The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Was that supposed to hurt my feelings, Karsa Orlong? You want to kill a bhederin just to prove to yourself that you can best the hunters. So, no cliff, no blinds or corrals, no pack of wolf-dogs to flank and drive the bhederin. No, you want to leap off your horse and wrestle one to the ground, then choke it to death, or maybe throw it against a tree, or maybe just lift it up and spin it round until it dies of dizziness. And you dare to call me a child?’ She laughed. Because, as she well knew, laughter would sting.

  Yet no sudden rage darkened his face, and his eyes were calm as they studied her. Then he smiled. ‘Witness.’

  And with that he rode out into the clearing. Inky water spraying from the Jhag horse’s hoofs, the beast voicing something like a snarl as it galloped towards the herd. The bhederin scattered in a thunderous crash of bushes and snapping branches. Two shot out directly towards Karsa.

  A mistake, Samar Dev realized in that moment, to assume there was but one male. One was clearly younger than the other, yet both were huge, eyes red-rimmed with rage, water exploding round them as they charged their attacker.

  The Jhag horse, Havok, swerved suddenly, legs gathering beneath him, then the young stallion launched himself over the back of the larger bull. But the bhederin was quicker, twisting and heaving its massive head upward, horns seeking the horse’s exposed underbelly.

  That upward lunge killed the bull, for the beast’s head met the point of Karsa’s stone sword, which slid into the brain beneath the base of the skull, severing most of its spine in the process.

  Havok landed in a splash and spray of muck on the far side of the collapsing bull, well beyond the range of the second male – which now pivoted, stunningly fast, and set off in pursuit of Karsa.

  The warrior swung his horse to the left, hoofs pounding as Havok ran parallel to the edge of trees, chasing after the half-dozen females and calves that had lumbered out into the clearing. The second bull closed fast behind them.

  The cows and calves scattered once more, one bolting in a direction different from the others. Havok swerved into its wake, and a heartbeat later was galloping alongside the beast. Behind them, the second male had drawn up to flank the other females – and one and all, this group then crashed back into the thicket.

  Samar Dev watched Karsa Orlong lean far to one side, then slash down with his sword, taking the beast in the spine just above its hips.

  The cow’s back legs collapsed under the blow, sluicing through the muck as the creature struggled to drag them forward.

  Wheeling round in front of the bhederin, Karsa held his sword poised until he reached the cow’s left side, then he lunged down, the sword’s point driving into the animal’s heart.

  Front legs buckled, and the cow sagged to one side, then was still.

  Halting his horse, Karsa slid off and approached the dead cow. ‘Make us a camp,’ he said to Samar Dev.

  She stared at him, then said, ‘Fine, you have shown me that I am, in fact, unnecessary. As far as you’re concerned. Now what? You expect me to set up camp, and then, I presume, help you butcher that thing. Shall I lie beneath you tonight just to round things out?’

  He had drawn a knife and now knelt in the pooling water beside the cow. ‘If you like,’ he said.

  Barbarian bastard…well, I should not have expected anything else, should I? ‘All right, I have been thinking, we will need this meat – the land of rocks and lakes north of here no doubt has game, but far less plentiful and far more elusive.’

  ‘I shall take the bull’s skin,’ Karsa said, slicing open the bhederin’s belly. Entrails tumbled out to splash in the swampy water. Already, hundreds of insects swarmed the kill-site. ‘Do you wish this cow’s skin, Samar Dev?’

  ‘Why not? If a glacier lands on us we won’t freeze, and that’s something.’

  He glanced over at her. ‘Woman, glaciers don’t jump. They crawl.’

  ‘That depends on who made them in the first place, Karsa Orlong.’

  He bared his teeth. ‘Legends of the Jaghut do not impress me. Ice is ever a slow-moving river.’

  ‘If you believe that, Karsa Orlong, you know far less than you think you do.’

  ‘Do you plan on sitting on that horse all day, woman?’

  ‘Until I find high ground to make a camp, yes.’ And she gathered the reins.

  Witness, he said. He’s said that before, hasn’t he? Some kind of tribal thing, I suppose. Well, I witnessed all right. As did that savage hiding in the shadows at the far end of the glade. I pray the locals do not feel proprietary towards these bhederin. Or we will find excitement unending, which Karsa might well enjoy. As for me, I’ll just likely end up dead.

  Well, too late to worry much about that.

  She then wondered how many of Karsa Orlong’s past companions had had similar thoughts. In those times just before the Teblor barbarian found himself, once again, travelling alone.

  The rough crags of the ridge cast a maze of shadows along the ledge just beneath, and in these shadows five sets of serpentine eyes stared down at the winding wall of dust on the plain below. A trader’s caravan, seven wagons, two carriages, twenty guards on horses. And three war-dogs.

  There had been six, but three had caught Dejim Nebrahl’s scent and, stupid creatures that they were, had set off to hunt the T’rolbarahl down. They had succeeded in finding the D’ivers, and their blood now filled the bellies of the five remaining beasts.

  The Trell had stunned Dejim Nebrahl. To snap one of his necks – not even a Tartheno could manage such a thing – and one had tried, long ago. Then, to drag the other down, over the cliff’s edge, to plunge to its death among the jagged rocks below. This audacity was…unforgivable. Weak and wounded, Dejim Nebrahl had fled the scene of ambush, wandering half-crazed with anger and pain until stumbling upon the trail of this caravan. How many days and nights had passed, the T’rolbarahl had no idea. There was hunger, the need to heal, and these demands filled the mind of the D’ivers.

  Before Dejim Nebrahl, now, waited his salvation. Enough blood to spawn replacements for those he had lost in the ambush; perhaps enough blood to fashion yet another, an eighth.

  He would strike at dusk, the moment the caravan halted for the day. Slaughter the guards first, then the remaining dogs, and finally the fat weaklings riding in their puny carriages. The merchant with his harem of silent children, each one chained to the next and trailing behind the carriage. A trader in mortal flesh.

  The notion sickened Dejim Nebrahl. There had been such detestable creatures in the time of the First Empire, and depravity never went extinct. When the T’rolbarahl ruled this land, a new justice would descend upon the despoilers of flesh. Dejim would feed upon them first, and then all other criminals, the murderers, the beaters of the helpless, the stone-throwers, the torturers of the spirit.

  His creator had meant him and his kind to be guardians of the First Empire. Thus the conjoining of bloods, making the sense of perfection strong, god-like. Too strong, of course. The T’rolbarahl would not be ruled by an imperfect master. No, they would rule, for only then could true justice be delivered.

  Justice. And…of course…natural hunger. Necessity carved out its own laws, and these could not be denied. When he ruled, Dejim Nebrahl would fashion a true balance between the two dominant forces in his D’ivers soul, and if the mortal fools suffered beneath the weight of his justice, then so be it. They deserved the truth of their own beliefs. Deserved the talon-sharp edges of their own vaunted virtues, for virtues were more than just words, they were weapons, and it was only right that such weapons be turned upon their wielders.

  The shadows had descended the cliff-face here in the lee of the setting sun’s light. Dejim Nebrahl followed those shadows downward to the plain, five sets of eyes, but one mind. The focus of all absolute and unwavering.

  Delicious slaughter. Splashing red to celebrate the sun’s lurid fire.

  As he flowed out onto the plain, he heard the dogs begin barking.

  A moment of pit
y for them. Stupid as they were, they knew about necessity.

  Something of a struggle, but he managed to unfold himself and descend, groaning with stiffness, from the mule’s broad back. And, despite the awkward effort, he spilled not a single drop from his cherished bucket. Humming beneath his breath some chant or other – he’d forgotten where in the vast tome of Holy Songs it had come from, and really, did it actually matter? – he waddled with his burden to the simpering waves of Raraku Sea, then walked out amidst the softly swirling sands and eagerly trembling reeds.

  Pausing suddenly.

  A desperate scan of the area, sniffing the humid, sultry, dusky air. Another scan, eyes darting, seeking out every nearby shadow, every wayward rustle of reed and straggly bush. Then he ducked lower, soaking his frayed robes as he knelt in the shallows.

  Sweet, sun-warmed waters.

  A final, suspicious look round, all sides – could never be too careful – then, with solemn delight, he lowered the bucket into the sea.

  And watched, eyes shining, as the scores of tiny fish raced out in all directions. Well, not exactly raced, more like sat there, for a time, as if stunned by freedom. Or perhaps some temporary shock of altered temperature, or the plethora of unseen riches upon which to gorge, to grow fat, sleek and blissfully energetic.

  The first fish of Raraku Sea.

  Iskaral Pust left the shallows then, flinging the bucket to one side. ‘Tense thy back, mule! I shall now leap astride, oh yes, and won’t you be surprised, to find yourself suddenly galloping – oh believe me, mule, you know how to gallop, no more of that stupid fast trot that rattles loose my poor teeth! Oh no, we shall be as the wind! Not a fitful, gusting wind, but a steady, roaring wind, a stentorian wind that races across the entire world, the very wake of our extraordinary speed, oh, how your hoofs shall blur to all eyes!’

  Reaching the mule, the High Priest of Shadow leapt into the air.

  Shying in alarm, the mule sidestepped.

  A squeal from Iskaral Pust, then a grunt and muted oof as he struck and rolled in the dust and stones, wet robes flapping heavily and spraying sand about, while the mule trotted a safe distance away then turned to regard its master, long-lashed eyes blinking.

  ‘You disgust me, beast! And I bet you think it’s mutual, too! Yet even if you thought that, why, then I’d agree with you! Out of spite! How would you like that, horrid creature?’ The High Priest of Shadow picked himself up and brushed sand from his robes. ‘He thinks I will hit him. Strike him, with a large stick. Foolish mule. Oh no, I am much more cunning. I will surprise him with kindness…until he grows calm and dispenses with all watchfulness, and then…ha! I shall punch him in the nose! Won’t he be surprised! No mule can match wits with me. Oh yes, many have tried, and almost all have failed!’

  He worked a kindly smile on to his sun-wizened face, then slowly approached the mule. ‘We must ride,’ he murmured, ‘you and I. Fraught with haste, my friend, lest we arrive too late and too late will never do.’ He came within reach of the reins where they dangled beneath the mule’s head. Paused as he met the creature’s eyes. ‘Oh ho, sweet servant, I see malice in that so-placid gaze, yes? You want to bite me. Too bad. I’m the only one who bites around here.’ He snatched up the reins, narrowly avoiding the snapping teeth, then clambered onto the mule’s broad, sloped back.

  Twenty paces from the shoreline and the world shifted around them, a miasmic swirl of shadows closing on all sides. Iskaral Pust cocked his head, looked round, then, satisfied, settled back as the mule plodded on.

  A hundred heartbeats after the High Priest of Shadow vanished into his warren, a squat, wild-haired Dal Honese woman crept out of some nearby bushes, dragging a large ale cask behind her. It held water, not ale, and the lid had been pried off.

  Grunting and gasping with the effort, Mogora struggled to bring the cask down into the shallows. She tipped it to one side and – a mostly toothless grin on her wrinkled features – watched a half-dozen young freshwater sharks slide like snakes into Raraku Sea.

  Then she kicked the cask over and scrambled out of the water, a cackle escaping her as, with a flurry of gestures, she opened a warren and plunged into it.

  Folding one shadow upon another, Iskaral Pust swiftly traversed a score of leagues. He could half-see, half-sense the desert, buttes and chaotic folds of arroyo and canyon he passed through, but none of it interested him much, until, after almost a full day’s travel, he caught sight of five sleek shapes crossing the floor of a valley ahead and to his left.

  He halted the mule on the ridge and, eyes narrowing, studied the distant shapes. In the midst of attacking a caravan. ‘Arrogant pups,’ he muttered, then drove his heels into the mule’s flanks. ‘Charge, I say! Charge, you fat, waddling bastard!’

  The mule trotted down the slope, braying loudly.

  The five shapes caught the sound and their heads turned. As one, the T’rolbarahl shifted direction and now raced towards Iskaral Pust.

  The mule’s cries rose in pitch.

  Spreading out, the D’ivers flowed noiselessly over the ground. Rage and hunger rushed ahead of them in an almost visible bow wave, the power crackling, coruscating between the Shadow warren and the world beyond.

  The beasts to either side wheeled out to come in from a flanking position, while the three in the centre staggered their timing, intending to arrive in quick succession.

  Iskaral Pust was having trouble focusing on them, so jolted and tossed about was he on the mule’s back. When the T’rolbarahl had closed to within thirty paces, the mule suddenly skidded to a halt. And the High Priest of Shadow was thrown forward, lunging over the animal’s head. Head ducking, somersaulting over, then thumping down hard on his back in a spray of gravel and dust.

  The first creature reached him, forearms lifting, talons unsheathed as it sailed through the air, then landing on the spot where Iskaral Pust had fallen – only to find him not there. The second and third beasts experienced a moment of confusion as the quarry vanished, then they sensed a presence at their side. Their heads snapped round, but too late, as a wave of sorcery hammered into them. Shadow-wrought power cracked like lightning, and the creatures were batted into the air, leaving in their wakes misty clouds of blood. Writhing, they both struck the ground fifteen paces away, skidding then rolling.

  The two flanking D’ivers attacked. And, as Iskaral Pust vanished, they collided, chests reverberating like heavy thunder, teeth and talons raking through hide. Hissing and snarling, they scrambled away from each other.

  Reappearing twenty paces behind the T’rolbarahl, Iskaral Pust unleashed another wave of sorcery, watched it strike each of the five beasts in turn, watched blood spray and the bodies tumble away, kicking frenziedly as the magic wove flickering nets about them. Stones popped and exploded on the ground beneath them, sand shot upward in spear-like geysers, and everywhere there was blood, whipping out in ragged threads.

  The T’rolbarahl vanished, fleeing the warren of Shadow – out into the world, where they scattered, all thoughts of the caravan gone as panic closed on their throats with invisible hands.

  The High Priest of Shadow brushed dust from his clothes, then walked over to where stood the mule. ‘Some help you were! We could be hunting each one down right now, but oh no, you’re tired of running. Whoever thought mules deserved four legs was an idiot! You are most useless! Bah!’ He paused, then, and lifted a gnarled finger to his wrinkled lips. ‘But wait, what if they got really angry? What if they decided to make a fight to the finish? What then? Messy, oh, very messy. No, best leave them for someone else to deal with. I must not get distracted. Imagine, though! Challenging the High Priest of Shadow of all Seven Cities! Dumber than cats, that T’rolbarahl. I am entirely without sympathy.’

  He climbed back onto the mule. ‘Well, that was fun, wasn’t it? Stupid mule. I think we’ll have mule for supper tonight, what do you think of that? The ultimate sacrifice is called for, as far as you’re concerned, don’t you think? Well, who cares what you think?
Where to now? Thank the gods at least one of us knows where we’re going. That way, mule, and quickly now. Trot, damn you, trot!’

  Skirting the caravan, where dogs still barked, Iskaral Pust began shifting shadows once more.

  Dusk had arrived in the world beyond when he reached his destination, reining in the plodding mule at the foot of a cliff.

  Vultures clambered amongst the tumbled rocks, crowding a fissure but unable or, as yet, unwilling to climb down into it. One edge of that crevasse was stained with dried blood, and among rocks to one side were the remains of a dead beast – devoured to bones and ragged strips by the scavengers, it was nonetheless easy to identify. One of the T’rolbarahl.

  The vultures voiced a chorus of indignation as the High Priest of Shadow dismounted and approached. Spitting curses, he chased away the ugly, Mogora-like creatures, then eased himself down into the fissure. Deep, the close air smelling of blood and rotting meat.

  The crevasse narrowed a little more than a man’s height down, and into this was wedged a body. Iskaral Pust settled down beside it. He laid a hand on the figure’s broad shoulder, well away from the obvious breaks in that arm. ‘How many days, friend? Ah, only a Trell would survive this. First, we shall have to get you out of here, and for that I have a stalwart, loyal mule. Then, well, then, we shall see, won’t we?’

  Neither stalwart nor particularly loyal, the mule’s disinclination towards cooperation slowed down the task of extracting Mappo Runt considerably, and it was full dark by the time the Trell was pulled from the fissure and dragged onto a flat patch of wind-blown sand.

  The two compound fractures in the left arm were the least of the huge Trell’s injuries. Both legs had broken, and one edge of the fissure had torn a large flap of skin and flesh from Mappo’s back – the exposed meat was swarming with maggots, and the mostly hanging flap of tissue was clearly unsalvageable, grey in the centre and blackening round the edges, smelling of rot. Iskaral Pust cut that away and tossed it back into the fissure.