The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  A sliver of doubt, stinging, then the Errant shook his head. ‘I am the Master of the Tiles, Elder. No pathetic wellspring spirit could so infect me. My thoughts are clear. My purpose—’ He turned again, dismissing the ghost behind him. And reeled slightly, needing a step to right himself.

  The ghost of the Ceda spoke. ‘Errant, you think to challenge the Warrens? Do you not realize that, as the Tiles once had a Master, so too the Warrens?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ the Errant said. ‘There are no tiles describing these warrens—’

  ‘Not Tiles. Cards. A Deck. And yes, there is a Master. Do you now choose to set yourself against him? To achieve what?’

  The Errant made no reply, although his answer whispered in his skull. Usurpation. As a child before one such as myself. I might even pity him, as I wrest from him all power, every drop of blood, his very life.

  I shall retreat from this world no longer.

  Kuru Qan continued, ‘If you set the Holds to battle against the Warrens, Errant, you will shatter alliances—’

  The Errant snorted. ‘They are already shattered, Ceda. What began as yet another march on the Crippled God to exact brutal punishment – as if the Fallen One commits a crime by virtue of his very existence – well, it is that no more. The Elders are awakened, awakened to themselves – the memory of what they once were, what they could be again. Besides,’ he added as he took another step towards the now trembling Letherii witch, ‘the enemy is divided, confused—’

  ‘All strangers to you. To us. Are you so certain that what you sense is true? Not simply what your enemy wants you to believe?’

  ‘Now you play games, Kuru Qan. Ever your flaw.’

  ‘This is not our war, Errant.’

  ‘Oh, but it is. My war. Rhulad’s war. The Crippled God’s. After all, it is not the Elder Gods who so hunger to destroy the Fallen One.’

  ‘They would if they but understood, Errant. But they are blinded by the lure of resurrection – as blinded as you, here, now. All but one, and that is the maker of the Warrens. K’rul himself. Errant, listen to me! To set the Holds against the Warrens, you declare war upon K’rul—’

  ‘No. Just his children. Children who will kill him if they can. They don’t want him. He was gone, but now he walks the realms again, and drags with him the Tiles, the Holds, the ancient places he knew so well – there is the real war, Ceda!’

  ‘True, and K’rul’s idiotic nostalgia is proving a most virulent poison – although he is yet to realize that. I am dead, Errant – the paths I have wandered—’

  ‘Do not interest me.’

  ‘Do not do this. This is all the Crippled God’s game!’

  Smiling, the Errant reached out, the motion a blur. Grasped the Letherii witch round the throat. Lifted her clear of the floor.

  In his other hand, a knife appeared.

  Blood. Mortal’s gift to the Elder—

  She held something in one hand. Thrashing, struggling against his life-stealing grip, her eyes bulging, face darkening, she lashed out with that hand.

  And stabbed a severed finger into his left eye.

  The Errant bellowed in shock, a spear of incandescence lancing into his brain.

  His knife bit into the woman’s body. He flung her away, then lurched, flailing at his own face – where blood streamed down, where something dangled at the end of a thread against his cheek. Got her, never mind what she did to me – got her, that foul creature – her blood – my blood – Abyss take me, the pain!

  Then she was back. Clawed hands gouging against his face – grasping something, tearing it away – pain! And her vicious snarl, close – ‘I’m collecting.’ Twisting away, even as he slashed again with the knife, cutting into flesh, the edge rippling along bones.

  She had torn away an eye. Gone. Crushed in one bloody hand.

  But her blood gleamed on his knife. Enough. More than enough.

  The Errant, one hand outstretched, lone eye struggling to make sense of a battered, broken perspective, staggered towards the doorway.

  All I need.

  Trailing blood, Feather Witch dragged herself to the far wall, where she curled up, in one stained hand the eye of a god, in the other the severed finger of Brys Beddict – it felt swollen now, as if it absorbed the Errant’s blood. Warm, no, hot.

  ‘Collecting,’ she whispered.

  The ghost of the Ceda drew close. ‘You are dying, child. You need a healer.’

  She spat. ‘Then find me one.’

  The brazier’s coals pulsed, but all she could feel was cold, deep in her body, spreading outward to steal all life from her limbs.

  ‘Hurry,’ she said in a mumble.

  But no-one replied.

  The Errant stumbled down the bridge. To either side, the tiles of the Cedance spun in confused mayhem. He barked out a laugh, holding the slick knife before him as if it was a torch – he could feel the heat searing his face, drying the blood and other fluids weeping down from his left socket.

  Someone had been here. Not long past.

  Hannan Mosag. Delving the mysteries of ancient power.

  But he was Tiste Edur. A stranger to these forces.

  No, they are mine. They were always mine. And now I come.

  To reclaim them.

  And I challenge you, Master of the Deck, whoever, whatever you are. Face me here, if you’ve the courage. I challenge you!

  The Errant reached the centre dais, held the knife high, then flung it down onto the tiles.

  The point sank deep into painted stone.

  He stared down. One eye. Widening.

  The knife had pierced the centre of a tile, nailing it in place. The others now began swirling round it, as if drawn into a vortex.

  The centre of a tile.

  His own. The blade buried in the chest of the image. My chest. What does that mean? No matter. What other tile could it possibly choose?

  The world trembled – he could feel it, deep in its core, spreading in ripples, those ripples rising, devouring energy, lifting into waves. The waves heaving higher, gaining speed, lifting…

  The Errant laughed as power burgeoned within him. ‘Mortal blood!’

  Was she dead now? He’d struck her twice. Driven the weapon deep. She would have spilled out by now. A corpse huddled in that cursed chamber. Until the rats found her. And this was well. She could not be allowed to survive – he wanted no High Priestess, no mortal bound to his resurrected godhood. The other prayers I can swallow. Ignore. They all know I never answer. Never give a thing away. Expecting nothing, so they receive nothing, and I am not bound to them.

  But a High Priestess…

  He would have to make sure. Go back. And make sure.

  The Errant spun round, began walking.

  ‘Bastard,’ Feather Witch said, her mouth filled with the taste of blood. Running from her nostrils, bubbling at the back of her throat. Immense pressures crushing her chest on the right side.

  She could wait no longer. The ghost was too late.

  ‘I am dying.’

  No. Errant, bastard god, forgotten god, hungry god.

  Well, you are not the only hungry one around here.

  She bared her teeth in a red smile, then pushed the mangled eyeball into her mouth.

  And swallowed.

  The Errant staggered, rebounded from a corridor wall, as something reached into his chest and tore free a welter of power. Stole it away. Leaving a cavern of agony.

  ‘The bitch!’

  The roar echoed against cold stone.

  And he heard her voice, filling his skull: ‘I am yours now. You are mine. Worshipper and worshipped, locked together in mutual hate. Oh, won’t that twist things, yes?

  ‘You should have found someone else, Errant. I have read the histories. Destrai Anant, God Chosen, the Well of the Spirit. Feather Witch. You are mine. I am yours. And listen to my prayer – listen! Your Destrai demands it! In my hand, now, waits our Mortal Sword. He too has tasted your blood. Your power can heal hi
m as it has done me. Do you not still feel his’ – malicious delight – ‘touch?’

  Her laughter rasped in his head, rebounding bitter with his stolen power.

  ‘Summon him, Errant. We need him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We need him! And a Shield Anvil – a T’orrud Segul in the language of the First Empire. Which of us shall choose? Oh, of course, you would claim that right for yourself. But I have a candidate. Another wrapped tight in webs of spite – I utter his name and so find a face to my deepest hatred – is that not well suited?

  ‘And yes, he still lives. Udinaas. Let us make of this priesthood a company of betrayers. Let us claim the Empty Throne – it was ever rightfully ours, Errant – beloved.

  ‘Udinaas. Claim him! Choose him! We can devour each other’s souls across the span of a thousand years. Ten thousand!’

  ‘Leave me, damn you!’

  ‘Leave you? God of mine, I compel you!’

  The Errant fell to his knees, tilted his head back, and screamed his rage.

  And the world trembled anew.

  He had forgotten. The chains. The wills locked in an eternal tug of war. The flood waters of fierce emotion rising again and again. The deathless drowning. I am in the world again. I surrendered my weakness, and am imprisoned by power. ‘Only the weak and useless are truly free,’ he whispered.

  She heard him. ‘No need to be so maudlin, Errant. Go back to the Cedance and see for yourself. Blood now flows between the Tiles. Between them all. The Warrens. The Cedance, at last, maps the truth of things. The truth of things. To use your words, the Tiles now…flow.

  ‘Can you not taste them? These new Warrens? Come, let us explore them, you and I, and choose our aspect. There are flavours…light and dark, shadow and death, life and…oh, what is this? The Jesters of Chance, an Unaligned, Oponn? Oponn – dear Errant, you have upstarts standing in your stead. These Twins play your game, Errant.

  ‘What will we do about that?’

  ‘Abyss take me,’ the god groaned, sinking down onto the cold, clammy pavestones.

  ‘Summon him, Errant. He is needed. Now. Summon our Mortal Sword.’

  ‘I cannot. You damned fool. He is lost to us.’

  ‘I possess—’

  ‘I know what you possess. Do you truly think it enough? To wrest him from Mael’s grasp? You stupid, pathetic bitch. Now, cease this damned prayer, Destrai. Your every demand weakens me – and that is not smart. Not now. Too soon. I am…vulnerable. The Edur—’

  ‘The Edur warlocks tremble and start at shadows now – they do not know what has happened. All they know is blind terror—’

  ‘Silence!’ the god bellowed. ‘Who can reach through those warlocks, you blubbering capabara? Leave me alone! Now!’

  He was answered with…nothing. Sudden absence, a presence recoiling.

  ‘Better,’ he snarled.

  Yet he remained, slumped onto the cold floor, surrounded in darkness. Thinking. But even thoughts did not come free, without a price.

  Abyss below, I think I have made a mistake. And now I must live with it.

  And make plans.

  Gadalanak stepped in behind and under his round-shield. A huge hand grasped his arm, wrapping round it just below his shoulder, and a moment later he was flying across the compound, landing hard, skidding then rolling until he crashed up against the wall.

  The Meckros warrior groaned, shook his head, then released his short-handled double-bladed axe and reached up to tug clear his helm. ‘Not fair,’ he said, wincing as he sat up. He glared across at Karsa Orlong. ‘The Emperor couldn’t have done that.’

  ‘Too bad for him,’ the Toblakai rumbled in reply.

  ‘I think you tore something in my arm.’

  Samar Dev spoke from where she sat on a chair in the shade, ‘Best find a healer, then, Gadalanak.’

  ‘Who else will dare face me?’ Karsa demanded, eyeing the half-dozen other warriors as he leaned on his sword. All eyes turned to the masked woman, who stood silent and motionless, worn and weathered like a forgotten statue in some ruin. She seemed indifferent to the attention. And she had yet to draw her two swords.

  Karsa snorted. ‘Cowards.’

  ‘Hold on,’ the one named Puddy said, his scarred face twisting. ‘It ain’t that, y’damned bhederin bull. It’s your style of fighting. No point in learning to deal with it, since this Edur Emperor don’t fight that way. He couldn’t. I mean, he ain’t got the strength. Nor the reach. Besides, he’s civilized – you fight like an animal, Karsa, and you just might take the bastard down – only you won’t have to, ’cause I’ll do it before you.’ He hefted the short javelin in one hand. ‘I’ll skewer him first – then let’s see him fight with a shaft of wood impaling him. I skewer him from six paces, right? Then I close with my cutlass and chop him into pieces.’

  Samar Dev stopped listening, since she had heard Puddy’s boasts before, and held her gaze on the woman the Meckros warrior had called a Seguleh. First Empire word, that. The Anvil. Strange name for a people – probably some remnant clan from the colonial period of Dessimbelackis’s empire. A fragment of an army, settled on some pleasant island as their reward for some great victory – those armies were each named, and ‘the Anvil’ was but a variation on a theme common among the First Empire military. The mask, however, was a unique affectation. Gadalanak said all Seguleh were so attired, and something in the glyphs and scratches on those enamel masks indicated rank. But if those marks are writing, it’s not First Empire. Not even close. Curious. Too bad she never says anything.

  Cradling his shield arm, Gadalanak used the wall to lever himself upright, then set off in search of a healer.

  There had been events in the palace, sending tremors far enough to reach the challengers’ compound. Perhaps the List had been formalized, the order of the battles decided. A rumour to please the idiotic warriors gathered here – although Karsa’s only response to the possibility was a sour grunt. Samar Dev was inclined to agree with him – she was not convinced that the rumour was accurate. No, something else had happened, something messy. Factions sniping like mongrels at a feast all could share had they any brains. But that’s always the way, isn’t it? Enough is never enough.

  She felt something then, a shivering along the strands – the bones – buried beneath the flesh of this realm. This realm…and every other one. Gods below…The witch found she was on her feet. Blinking. And in the compound’s centre she saw Karsa now facing her, a fierce regard in his bestial eyes. The Toblakai bared his teeth.

  Shaking her gaze free of the terrible warrior, she walked quickly into the colonnaded hallway, then through to the passage lined by the cells where the champions were quartered. Down the corridor.

  Into her modest room.

  She closed the door behind her, already muttering the ritual of sealing. Trouble out there, blood spilled and sizzling like acid. Dreadful events, something old beyond belief, exulting in new power—

  Her heart stuttered in her chest. An apparition was rising from the floor in the centre of the room. Shouldering through her wards.

  She drew her knife.

  A damned ghost. The ghost of a damned mage, in fact.

  Luminous but faint eyes fixed on her. ‘Witch,’ it whispered, ‘do not resist, I beg you.’

  ‘You are not invited,’ she said. ‘Why would I not resist?’

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘Seems a little late for that.’

  ‘I am Ceda Kuru Qan.’

  She frowned, then nodded. ‘I have heard that name. You fell at the Edur conquest.’

  ‘Fell? A notion worth consideration. Alas, not now. You must heal someone. Please. I can lead you to her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A Letherii. She is named Feather Witch—’

  Samar Dev hissed, then said, ‘You chose the wrong person, Ceda Kuru Qan. Heal that blonde rhinazan? If she’s dying, I am happy to help her along. That woman gives witches a bad name.’

  Another tr
emor rumbled through the unseen web binding the world.

  She saw Kuru Qan’s ghost flinch, saw the sudden terror in its eyes.

  And Samar Dev spat on her knife blade, darted forward and slashed the weapon through the ghost.

  The Ceda’s shriek was short-lived, as the iron weapon snared the ghost, drew it inward, trapped it. In her hand the knife’s hilt was suddenly cold as ice. Steam slithered from the blade.

  She quickly added a few words under her breath, tightening the binding.

  Then staggered back until her legs bumped against her cot. She sank down, shivering in the aftermath of the capture. Her eyes fell to the weapon in her hand. ‘Gods below,’ she mumbled. ‘Got another one.’

  Moments later the door swung open. Ducking, Karsa Orlong entered.

  Samar Dev cursed at him, then said, ‘Must you do that?’

  ‘This room stinks, witch.’

  ‘You walk through my wards as if they were cobwebs. Toblakai, it would take a damned god to do what you just did – yet you are no god. I would swear to that on the bones of every poor fool you’ve killed.’

  ‘I care nothing for your damned wards,’ the huge warrior replied, leaning his sword against a wall then taking a single step that placed him in the centre of the room. ‘I know that smell. Ghosts, spirits, it’s the stink of forgetting.’

  ‘Forgetting?’

  ‘When the dead forget they’re dead, witch.’

  ‘Like your friends in that stone sword of yours?’

  The eyes that fixed on her were cold as ashes. ‘They have cheated death, Samar Dev. Such was my gift. Such was theirs, to turn away from peace. From oblivion. They live because the sword lives.’

  ‘Yes, a warren within a weapon. Don’t imagine that as unique as you might want it to be.’

  He bared his teeth. ‘No. After all, you have that knife.’

  She started. ‘Hardly a warren in this blade, Karsa Orlong. It’s just folded iron. Folded in a very specific way—’

  ‘To fashion a prison. You civilized people are so eager to blunt the meaning of your words. Probably because you have so many of them, which you use too often and for no reason.’ He looked round. ‘So you have bound a ghost. That is not like you.’