The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  He blinked.

  She scowled. ‘Your commander is about to die.’

  ‘I know—wait—’ He stepped past her, onto the track. ‘Wait, something’s coming—quick!’ He ran into the yard, Shurq Elalle following.

  The Toblakai in the Tarthenal’s arms sagged, and Iron Bars heard the cracking of ribs—a moment before one of the gods slipped past the Avowed and slammed the side of his wooden sword into the Tarthenal’s head. The huge man toppled, dragging down with him the dead god in his arms.

  Stunned, the Tarthenal tried feebly to extricate himself from the corpse.

  With the last of his failing strength, Iron Bars leapt over to position himself above him, arriving in time to deflect a sword-blow and counter with a slash that forced the attacker back a step. From the right, another lunged, then spun away of its own accord, wheeling towards a thunderous concussion from a nearby barrow.

  Where a tall, pale figure strode into view through a cloud of steam, a sword in each hand.

  The Avowed, momentarily distracted, did not even see the sword-blade that slipped over his guard and, deflected at the last moment by clipping the hilt of his sword, slammed flat like a paddle into his right shoulder, breaking everything it could. The impact sent him flying, crashing down into the earth, weapon flying from a senseless hand. He ended up lying on his back, staring up through straggly black tree branches. Too hurt to move. Too tired to care.

  From somewhere to his right he heard fighting, then a grunting bellow that sounded a lot like a death-cry. A Toblakai staggered, almost stumbling over Iron Bars, and the Avowed’s eyes widened upon seeing blood spurting from two stabs in the god’s neck, and a man gnawing on its left calf, being dragged along by its teeth, its taloned hands clawing up the god’s thigh.

  Well, he’d seen stranger things, he supposed—no, not a chance of that—

  The ground shook as another body thumped to the ground. A moment later, there was another dying groan.

  Then footsteps slowly approached Iron Bars where he lay, staring up at the sky. A shadow fell over him. The Avowed blinked, and found himself looking up at a pallid, lean face, and two red, very red, eyes.

  ‘You did passably well,’ the stranger said.

  ‘And my Tarthenal friend?’

  ‘Struck in the skull. He’ll be fine, since I doubt there’s much inside it.’ A pause, then, ‘Why are you still lying there?’

  Dust and smoke drifted out from the dark corridor. Turudal Brizad had drawn Brys back into the throne room, and the Champion now stood in the clear space before the dais.

  From the throne behind him came a weary voice. ‘Finadd? The Ceda…’

  Brys simply shook his head, unable to speak, struggling to push aside his grief.

  From the gloom of the corridor, there was silence. Heavy, ominous.

  Brys slowly drew out his sword.

  A sound. The grate of footsteps dragging through dust and rubble, the scrape of a sword-tip, and a strange series of dull clicks.

  The footsteps halted.

  Then, a coin. The snap of its bounce—

  —rolling slowly into the throne room.

  Brys watched it arc a lazy, curling path over the tiles. Gold, blotched with dried blood.

  Rolling, tilting, then wobbling to a stop.

  The sounds resumed from the corridor, and a moment later a hulking figure shambled out from the shadows and roiling dust.

  No-one spoke in the throne room as the emperor of the Tiste Edur entered. Three steps, then four, then five, until he was almost within sword-reach of the Champion. Behind him, Hannan Mosag, almost unrecognizable, so twisted and bent and broken was the Warlock King. Two more Edur warriors, their faces taut with distress, appeared in Hannan Mosag’s wake, dragging two sacks.

  Brys spared the others the briefest of glances, noting the blood-smeared spear in the right hand of one of the warriors. The one who killed the Ceda. Then he fixed his attention once more on the emperor. The sword was too large for him. He walked as if in pain. Spasms flickered across his coin-studded face. His hooded eyes glittered as he stared past Brys…to the throne, and the king seated upon it.

  A racking cough from Hannan Mosag as he sagged to a kneeling position, a gasp, and, finally, words. ‘King Ezgara Diskanar. I have something…to show you. A…gift.’ He lifted a mangled hand, the effort sending a shudder through him, and gestured behind him.

  The two warriors glanced at each other, both uncertain.

  The Warlock King grimaced. ‘The sacks. Untie them. Show the king what lies within them.’ Another hacking cough, a bubbling of pink froth at the corners of Hannan Mosag’s mouth.

  The warriors worked at the knotted ropes, the one on the left pulling the strands loose a moment before the other one. Drawing the leather mouth open. The Edur, seeing what was within, suddenly recoiled, and Brys saw horror on the warrior’s face.

  A moment later the other one cried out and stepped back.

  ‘Show them!’ screamed the Warlock King.

  At that, even the emperor turned, startled.

  The warrior on the left drew a deep, ragged breath, then stepped forward until he could grip the edges of the sack. With strangely gentle motions, he tugged the leather down.

  A Letherii, bound tight. Blistered, suppurating skin, fingers worn to stubs, lumps and growths everywhere on his naked body. He had lost most of his hair, although some long strands remained. Blinking in the light, he tried lifting his head, but the malformed tendons and ligaments in his neck forced the motion to one side. The lower jaw settled and a thread of drool slipped down from the gaping mouth.

  Then Brys recognized him.

  Prince Quillas—

  A cry from the king, a terrible, animal wail.

  The other sack was pulled down. The queen, her flesh as ruined as that of her son. From her, however, came a wet cackle as if to answer her husband’s cry, then a tumbling of nonsensical words, a rush of madness grating out past her swollen, broken lips. Yet, in her eyes, fierce awareness.

  Hannan Mosag laughed. ‘I used them. Against the Ceda. I used them. Letherii blood, Letherii flesh. Look upon the three of us. See, dear king, see the glory of what is to come.

  The emperor shrieked, ‘Take them away! Fear! Trull! Take them away!’

  The two warriors closed on the huddled figures, drawing the sacks up to what passed for shoulders, then dragging the queen and her son back towards the corridor.

  Trembling, the emperor faced the king once more. He opened his mouth to say something, winced, then shut it again. Then he slowly straightened, and spoke in a rasping voice. ‘We are Rhulad Sengar, emperor of the Tiste Edur. And now, of Lether. Yield the throne, Diskanar. Yield…to us.’

  From Brys’s left the First Eunuch strode forward, a wine jug and two goblets in his hands. He ascended the dais, offered Ezgara one of the goblets. Then he poured out the wine.

  Bemused, the Champion took a step to his right and half turned to regard his king.

  Who calmly drank down the wine in three quick swallows. At some time earlier the crown had been placed on his brow once again. Nisall was standing just behind the throne, her eyes narrowed on the First Eunuch, who had finished his own wine and was stepping back down from the dais, making his way to stand near the Chancellor at the far wall.

  Ezgara Diskanar fixed dull eyes on Brys. ‘Stand aside, Champion. Do not die this day.’

  ‘I cannot do as you ask, my king,’ Brys said. ‘As you well know.’

  A weary nod, then Ezgara looked away. ‘Very well.’

  Nifadas spoke. ‘Champion. Show these savages the measure of a Letherii swordsman. The final act of our kingdom on this dark day.’

  Brys frowned, then faced Rhulad Sengar. ‘You must fight me, Emperor. Or call upon more of your warriors to cut us down.’ A glance at the kneeling Hannan Mosag. ‘I believe your sorcery is done for now.’

  Rhulad sneered. ‘Sorcery? We would not so discard this opportunity, Champion. No, we will fight, the two
of us.’ He stepped back and raised the mottled sword. ‘Come. We have lessons for one another.’

  Brys did not reply. He waited.

  The emperor attacked. Surprisingly fast, a half-whirl of the blade high, then a broken-timed diagonal downward slash intended to meet the Champion’s sword and drive it down to the tiles.

  Brys matched the momentary hesitation and leaned back, drawing his sword round as he side-stepped to his right. Blade now resting on the top of Rhulad’s own as it flashed downward, the Champion darted the tip up to the emperor’s left forearm and sliced through a tendon near the elbow.

  He leapt back, thrusting low as he was pulling away, to push the tip of his sword between the tendon and kneecap of Rhulad’s left leg.

  Snip.

  The emperor stumbled forward, almost to the edge of the dais, then, astonishingly, righted himself to lunge in a two-handed thrust.

  The mottled blade seemed to dance of its own accord, evading two distinct parries from Brys, and the Champion only managed to avoid the thrust by pushing the heavy blade aside with his left hand.

  The two lower fingers spun away from that hand, even as Brys back-pedalled until he was in the centre of the space once more, this time with Rhulad between himself and the king on his throne.

  Ezgara was smiling.

  As Rhulad wheeled to face him once more, his weapon dipping low, Brys attacked.

  Leading foot lifting high, stamping down on the emperor’s wavering sword-blade—not a perfect contact, but sufficient to bat it momentarily away—as he drove his point into Rhulad’s right kneecap. Slicing downward from the upper edge. Biting deep into the bone near the bottom edge. Twisting withdrawal, pulling the patella out through the cut.

  A shriek, as Rhulad’s leg shot out to the side.

  The kneecap still speared on Brys’s sword-point, he darted in again as the emperor drove his own sword down and to the left in an effort to stay upright, and slashed lightly across the tendons of the Edur’s right arm, just above the elbow.

  Rhulad fell back, thudded hard on the tiles, coins snapping free.

  The sword should have dropped from the Edur’s hands, yet it remained firm within two clenched fists.

  But Rhulad could do nothing with it.

  Trying to sit up, eyes filling with rage, he strained to lift the weapon.

  Brys struck the floor with his sword-tip, dislodging the patella, stepped close to the emperor and severed the tendons and ligaments in the Edur’s right shoulder, sweeping the blade across to slice a neck tendon, then, point hovering a moment, thrusting down to disable the left shoulder in an identical manner. Standing over the helpless emperor, Brys methodically cut through both tendons above Rhulad’s heels, then sliced diagonally across his victim’s stomach, parting the wall of muscles there.

  A kick sent Rhulad over, exposing his back.

  Slashes above each shoulder blade, two more neck tendons. Lower back, ensuring that the sheets of muscle there fully separated, rolling up beneath the coin-studded skin. Back of shoulders, coins dancing away to bounce across the floor.

  Brys then stepped back. Lowered his sword.

  Rebounding shrieks from the emperor lying face down on the floor, limbs already curling of their own accord, muscles drawing up. The only movement in the chamber.

  A slow settling of dust from the corridor.

  Then, from one of the Edur warriors, ‘Sisters take me…’

  King Ezgara Diskanar sighed, leaned drunkenly forward, then said, ‘Kill him. Kill him.’

  Brys looked over. ‘No, sire.’

  Disbelief on the old man’s face. ‘What?’

  ‘The Ceda was specific on this, sire. I must not kill him.’

  ‘He will bleed out,’ Nifadas said, his words strangely dull.

  But Brys shook his head. ‘He will not. I opened no major vessels, First Eunuch.’

  The Edur warrior named Trull then spoke. ‘No major vessels…how—how could you know? It is not possible…so fast…’

  Brys said nothing.

  The king suddenly slumped back on his throne.

  Rhulad’s shrieks had fallen away, and now he wept. Heaving, helpless cries. A sudden gasp, then, ‘Brothers! Kill me!’

  Trull Sengar recoiled at Rhulad’s command. He shook his head, looked across at Fear, and saw a terrible realization in his brother’s eyes.

  Rhulad was not healing. Leaking blood onto the polished tiles. His body…destroyed. And he was not healing. Trull turned to Hannan Mosag, and saw the ugly gleam of satisfaction in the Warlock King’s eyes.

  ‘Hannan Mosag,’ Trull whispered.

  ‘I cannot. His flesh, Trull Sengar, is beyond me. Beyond all of us. Only the sword…and only by the sword. You, Trull Sengar. Or Fear.’ A weak wave of one hand. ‘Oh, call in someone else, if you’ve not the courage…’

  Courage.

  Fear grunted at that. As if punched in the chest.

  Trull studied him—but Fear had not moved, not a single step. He dragged his eyes away, fixed them once more on Rhulad.

  ‘My brothers.’ Rhulad wept where he lay. ‘Kill me. One of you. Please.’

  The Champion—that extraordinary, appalling swordsman—walked over to where the wine jug sat near the foot of the throne. The king looked half asleep, indifferent, his face flushed and slack. Trull drew a deep breath. He saw the First Eunuch, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. Another man, elderly, stood near Nifadas, hands to his eyes—a posture both strange and pathetic. The woman standing behind the throne was backing away, as if in sudden realization of something. There had been another man young, handsome, but it seemed he had vanished.

  Along the walls, the six palace guards had all drawn their weapons and held them across their chest, a silent salute to the King’s Champion. A salute Trull wanted to match. His gaze returned once more to Brys. So modest in appearance so…his face. Familiar…Hull Beddict. So like Hull Beddict. Yes, his brother. The youngest. He watched the Letherii pour wine from the jug into the goblet the king had used earlier.

  Sisters, this Champion—what has he done? He has given us this…this answer. This…solution.

  Rhulad screamed. ‘Fear!’

  Hannan Mosag coughed, then said, ‘He is gone, Emperor.’

  Trull spun round, looked about. Gone? No—‘Where? Hannan Mosag, where—’

  ‘He…walked away.’ The Warlock King’s smile was bloodstained. ‘Just that, Trull Sengar. Walked. You understand, now, don’t you?’

  ‘To call the others, to bring them here…’

  ‘No,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘I do not think so.’

  Rhulad whimpered, then snapped, ‘Trull! I command you! Your emperor commands you! Stab me with your spear. Stab me!’

  Tears filled Trull’s eyes. And how shall I look upon him…now? How? As my emperor, or as my brother? He tottered, almost collapsing as anguish washed through him. Fear. You have left. Left us. Me, with…this.

  ‘Brother! Please!’

  From the entrance came a low cackle.

  Trull turned, saw the bound forms of the queen and the prince, leaning against the wall like two obscene trophies. The sound was coming from the queen, and he saw a glitter from her eyes.

  Something—something else—there’s more here…

  He turned. Watched as the Champion straightened, goblet in his hand. Watched, as the man lifted it to his lips.

  Trull’s gaze flicked to the king. To that half-lidded stare. The senseless eyes. The Edur’s head snapped round, to where the First Eunuch sat. Chin on chest, motionless.

  ‘No!’

  As the Champion drank, head tilting back. Two swallows, then three. Lowering the cup, he turned to regard Trull. Frowned. ‘You had better leave,’ he said. ‘Drag your warlock with you. Approach the emperor and I will kill you.’

  Too late. All…too late. ‘What—what do you intend?’

  The Champion looked down at Rhulad. ‘We will…take him somewhere. You will not find him, Edur.’


  The queen cackled again, clearly startling the swordsman.

  ‘It is too late,’ Trull said. ‘For you, in any case. If you have any mercy in you, Champion, best send your guards away now. And have them take the woman with them. My kin will be here at any moment.’ His gaze fell to Rhulad. ‘The emperor is for the Edur to deal with.’

  The quizzical expression in the Champion’s face deepened. Then he blinked, shook his head. ‘What…what do you mean? I see that you will not kill your brother. And he must die, mustn’t he? To heal. To…return.’

  ‘Yes. Champion, I am sorry. I was too late to warn you.’

  The swordsman sagged suddenly, and he threw a bloody hand out to the edge of the throne for balance. The sword, still in the other hand, wavered, then dipped until the point touched the floor. ‘What—what—’

  Trull said nothing.

  But Hannan Mosag cared nothing for compassion, and he laughed once more. ‘I understood your gesture, Champion. The coolness to match that of your king. Besides—’ His words broke into a cough. He spat phlegm, then resumed. ‘Besides, it hardly mattered, did it? Whether you lived or died. That’s how it seemed, anyway. At that brazen, fateful moment, at least.’

  The Champion sank down to the floor, staring dully at the Warlock King.

  ‘Swordsman,’ Hannan Mosag called out. ‘Hear me, these final words. You have lost. Your king is dead. He was dead before you even began your fight. You fought, Champion, to defend a dead man.’

  The Letherii, eyes widening, struggled to pull himself round, striving to look up, to the throne, to the figure seated there. But the effort proved too great, and he slid back down, head lolling.

  The Warlock King was laughing. ‘He had no faith. Only gold. No faith in you, swordsman—’

  Trull stalked towards him. ‘Be silent!’

  Hannan Mosag sneered up at him. ‘Watch yourself, Trull Sengar. You are as nothing to me.’

  ‘You would claim the throne now, Warlock King?’ Trull asked.

  An enraged shriek from Rhulad.

  Hannan Mosag said nothing.

  Trull looked back over his shoulder. Saw the Champion lying sprawled on the dais, at the king’s slippered feet. Lying, perfectly still, a mixture of surprise and dismay on his young face. Eyes staring, seeing nothing. But then, there could be no other way. No other way to kill such a man.