The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Another half-smile, yet Toc would not look up as he said, ‘Why, when one seeks the First Sword of the K’Chain Che’Malle, well, one assumes it would be…K’Chain Che’Malle. Not human. An obvious assumption, don’t you think?’

  ‘First Sword? I do not know this title.’

  Toc shrugged. ‘K’ell Champion. Consort to the Matron. Hood take me, King. They’re all the same in your case.’ The man finally glanced up once more, and something glistened in his lone eye as he asked, ‘So don’t tell me the mask fooled them. Please…’

  The gorge the lone figure emerged from was barely visible. Less than three man-heights across, the crevasse nestled between two steep mountainsides, half a league long and a thousand paces deep. Travellers thirty paces away, traversing the raw rock of the mountain to either side, would not even know the gorge existed. Of course, the likelihood of unwitting travellers anywhere within five leagues of the valley was virtually non-existent. No obvious trails wended through the Bluerose range this far north of the main passes; there were no high pastures or plateaux to invite settlement, and the weather was often fierce.

  Clambering over the edge of the gorge into noon sunlight, the figure paused in a crouch and scanned the vicinity. Seeing nothing untoward, he straightened. Tall, thin, his midnight-black hair long, straight and unbound, his face unlined, the features somewhat hooded, eyes like firerock, the man reached into a fold in his faded black hide shirt and withdrew a length of thin chain, both ends holding a plain finger-ring – one gold, the other silver. A quick flip of his right index finger spun the rings round, then wrapped them close as the chain coiled tight. A moment later he reversed the motion. His right hand thus occupied, coiling and uncoiling the chain, he set off.

  Southward he went, into and out of swaths of shadow and sunlight, his footfalls almost soundless, the snap of the chain the only noise accompanying him. Tied to his back was a horn and bloodwood bow, unstrung. At his right hip was a quiver of arrows, bloodwood shafts and hawk-feather fletching; at the quiver’s moss-packed base, the arrowheads were iron, teardrop-shaped and slotted, the blades on each head forming an X pattern. In addition to this weapon he carried a baldric-slung plain rapier in a silver-banded turtleshell scabbard. The entire scabbard and its fastening rings were bound with sheepskin to deaden the noise as he padded along. These details to stealth were one and all undermined by the spinning and snapping chain.

  The afternoon waned on, until he moved through unbroken shadow as he skirted the eastern flank of each successive valley he traversed, ever southward. Through it all the chain twirled, the rings clacking upon contacting each other, then whispering out and spinning yet again.

  At dusk he came to a ledge overlooking a broader valley, this one running more or less east–west, whereupon, satisfied with his vantage point, he settled into a squat and waited. Chain whispering, rings clacking.

  Two thousand spins later, the rings clattered, then went still, trapped inside the fist of his right hand. His eyes, which had held fixed on the western mouth of the pass, unmindful of the darkness, had caught movement. He tucked the chain and rings back into the pouch lining the inside of his shirt, then rose.

  And began the long descent.

  The Onyx Wizards, purest of the blood, had long since ceased to struggle against the strictures of the prison they had created for themselves. Antiquity and the countless traditions that were maintained to keep its memory alive were the chains and shackles they had come to accept. To accept, they said, was to grasp the importance of responsibility, and if such a thing as a secular god could exist, then to the dwellers of Andara, the last followers of the Black-Winged Lord, that god’s name was Responsibility. And it had, over the decades since the Letherii Conquest, come to rival in power the Black-Winged Lord himself.

  The young archer, nineteen years of age, was not alone in his rejection of the stolid, outdated ways of the Onyx Wizards. And like many of his compatriots of similar age – the first generation born to the Exile – he had taken a name for himself that bespoke the fullest measure of that rejection. Clan name cast away, all echoes of the old language – both the common tongue and the priest dialect – dispensed with. His clan was that of the Exiled, now.

  For all these gestures of independence, a direct command delivered by Ordant Brid, Reve Master of the Rock among the Onyx Order, could not be ignored.

  And so the young warrior named Clip of the Exiled had exited the eternally dark monastery of Andara, had climbed the interminable cliff wall and eventually emerged into hated sunlight to travel overland beneath the blinded stars of day, arriving at an overlook above the main pass.

  The small party of travellers he now approached were not traders. No baggage train of goods accompanied them. No shackled slaves stumbled in their wake. They rode Letherii horses, yet even with the presence of at least three Letherii, Clip knew that this was no imperial delegation. No, these were refugees. And they were being hunted.

  And among them walks the brother of my god.

  As Clip drew nearer, as yet unseen by the travellers, he sensed a presence flowing alongside him. He snorted his disgust. ‘A slave of the Tiste Edur, tell me, do you not know your own blood? We will tear you free, ghost – something you should have done for yourself long ago.’

  ‘I am unbound,’ came the hissing reply.

  ‘Then I suppose you are safe enough from us.’

  ‘Your blood is impure.’

  Clip smiled in the darkness. ‘Yes, I am a cauldron of failures. Nerek, Letherii – even D’rhasilhani.’

  ‘And Tiste Andii.’

  ‘Then greet me, brother.’

  Rasping laughter. ‘He has sensed you.’

  ‘Was I sneaking up on them, ghost?’

  ‘They have halted and now await.’

  ‘Good, but can they guess what I will say to them? Can you?’

  ‘You are impertinent. You lack respect. You are about to come face to face with Silchas Ruin, the White Crow—’

  ‘Will he bring word of his lost brother? No? I thought not.’

  Another hiss of laughter. ‘Oddly enough, I believe you will fit right in with the ones you are about to meet.’

  Seren Pedac squinted into the gloom. She was tired. They all were after long days traversing the pass, with no end in sight. Silchas Ruin’s announcement that someone was approaching brought them all to a halt beside the sandy fringe of a stream, where insects rose in clouds to descend upon them. The horses snorted, tails flicking and hides rippling.

  She dismounted a moment after Silchas Ruin, and followed him across the stream. Behind her the others remained where they were. Kettle slept in the arms of Udinaas, and he seemed disinclined to move lest he wake her. Fear Sengar slipped down from his horse but made no further move.

  Standing beside the albino Tiste Andii, Seren could now hear a strange swishing and clacking sound, whispering down over the tumbled rocks beyond. A moment later a tall, lean form appeared, silhouetted against grey stone.

  A smudge of deeper darkness flowed out from his side to hover before Silchas Ruin.

  ‘Kin,’ said the wraith.

  ‘A descendant of my followers, Wither?’

  ‘Oh no, Silchas Ruin.’

  Breath slowly hissed from the Tiste Andii. ‘My brother’s. They were this close?’

  The young warrior drew closer, his pace almost sauntering. The tone of his skin was dusky, not much different from that of a Tiste Edur. He was twirling a chain in his right hand, the rings on each end blurring in the gloom. ‘Silchas Ruin,’ he said, ‘I greet you on behalf of the Onyx Order of Andara. It has been a long time since we last met a Tiste Andii not of our colony.’ The broad mouth quirked slightly. ‘You do not look at all as I had expected.’

  ‘Your words verge on insult,’ Silchas Ruin said. ‘Is this how the Onyx Order would greet me?’

  The young warrior shrugged, the chain snapping taut for a beat, then spinning out once more. ‘There are K’risnan wards on the trail ahead of
you – traps and snares. Nor will you find what you seek in Bluerose, not the city itself nor Jasp nor Outbound.’

  ‘How is it you know what I seek?’

  ‘He said you would come, sooner or later.’

  ‘Who?’

  Brows rose. ‘Why, your brother. He didn’t arrive in time to prevent your getting taken down, nor the slaughter of your followers—’

  ‘Did he avenge me?’

  ‘A moment,’ Seren Pedac cut in. ‘What is your name?’

  A white smile. ‘Clip. To answer you, Silchas Ruin, he was not inclined to murder all the Tiste Edur. Scabandari Bloodeye had been destroyed by Elder Gods. A curse was laid upon the lands west of here, denying even death’s release. The Edur were scattered, assailed by ice, retreating seas and terrible storms. In the immediate aftermath of the Omtose Phellack curse, their survival was at risk, and Rake left them to it.’

  ‘I do not recall my brother being so…merciful.’

  ‘If our histories of that time are accurate,’ Clip said, ‘then he was rather preoccupied. The sundering of Kurald Emurlahn. Rumours of Osserc in the vicinity, a mercurial dalliance with Lady Envy, arguments and a shaky alliance with Kilmandaros, and then, finally, Silanah, the Eleint who emerged at his side from Emurlahn at the closing of the gate.’

  ‘It seems much of that time is common knowledge among your Order,’ Silchas Ruin observed, his tone flat. ‘He stayed with you for a lengthy period, then.’

  ‘He stays nowhere for very long,’ Clip replied, clearly amused by something.

  Seren Pedac wondered if the youth knew how close he was to pushing Ruin over the edge. A few more ill-chosen words and Clip’s head would roll from his shoulders. ‘Is it your mission,’ she asked the Tiste Andii, ‘to guide us to our destination?’

  Another smile, another snap of the chain. ‘It is. You will be, uh, welcomed as guests of the Andara. Although the presence of both Letherii and Tiste Edur in your party is somewhat problematic. The Onyx Order has been outlawed, as you know, subject to vicious repression. The Andara represents the last secret refuge of our people. Its location must not be compromised.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Seren asked.

  ‘The remainder of this journey,’ Clip replied, ‘will be through warren. Through Kurald Galain.’

  Silchas Ruin cocked his head at that, then grunted, ‘I am beginning to understand. Tell me, Clip, how many wizards of the Order dwell in the Andara?’

  ‘There are five, and they are the last.’

  ‘And can they agree on anything?’

  ‘Of course not. I am here by the command of Ordant Brid, Reve Master of the Rock. My departure from the Andara was uneventful, else it is likely I would not be here—’

  ‘Should another of the Order have intercepted you.’

  A nod. ‘Can you wait for the maelstrom your arrival will bring, Silchas Ruin? I can’t.’

  ‘Thus, your greeting earlier should have been qualified. The Order does not welcome us. Rather, this Ordant Brid does.’

  ‘They all choose to speak for the Order,’ Clip said, his eyes glittering, ‘when it will most confound the others. Now, I can see how eager you all are.’ From his right hand the chain whipped out, the silver ring round his index finger, and at the snap of the chain’s full length, a gate into Darkness appeared to the warrior’s right. ‘Call the others here,’ Clip said, ‘at haste. Even now, bound wraiths serving the Tiste Edur are converging. Of course, they all dream of escape – alas, that we cannot give them. But their Edur masters watch through their eyes, and that won’t do.’

  Seren Pedac turned about and summoned the others.

  Clip stepped to one side and bowed low. ‘Silchas Ruin, I invite you to walk through first, and know once more the welcome embrace of true Darkness. Besides,’ he added, straightening as Ruin strode towards the gate, ‘you will make for us a bright beacon—’

  One of Silchas Ruin’s swords hissed out, a gleaming blur, the edge slashing across the space where Clip’s neck had been, but the young warrior had leaned back…just enough, and the weapon sang through air.

  A soft laugh from the youth, appallingly relaxed. ‘He said you’d be angry.’

  Silchas Ruin stared across at Clip for a long moment, then he turned and walked through the gate.

  Drawing a deep breath to slow her heart, Seren Pedac glared at Clip. ‘You have no idea—’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  The others appeared, leading their horses. Udinaas, with Kettle tucked into one arm, barely glanced over at Clip before he tugged his horse into the rent.

  ‘You wish to cross swords with a god, Clip?’

  ‘He gave himself away – oh, he’s fast all right, and with two weapons he’d be hard to handle, I’ll grant you—’

  ‘And will the Reve Master who sent you be pleased with your immature behaviour?’

  Clip laughed. ‘Ordant could have selected any of a hundred warriors at hand for this mission, Letherii.’

  ‘Yet he chose you, meaning he is either profoundly stupid or he anticipated your irreverence.’

  ‘You waste your time, Acquitor,’ Fear Sengar said, coming up alongside her and eyeing Clip. ‘He is Tiste Andii. His mind is naught but darkness, in which ignorance and foolishness thrive.’

  To Fear the young warrior bowed again. ‘Edur, please, proceed. Darkness awaits you.’ And he waved at the gate.

  As Fear Sengar led his horse into the gate, the chain on Clip’s right index finger spun out once more, ending with a clash of rings.

  ‘Why do you do that?’ Seren demanded, irritated.

  Brows lifted. ‘Do what?’

  Swearing under her breath, the Acquitor walked through the gate.

  Book Two

  Layers of the Dead

  Who now strides on my trail

  devouring the distance between

  no matter how I flee, the wasted

  breath of my haste cast into the wind

  and these dogs will prevail

  dragging me down with howling glee

  for the beasts were born fated,

  trained in bold vengeance

  by my own switch and hand

  and no god will stand in my stead,

  nor provide me sanctuary, even

  should I plead for absolution—

  the hounds of my deeds belong

  only to me, and they have long hunted

  and now the hunt ends.

  Songs of Guilt

  Bet’netrask

  Chapter Seven

  Twice as far as you think

  Half the distance you fear

  Too thin to hold you

  and well over your head

  So much cleverer by far

  yet witless beyond measure

  will you hear my story now?

  Tales of the Drunken Bard

  Fisher

  Standing at the rail, Atri-Preda Yan Tovis, known to her soldiers as Twilight, watched the sloping shoreline of the Lether River track past. Gulls rode the waves in the shallows. Fisher boats sculled among the reeds, the net-casters pausing to watch the battered fleet work its way towards the harbour. Along the bank birds crowded the leafless branches of trees that had succumbed to the last season’s flood. Beyond the dead trees, riders were on the coast road, cantering towards the city to report to various officials, although Yan Tovis was certain that the palace had already been informed that the first of the fleets now approached, with another a bare half-day behind.

  She would welcome solid ground beneath her boots again. And the presence of unfamiliar faces within range of her vision, rather than these tired features behind and to either side that she had come to know all too well, and at times, she had to admit, despise.

  The last ocean they had crossed was far in their wake now, and for that she was profoundly relieved. The world had proved…immense. Even the ancient Letherii charts mapping the great migration route from the land of the First Empire had revealed but a fraction of the vast expanse tha
t was this mortal realm. The scale had left them all belittled, as if their grand dramas were without consequence, as if true meaning was too thinly spread, too elusive for a single mind to grasp. And there had been a devastating toll paid for these fated journeys. Scores of ships lost, thousands of hands dead – there were belligerent and all too capable empires and peoples out there, few of whom were reluctant to test the prowess and determination of foreign invaders. If not for the formidable sorceries of the Edur and the new cadres of Letherii mages, there would have been more defeats than victories recorded in the ledgers, and yet fewer soldiers and sailors to rest eyes once more upon their homeland.

  Hanradi Khalag, Uruth and Tomad Sengar would have dire news to deliver to the Emperor, sufficient to overwhelm their meagre successes, and Yan Tovis was thankful that she would not be present at that debriefing. She would have more than enough to deal with in her own capacity, besides. The Letherii Marines had been decimated – families would need to be informed, death-pensions distributed, lost equipment charged and debts transferred to heirs and kin. Depressing and tedious work and she already longed for the last scroll to be sealed and signed.

  As the stands of trees and undergrowth dwindled, replaced by fisher shacks, jetties and then the walled estates of the elite, she stepped back from the rail and looked round the deck. Seeing Taralack Veed positioned near the stern, she walked over.

  ‘We are very close now,’ she said. ‘Letheras, seat of the Emperor, the largest and richest city on this continent. And still your champion will not come on deck.’

  ‘I see bridges ahead,’ the barbarian observed, looking back up the length of the ship.

  ‘Yes. The Tiers. There are canals in the city. Did I not tell you of the Drownings?’

  The man grimaced, then swung about once more and spat over the stern rail. ‘They die without honour and this entertains you. What is it you would wish Icarium to see, Twilight?’

  ‘He shall need his anger,’ she replied in a low voice.