The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Not precisely what they needed to hear, I think. Not yet, anyway. In time, I suspect, it may well return to them.

  No, this – here and now – this demands another kind of leadership.

  The guards had retreated, seeking another route.

  The few citizens within sight were doing the same. No-one wanted to see this legacy.

  Bugg pushed himself forward. He drew upon his power, felt it struggle at this unseemly purpose. Damn my worshippers – whoever, wherever you are. I will have my way here! Power, devoid of sympathy, cold as the sea, dark as the depths. I will have my way.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he said to the mob. The words were little more than a whisper, yet all heard them, solid and undeniable in their minds. Close your eyes.

  They did. Children, women, men. Motionless now. Eyes closed tight, breaths held in sudden tension, perhaps even fear – but Bugg suspected that these people were beyond fear. They waited for what would come next. And did not move.

  I will have my way. ‘Hear me. There is a place of safety. Far from here. I will send you there. Now. Friends will find you. They will bring healing, and you will have food, clothing and shelter. When you feel the ground shift beneath you, open your eyes to your new home.’

  The sea did not forgive. Its power was hunger and swelling rage. The sea warred with the shore, with the very sky. The sea wept for no-one.

  Bugg did not care.

  Like any tidal pool motionless under the hot sun, his blood had grown…heated. And the smallest pool was filled with the promise of an ocean, a score of oceans – all their power could be held in a single drop of water. Such was Denaeth Rusen, such was Ruse, the warren where life was first born. And there, in that promise of life itself, will I find what I need.

  Of empathy.

  Of warmth.

  The power, when it came, was a true current. Angry, yes, yet true. Water had known life for so long it held no memory of purity. Power and gift had become one, and so it yielded to its god.

  And he sent them away.

  Bugg opened his eyes, and saw before him an empty street.

  In his room once more, Karsa Orlong lifted free his shoulder scabbard, then, holding the weapon and its harness in his hands, he stared down at the long table, on which sat an oil lantern set on low burn. After a moment he laid the sword and rigging down. And grew still once more.

  Many things to consider, a heaving of foam and froth from some struck well deep within him. The slaves. Cast out because their lives were meaningless. Both these Edur and the Letherii were heartless, yet cowards. Eager to turn away from witnessing the cost of their indifference. Content to strip fellowship from any whenever it suited them.

  Yet they would call him the barbarian.

  If so, then he was well pleased with the distinction.

  And, true to his savagely clear vision of right and wrong, he would hold in his mind that scene – those starved faces, the liquid eyes that seemed to shine so bright he felt burned by their touch – hold to it when he faced Emperor Rhulad. When he then faced every Letherii and every Edur who chose to stand in his way.

  So he had vowed, and so all would witness.

  This cold thought held him motionless for another dozen heartbeats, then a second image returned to him. Icarium, the one they called Lifestealer.

  He had been moments from breaking that Jhag’s neck.

  And then he had seen in the ash-skinned face…something. And with it, recognition.

  He would yield to Karsa. He had given his word, and Karsa now knew that would not be broken.

  There was Jhag blood in this Icarium, but of that Karsa knew little. Father or mother a Jaghut; it hardly mattered which.

  Yet the other parent. Father or mother. Well, he had seen enough in Icarium’s face to know that blood. To know it like the whisper of his very own.

  Toblakai.

  In his opulent office, Chancellor Triban Gnol slowly sat down with uncharacteristic caution. A dust-laden, sweat- and blood-stained Letherii soldier stood before him, flanked on his right by Sirryn Kanar, whose return from the crypts had coincided with the arrival of this messenger.

  Triban Gnol looked away from the exhausted soldier. He would call in the scrub-slaves afterwards, to wash down the floor where the man now stood; to scent the air once again with pine oil. Eyes on a lacquered box on the desktop before him, he asked, ‘How many did you come in with, Corporal?’

  ‘Three others. And an Edur.’

  Triban Gnol’s head snapped up. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Died not three steps into the Domicile’s grand entrance, sir.’

  ‘Indeed? Died?’

  ‘He was grievously wounded, sir. And I knew enough to prevent any healer reaching him in time. I moved close to help him as he staggered, and gave the arrow in his back a few twists, then a deeper push. He passed out with the pain of that, and as I caught him and lowered him to the floor, I closed my thumb upon the great artery in his neck. I was able to hold that grip for thirty or more heartbeats. That was more than the Edur could withstand.’

  ‘And you a mere corporal in my employ? I think not. Sirryn, after we are done here, draft a promotion for this man.’

  ‘Yes, Chancellor.’

  ‘And so,’ Triban Gnol resumed, ‘being of rank among the remaining Letherii, the responsibility for reporting fell to you.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘I need the names of the others.’

  The corporal seemed to flinch. ‘Sir, without my soldiers, I would never have—’

  ‘I understand your loyalty, and I commend you. Alas, we must face this situation with a clear eye. We must recognize necessity. Those soldiers are not mine. Not like you.’

  ‘They are loyal, sir—’

  ‘To whom? To what? No, the risk is too great. I will grant you this gift, however.’ The Chancellor’s gaze flicked to Sirryn. ‘Quick and painless. No interrogation.’

  Sirryn’s brows rose. ‘None?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘As you command, sir.’

  The corporal licked his lips, and then, clearly forcing out the words, he said, ‘I thank you, sir.’

  The Chancellor’s nod was distracted, his gaze once more on the gleaming box of Blackwood on his desk. ‘I would ask again,’ he said, ‘there was no indication of who they were? No formal declaration of war?’

  ‘Nothing like that at all, sir,’ the corporal replied. ‘Hundreds of burning ships – that was their declaration of war. And even then, they seemed…few. No army – no sign at all of the landing.’

  ‘Yet there was one.’

  ‘Errant fend, yes! Sir, I rode with twenty Letherii, veterans all, and six Tiste Edur of the Arapay. Edur magic or not, we were ambushed in a clearing behind an abandoned homestead. One moment – thinking to make our camp – we were reining in amidst the high grasses – alone – and the next there was thunder and fire, and bodies flying – flying, sir, through the air. Or just limbs. Pieces. And arrows hissing in the dusk.’

  ‘Yet your troop recovered.’

  But the corporal shook his head. ‘The Edur commanding us – he knew that the news we were bringing to the capital – that of the burning ships and the dead Tiste bodies on the roads – that news demanded that we disengage. As many of us as could fight clear. Sir, with the Edur in the lead, we bolted. Seven of us at first – they had killed the other five Edur in the first breath of the attack – seven, then five.’

  ‘Did this enemy pursue?’ Triban Gnol asked in a quiet, thoughtful voice.

  ‘No sir. They had no horses – none that we saw in any case.’

  The Chancellor simply nodded at that. Then asked, ‘Human?’

  ‘Yes sir. But not Letherii, not tribal either, from what we could see. Sir, they used crossbows, but not the small, weak fisher bows such as we use in the shallows during the carp run. No, these were weapons of blackened iron, with thick cords and quarrels that punched through armour and shield. I saw one of my soldiers knocked flat
onto his back by one such quarrel, dead in the instant. And—’

  He halted when Triban Gnol raised a perfectly manicured finger.

  ‘A moment, soldier. A moment. Something you said.’ The Chancellor looked up. ‘Five of the six Edur, killed at the very beginning of the ambush. And the discovery of Edur corpses on the roads leading in from the coast. No Letherii bodies on those roads?’

  ‘None that we found, sir, no.’

  ‘Yet the sixth Edur survived that initial strike in the glade – how?’

  ‘It must have seemed that he didn’t. The quarrel in his back, sir, the one that eventually killed him. He was sent tumbling from his saddle. I doubt any one expected him to rise again, to regain his mount—’

  ‘You saw all this with your own eyes?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘That quarrel – before or after the thunder and fire?’

  The corporal frowned, then said, ‘Before. Just before – not even a blink from one to the next, I think. Yes, I am certain. He was the very first struck.’

  ‘Because he was clearly in command?’

  ‘I suppose so, sir.’

  ‘This thunder and fire, where did the sorcery strike first? Let me answer that for myself. In the midst of the remaining Edur.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘You may go now, soldier. Sirryn, remain with me a moment.’

  As soon as the door closed Triban Gnol was on his feet. ‘Errant fend! A damned invasion! Against the Letherii Empire!’

  ‘Sounds more like against the Edur,’ Sirryn ventured.

  The Chancellor glared across at him. ‘You damned fool. That is incidental – an interesting detail at most. Without true relevance. Sirryn, the Edur rule us – perhaps only in name, yes, but they are our occupiers. In our midst. Able to command Letherii forces as befits their need.’

  He slammed a fist down on the table. The lacquered box jumped, the lid clattering free. Triban Gnol stared at what lay within. ‘We are at war,’ he said. ‘Not our war – not the one we planned for – no. War!’

  ‘We will crush these invaders, sir—’

  ‘Of course we will, once we meet their sorcery with our own. That too is not relevant.’

  ‘I do not understand, sir.’

  Triban Gnol glared at the man. No, you don’t. Which is why your rank will never rise higher, you pathetic thug. ‘When you are done with silencing the other soldiers, Sirryn – oh yes, and the promotion for our enterprising young corporal – I want you to deliver, by hand, a message to Karos Invictad.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘An invitation. He is to come to the palace.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Immediately.’

  Sirryn saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Go.’

  As the door closed a second time, Triban Gnol stared down at his desk. Down into the box with its dislodged lid. Wherein sat a small, squat bottle. A third of its contents remaining.

  Triban Gnol often drew satisfaction from the sight of it, the very knowledge of it when hidden within its box. He would recall pouring the contents into the vessel of wine from which he knew Ezgara Diskanar would drink, there on that last terrible day. In the throne room. Ezgara, and that pathetic First Eunuch. Nisall should have followed. Not Brys. No, anyone but Brys Beddict.

  Regrettable, that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Every field of battle

  holds every cry uttered

  Threaded like roots

  between stones

  and broken armour,

  shattered weapons,

  leather clasps rotting

  into the earth.

  Centuries are as nothing

  to those voices,

  those aggrieved souls.

  They die in the now

  And the now is for ever.

  On the Deal Plains

  Rael of Longspit

  Fire had taken the grasses. Wind and water had taken the soil. The level stretch where the two drainage channels debouched was a scatter of button cacti, fist-sized cobbles and fire-cracked rock. The Letherii outrider’s corpse had rolled down from the ridge leaving a path of spattered blood now black as ink on the rocks. Coyotes, wolves or perhaps Awl dogs had chewed away the softer tissues – face and gut, buttocks and inner thighs – leaving the rest to the flies and their maggot spawn.

  Overseer Brohl Handar – who knew he should have died at Bast Fulmar, had indeed believed at that last moment that he would, absurdly killed by his own sword – gestured to two of his troop to remain on the ridge and waved the others to the highest rise thirty paces away, on the other side of one of the gullies, then walked his horse down onto the flat. Steeling himself against the stench of the dead soldier, he forced his reluctant mount closer.

  The K’risnan had reached him in time. With the power to heal, a power pure – no stain of chaos – that was, Brohl Handar now understood, a blessing. Kurald Emurlahn. Darkness reborn. He would not question it, would not doubt it. Blessing.

  The stub of an arrow jutted from the outrider’s throat. His weapons had been taken, as had the vest of fine chain beneath the light tanned leather shirt. There was no sign of the Letherii’s horse. The buzz of the flies seemed preternaturally loud.

  Brohl Handar wheeled his mount round and guided it back up onto the ridge. He spoke to the Sollanta scout. ‘Tracks?’

  ‘Just his horse, Overseer,’ the warrior replied. ‘The ambusher was, I believe, on foot.’

  Brohl nodded. This had been the pattern. The Awl were collecting horses, weapons and armour. The Atri-Preda had since commanded that no outrider scout alone. To this Redmask would no doubt add more ambushers.

  ‘The Awl rode southeast, Overseer.’

  Days ago, alas. There was no point in pursuing.

  Eyes narrowed against the harsh sunlight, Brohl Handar scanned the plain on all sides. How could a warrior hide in this empty land? The drainage gullies had seemed an obvious answer, and as soon as one was spotted a troop would dismount, advance on foot, and plunge into it seeking to flush out the enemy. All they had found were bedded deer and coyote dens.

  Areas of high grasses were virtually attacked, both mounted and on foot. Again, nothing but the occasional deer bolting almost from the feet of some startled, cursing soldier; or ptarmigan or thrushes exploding skyward in a flurry of feathers and drumming wings.

  The mages insisted that sorcery was not at work here; indeed, much of the Awl’dan seemed strangely bereft of whatever was necessary to shape magic. The valley known as Bast Fulmar had been, it was becoming clear, in no way unique. Brohl Handar had begun with the belief that the plains were but southern versions of tundra. In some ways this was true; in others it was anything but. Horizons deceived, distances lied. Valleys hid from the eye until one was upon them. Yet, so much like the tundra, a terrible place to fight a war.

  Redmask and his army had disappeared. Oh, there were trails aplenty; huge swaths of trodden ground wending this way and that. But some were from bhederin herds; others were old and still others seemed to indicate travel in opposite directions, overlapping back and forth until all sense was lost. And so, day after day, the Letherii forces set out, their supplies dwindling, losing outriders to ambushes, marching this way and that, as if doomed to pursue a mythic battle that would never come.

  Brohl Handar had assembled thirty of his best riders, and each day he led them out from the column, pushing far onto the flanks – dangerously far – in hopes of sighting the Awl.

  He now squinted at the Sollanta scout. ‘Where have they gone?’

  The warrior grimaced. ‘I have given this some thought, Overseer. Indeed, it is all I have thought about this past week. The enemy, I believe, is all around us. After Bast Fulmar, Redmask split the tribes. Each segment employed wagons to make them indistinguishable – as we have seen from the countless trails, those wagons are drawn from side to side to side, eight or ten across, and they move last, thus obliterating signs of all that precedes them on t
he trail. Could be a hundred warriors ahead, could be five thousand.’

  ‘If so,’ Brohl objected, ‘we should have caught up with at least one such train.’

  ‘We do not move fast enough, Overseer. Recall, we remained encamped on the south side of Bast Fulmar for two entire days. That gave them a crucial head start. Their columns, wagons and all, move faster than ours. It is as simple as that.’

  ‘And the Atri-Preda refuses to send out reconnaissance in force,’ Brohl said, nodding.

  ‘A wise decision,’ the scout said.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Redmask would turn on such a force. He would overwhelm it and slaughter every soldier in it. Either way, Overseer, we are playing his game.’

  ‘That is…unacceptable.’

  ‘I imagine the Atri-Preda agrees with you, sir.’

  ‘What can be done?’

  The warrior’s brows lifted. ‘I do not command this army, Overseer.’

  Nor do I. ‘If you did?’

  Sudden unease in the scout’s face and he glanced over at the other outrider with them on the ridge, but that man seemed intent on something else, far off on the horizon, as he tore loose bits of dried meat from the thin strip in his left hand, and slowly chewed.

  ‘Never mind,’ Brohl said, sighing. ‘An unfair question.’

  ‘Yet I would answer still, Overseer, if you like.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Retreat, sir. Back to Drene. Resume claiming land, and protect it well. Redmask, then, will have to come to us, if he would contest the theft of Awl land.’

  I agree. But she will not have it. ‘Sound the recall,’ he said. ‘We’re returning to the column.’

  The sun had crawled past noon by the time the Tiste Edur troop came within sight of the Letherii column, and it was immediately evident that something had happened. Supply wagons were drawn into a hollow square formation, the oxen and mules already unhitched and led into two separate kraals within that defensive array. Elements of the various brigades and regiments were drawing into order both north and south of the square, with mounted troops well out east and west.