The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

Then, a slow – so very slow – closing of those eyes, down to the thinnest slits – and the head swung back.

  The beast padded towards the crest. Stared down for a time, then slipped down over the edge. And vanished from sight.

  Sudden air flooded her lungs, thick with dust. She coughed – impossible not to – twisting round into a ball, hacking and gagging, spitting out gobs of gritty phlegm. Helpless, giving herself – giving everything – away. Still coughing, Masan Gilani waited for the beast to return, to pick her up in its huge jaws, to shake her once, hard, hard enough to snap her neck, her spine, to crunch down on her ribcage, crushing everything inside.

  She slowly regained control of her breathing, still lying on sweat-soaked ground, shivers rippling through her.

  From somewhere far overhead, in that dark sky, she heard birds, crying out. A thousand voices, ten thousand. She did not know that birds flew at night. Celestial voices, winging south as fast as unseen wings could take them.

  Closer by…no sound at all.

  Masan Gilani rolled onto her back, stared unseeing upward, feeling blood streaming down her slashed thigh. Wait till Saltlick and the rest hear about this one…

  Dejim Nebrahl raced through the darkness, three beasts in full flight, a fourth limping in their wake, already far behind. Too weak, made mindless with hunger, all cunning lost, and now yet one more D’ivers kin was dead. Killed effortlessly by a mere human, who then crippled another with a lazy flick of that knife.

  The T’rolbarahl needed to feed. The horse’s blood had barely begun to slake a depthless thirst, yet with it came a whisper of strength, a return to sanity.

  Dejim Nebrahl was being hunted. An outrage, that such a thing could be. The stench of the creatures rode the wind, seeming to gust in from all sides except directly ahead. Fierce, ancient life and deadly desire, bitter to the T’rolbarahl’s senses. What manner of beasts were these?

  The fourth kin, lagging half a league behind now, could feel the nearness of the pursuers, loping unseen, seemingly content to keep pace, almost uninterested in closing, in finishing off this wounded D’ivers. They had announced themselves with their howls, but since then, naught but silence, and the palpable nearness of their presence.

  They were but toying with Dejim Nebrahl. A truth that infuriated the T’rolbarahl, that burned like acid through their thumping hearts. Were they fully healed, and seven once again rather than three and scant more, those creatures would know terror and pain. Even now, Dejim Nebrahl contemplated laying an ambush, using the wounded kin as bait. But the risks were too great – there was no telling how many of these hunters were out there.

  And so there was little choice. Flee, desperate as hares, helpless in this absurd game.

  For the first three kin, the scent of the hunters had begun to fade. It was true – few creatures could keep pace with Dejim Nebrahl for very long. It seemed, then, that they would content themselves with the crippled trailer, giving the D’ivers an opportunity to see them for the first time, to mark them for the others, until such time as vengeance could be exacted.

  And yet, the mysterious beasts did not lunge into view, did not tear into the fourth kin. And even for that one, the scent was fading.

  It made no sense.

  Dejim Nebrahl slowed his flight, wondering, curious, and not yet in the least suspicious.

  From cool relief to growing chill, the night descended among the trudging soldiers, raising a mutter of new complaints. A sleeping child in his arms, Fiddler walked two strides behind Kalam and Quick Ben, while in his wake strode Apsalar, her footfalls the barest of whispers.

  Better than scorching sun and heat…but not much better. Burnt and blistered skin on shoulders now radiated away all the warmth the flesh could create. Among the worst afflicted, fever awoke like a child lost in the woods, filling shadows with apparitions. Twice in the past hundred paces one of the soldiers had cried out in fear – seeing great moving shapes out in the night. Lumbering, swaggering, with eyes flashing like embers the hue of murky blood. Or so Mayfly had said, surprising everyone with the poetic turn of phrase.

  But like the monsters conjured from the imaginations of frightened babes, they never came closer, never quite revealed themselves. Both Mayfly and Galt swore that they had seen…something. Moving parallel with the column, but quicker, and soon past. Fevered minds, Fiddler told himself again, that and nothing more.

  Yet, he felt in himself a growing unease. As if they did indeed have company along this broken track, out there in the darkness, among the trenches and gullies and jumbled rockfalls. A short time earlier he’d thought he had heard voices, distant and seeming to descend from the night sky, but that had since faded. Nonetheless, his nerves were growing frayed – likely weariness, likely an awakening fever within his own mind.

  Ahead, Quick Ben’s head suddenly turned, stared out to the right, scanned the darkness.

  ‘Something?’ Fiddler asked in a low voice.

  The wizard glanced back at him, then away again, and said nothing.

  Ten paces later, Fiddler saw Kalam loosen the long-knives in their scabbards.

  Shit.

  He dropped back until he was alongside Apsalar, and was about to speak when she cut him off.

  ‘Be on your guard, sapper,’ she said quietly. ‘I believe we have nothing to fear…but I cannot be certain.’

  ‘What’s out there?’ he demanded.

  ‘Part of a bargain.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  She suddenly lifted her head, as if testing the wind, and her voice hardened as she said in a loud voice, ‘Everyone off the road – south side only – now.’

  At the command, thin fear whispered along the ancient road. Unarmed, unarmoured – this was a soldier’s worst nightmare. Crouching down, huddling in the shadows, eyes wide and unblinking, breaths drawing still, the Malazans strained for any telltale sound in the darkness beyond.

  Staying low to the ground, Fiddler made his way along to rejoin his squad. If something was coming for them, better he died with his soldiers. As he scrabbled he sensed a presence catching up from behind, and turned to see Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas. The warrior held a solid, club-like piece of wood, too thick to be a branch, more like a tap-root from some ancient guldindha. ‘Where did you find that?’ Fiddler demanded in a hiss.

  A shrug was the only answer.

  Reaching his squad, the sergeant halted and Bottle crawled over to him. ‘Demons,’ the soldier whispered, ‘out there—’ a jerk of the head indicated the north side of the road. ‘At first I thought it was the pall of evil offshore, the one that flushed the birds from the salt-marshes beyond the bay—’

  ‘The pall of what?’ Fiddler asked.

  ‘But it wasn’t that. Something a lot closer. Had a rhizan wheeling round out there – it came close to a beast. A damned big beast, Sergeant. Halfway between wolf and bear, only the size of a bull bhederin. It was headed west—’

  ‘You still linked to that rhizan, Bottle?’

  ‘No, it was hungry enough to break loose – I’m not quite recovered, Sergeant—’

  ‘Never mind. It was a good try. So, the bear-wolf or wolf-bhederin was heading west…’

  ‘Aye, not fifty paces across from us – no way it didn’t know we were here,’ Bottle said. ‘It’s not like we was sneaking along, was it?’

  ‘So it ain’t interested in us.’

  ‘Maybe not yet, Sergeant.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well, I’d sent a capemoth ahead of us up the road, used it to test the air – they can sense things when those things are moving, stirring the air, giving off heat into the night – that heat is sometimes visible from a long way away, especially the colder the night gets. Capemoths need all that to avoid rhizan, although it doesn’t always—’

  ‘Bottle, I ain’t no naturalist – what did you see or sense or hear or whatever through that damned capemoth?’

  ‘Well, creatures up ahead, closing fa
st—’

  ‘Oh, thanks for that minor detail, Bottle! Glad you finally got round to it!’

  ‘Shh, uh, Sergeant. Please. I think we should just lie low – whatever’s about to happen’s got nothing to do with us.’

  Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas spoke: ‘Are you certain of that?’

  ‘Well, no, but it stands to reason—’

  ‘Unless they’re all working together, closing a trap—’

  ‘Sergeant,’ Bottle said, ‘we ain’t that important.’

  ‘Maybe you ain’t, but we got Kalam and Quick Ben, and Sinn and Apsalar—’

  ‘I don’t know much about them, Sergeant,’ Bottle said, ‘but you might want to warn them what’s coming, if they don’t know already.’

  If Quick hasn’t smelled all this out he deserves to get his tiny head ripped off. ‘Never mind them.’ Twisting round, Fiddler squinted into the darkness south of them. ‘Any chance of moving to better cover? This ditch ain’t worth a damned thing.’

  ‘Sergeant,’ Bottle hissed, his voice tightening, ‘we ain’t got time.’

  Ten paces apart and moving now parallel along the route of the old road, one taking the centre of the track, the flankers in the rough ditches to either side, Dejim Nebrahl glided low to the ground, tipped leathery ears pricked forward, eyes scanning the way ahead.

  Something wasn’t right. Half a league behind the three the fourth kin limped along, weak with blood-loss and exhausted by fear, and if the hunters remained close, they were now stalking in absolute silence. The kin halted, sinking low, head swivelling as its sharp eyes searched the night. Nothing, no movement beyond the flit of rhizan and capemoths.

  The three on the road caught the scent of humans, not far, and savage hunger engulfed all other thoughts. They stank of terror – it would taint their blood when he drank deep, a taste metallic and sour, a flavour Dejim Nebrahl had grown to cherish.

  Something lumbered onto the track thirty strides ahead.

  Huge, black, familiar.

  Deragoth. Impossible – they were gone, swallowed by a nightmare of their own making. This was all wrong.

  A sudden howl from far to the south, well behind the fourth kin, who spun, snarling at the sound.

  The first three D’ivers spread out, eyes on the lone beast padding towards them. If but one, then she is doomed—

  The beast surged forward in a charge, voicing a bellowing roar.

  Dejim Nebrahl sprinted to meet it.

  The flanking D’ivers twisted outward as more huge shapes pounded to close with them, two to each side. Jaws spread wide, lips peeling back, the Deragoth reached Dejim Nebrahl, giving voice to thunder. Massive canines sank down into the kin, slicing through muscle, crushing bone. Limbs snapped, ribs splintered and tore into view through ruptured flesh and hide.

  Pain – such pain – the centre D’ivers sprang into the air to meet the charge of the Deragoth ahead. And his right leg was caught in huge jaws, jolting Dejim Nebrahl to a halt in mid-flight. Joints popped even as the leg bones were crunched into shards.

  Flung hard to the ground, Dejim sought to spin round, talons lashing out at his attacker’s broad head. He tore into one eye and ripped it loose, sending it whirling off into the darkness.

  The Deragoth flinched back with a squeal of agony.

  Then a second set of jaws closed round the back of the kin’s neck. Blood sprayed as the teeth ground and cut inward, crushing cartilage, then bone.

  Blood filled Dejim Nebrahl’s throat.

  No, it cannot end like this—

  The other two kin were dying as well, as the Deragoth tore them to pieces.

  Far to the west, the lone survivor crouched, trembling.

  The Hounds attacked, three appearing in front of the last D’ivers. Moments before they closed, all three twisted away – a feint – which meant—

  Wolf jaws ripped into the back of Dejim Nebrahl’s neck, and lifted the D’ivers from the ground.

  The T’rolbarahl waited for the clenching, the killing, but it never came. Instead, the beast that held it was running fast over the ground, others of its kind to either side. West, and north, then, eventually, swinging southward, out into the wastes.

  Untiring, on and on through the cold night.

  Helpless in the grip of those jaws, the last D’ivers of Dejim Nebrahl did not struggle, for struggle was pointless. There would be no quick death, for these creatures had some other purpose in mind for him. Unlike the Deragoth, he realized, these Hounds possessed a master.

  A master who found reason to keep Dejim Nebrahl alive.

  A curious, fraught salvation – but I still live, and that is enough. I still live.

  The fierce battle was over. Kalam, lying near Quick Ben, narrowed his gaze, just barely making out the huge shapes of the demons as they set off, without a backward glance, westward along the track.

  ‘Looks like their hunt’s not yet over,’ the assassin muttered, reaching up to wipe the sweat that had been stinging his eyes.

  ‘Gods below,’ Quick Ben said in a whisper.

  ‘Did you hear those distant howls?’ Kalam asked, sitting up. ‘Hounds of Shadow – I’m right, aren’t I, Quick? So, we got lizard cats, and giant bear-dogs like the one Toblakai killed in Raraku, and the Hounds…wizard, I don’t want to walk this road no more.’

  ‘Gods below,’ the man at his side whispered again.

  Lieutenant Pores’s cheerful embrace with the Lady went sour with an ambush of a patrol he’d led inland from the marching army, three days west of Y’Ghatan. Starving bandits, of all things. They’d beaten them off, but he had taken a crossbow quarrel clean through his upper left arm, and a sword-slash just above his right knee, deep enough to sever muscle down to the bone. The healers had mended the damage, sufficient to roughly knit torn flesh and close scar tissue over the wounds, but the pain remained excruciating. He had been convalescing on the back of a crowded wagon, until they came within sight of the north sea and the army encamped, whereupon Captain Kindly had appeared.

  Saying nothing, Kindly had clambered into the bed of the wagon, grasped Pores by his good arm, and dragged him from the pallet. Down off the back, the lieutenant nearly buckling under his weak leg, then staggering and stumbling as the captain tugged him along.

  Gasping, Pores had asked, ‘What’s the emergency, Captain? I heard no alarms—’

  ‘Then you ain’t been listening,’ Kindly replied.

  Pores looked round, somewhat wildly, but he could see no-one else rushing about, no general call to arms – the camp was settling down, cookfires lit and figures huddled beneath rain-capes against the chill carried on the sea breeze. ‘Captain—’

  ‘My officers don’t lie about plucking nose hairs, Lieutenant. There’s real injured soldiers in those wagons, and you’re just in their way. Healers are done with you. Time to stretch out that bad leg. Time to be a soldier again – stop limping, damn you – you’re setting a miserable example here, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ Sodden with sweat, Pores struggled to keep up with his captain. ‘Might I ask, where are we going?’

  ‘To look at the sea,’ Kindly replied. ‘Then you’re taking charge of the inland pickets, first watch, and I strongly suggest you do a weapons and armour inspection, Lieutenant, since there is the chance that I will take a walk along those posts.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Up ahead, on a rise overlooking the grey, white-capped sea, stood the Fourteenth’s command. The Adjunct, Nil and Nether, Fists Blistig, Temul and Keneb, and, slightly apart and wrapped in a long leather cloak, T’amber. Just behind them stood Warleader Gall and his ancient aide Imrahl, along with captains Ruthan Gudd and Madan’Tul Rada. The only one missing was Fist Tene Baralta, but Pores had heard that the man was still in a bad way, one-armed and one-eyed, his face ravaged by burning oil, and he didn’t have Kindly in charge of him either, which meant he was being left to heal in peace.

  Ruthan Gudd was speaking in a low voice, his audience Madan’Tul R
ada and the two Khundryl warriors, ‘…just fell into the sea – those breakers, that tumult in the middle of the bay, that’s where the citadel stood. A tier of raised land surrounded it – the island itself – and there was a causeway linking it to this shore – nothing left of that but those pillars just topping the sands above the tideline. It’s said the shattering of a Jaghut enclave far to the north was responsible—’

  ‘How could that sink this island?’ Gall demanded. ‘You make no sense, Captain.’

  ‘The T’lan Imass broke the Jaghut sorcery – the ice lost its power, melted into the seas, and the water levels rose. Enough to eat into the island, deluging the tier, then devouring the feet of the citadel itself. In any case, this was thousands of years ago—’

  ‘Are you an historian as well as a soldier?’ the Warleader asked, glancing over, his tear-tattooed face bathed red like a mask in the setting sun’s lurid light.

  The captain shrugged. ‘The first map I ever saw of Seven Cities was Falari, a sea-current map marking out the treacherous areas along this coast – and every other coastline, all the way to Nemil. It had been copied countless times, but the original dated from the days when the only metals being traded were tin, copper, lead and gold. Falar’s trade with Seven Cities goes back a long way, Warleader Gall. Which makes sense, since Falar is halfway between Quon Tali and Seven Cities.’

  Captain Kindly observed, ‘It’s odd, Ruthan Gudd, you do not look Falari. Nor is your name Falari.’

  ‘I am from the island of Strike, Kindly, which lies against the Outer Reach Deeps. Strike is the most isolated of all the islands in the chain, and our legends hold that we are all that remains of the original inhabitants of Falar – the red- and gold-haired folk you see and think of as Falari were in fact invaders from the eastern ocean, from the other side of Seeker’s Deep, or some unknown islands well away from the charted courses across that ocean. They themselves do not even recall their homelands, and most of them believe they have always lived in Falar. But our old maps show different names, Strike names for all the islands and the kingdoms and peoples, and the word “Falar” does not appear among them.’