The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Madan’Tul Rada’s expression soured, jaw edging down as tongue probed a likely rotted molar, then he spat, squinted in the smoke, and unslung his round shield to study its charred face. Looked up again, slowly tracking, then: ‘No.’

  They could hear a wind above them, shrieking, whirling round and round over the city, drawing the flames up, spinning tails of fire that slashed like giant swords through the convulsing smoke. It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

  The lieutenant’s head lifted suddenly, and he faced the wall of flame up the street, then rose.

  Faradan Sort followed suit, for she could now see what he had seen – a strange black stain spreading out within the flames, the tongues of fire flickering back, dying, the stain deepening, circular, and out from its heart staggered a figure shedding charred leathers, clasps and buckles falling away to bounce on the street.

  Stumbling towards them, flames dancing in the full head of hair – dancing, yet not burning. Closer, and Faradan Sort saw it was a girl, a face she then recognized. ‘She’s from Cord’s Ashok squad. That’s Sinn.’

  ‘How did she do that?’ Madan’Tul Rada asked.

  ‘I don’t know, but let’s hope she can do it again. Soldier! Over here!’

  An upper level had simply sheared away, down, crashing in an explosion of dust and smoke onto the street. Where Bowl had been crouching. He had not even seen it coming, Hellian suspected. Lucky bastard. She looked back at her squad. Blistered, red as boiled lobsters. Armour shed, weapons flung away – too hot to hold. Marines and heavies. Herself the only sergeant. Two corporals – Urb and Reem – their expressions dulled. Red-eyed all of them, gasping in the dying air, damn near hairless. Not much longer, I think. Gods, what I would do for a drink right now. Something nice. Chilled, delicate, the drunk coming on slow and sly, peaceful sleep beckoning as sweet as the last trickle down my ravaged throat. Gods, I’m a poet when it comes to drink, oh yes. ‘Okay, that way’s blocked now. Let’s take this damned alley—’

  ‘Why?’ Touchy demanded.

  ‘Because I don’t see flames down there, that’s why. We keep moving until we can’t move no more, got it?’

  ‘Why don’t we just stay right here – another building’s bound to land on us sooner or later.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Hellian snarled. ‘You do just that, but me, I ain’t waiting for nothing. You want to die alone, you go right ahead.’

  She set off.

  Everyone followed. There was nothing else to do.

  Eighteen soldiers – Strings had carried them through. Three more skirmishes, bloody and without mercy, and now they crouched before the palace gates – which yawned wide, a huge mouth filled with fire. Smoke billowed above the fortification, glowing in the night. Bottle, on his knees, gasping, slowly looked round at his fellow soldiers. A few heavies, the whole of Strings’s squad, and most of Sergeant Cord’s, along with the few marines surviving from Borduke’s squad.

  They had hoped, prayed, even, to arrive and find other squads – anyone, more survivors, defying this damned conflagration…this far. Just this far, that’s all. It would have been enough. But they were alone, with no sign anywhere that any other Malazans had made it.

  If Leoman of the Flails was in the palace, he was naught but ashes, now.

  ‘Crump, Maybe, Cuttle, over to me,’ Strings ordered, crouching and setting down his satchel. ‘Any other sappers? No? Anyone carrying munitions? All right, I just checked mine – the wax is way too soft and getting softer – it’s all gonna go up, and that’s the plan. All of it, except the burners – toss those – the rest goes right into the mouth of that palace—’

  ‘What’s the point?’ Cord demanded. ‘I mean, fine by me if you’re thinking it’s a better way to go.’

  ‘I want to try and blow a hole in this growing firestorm – knock it back – and we’re heading through that hole, for as long as it survives – Hood knows where it’ll lead. But I don’t see any fire right behind the palace, and that’ll do for me. Problems with that, Cord?’

  ‘No. I love it. It’s brilliant. Genius. If only I hadn’t tossed my helm away.’

  A few laughs. Good sign.

  Then hacking coughs. Bad sign.

  Someone shrieked, and Bottle turned to see a figure lumbering out from a nearby building, flasks and bottles hanging from him, another bottle in one hand, a torch in the other – heading straight for them. And they had discarded their crossbows.

  A bellowing answer from a soldier in Cord’s squad, and the man, Bell, rushed forward to intercept the fanatic.

  ‘Get back!’ Cord screamed.

  Sprinting, Bell flung himself at the man, colliding with him twenty paces away, and both went down.

  Bottle dropped flat, rolled away, bumping up against other soldiers doing the same.

  A whoosh, then more screams. Terrible screams. And a wave of heat, blistering, fierce as the breath of a forge.

  Then Strings was swearing, scrambling with his collection of satchels. ‘Away from the palace! Everyone!’

  ‘Not me!’ Cuttle growled. ‘You need help.’

  ‘Fine. Everyone else! Sixty, seventy paces at least! More if you can! Go!’

  Bottle climbed upright, watched as Strings and Cuttle ran crab-like towards the palace gates. Then he looked round. Sixty paces? We ain’t got sixty paces – flames were devouring buildings in every direction he could see, now.

  Still, as far away as possible. He began running.

  And found himself colliding with someone – who gripped his left arm and spun him round.

  Gesler. And behind him Thom Tissy, then a handful of soldiers. ‘What are those fools doing?’ Gesler demanded.

  ‘Blow – a hole – through the storm—’

  ‘Puckered gods of the Abyss. Sands – you still got your munitions?’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant—’

  ‘Damned fool. Give ’em to me—’

  ‘No,’ said Truth, stepping in between. ‘I’ll take them. We’ve gone through fire before, right, Sergeant?’ With that he snatched the satchel from Sands’s hands and ran towards the palace gates—

  Where Strings and Cuttle had been forced back – the heat too fierce, the flames slashing bright arms out at them.

  ‘Damn him!’ Gesler hissed. ‘That was a different kind of fire—’

  Bottle pulled loose from the sergeant’s grip. ‘We got to get going! Away!’

  Moments later all were running – except Gesler, who was heading towards the sappers outside the gate. Bottle hesitated. He could not help it. He had to see—

  Truth reached Cuttle and Strings, tugged their bags away, slung them over a shoulder, then shouted something and ran towards the palace gates.

  Both sappers leapt to their feet, retreating, intercepting Gesler – who looked determined to follow his young recruit – Cuttle and Strings dragged the sergeant back. Gesler struggled, turning a ravaged face in Truth’s direction—

  But the soldier had plunged into the flames.

  Bottle ran back, joined with the two sappers to help drag a shrieking Gesler away.

  Away.

  They had managed thirty paces down the street, heading towards a huddled mass of soldiers shying from a wall of flames, when the palace blew up behind them.

  And out, huge sections of stone flung skyward.

  Batted into the air, tumbling in a savage wind, Bottle rolled in the midst of bouncing rubble, limbs and bodies, faces, mouths opened wide, everyone screaming – in silence. No sound – no…nothing.

  Pain in his head, stabbing fierce in his ears, a pressure closing on his temples, his skull ready to implode—

  The wind suddenly reversed, pulling sheets of flame after it, closing in from every street. The pressure loosed. And the flames drew back, writhing like tentacles.

  Then the air was still.

  Coughing, staggering upright, Bottle turned.

  The palace’s heart was gone, split asunder, and naught but dust and smoke filled the vast swat
h of rubble.

  ‘Now!’ Strings shrieked, his voice sounding leagues away. ‘Go! Everyone! Go!’

  The wind returned, sudden, a scream rising to a wail, pushing them onward – onto the battered road between jagged, sagging palace walls.

  Dunsparrow had been first to the temple doors, shoving them wide even as explosions of fire lit up the horizon, all round the city…all within the city walls.

  Gasping, heart pounding and something like a knife-blade twisting in his gut, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas followed Leoman and the Malazan woman into the Temple of Scalissara, L’oric two paces behind him.

  No, not Scalissara – the Queen of Dreams. Scalissara the matron goddess of olive oil would not have…no, she would not have allowed this. Not…this.

  And things had begun to make sense. Terrible, awful sense, like chiselled stones fitting together, raising a wall between humanity…and what Leoman of the Flails had become.

  The warriors – who had ridden with them, lived with them since the rebellion first began, who had fought at their side against the Malazans, who even now fought like fiends in the streets – they were all going to die. Y’Ghatan, this whole city, it’s going to die.

  Hurrying down the central hallway, into the nave, from which gusted a cold, dusty wind, wind that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Reeking of mould, rot and death.

  Leoman spun to L’oric. ‘Open a gate, High Mage! Quickly!’

  ‘You must not do this,’ Corabb said to his commander. ‘We must die, this night. Fighting in the name of Dryjhna—’

  ‘Hood take Dryjhna!’ Leoman rasped.

  L’oric was staring at Leoman, as if seeing him, understanding him, for the first time. ‘A moment,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve no time for that!’

  ‘Leoman of the Flails,’ the High Mage said, unperturbed, ‘you have bargained with the Queen of Dreams. A precipitous thing to do. That goddess has no interest in what’s right and what’s wrong. If she once possessed a heart, she flung it away long ago. And now you have drawn me into this – you have used me, so that a goddess may make use of me in turn. I do not—’

  ‘The gate, damn you! If you have objections, L’oric, raise them with her!’

  ‘They are all to die,’ Corabb said, backing away from his commander, ‘so that you can live.’

  ‘So that we can live, Corabb! There is no other way – do you think that the Malazans would ever leave us be? No matter where or how far we fled? I thank Hood’s dusty feet the Claw hasn’t struck already, but I do not intend to live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder! I was a bodyguard, damn you – it was her cause, not mine!’

  ‘Your warriors – they expected you to fight at their sides—’

  ‘They expected nothing of the sort. The fools wanted to die. In Dryjhna’s name.’ He bared his teeth in contempt. ‘Well, let them! Let them die! And best of all, they are going to take half the Adjunct’s army with them. There’s your glory, Corabb!’ He advanced on him, pointing towards the temple doors. ‘You want to join the fools? You want to feel your lungs searing with the heat, your eyes bursting, skin cracking? You want your blood to boil in your veins?’

  ‘An honourable death, Leoman of the Flails, compared to this.’

  He voiced something like a snarl, spun back to L’oric. ‘Open the way – and fear not, I made no promises to her regarding you, beyond bringing you here.’

  ‘The fire grows into life outside this temple, Leoman,’ L’oric said. ‘I may not succeed.’

  ‘Your chances diminish with each moment that passes,’ Leoman said in a growl.

  There was panic in the man’s eyes. Corabb studied it, the way it seemed so…out of place. There, in the features he thought he knew so well. Knew every expression possible. Anger, cold amusement, disdain, the stupor and lidded eyes within the fumes of durhang. Every expression…except this one. Panic.

  Everything was crumbling inside, and Corabb could feel himself drowning. Sinking ever deeper, reaching up towards a light that grew ever more distant, dimmer.

  With a hissed curse, L’oric faced the altar. Its stones seemed to glow in the gloom, so new, the marble unfamiliar – from some other continent, Corabb suspected – traced through with purple veins and capillaries that seemed to pulse. There was a circular pool beyond the altar, the water steaming – it had been covered the last time they had visited; he could see the copper panels that had sealed it lying against a side-wall.

  The air swirled above the altar.

  She was waiting on the other side. A flicker, as if reflected from the pool of water, then the portal opened, engulfing the altar, edges spreading, curling black, then wavering fitfully. L’oric gasped, straining beneath some invisible burden. ‘I cannot hold this long! I see you, Queen!’

  From the portal came a languid, cool voice, ‘L’oric, son of Osserc. I seek no geas from you.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  A moment, during which the portal wavered, then: ‘Sha’ik is dead. The Whirlwind Goddess is no more. Leoman of the Flails, a question.’ A new tone to her voice, something like irony. ‘Is Y’Ghatan – what you have done here – is this your Apocalypse?’

  The desert warrior scowled, then said, ‘Well, yes.’ He shrugged. ‘Not as big as we’d hoped…’

  ‘But, perhaps, enough. L’oric. The role of Sha’ik, the Seer of Dryjhna, is…vacant. It needs to be filled—’

  ‘Why?’ L’oric demanded.

  ‘Lest something else, something less desirable, assume the mantle.’

  ‘And the likelihood of that?’

  ‘Imminent.’

  Corabb watched the High Mage, sensed a rush of thoughts behind the man’s eyes, as mysterious implications fell into place following the goddess’s words. Then, ‘You have chosen someone.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Someone who needs…protecting.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that someone in danger?’

  ‘Very much so, L’oric. Indeed, my desires have been anticipated, and we may well have run out of time.’

  ‘Very well. I accept.’

  ‘Come forward, then. You, and the others. Do not delay – I too am sorely tried maintaining this path.’

  His soul nothing but ashes, Corabb watched the High Mage stride into the portal, and vanish within the swirling, liquid stain.

  Leoman faced him one more time, his voice almost pleading as he said, ‘My friend…’

  Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas shook his head.

  ‘Did you not hear? Another Sha’ik – a new Sha’ik—’

  ‘And will you find her a new army as well, Leoman? More fools to lead to their deaths? No, I am done with you, Leoman of the Flails. Take your Malazan wench and be gone from my sight. I choose to die here, with my fellow warriors.’

  Dunsparrow reached out and grasped Leoman’s arm. ‘The portal’s crumbling, Leoman.’

  The warrior, last commander of Dryjhna, turned away, and, the woman at his side, strode into the gate. Moments later it dissolved, and there was nothing.

  Nothing but the strange, swirling wind, skirling dust-devils tracking the inlaid tile floor.

  Corabb blinked, looked round. Outside the temple, it seemed the world was ending, voicing a death-cry ever rising in timbre. No…not a death-cry. Something else…

  Hearing a closer sound – from a side passage – a scuffle – Corabb drew his scimitar. Approached the curtain barring the corridor. With the tip of his blade, he swung the cloth aside.

  To see children. Crouching, huddled. Ten, fifteen – sixteen in all. Smudged faces, wide eyes, all looking up at him. ‘Oh gods,’ he murmured. ‘They have forgotten you.’

  They all have. Every single one of them.

  He sheathed his weapon and stepped forward. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We shall find us a room, yes? And wait this out.’

  Something else…Thunder, the death of buildings, the burgeoning wails of fire, howling winds. This is what is outsi
de, the world beyond, this…spirits below, Dryjhna—

  Outside, the birth-cries of the Apocalypse rose still higher.

  ‘There!’ Throatslitter said, pointing.

  Sergeant Balm blinked, the smoke and heat like broken glass in his eyes, and could just make out a half-score figures crossing the street before them. ‘Who?’

  ‘Malazans,’ Throatslitter said.

  From behind Balm: ‘Great, more for the clam-bake, what a night we’re going to have—’

  ‘When I said be quiet, Widdershins, I meant it. All right, let’s go meet them. Maybe they ain’t as lost as us.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Look who’s leading them! That drunk, what’s her name? They’re probably trying to find a bar!’

  ‘I ain’t lying, Widdershins! One more word and I’ll skewer you!’

  Urb’s huge hand landed on her arm, gripping hard, turning her round, and Hellian saw a squad stumbling towards them. ‘Thank the gods,’ she said in a ravaged voice, ‘they got to know where they’re going—’

  A sergeant approached in a half-crouch. Dal Honese, his face patchy with dried mud. ‘I’m Balm,’ he said. ‘Wherever you’re headed, we’re with you!’

  Hellian scowled. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Just fall in and we’ll all be rosy in no time.’

  ‘Got us a way out?’

  ‘Yeah, down that alley.’

  ‘Great. What’s down there?’

  ‘The only place not yet burning, you Dal Honese monk-rat!’ She waved at her troop and they continued on. Something was visible ahead. A huge, smudgy dome of some kind. They were passing temples now, the doors swinging wide, banging in the gusting, furnace-hot wind. What little clothes she was still wearing had begun smoking, thready wisps stretching out from the rough weave. She could smell her own burning hair.

  A soldier came up alongside her. He was holding twin long-knives in gloved hands. ‘You ain’t got no cause to curse Sergeant Balm, woman. He brought us through this far.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Hellian demanded.

  ‘Throatslitter—’