The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  He stared at her. ‘You’ve no idea how right you are, lass.’

  And the song rose and fell, and he could feel his heart matching that cadence. Ebb and flow. Raraku has swallowed more tears than can be imagined. Now comes the time for the Holy Desert to weep. Ebb and flow, his blood’s song, and it lived on.

  It lives on.

  They had fled in the wrong direction. Fatal, but unsurprising. The night had been a shambles. The last survivor of Korbolo Dom’s cadre of mages, Fayelle rode a lathered horse in the company of thirteen other Dogslayers down the channel of a long-dead river, boulders and banks high on either side.

  Herself and thirteen battered, bloodied soldiers. All that was left.

  The clash with Leoman had begun well enough, a perfectly sprung ambush. And would have ended perfectly, as well.

  If not for the damned ghosts.

  Ambush turned over, onto its back like an upended tortoise. They’d been lucky to get out with their lives, these few. These last.

  Fayelle well knew what had happened to the rest of Korbolo’s army. She had felt Henaras’s death. And Kamist Reloe’s.

  And Raraku was not finished with them. Oh no. Not at all finished.

  They reached a slope leading out of the defile.

  She had few regrets—

  Crossbow quarrels whizzed down. Horses and soldiers screamed. Bodies thumped onto the ground. Her horse staggered, then rolled onto its side. She’d no time to kick free of the stirrups, and as the dying beast pinned her leg its weight tore the joint from her hip, sending pain thundering through her. Her left arm was trapped awkwardly beneath her as her own considerable weight struck the ground—and bones snapped.

  Then the side of her head hammered against rock.

  Fayelle struggled to focus. The pain subsided, became a distant thing. She heard faint pleas for mercy, the cries of wounded soldiers being finished off.

  Then a shadow settled over her.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  Fayelle frowned. The face hovering above her belonged to the past. The desert had aged it, but it nevertheless remained a child’s face. Oh, spirits below. The child. Sinn. My old…student…

  She watched the girl raise a knife between them, angle the point down, then set it against her neck.

  Fayelle laughed. ‘Go ahead, you little horror. I’ll wait for you at Hood’s Gate…and the wait won’t be long—’

  The knife punched through skin and cartilage.

  Fayelle died.

  Straightening, Sinn swung to her companions. They were, one and all, busy gathering the surviving horses.

  Sixteen left. The Ashok Regiment had fallen on hard times. Thirst and starvation. Raiders. This damned desert.

  She watched them for a moment, then something else drew her gaze.

  Northward.

  She slowly straightened. ‘Cord.’

  The sergeant turned. ‘What—oh, Beru fend!’

  The horizon to the west had undergone a transformation. It was now limned in white, and it was rising.

  ‘Double up!’ Cord bellowed. ‘Now!’

  A hand closed on her shoulder. Shard leaned close. ‘You ride with me.’

  ‘Ebron!’

  ‘I hear you,’ the mage replied to Cord’s bellow. ‘And I’ll do what I can with these blown mounts, but I ain’t guaranteeing—’

  ‘Get on with it! Bell, help Limp onto that horse—he’s busted up that knee again!’

  Sinn cast one last glance at Fayelle’s corpse. She’d known, then. What was coming.

  I should be dancing. The bloodied knife fell from her hands.

  Then she was roughly grasped and pulled up onto the saddle behind Shard.

  The beast’s head tossed, and it shook beneath them.

  ‘Queen take us,’ Shard hissed, ‘Ebron’s filled these beasts with fire.’

  We’ll need it…

  And now they could hear the sound, a roar that belittled even the Whirlwind Wall in its fullest rage.

  Raraku had risen.

  To claim a shattered warren.

  The Wickan warlocks had known what was coming. Flight was impossible, but the islands of coral stood high—higher than any other feature this side of the escarpment—and it was on these that the armies gathered.

  To await what could be their annihilation.

  The north sky was a massive wall of white, billowing clouds. A cool, burgeoning wind thrashed through the palms around the oasis.

  Then the sound reached them.

  A roar unceasing, building, of water, cascading, foaming, tumbling across the vast desert.

  The Holy Desert, it seemed, held far more than bones and memories. More than ghosts and dead cities. Lostara Yil stood near the Adjunct, ignoring the baleful glares Tene Baralta continued casting her way. Wondering…if Pearl was on that high ground, standing over Sha’ik’s grave…if that ground was in fact high enough.

  She wondered, too, at what she had seen these past months. Visions burned into her soul, fraught and mysterious, visions that could still chill her blood if she allowed them to rise before her mind’s eye once more. Crucified dragons. Murdered gods. Warrens of fire and warrens of ashes.

  It was odd, she reflected, to be thinking these things, even as a raging sea was born from seeming nothing and was sweeping towards them, drowning all in its path.

  Odder, still, to be thinking of Pearl. She was hard on him, viciously so at times. Not because she cared, but because it was fun. No, that was too facile, wasn’t it? She cared indeed.

  What a stupid thing to have let happen.

  A weary sigh close beside her. Lostara scowled without turning. ‘You’re back.’

  ‘As requested,’ Pearl murmured.

  Oh, she wanted to hit him for that.

  ‘The task is…done?’

  ‘Aye. Consigned to the deep and all that. If Tene Baralta still wants her, he’ll have to hold his breath.’

  She looked then. ‘Really? The sea is already that deep?’ Then we’re—

  ‘No. High and dry, actually. The other way sounded more…poetic.’

  ‘I really hate you.’

  He nodded. ‘And you’ll have plenty of time in which to luxuriate in it.’

  ‘You think we’ll survive this?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, we’ll get our feet wet, but these were islands even back then. This sea will flood the oasis. It will pound up against the raised road west of here—since it was the coastal road back then. And wash up close to the escarpment, maybe even reach it.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ she snapped. ‘And what will we be doing, stuck here on these islands in the middle of a landlocked sea?’

  Infuriatingly, Pearl simply shrugged. ‘A guess? We build a flotilla of rafts and bind them together to form a bridge, straight to the west road. The sea will be shallow enough there anyway, even if that doesn’t work as well as it should—but I have every confidence in the Adjunct.’

  The wall of water then struck the far side of the oasis, with the sound of thunder. Palms waved wildly, then began toppling.

  ‘Well, now we know what turned that other forest to stone,’ Pearl said loudly over the thrashing roar of water—

  That now flowed across the ruins, filling the Dogslayer trenches, tumbling down into the basin.

  And Lostara could see that Pearl was right. Its fury was already spent, and the basin seemed to swallow the water with a most prodigious thirst.

  She glanced over to study the Adjunct.

  Impassive, watching the seas rise, one hand on the hilt of her sword.

  Oh, why does looking at you break my heart?

  The sands were settling on the carcasses of the horses. The three squads sat or stood, waiting for the rest of the legion. Bottle had walked up to the road to see the source of the roar, had come staggering back with the news.

  A sea.

  A damned sea.

  And its song was in Fiddler’s soul, now. Strangely warm, almost comforting.


  One and all, they then turned to watch the giant rider and his giant horse thunder along that road, heading westward. Dragging something that kicked up a lot of dust.

  The image of that stayed with Fiddler long after the clouds of dust had drifted off the road, down the near side of the slope.

  Could have been a ghost.

  But he knew it wasn’t.

  Could have been their worst enemy.

  But if he was, it didn’t matter. Not right now.

  A short while later there was a startled shout from Smiles, and Fiddler turned, in time to see two figures stride out from a warren.

  Despite everything, he found himself grinning.

  Old friends, he realized, were getting harder to find.

  Still, he knew them, and they were his brothers.

  Mortal souls of Raraku. Raraku, the land that had bound them together. Bound them all, as was now clear, beyond even death.

  Fiddler was unmindful of how it looked, of what the others thought, upon seeing the three men close to a single embrace.

  The horses clambered up the slope to the ridge. Where their riders reined them in, and one and all turned to stare at the yellow, foaming seas churning below. A moment later a squat four-eyed demon scrabbled onto the summit to join them.

  The Lord of Summer had lent wings to their horses—Heboric could admit no other possibility, so quickly had they covered the leagues since the night past. And the beasts seemed fresh even now. As fresh as Greyfrog.

  Though he himself was anything but.

  ‘What has happened?’ Scillara wondered aloud.

  Heboric could only shake his head.

  ‘More importantly,’ Felisin said, ‘where do we go now? I don’t think I can sit in the saddle much longer—’

  ‘I know how you feel, lass. We should find somewhere to make camp—’

  The squeal of a mule brought all three around.

  A scrawny, black-skinned old man was riding up towards them, seated cross-legged atop the mule. ‘Welcome!’ he shrieked—a shriek because, even as he spoke, he toppled to one side and thumped hard onto the stony trail. ‘Help me, you idiots!’

  Heboric glanced at the two women, but it was Greyfrog who moved first.

  ‘Food!’

  The old man shrieked again. ‘Get away from me! I have news to tell! All of you! Is L’oric dead? No! My shadows saw everything! You are my guests! Now, come prise my legs loose! You, lass. No, you, the other lass! Both of you! Beautiful women with their hands on my legs, my thighs! I can’t wait! Do they see the avid lust in my eyes? Of course not, I’m but a helpless wizened creature, potential father figure—’

  Cutter stood in the tower’s uppermost chamber, staring out of the lone window. Bhok’arala chittered behind him, pausing every now and then to make crooning, mournful sounds.

  He’d woken alone.

  And had known, instantly, that she was gone. And there would be no trail for him to follow.

  Iskaral Pust had conjured up a mule and ridden off earlier. Of Mogora there was, mercifully, no sign.

  Thoroughly alone, then, for most of this day.

  Until now.

  ‘There are countless paths awaiting you.’

  Cutter sighed. ‘Hello, Cotillion. I was wondering if you’d show up…again.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘You spoke with Apsalar. Here in this very chamber. You helped her decide.’

  ‘She told you?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not entirely.’

  ‘Her decision was hers to make, Cutter. Hers alone.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Never mind. Odd, though. You see countless paths. Whilst I see…none worth walking.’

  ‘Do you seek, then, something worthy?’

  Cutter slowly closed his eyes, then sighed. ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘There was a man, once, whose task was to guard the life of a young girl. He did the best he could—with such honour as to draw, upon his sad death, the attention of Hood himself. Oh, the Lord of Death will look into a mortal’s soul, given the right circumstances. The, uh, the proper incentive. Thus, that man is now the Knight of Death—’

  ‘I don’t want to be Knight of anything, nor for anyone, Cotillion—’

  ‘The wrong track, lad. Let me finish my tale. This man did the best he could, but he failed. And now the girl is dead. She was named Felisin. Of House Paran.’

  Cutter’s head turned. He studied the shadowed visage of the god. ‘Captain Paran? His—’

  ‘His sister. Look down upon the path, here, out the window, lad. In a short time Iskaral Pust will return. With guests. Among them, a child named Felisin—’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘Before Paran’s sister…died, she adopted a waif. A sorely abused foundling. She sought, I think—we will never know for certain, of course—to achieve something…something she herself had no chance, no opportunity, to achieve. Thus, she named the waif after herself.’

  ‘And what is she to me, Cotillion?’

  ‘You are being obstinate, I think. The wrong question.’

  ‘Oh, then tell me what is the right question.’

  ‘What are you to her?’

  Cutter grimaced.

  ‘The child approaches in the company of another woman, a very remarkable one, as you—and she—will come to see. And with a priest, sworn now to Treach. From him, you will learn…much of worth. Finally, a demon travels with these three humans. For the time being…’

  ‘Where are they going? Why stop here, as Iskaral’s guests?’

  ‘Why, to collect you, Cutter.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Symmetry, lad, is a power unto itself. It is the expression, if you will, of nature’s striving for balance. I charge you with protecting Felisin’s life. To accompany them on their long, and dangerous, journey.’

  ‘How epic of you.’

  ‘I think not,’ Cotillion snapped.

  Silence, for a time, during which Cutter regretted his comment.

  Finally, the Daru sighed. ‘I hear horses. And Pust…in one of his nauseating diatribes.’

  Cotillion said nothing.

  ‘Very well,’ Cutter said. ‘This Felisin…abused, you said. Those ones are hard to get to. To befriend, I mean. Their scars stay fresh and fierce with pain—’

  ‘Her adopted mother did well, given her own scars. Be glad, lad, that she is the daughter, not the mother. And, in your worst moments, think of how Baudin felt.’

  ‘Baudin. The elder Felisin’s guardian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right,’ Cutter said. ‘It will do.’

  ‘What will?’

  ‘This path. It will do.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘Cotillion. This notion of…balance. Something has occurred to me—’

  Cotillion’s eyes silenced him, shocked him with their unveiling of sorrow…of remorse. The patron of assassins nodded. ‘From her…to you. Aye.’

  ‘Did she see that, do you think?’

  ‘All too clearly, I’m afraid.’

  Cutter stared out the window. ‘I loved her, you know. I still do.’

  ‘So you do not wonder why she has left.’

  He shook his head, unable to fight back the tears any more. ‘No, Cotillion,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t.’

  The ancient coast road long behind him, Karsa Orlong guided Havok northward along the shore of the new inland sea. Rain clouds hung over the murky water to the east, but the wind was pushing them away.

  He studied the sky for a moment, then reined in on a slight rise studded with boulders and slipped down from the horse’s back. Walking over to a large, flat-topped rock, the Teblor unslung his sword and set it point downward against a nearby boulder, then sat. He drew off his pack and rummaged in an outside pocket for some salted bhederin, dried fruit, and goat cheese.

  Staring out over the water, he ate. When he was done, he loosened the pack’s straps and dragged out the broken remains of the T’lan Imass. He held it up s
o that ’Siballe’s withered face looked out upon the rippling waves.

  ‘Tell me,’ Karsa said, ‘what do you see?’

  ‘My past.’ A moment of silence, then, ‘All that I have lost…’

  The Teblor released his grip and the partial corpse collapsed into a cloud of dust. Karsa found his waterskin and drank deep. Then he stared down at ’Siballe. ‘You once said that if you were thrown into the sea, your soul would be freed. That oblivion would come to you. Is this true?’

  ‘Yes.’

  With one hand he lifted her from the ground, rose and walked to the sea’s edge.

  ‘Wait! Teblor, wait! I do not understand!’

  Karsa’s expression soured. ‘When I began this journey, I was young. I believed in one thing. I believed in glory. I know now, ’Siballe, that glory is nothing. Nothing. This is what I now understand.’

  ‘What else do you now understand, Karsa Orlong?’

  ‘Not much. Just one other thing. The same cannot be said for mercy.’ He raised her higher, then swung her body outward.

  It struck the water in the shallows. And dissolved into a muddy bloom, which the waves then swept away.

  Karsa swung about. Faced his sword of stone. He then smiled. ‘Yes. I am Karsa Orlong of the Uryd, a Teblor. Witness, my brothers. One day I will be worthy to lead such as you. Witness.’

  Sword once more slung on his back, Havok once more solid beneath him, the Toblakai rode from the shoreline. West, into the wastes.

  Epilogue

  And now here I sit,

  on my brow a circlet of fire,

  and this kingdom

  I rule

  is naught but the host

  of my life’s recollections,

  unruly subjects,

  so eager for insurrection,

  to usurp the aged man

  from his charred throne

  and raise up

  younger versions

  one by one.

  THE CROWN OF YEARS

  FISHER KEL TATH

  By any standards, she was a grim woman.

  Onrack the Broken watched her stand in the centre of the chamber and cast a harsh, appraising eye upon the disposition of her young killers. The grimace that twisted her handsome features suggested that she found nothing awry. Her gaze fell at last upon the Tiste Edur, Trull Sengar, and the grimace shifted into a scowl.