The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  After a time of mutual silent regard, he straightened, settled the weapons and gear about himself once more, then set out.

  She hesitated, then rose.

  And, at a distance, she followed.

  He walked towards the rising sun.

  Scratching at the scarred, gaping hole where one eye had been, Toc watched the children running back and forth as the first cookfires were lit. Elders hobbled about with iron pots and wrapped foodstuffs – they were wiry, weathered folk, but days of marching had dulled the fire in their eyes, and more than a few snapped at the young ones who passed too close.

  He saw Redmask, trailed by Masarch and Natarkas and another bearing the red face-paint, appear near the area laid out for the war leader’s yurt. Seeing Toc, Redmask approached.

  ‘Tell me, Toc Anaster, you flanked our march on the north this day – did you see tracks?’

  ‘What sort do you mean?’

  Redmask turned to Natarkas’s companion. ‘Torrent rode to the south. He made out a trail that followed an antelope track – a dozen men on foot—’

  ‘Or more,’ the one named Torrent said. ‘They were skilled.’

  ‘Not Letherii, then,’ Toc guessed.

  ‘Moccasined,’ Redmask replied, his tone betraying slight irritation at Torrent’s interruption. ‘Tall, heavy.’

  ‘I noted nothing like that,’ said Toc. ‘Although I admit I was mostly scanning horizon lines.’

  ‘This place shall be our camp,’ Redmask said after a moment. ‘We will meet the Letherii three leagues from here, in the valley known as Bast Fulmar. Toc Anaster, will you stay with the elders and children or accompany us?’

  ‘I have had my fill of fields of battle, Redmask. I said I’d found myself a soldier again, but even an army’s train needs guards, and that is about all I am up to right now.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe from now on.’

  The eyes in that scaled mask held on Toc for a half-dozen heartbeats, then slowly turned away. ‘Torrent, you too will stay here.’

  The warrior stiffened in surprise. ‘War Leader—’

  ‘You will begin training those children who are close to their death nights. Bows, knives.’

  Torrent bowed, stiffly. ‘As you command.’

  Redmask left them, trailed by Natarkas and Masarch.

  Torrent glanced over at Toc. ‘My courage is not broken,’ he said.

  ‘You’re young still,’ he replied.

  ‘You will oversee the younger children, Toc Anaster. That and nothing more. You will keep them and yourself out of my way.’

  Toc had had enough of this man. ‘Torrent, you rode at your old war leader’s side when you Awl abandoned us to the Letherii army. Be careful of your bold claims of courage. And when I came to you and pleaded for the lives of my soldiers, you turned away with the rest of them. I believe Redmask has just taken your measure, Torrent, and if I hear another threat from you I will give you reason to curse me – with what will be your last breath.’

  The warrior bared his teeth in a humourless smile. ‘All I see in that lone eye, Toc Anaster, tells me you are already cursed.’ He pivoted and walked away.

  Well, the bastard has a point. So maybe I’m not as good at this give and take as I imagined myself to be. For these Awl, it is a way of life, after all. Then again, the Malazan armies are pretty good at it, too – no wonder I never really fit.

  A half-dozen children hurried past, trailed by a mud-smeared toddler struggling to keep up. Seeing the chattering mob vanish round a tent, the toddler halted, then let out a wail.

  Toc grunted. Aye, you and me both.

  He made a rude sound and the toddler looked over, eyes wide. Then laughed.

  Eye socket fiercely itching once more, Toc scratched for a moment, then headed over, issuing yet another rude noise. Oh, look at that – innocent delight. Well, Toc, take your rewards where and when you can.

  Redmask stood at the very edge of the sprawling encampment, studying the horizon to the south. ‘Someone is out there,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘So it seems,’ Natarkas said. ‘Strangers – who walk our land as if they owned it. War Leader, you have wounded Torrent—’

  ‘Torrent must learn the value of respect. And so he will, as weapon master to a score of restless adolescents. When next he joins us, he will be a wiser man. Do you challenge my decisions, Natarkas?’

  ‘Challenge? No, War Leader. But at times I will probe them, if I find the need to understand them better.’

  Redmask nodded, then said to the warrior standing a short distance away, ‘Heed those words, Masarch.’

  ‘So I shall,’ the young warrior replied.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Redmask, ‘I lead my warriors to war. Bast Fulmar.’

  Natarkas hissed, then said, ‘A cursed valley.’

  ‘We will honour the blood spilled there three hundred years ago, Natarkas. The past will die there, and from there on we shall look only to a new future. New in every way.’

  ‘This new way of fighting, War Leader, I see little honour in it.’

  ‘You speak true. There is none to be found. Such is necessity.’

  ‘Must necessity be surrender?’

  Redmask looked across at the warrior whose face was painted in the likeness of his own mask. ‘When the ways surrendered hold naught but the promise of failure, then yes. It must be done. They must be cast away.’

  ‘The elders will find that difficult to accept, War Leader.’

  ‘I know. You and I have played this game before. This is not their war. It is mine. And I mean to win it.’

  They were silent then, as the wind, a dirge through dead grasses, moaned ghostly across the land.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sea without water

  spreads white bones

  crumbled flat and bleached

  like parchment

  where I walked.

  But this scrawl

  scratching my wake

  is without history

  bereft of raiment

  to clothe my fate.

  Sky has lost its clouds

  to some ragged wind

  that never runs aground

  these shoals revealed

  on paths untrod.

  Wind heaves waves

  unseen in the shell

  a cup of promise unfulfilled

  the rank lie of salt

  that bites my tongue.

  I dwelt by a sea, once

  etching histories

  along the endless strand

  in rolling scrolls

  of flotsam and weed.

  Rumours of the Sea

  Fisher kel Tath

  There had been rain in the afternoon, which was just as well since there wasn’t much value in burning the entire forest down and besides, he wasn’t popular at the best of times. They had mocked his antics, and they had said he stank, too, so much so that no-one ever came within reach of his huge, gnarled hands. Of course, had any of his neighbours done so, he might well have torn their limbs off to answer years of scorn and abuse.

  Old Hunch Arbat no longer pulled his cart from farm to farm, from shack to shack, collecting the excrement with which he buried the idols of the Tarthenal gods that had commanded a mostly forgotten glade deep in the woods. The need had passed, after all. The damned hoary nightmares were dead.

  His neighbours had not appreciated Arbat’s sudden retirement, since now the stink of their wastes had begun to foul their own homes. Lazy wastrels that they were, they weren’t of a mind to deepen their cesspits – didn’t Old Hunch empty them out on a regular basis? Well, not any more.

  That alone might have been reason enough to light out. And Arbat would have liked nothing better than to just vanish into the forest gloom, never to be seen again. Walk far, yes, until he came to a hamlet or village where none knew him, where none even knew of him. Rainwashed of all odour, just some kindly, harmless old mixed-blood Tarthenal who could, for a coin or two, mend broken things, including flesh and bone.


  Walk, then. Leaving behind the old Tarthenal territories, away from the weed-snagged statues in the overgrown glades. And maybe, even, away from the ancient blood of his heritage. Not all healers were shamans, were they? They’d not ask any awkward questions, so long as he treated them right, and he could do that, easy.

  Old bastards like him deserved their rest. A lifetime of service. Propitiations, the Masks of Dreaming, the leering faces of stone, the solitary rituals – all done, now. He could walk his last walk, into the unknown. A hamlet, a village, a sun-warmed boulder beside a trickling stream, where he could settle back and ease his tortured frame and not move, until the final mask was pulled away…

  Instead, he had woken in darkness, in the moments before false dawn, shaking as if afflicted with ague, and before his eyes had hovered the slowly shredding fragments of a most unexpected Dream Mask. One he had never seen before, yet a visage of terrifying power. A mask crazed with cracks, a mask moments from shattering explosively—

  Lying on his cot, the wood frame creaking beneath him as he trembled from head to foot, he waited for revelation.

  The sun was high overhead when he finally emerged from his shack. Banks of clouds climbed the sky to the west – an almost-spent storm coming in from the sea – and he set about his preparations, ignoring the rain when it arrived.

  Now, with dusk fast approaching, Arbat collected a bundled cane of rushes and set one end aflame from the hearth. He fired his shack, then the woodshed, and finally the old barn wherein resided his two-wheeled cart. Then, satisfied that each building was truly alight, he shouldered the sack containing those possessions and supplies he would need, and set out onto the trail leading down to the road.

  A grunt of surprise a short time later, on the road, as he ran into a score of villagers hurrying in a mob towards him. In their lead, the Factor, who cried out in relief upon seeing Arbat.

  ‘Thank the Errant you’re alive, Hunch!’

  Scowling, Arbat studied the man’s horsey face for a moment, then scanned the pale smudges of the other faces, hovering behind the Factor. ‘What is all this?’ he demanded.

  ‘A troop of Edur are staying at the inn tonight, Arbat. When word of the fires reached them they insisted we head up to help – in case the wood goes up, you see—’

  ‘The wood, right. So where are the meddlers now, then?’

  ‘They remained behind, of course. But I was ordered—’ the Factor paused, then leaned closer to peer up at Arbat. ‘Was it Vrager, then? The fool likes his fires, and is no friend of yours.’

  ‘Vrager? Could be. He’s been in the habit of sneaking in at night and pissing on my door. Doesn’t accept me being retired and all. Says I got a duty to cart away his shit.’

  ‘And so you do!’ someone growled from the mob behind the Factor. ‘Why else do we let you live here anyway?’

  ‘Well that’s a problem solved now, ain’t it?’ Arbat said, grinning. ‘Vrager burned me out, so I’m leaving.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘What business was this of the Edur? It’s just done rained – the chances of the blaze moving much ain’t worth the worry. Didn’t you tell them my place is cleared back eighty, a hundred paces on all sides? And there’s the old settling pools – good as a moat.’

  The Factor shrugged, then said, ‘They asked about you, then decided maybe someone had torched you out of spite – and that’s breaking the law and the Edur don’t like it when that happens—’

  ‘And they told you to do your job, did they?’ Arbat laughed at the man. ‘That’d be a first!’

  ‘Vrager, you said – is that a formal accusation, Arbat? If it is, you gotta dictate and make your mark and stay round for the convening and if Vrager hires an advocate—’

  ‘Vrager’s got a cousin in Letheras who’s just that,’ someone said.

  The Factor nodded. ‘All this could take a damned while, Arbat, and ain’t none of us obliged to give you a roof overhead, neither—’

  ‘So best I don’t cause trouble, right? You can tell the Edur I wasn’t making no formal complaint, so that’s that. And what with the shacks pretty much burnt down by now and the chill seeping into your bones and no sign the fire’s jumped anywhere…’ Arbat slapped the Factor on the shoulder – a gesture that nearly drove the man to his knees – then stepped past. ‘Make way, the rest of you – could be I’m still contagious with all the sick you been dumping in my cart.’

  That worked readily enough, and Arbat’s way was suddenly clear. And on he walked.

  They’d give Vrager some trouble – not good calling down the Edur’s regard, after all – but it’d be nothing fatal. Pissing against a door don’t forfeit the fool’s life, now did it? Anyway, the Edur would ride on, to wherever it was they were going, and he’d leave them—

  What now? Horses on the road, riders coming at the canter. Grumbling under his breath, Old Hunch Arbat worked his way to one verge, then waited.

  Another damned troop. Letherii this time.

  The lead rider, an officer, slowed her mount upon seeing Arbat, and the troop behind her did the same at her command. As she trotted her horse closer, she called out, ‘You, sir – is there a village ahead?’

  ‘There is,’ Arbat replied, ‘though you might have to fight for room at the inn.’

  ‘And why’s that?’ she asked as she rode opposite.

  ‘Some Edur staying the night there.’

  At that the officer reined in, gesturing the rest to a halt. Twisting in her saddle, she eyed him from beneath the ridge of her iron helm. ‘Tiste Edur?’

  ‘That’s them all right.’

  ‘What are they doing there?’

  Before he could answer, one of her soldiers said, ‘Atri-Preda, something’s blazing ahead – y’can see the glow and smell it.’

  ‘That’d be my homestead,’ Arbat replied. ‘Accident. It won’t spread, I’m sure of that as can be. Got nothing to do,’ he added, ‘with them Edur. They’re just passing through.’

  The Atri-Preda swore under her breath. ‘Tarthenal, yes?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘Can you think of anywhere we can camp for the night, then? Close by, but well off the trail.’

  Arbat squinted at her. ‘Off the trail, eh? Far enough off so’s your privacy ain’t disturbed, you mean?’

  She nodded.

  Arbat rubbed at the bristly hair covering his prognathous jaw. ‘Forty or so paces up there’s a trail, right side of the road. Leads through a thicket, then an old orchard, and beyond that there’s an abandoned homestead – barn’s still got a roof, though I doubt it’s weatherproof. There’s a well too, which should be serviceable enough.’

  ‘This close by, and no-one’s occupied it or stripped it down?’

  Arbat grinned. ‘Oh, they’ll get to that before long. It was downwind of my place, you see.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  His grin broadened into a smile. ‘Local colour kinda pales when told to outsiders. It’s no matter, really. All you’ll be smelling is woodsmoke this night, and that’ll keep the bugs away.’

  He watched as she thought about pressing the matter; then, as her horse tossed its head, she gathered the reins once more. ‘Thank you, Tarthenal. Be safe in your journey.’

  ‘And you, Atri-Preda.’

  They rode on, and Arbat waited on the verge for the troop to pass.

  Safe in my journey. Yes, safe enough, I suppose. Nothing on the road I can’t handle.

  No, it’s the destination that’s got my knees knocking together like two skulls in a sack.

  Lying on his stomach, edging up to the trapdoor, peering down. A menagerie in the room below, yet comforting in its odd domesticity nonetheless. Why, he knew artists who would pay for such a scene. Ten hens wandering about, occasionally squawking from the path of a clumsily swung foot from Ublala Pung as the huge man paced back and forth. The scholar Janath sitting with her back to one wall, rolling chicken down or whatever it was called between the palms of her hands, prior to stuffing it i
nto a burlap sack that was intended to serve as a pillow at some point – proving beyond all doubt that academics knew nothing about anything worth knowing about. Not to mention inserting a sliver of fear that Bugg’s healing of her mind had not been quite up to scratch. And finally, Bugg himself, crouched by the hearth, using a clawed hen foot to stir the steaming pot of chicken soup, a detail which, Tehol admitted, had a certain macabre undercurrent. As did the toneless humming coming from his stalwart manservant.

  True enough, the household was blessed with food aplenty, marking the continuation of their good run of luck. Huge capabara fish beside the canal a couple of weeks back, and now retired hens being retired one by one, as inexorable as the growl of a stomach. Or two or three. Or four, assuming Ublala Pung had but one stomach which was not in any way certain. Selush might know, having dressed enough bodies from the inside out. Tarthenal had more organs in those enormous bodies than regular folk, after all. Alas, this trait did not extend to brains.

  Yet another formless, ineffable worry was afflicting Ublala Pung. Could be lovestruck again, or struck to fear by love. The half-blood lived in a world of worry, which, all things considered, was rather surprising. Then again, that undeniable virtue between his legs garnered its share of worshippers, lighting feminine eyes with the gleam of possession, avarice, malicious competition – in short, all those traits most common to priesthoods. But it was worship for all the wrong reasons, as poor Ublala’s fretful state of mind made plain. His paltry brain wanted to be loved for itself.

  Making him, alas, a complete idiot.

  ‘Ublala,’ Bugg said from where he hovered over the soup pot, ‘glance upward for me if you will to confirm that those beady eyes studying us belong to my master. If so, please be so kind as to invite him down for supper.’

  Tall as he was, Ublala’s face, lifting into view to squint upwards at Tehol, was within reach. Smiling and patting him on the head, Tehol said, ‘My friend, if you could, step back from what serves as a ladder here – and given my manservant’s lacklustre efforts at repair I am using the description advisedly – so that I may descend in a manner befitting my station.’