The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  The man handed the crossbow over to one of his comrades and unclasped the belt of his telaba. ‘We’ll see about that. Guthrim, if that dog-thing moves, kill it.’

  ‘It’s a lot bigger than most dogs I’ve seen,’ Guthrim replied.

  ‘Quarrel’s poisoned, remember? Black wasp.’

  ‘Maybe I should just kill it now.’

  The other man hesitated, then nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

  The crossbow thudded.

  Greyfrog’s right hand intercepted the quarrel, plucking it out of the air, then the demon studied it, and slithered out its tongue to lick the poison.

  ‘The Seven take me!’ Guthrim whispered in disbelief.

  ‘Oh,’ Scillara said to Greyfrog, ‘don’t make a mess of this. There’s no problem here—’

  ‘He disagrees,’ Felisin said, her voice thin with fear.

  ‘Well, convince him otherwise.’ I can do this. Just like it was before. Doesn’t matter, they’re just men.

  ‘I can’t, Scillara.’

  Guthrim was reloading the crossbow, whilst the first man and the one not holding the reins of the horses both drew scimitars.

  Greyfrog bounded forward, appallingly fast, and leapt upward, mouth opening wide. That mouth clamped onto Guthrim’s head. The demon’s lower jaw slipped out from its hinges and the man’s head disappeared. Greyfrog’s momentum and weight toppled him. Horrific crunching sounds, Guthrim’s body spasming, spraying fluids, then sagging limp.

  Greyfrog’s jaws closed with a scraping, then snapping sound, then the demon clambered away, leaving behind a headless corpse.

  The remaining three men had stared in shock during this demonstration. But now they acted. The first one cried out, a strangled, terror-filled sound, and rushed forward, raising his scimitar.

  Spitting out a mangled, crushed mess of hair and bone, Greyfrog jumped to meet him. One hand caught the man’s sword-arm, twisted hard until the elbow popped, flesh tore, and blood spurted. Another hand closed on his throat and squeezed, crushing cartilage. The man’s scream never reached the air. Eyes bulging, face rushing to a shade of dark grey, tongue jutting like some macabre creature trying to climb free, he collapsed beneath the demon. A third hand held the other arm. Greyfrog used the fourth one to reach back and scratch itself.

  The remaining swordsman fled to where the fourth man was already scrabbling onto his horse.

  Greyfrog leapt again. A fist cracked against the back of the swordsman’s head, punching the bone inward. He sprawled, weapon flying. The demon’s charge caught the last man with one leg in the stirrup.

  The horse shied away with a squeal, and Greyfrog dragged the man down, then bit his face.

  A moment later this man’s head vanished into the demon’s maw as had the first one. More crunching sounds, more twitching kicks, grasping hands. Then, merciful death.

  The demon spat out shattered bone still held in place by the scalp. It fell in such a way that Scillara found herself looking at the man’s face – no flesh, no eyes, just the skin, puckered and bruised. She stared at it a moment longer, then forced herself to look away.

  At Felisin, who had backed up as far as she could against the stone wall, knees drawn up, hands covering her eyes.

  ‘It’s done,’ Scillara said. ‘Felisin, it’s over.’

  The hands lowered, revealing an expression of terror and revulsion.

  Greyfrog was dragging bodies away, round behind a mass of boulders, moving with haste. Ignoring the demon for the moment, Scillara walked over to crouch in front of Felisin. ‘It would have been easier my way,’ she said. ‘At least a lot less messy.’

  Felisin stared at her. ‘He sucked out their brains.’

  ‘I could see that.’

  ‘Delicious, he said.’

  ‘He’s a demon, Felisin. Not a dog, not a pet. A demon.’

  ‘Yes.’ The word was whispered.

  ‘And now we know what he can do.’

  A mute nod.

  ‘So,’ Scillara said quietly, ‘don’t get too friendly.’ She straightened, and saw Cutter and Heboric clambering down from the ridge.

  ‘Triumph and pride! We have horses!’

  Cutter slowed. ‘We heard a scream—’

  ‘Horses,’ Heboric said as he walked towards the skittish animals. ‘That’s a bit of luck.’

  ‘Innocent. Scream? No, friend Cutter. Was Greyfrog…breaking wind.’

  ‘Really. And did these horses just wander up to you?’

  ‘Bold. Yes! Most curious!’

  Cutter headed over to study some odd stains in the scuffled dust. Greyfrog’s palm-prints were evident in the effort to clean up the mess. ‘Some blood here…’

  ‘Shock, dismay…remorse.’

  ‘Remorse. At what happened here, or at being found out?’

  ‘Sly. Why, the former, of course, friend Cutter.’

  Grimacing, Cutter glanced over at Scillara and Felisin, studied their expressions. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that I am glad I was not here to see what you two saw.’

  ‘Yes,’ Scillara replied. ‘You should be.’

  ‘Best keep your distance from these beasts, Greyfrog,’ Heboric called out. ‘They may not like me, much, but they really don’t like you.’

  ‘Confident. They just don’t know me yet.’

  ‘I wouldn’t feed this to a rat,’ Smiles said, picking desultorily at the fragments of meat on the tin plate resting in her lap. ‘Look, even the flies are avoiding it.’

  ‘It’s not the food they’re avoiding,’ Koryk said. ‘It’s you.’

  She sneered across at him. ‘That’s called respect. A foreign word to you, I know. Seti are just failed Wickans. Everybody knows that. And you, you’re a failed Seti.’ She took her plate and sent it skidding across the sand towards Koryk. ‘Here, stick it in your half-blood ears and save it for later.’

  ‘She’s so sweet after a day’s hard riding,’ Koryk said to Tarr, with a broad, white smile.

  ‘Keep baiting her,’ the corporal replied, ‘and you’ll probably regret it.’ He too was eyeing what passed for supper on his plate, his normally placid expression wrinkling into a slight scowl. ‘It’s horse, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Dug up from some horse cemetery,’ Smiles said, stretching out her legs. ‘I’d kill for some grease-fish, baked in clay over coals down on the beach. Yellow-spiced, weed-wrapped. A jug of Meskeri wine and some worthy lad from the inland village. A farm-boy, big—’

  ‘Hood’s litany, enough!’ Koryk leaned forward and spat into the fire. ‘You rounding up some pig-swiller with fluff on his chin is the only story you know, that much is obvious. Dammit, Smiles, we’ve heard it all a thousand times. You crawling out of Father’s estate at night to get your hands and knees wet down on the beach. Where was all this again? Oh, right, little-girl dream-land, I’d forgotten—’

  A knife thudded into Koryk’s right calf. Bellowing, he scrambled back, then sank down to clutch at his leg.

  Soldiers from nearby squads looked over, squinting through the dust that suffused the entire camp. A moment’s curiosity, quickly fading.

  As Koryk loosed a stream of indignant curses, both hands trying to stem the bleeding, Bottle sighed and rose from where he sat. ‘See what happens when the old men leave us to play on our own? Hold still, Koryk,’ he said as he approached. ‘I’ll get you mended – won’t take long—’

  ‘Make it soon,’ the half-blood Seti said in a growl, ‘so I can slit that bitch’s throat.’

  Bottle glanced over at the woman, then leaned in close to Koryk. ‘Easy. She’s looking a little pale. A bad throw—’

  ‘Oh, and what was she aiming at?’

  Corporal Tarr climbed to his feet. ‘Strings won’t be happy with you, Smiles,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘He moved his leg—’

  ‘And you threw a knife at him.’

  ‘It was that little-girl thing. I was provoked.’

  ‘Never mind how it started. You might try apologizing
– maybe Koryk will leave it at that—’

  ‘Sure,’ Koryk said. ‘The day Hood climbs into his own grave.’

  ‘Bottle, you stopped the bleeding yet?’

  ‘Pretty much, Corporal.’ Bottle tossed the knife over towards Smiles. It landed at her feet, the blade slick.

  ‘Thanks, Bottle,’ Koryk said. ‘Now she can try again.’

  The knife thudded into the ground between the half-blood’s boots.

  All eyes snapped to stare at Smiles.

  Bottle licked his lips. That damned thing had come all too close to his left hand.

  ‘That’s where I was aiming,’ Smiles said.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Koryk asked, his voice strangely high.

  Bottle drew a deep breath to slow his pounding heart.

  Tarr walked over and pulled the knife from the ground. ‘I’ll keep this for a while, I think.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Smiles said. ‘I got plenty more.’

  ‘And you will keep them sheathed.’

  ‘Aye, Corporal. So long as no-one provokes me.’

  ‘She’s insane,’ Koryk muttered.

  ‘She’s not insane,’ Bottle replied. ‘Just lonely for…’

  ‘Some farm-boy from the inland village,’ Koryk finished, grinning.

  ‘Probably a cousin,’ Bottle added, low so that only Koryk heard.

  The man laughed.

  There. Bottle sighed. Another hairy moment on this endless march passed by, with only a little blood spilled. The Fourteenth Army was tired. Miserable. It didn’t like itself, much. Deprived of delivering fullest vengeance upon Sha’ik and the murderers, rapists and cut-throats who followed her, and now in slow pursuit of the last remnant of that rebel army, along crumbling, dusty roads in a parched land, through sandstorms and worse, the Fourteenth still waited for a resolution. It wanted blood, but so far most of the blood spilled had been its own, as altercations turned into feuds and things got ugly.

  The Fists were doing their best to keep things under control, but they were as worn down as everyone else. It didn’t help that there were very few captains worthy of the rank in the companies.

  And we don’t have one at all, now that Keneb got moved. There was the rumour of a new contingent of recruits and officers disembarking at Lato Revae and now somewhere behind them, hurrying to catch up, but that rumour had begun ten days ago. The fools should have caught them by now.

  Messengers had been coming and going in the last two days, pelting along the track from their wake, then back again. Dujek Onearm and the Adjunct were doing a lot of talking, that much was clear. What wasn’t was what they were talking about. Bottle had thought about eavesdropping on the command tent and its occupants, as he had done many times before, between Aren and Raraku, but the presence of Quick Ben made him nervous. A High Mage. If Quick turned over a rock and found Bottle under it, there’d be Hood to pay.

  The damned bastards fleeing ahead of them could run for ever, and probably would if their commander had any brains. He could have chosen a last stand at any time. Heroic and inspiring in its pointlessness. But it seemed he was too clever for that. Westward, ever westward, out into the wastes.

  Bottle returned to where he had been sitting, collecting handfuls of sand to scrub Koryk’s blood from his fingers and palms. We’re just getting on each other’s nerves. That’s all. His grandmother would know what to do about this situation, but she was long dead and her spirit was anchored to the old farm outside Jakata, a thousand leagues from here. He could almost see her, shaking her head and squinting in that half-crazed genius way she’d had. Wise in the ways of mortals, seeing through to every weakness, every flaw, reading unconscious gestures and momentary expressions, cutting through the confused surface to lay bare the bones of truth. Nothing was hidden from her.

  He could not talk with her, however.

  But there’s another woman…isn’t there? Despite the heat, Bottle shivered. She still haunted his dreams, that Eres’al witch. Still showed him the ancient hand-axes spread out over this land like the stone leaves of a world-encompassing tree, scattered by the winds of countless passing ages. He knew, in fact, that fifty or so paces south of this track, there was a basin cluttered with the damned things. Out there, a short walk, waiting for him.

  I see them, but I do not yet understand their significance. That’s the problem. I’m not equal to this.

  His eyes caught movement down by his boots and he saw a locust, swollen with eggs and crawling slowly. Bottle leaned forward and picked it up by pinching together its folded wings. With his other hand he reached into his pack, and removed a small black wooden box, its lid and sides pierced through with small holes. He flicked open the clasp and lifted the lid.

  Joyful Union, their prized Birdshit scorpion. In the sudden light, the creature’s tail lifted as it backed into a corner.

  Bottle tossed the locust into the box.

  The scorpion had known what was coming, and it darted forward, and moments later was feeding on the still-kicking insect.

  ‘Simple for you, isn’t it?’ Bottle said under his breath.

  Something thumped into the sand beside him – a karybral fruit, round and dusty-lime-coloured. Bottle looked up to find Cuttle standing over him.

  The sapper had an armful of the fruit. ‘A treat,’ he said.

  Grimacing, Bottle closed the lid on Joyful Union. ‘Thanks. Where did you get them?’

  ‘Went for a walk.’ Cuttle nodded southward. ‘A basin, karybral vines everywhere.’ He started tossing them to the others in the squad.

  A basin. ‘Plenty of hand-axes, too, right?’

  Cuttle squinted. ‘Didn’t notice. Is that dried blood on your hands?’

  ‘That would be mine,’ Koryk said in a growl, already husking the fruit.

  The sapper paused, studied the rough circle of soldiers around him, finishing on Corporal Tarr, who shrugged. This seemed sufficient, as Cuttle flung the last karybral globe over to Smiles.

  Who caught it on a knife.

  The others, Cuttle included, watched as she proceeded to slice the skin away with deft strokes.

  The sapper sighed. ‘Think I’ll go find the sergeant.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Bottle said.

  ‘You should let Joyful out for the occasional walk,’ Cuttle said. ‘Stretch the old legs. Maybe and Lutes have found a new scorpion – never seen its like before. They’re talking re-match.’

  ‘Scorpions can’t stretch their legs,’ Bottle replied.

  ‘A figure of speech.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Cuttle said, then ambled off.

  Smiles had managed to remove the entire husk in one strip, which she lobbed in Koryk’s direction. He had been looking down, and he jumped at the motion in the edge of his vision.

  She snorted. ‘There you go. Add it to your collection of charms.’

  The half-Seti set down his karybral and slowly stood, then winced and threw Bottle a glare. ‘I thought you healed this damned thing.’

  ‘I did. It’s still going to be sore, though.’

  ‘Sore? I can barely stand.’

  ‘It’ll get better.’

  ‘She’s liable to run,’ Tarr observed. ‘It should be amusing, Koryk, seeing you hobbling after her.’

  The big man subsided. ‘I’m patient enough,’ he said, sitting back down.

  ‘Ooh,’ Smiles said, ‘I’m all in a sweat.’

  Bottle climbed to his feet. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said. ‘Nobody kill anybody until I get back.’

  ‘If someone gets killed,’ Tarr pointed out, ‘your healing skills won’t be much help.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about healing, just watching.’

  They had ridden north, out of sight of the encamped column, over a low ridge and onto a flat, dusty plain. Three guldindha trees rose from a low knoll two hundred paces distant, and they had reined in beneath the shade of the leathery, broad leaves, unpacking food and a jug of Gredfalan ale Fiddler had
procured from somewhere, and there they awaited the High Mage’s arrival.

  Something of Fiddler’s old spirit had been dampened, Kalam could see. More grey in the russet beard, a certain far-off look in his pale blue eyes. True, the Fourteenth was an army filled with resentful, bitter soldiers, the glory of an empire’s vengeance stolen from them the very night before battle; and this march wasn’t helping. These things alone could suffice to explain Fiddler’s condition, but Kalam knew better.

  Tanno song or no, Hedge and the others were dead. Ghosts on the other side. Then again, Quick Ben had explained that the official reports were slightly inaccurate. Mallet, Picker, Antsy, Blend, Spindle, Bluepearl…there were survivors, retired and living soft in Darujhistan. Along with Captain Ganoes Paran. So, some good news, and it had helped. A little.

  Fiddler and Hedge had been as close as brothers. When together, they had been mayhem. A conjoined mindset more dangerous than amusing most of the time. As legendary as the Bridgeburners themselves. It had been a fateful decision back there on the shoreline of Lake Azur, their parting. Fateful for all of us, it turns out.

  Kalam could make little sense of the ascendancy. This Spiritwalker’s blessing on a company of soldiers, the parting of the fabric at Raraku. He was both comforted and uneasy with the notion of unseen guardians – Fiddler’s life had been saved by Hedge’s ghost…but where was Whiskeyjack? Had he been there as well?

  That night in the camp of Sha’ik had been nightmarish. Too many knives to count had been unsheathed in those dark hours. And he had seen some of those ghosts with his own eyes. Bridgeburners long dead, come back grim as a hangover and as ugly as they had been in life. If he ever met that Tanno Spiritwalker Fid had talked to…

  The sapper was pacing in the shade of the trees.

  Crouching, Kalam Mekhar studied his old friend. ‘All right, Fid, out with it.’

  ‘Bad things,’ the sapper muttered. ‘Too many to count. Like storm-clouds, gathering on every horizon.’

  ‘No wonder you’ve been miserable company.’

  Fiddler squinted over at him. ‘You ain’t been much better.’

  The assassin grimaced. ‘Pearl. He’s keeping out of my sight, but he’s hovering nonetheless. You’d think that Pardu woman – what’s her name?’