdrawal unseen, for the lone rider was not their quarry, and though none said it out loud, they were all glad for that.

  He was huge, that stranger. Astride a horse to match. And a thousand ravaged souls trailed him, bound by ethereal chains that he dragged as if indifferent to their weight. A sword of stone hung from his back, and it was possessed by twin spirits raging with bloodthirst.

  In all, a nightmarish apparition.

  They listened to the heavy hoofs thump past, waited until the drumming sound dwindled within the stone forest on the edge of the oasis.

  Then Jorrude cleared his throat. ‘Our path is now clear, brothers. The trespassers are camped nearby, among the army that has marched to do battle with the dwellers of this oasis. We shall strike them with the dawn.’

  ‘Brother Jorrude,’ Enias rumbled, ‘what conjuration just crossed our trail?’

  ‘I know not, Brother Enias, but it was a promise of death.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Malachar growled.

  ‘Our horses are rested enough,’ Jorrude pronounced.

  The four Tiste Liosan rode up the slope until they reached the ridge, then swung their mounts southward. Jorrude spared a last glance back over his shoulder, to make certain the stranger had not reversed his route—had not spied them hiding there in that hollow. Hiding. Yes, that is the truth of it, ignoble as the truth often proves to be. He fought off a shiver, squinting into the darkness at the edge of the stone forest.

  But the apparition did not emerge.

  ‘In the name of Osric, Lord of the Sky,’ Jorrude intoned under his breath as he led his brothers along the ridge, ‘thank you for that…’

  At the edge of the glade, Karsa Orlong stared back at the distant riders. He had seen them long before they had seen him, and had smiled at their cautious retreat from his path.

  Well enough, there were enemies aplenty awaiting him in the oasis, and no night lasted for ever.

  Alas.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Hear them rattle

  These chains of living

  Bound to every moment passed

  Until the wreckage clamours

  In deafening wake

  And each stride trails

  A dirge of the lost.

  HOUSE OF CHAINS

  FISHER KEL TATH

  He sat cross-legged in the darkness, perched in his usual place on the easternmost ridge, his eyes closed, a small smile on his withered face. He had unveiled his warren in the most subtle pattern, an unseen web stretched out across the entire oasis. It would be torn soon, he well knew, but for the moment he could sense every footpad, every tremble. The powers were indeed converging, and the promise of blood and destruction whispered through the night.

  Febryl was well pleased. Sha’ik had been isolated, utterly. The Napan’s army of killers were even now streaming from their places of hiding, as panic closed hands around Korbolo Dom’s throat. Kamist Reloe was returning from his secret sojourn through the warrens. And, across the basin, the Malazan army was entrenching, the Adjunct whetting her otataral sword in anticipation of the morning’s battle.

  There was but one troubling detail. A strange song, faint yet growing. The voice of Raraku itself. He wondered what it would bring to this fated night. Hood was close—aye, the god himself—and this did much to mask other…presences. But the sands were stirring, awakened perhaps by the Lord of Death’s arrival. Spirits and ghosts, no doubt come to witness the many deaths promised in the hours to come. A curious thing, but he was not unduly concerned.

  There will be slaughter. Yet another apocalypse on Raraku’s restless sands. It is as it should be.

  To all outward appearances, L’oric was dead. He had been roughly dragged to one wall in the command tent and left there. The knife had been yanked from his back, and he now lay with his face to the rough fabric of the wall, eyes open and seemingly sightless.

  Behind him, the Supreme Commander of the Apocalypse was speaking.

  ‘Unleash them all, Henaras, barring my bodyguards. I want every one of Bidithal’s cute little spies hunted down and killed—and find Scillara. That bitch has played her last game.

  ‘You, Duryl, take another and ride out to the Adjunct. Deliver my missive—and make certain you are not seen by anyone. Mathok has his warriors out. Fayelle will work sorcery to aid you. And impress upon Tavore the need to withdraw her killers, lest they do the Whirlwind Goddess’s work for her.’

  ‘Supreme Commander,’ a voice spoke, ‘what of Leoman of the Flails?’

  ‘The 4th Company and Fayelle are to leave quietly with the next bell. Leoman will get nowhere near us, or the army. Corporal Ethume, I want you within cross-bow range of Febryl—the bastard’s hiding in the usual place. Now, have I missed anything?’

  ‘My fear is deepening,’ Henaras murmured. ‘Something is happening…in the holy desert. Worse, I feel the approach of terrible powers—’

  ‘Which is why we need the Adjunct and her damned sword. Are we safe enough in here, Henaras?’

  ‘I think so—the wards Kamist, Fayelle and I have woven about this tent would confound a god.’

  ‘That claim might well be challenged,’ Korbolo Dom growled.

  He added something more, but a strange gurgling sound, from just beyond the tent wall in front of L’oric, overrode the Napan’s voice. A we
tness, spattering the opposite side, then a sigh—audible to L’oric only because he was so close. Talons then raked along the base of the wall, reducing the fabric to ribbons. A four-eyed, immeasurably ugly face peered in through the gap.

  ‘Brother, you look unwell.’

  Appearances deceive, Greyfrog. For example, you have never looked prettier.

  The demon reached in and grasped L’oric by one arm. He then began dragging him by increments through the tear. ‘Confident. They are too preoccupied. Disappointed. I have eaten but two guards, the wards sleep and our path of retreat is clear. Things are coming. Suitably ominous. Frankly. I admit to fear, and advise we…hide.’

  For a time, yes, we do just that. Find us somewhere, Greyfrog.

  ‘Assured. I shall.’

  Then leave me there and return to Felisin. Assassins are out hunting…

  ‘Delightful.’

  Kasanal had been a Semk shaman once, but now he murdered at his new master’s bidding. And he enjoyed it, although, admittedly, he preferred killing Malazans rather than natives. At least his victims this night would not be Semk—to slay those from his own tribe would be a difficult thing to accept. But that did not seem likely. Korbolo Dom had as much as adopted the last survivors of the clans that had fought for him and Kamist Reloe on the Chain of Dogs.

  And these two were mere women, both servants of that butcher, Bidithal.

  He was now lying motionless on the edge of the glade, watching the two. One was Scillara, and Kasanal knew his master would be pleased when he returned with her severed head. The other one was also familiar—he had seen her in Sha’ik’s company, and Leoman’s.

  It was also clear that they were in hiding, and so likely to be principal agents in whatever Bidithal was planning.

  He slowly raised his right hand, and two quick gestures sent his four followers out along the flanks, staying within the trees, to encircle the two women’s position. Under his breath, he began murmuring an incantation, a weaving of ancient words that deadened sound, that squeezed lassitude into the victims, dulling their every sense. And he smiled as he saw their heads slowly settle in unison.

  Kasanal rose from his place of concealment. The need for hiding had passed. He stepped into the glade. His four Semk kin followed suit.

  They drew their knives, edged closer.

  Kasanal never saw the enormous blade that cut him in half, from the left side of his neck and out just above his right hip. He had a momentary sense of falling in two directions, then oblivion swallowed him, so he did not hear the cries of his four cousins, as the wielder of the stone sword marched into their midst.

  When Kasanal at last opened ethereal eyes to find himself striding towards Hood’s Gate, he was pleased to find his four kinsmen with him.

  Wiping the blood from his sword, Karsa Orlong swung to face the two women. ‘Felisin,’ he growled, ‘your scars burn bright on your soul. Bidithal chose to ignore my warning. So be it. Where is he?’

  Still feeling the remnants of the strange dullness that had stolen her senses, Felisin could only shake her head.

  Karsa scowled at her, then his gaze shifted to the other woman. ‘Has the night stolen your tongue as well?’

  ‘No. Yes. No, clearly it hasn’t. I believe we were under sorcerous attack. But we are now recovering, Toblakai. You have been gone long.’

  ‘And I am now returned. Where is Leoman? Bidithal? Febryl? Korbolo Dom? Kamist Reloe? Heboric Ghost Hands?’

  ‘An impressive list—you’ve a busy night ahead, I think. Find them where you will, Toblakai. The night awaits you.’

  Felisin drew a shaky breath, wrapping her arms about herself as she stared up at the terrible warrior. He had just killed five assassins with five sweeping, almost poetic passes of that enormous sword. The very ease of it horrified her. True, the assassins had intended the same for her and Scillara.

  Karsa loosened his shoulders with a shrug, then strode towards the path leading to the city. In moments he was gone.

  Scillara moved closer to Felisin and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Death is always a shock,’ she said. ‘The numbness will pass. I promise.’

  But Felisin shook her head. ‘Except for Leoman,’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Those he named. He is going to kill them all. Except for Leoman.’

  Scillara slowly turned to face the trail, a cool, speculative look stealing across her face.

  The last two had taken down four warriors and come within thirty paces of his tent before finally falling. Scowling, Mathok stared down at the arrow-studded, sword-slashed corpses. Six attempted assassinations this night alone, and the first bell had yet to sound.

  Enough.

  ‘T’morol, gather my clan.’

  The burly warrior grunted assent and strode off. Mathok drew his furs tighter about himself and returned to his tent.

  Within its modest confines, he paused for a long moment, deep in thought. Then he shook himself and walked over to a hide-covered chest near his cot. He crouched, swept aside the covering, and lifted the ornate lid.

  The Book of Dryjhna resided within.

  Sha’ik had given it into his keeping.

  To safeguard.

  He closed the lid and locked it, then picked up the chest and made his way outside. He could hear his warriors breaking camp in the darkness beyond. ‘T’morol.’

  ‘Warchief.’

  ‘We ride to join Leoman of the Flails. The remaining clans are to guard Sha’ik, though I am confident she is not at risk—she may have need for them in the morning.’

  T’morol’s dark eyes were fixed on Mathok, cold and impervious to surprise. ‘We are to ride from this battle, Warchief?’

  ‘To preserve the Holy Book, such flight may be a necessity, old friend. Come the dawn, we hover…on the very cusp.’

  ‘To gauge the wind.’

  ‘Yes, T’morol, to gauge the wind.’

  The bearded warrior nodded. ‘The horses are being saddled. I will hasten the preparations.’

  Heboric listened to the silence. Only his bones could feel the tingling hum of a sorcerous web spanning the entire oasis and its ruined city, the taut vibrations rising and falling as disparate forces began to move across it, then, with savage disregard, tore through it.

  He stirred from the cot, groaning with the stab of force-healed wounds, and climbed shakily to his feet. The coals had died in their braziers. The gloom felt solid, reluctant to yield as he made his way to the doorway. Heboric bared his teeth. His taloned hands twitched.

  Ghosts stalked the dead city. Even the gods felt close, drawn to witness all that was to come. Witness, or to seize the moment and act directly. A nudge here, a tug there, if only to appease their egos…if only to see what happens. These were the games he despised, source of his fiercest defiance all those years ago. The shape of his crime, if crime it was.

  And so they took my hands.

  Until another god gave them back.

  He was, he realized, indifferent to Treach. A reluctant Destriant to the new god of war, despite the gifts. Nor had his desires changed. Otataral Island, and the giant of jade—that is what awaits me. The returning of power. Even as those last words tracked across his mind, he knew that a deceit rode among them. A secret he knew but to which he would fashion no shape. Not yet, perhaps not until he found himself standing in the wasteland, beneath the shadow of that crooked spire.

  But first, I must meet a more immediate challenge—getting out of this camp alive.

  He hesitated another moment at the doorway, reaching out into the darkness beyond with all his senses. Finding the path clear—his next twenty strides at least—he darted forward.

  Rolling the acorn in his fingers one last time, he tucked it into a fold in his sash and eased snake-like from the crack.

  ‘Oh, Hood’s heartless hands…’

  The song was a distant thunder trembling along his bones, and he didn’t like it. Worse yet, there were powers awakened in the oasis
ahead that even he, a non-practitioner of sorcery, could feel like fire in his blood.

  Kalam Mekhar checked his long-knives yet again, then resheathed them. The temptation was great to keep the otataral weapon out, and so deny any magic sent his way. But that goes both ways, doesn’t it?

  He studied the way ahead. The starlight seemed strangely muted. He drew from memory as best he could, from what he had seen from his hiding place during the day. Palms, their boles spectral as they rose above tumbled mudbricks and cut stone. The remnants of corrals, pens and shepherds’ huts. Stretches of sandy ground littered with brittle fronds and husks. There were no new silhouettes awaiting him.

  Kalam set forth.

  He could see the angular lines of buildings ahead, all low to the ground, suggesting little more than stretches of mudbrick foundations from which canvas, wicker and rattan walls rose. Occupied residences, then.

  Far off to Kalam’s right was the grey smudge of that strange forest of stone trees. He had considered making his approach through it, but there was something uncanny and unwelcoming about that place, and he suspected it was not as empty as it appeared.

  Approaching what seemed to be a well-trod avenue between huts, he caught a flash of movement, darting from left to right across the aisle. Kalam dropped lower and froze. A second figure followed, then a third, fourth and fifth.

  A hand. Now, who in this camp would organize their assassins into hands? He waited another half-dozen heartbeats, then set off. He came opposite the route the killers had taken and slipped into their wake. The five were moving at seven paces apart, two paces more than would a Claw. Damn, did Cotillion suspect? Is this what he wanted me to confirm?

  These are Talons.

  Seven or five, it made little difference to Kalam.

  He came within sight of the trailing assassin. The figure bore magically invested items, making his form blurry, wavering. He was wearing dark grey, tight-fitting clothes, moccasined, gloved and hooded. Blackened daggers gleamed in his hands.