The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Maybe that’s your problem. You’ve forgotten things. Important things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Spindle grimaced, as if searching for the right words, and Monkrat saw in his mind a quick image of a three-legged dog chasing rabbits in a field. ‘Fine,’ Spindle finally said in a grating tone. ‘It had to have happened to you at least once. You and your squad, you come into some rotten foul village or hamlet. You come to buy food or maybe get your tack fixed, clothes mended, whatever. But you ain’t there to kill nobody. And so you get into a few conversations. In the tavern. The smithy. With the whores. And they start talking. About injustices. Bastard landholders, local bullies, shit-grinning small-time tyrants. The usual crap. The corruption and all that. You know what I’m talking about, Monkrat?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘We hunted the scum down and flayed their arses. Sometimes we even strung ’em up.’

  Spindle nodded. ‘You did justice, is what you did. It’s what a soldier can do, when there’s nobody else. We got swords, we got armour, we got all we need to terrorize anybody we damned well please. But Dassem taught us – he taught every soldier in the Malazan armies back then. Sure, we had swords, but who we used ’em on was up to us.’ The point of the shortsword fell away. ‘We was soldiers, Monkrat. We had the chance – the privilege – of doing the right thing.’

  ‘I deserted—’

  ‘And I was forced into retirement. Neither one changes what we were.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong.’

  ‘Then listen to this.’ The shortsword pressed against his throat again. ‘I can still deliver justice, and if need be I’ll do it right now and right here. By cutting a coward’s head off.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about cowardice!’ Monkrat snapped. ‘Soldiers don’t talk that ever! You just broke the first rule!’

  ‘Someone turns his back on being a soldier – on what it means in the soul – that’s cowardice. You don’t like the word, don’t live it.’

  Monkrat stared into the man’s eyes, and hated what he saw there. He sagged. ‘Best get on with it then, Spin. I got nothing left. I’m used up. What do you do when the soldier inside you dies before you do? Tell me.’

  ‘You go through the motions, Monkrat. You just follow me. Do as I do. We start there and worry about the rest later.’

  Monkrat realized that Spindle was still waiting. ‘Do what’s right,’ Dassem told us. Gods, even after all this time he still remembered the First Sword’s words. ‘That’s a higher law than the command of any officer. Higher even than the Emperor’s own words. You are in a damned uniform but that’s not a licence to deliver terror to everyone – just the enemy soldier you happen to be facing. Do what is right, for that armour you wear doesn’t just protect your flesh and bone. It defends honour. It defends integrity. It defends justice. Soldiers, heed me well. That armour defends humanity. And when I look upon my soldiers, when I see these uniforms, I see compassion and truth. The moment those virtues fail, then the gods help you, for no armour is strong enough to save you.’

  ‘All right, Spin. I’ll follow you.’

  A sharp nod. ‘Dassem, he’d be proud. And not surprised, no, not surprised at all.’

  ‘We have to watch out for Gradithan – he wants those virgins. He wants their blood, for when the Dying God arrives.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, Gredishit can chew on Hood’s arsehole. He ain’t getting ’em.’

  ‘A moment ago I was thinking, Spin…’

  ‘Thinking what?’

  ‘That you was a three-legged dog. But I was wrong. You’re a damned Hound of Shadow is what you are. Come on. I know where they all huddle to stay outa the rain.’

  Seerdomin adjusted the grip on his sword and then glanced back at the Redeemer. The god’s position was unchanged. Kneeling, half bent over, face hidden behind his hands. A position of abject submission. Defeat and despair. Hardly an inspiring standard to stand in front of, hardly a thing to fight for, and Seerdomin could feel the will draining from him as he faced once more the woman dancing in the basin.

  Convulsing clouds overhead, an endless rain of kelyk that turned everything black. The drops stung and then numbed his eyes. He had ceased to flinch from the crack of lightning, the stuttering crash of thunder.

  He had fought for something unworthy once, and had vowed never again. Yet here he was, standing between a god of unimaginable power and a god not worth believing in. One wanted to feed and the other looked ready to be devoured – why should he get in the way of the two?

  A wretched gasp from the Redeemer snapped him round. The rain painted Itkovian black, ran like dung-stained water down the face he had lifted skyward. ‘Dying,’ he murmured, so faint that Seerdomin had to step closer to catch the word. ‘But no end is desired. Dying, for all eternity. Who seeks this fate? For himself? Who yearns for such a thing? Can I…can I help him?’

  Seerdomin staggered back, as if struck by a blow to his chest. That – Beru fend – that is not a proper question! Not against this…this thing. Look to yourself, Redeemer! You cannot heal what does not want healing! You cannot mend what delights in being broken! ‘You cannot,’ he growled. ‘You cannot help it, Redeemer. You can only fall to it. Fall, vanish, be swallowed up.’

  ‘He wants me. She wants me. She gave him this want, do you see? Now they share.’

  Seerdomin turned to gaze upon the High Priestess. She was growing more arms, each bearing a weapon, each weapon whirling and spinning in a clashing web of edged iron. Kelyk sprayed from the blades, a whirling cloud of droplets. Her dance was carrying her closer.

  The attack was beginning.

  ‘Who,’ Seerdomin whispered, ‘will share this with me?’

  ‘Find her,’ said the Redeemer. ‘She remains, deep inside. Drowning, but alive. Find her.’

  ‘Salind? She is nothing to me!’

  ‘She is the fire in Spinnock Durav’s heart. She is his life. Fight not for me. Fight not for yourself. Fight, Seerdomin, for your friend.’

  A sob was wrenched from the warrior. His soul found a voice, and that voice wailed its anguish. Gasping, he lifted his sword and set his eyes upon the woman cavorting in her dance of carnage. Can I do this? Spinnock Durav, you fool, how could you have fallen so?

  Can I find her?

  I don’t know. I don’t think so.

  But his friend had found love. Absurd, ridiculous love. His friend, wherever he was, deserved a chance. For the only gift that meant a damned thing. The only one.

  Blinking black tears from his eyes, Seerdomin went down to meet her.

  Her howl of delight was a thing of horror.

  A soldier could discover, in one horrendous, crushing moment, that everything that lay at the heart of duty was a lie, a rotted, fetid mass, feeding like a cancer on all that the soldier was; and that every virtue was rooted in someone else’s poison.

  Look to the poor fool at your side. Know well there’s another poor fool at your back. This is how far the world shrinks down, when everything else melts in front of your eyes – too compromised to sustain clear vision, the brutal, uncluttered recognition of the lie.

  Torn loose from the Malazan Empire, from Onearm’s Host, the bedraggled clutch of survivors that was all that remained of the Bridgeburners had dragged their sorry backsides to Darujhistan. They found for themselves a cave where they could hide, surrounded by a handful of familiar faces, to remind them of what had pushed them each step of the way, from the past to the present. And hoping it would be enough to take them into the future, one hesitant, wayward step at a time.

  Slash knives into the midst of that meagre, vulnerable clutch, and it just falls apart.

  Mallet. Bluepearl.

  Like blindfolded goats dragged up to the altar stone.

  Not that goats needed blindfolds. It’s just no fun looking into a dying animal’s eyes.

  Picker fell through darkness. Maybe she was flesh and bone. Maybe she was nothing but a sou
l, torn loose and now plummeting with naught but the weight of its own regrets. But her arms scythed through bitter cold air, her legs kicked out to find purchase where none existed. And each breath was getting harder to snatch from that rushing blast.

  In the dream-world every law could be twisted round, bent, folded. And so, as she sensed the unseen ground fast approaching, she spun herself upright and slowed, sudden and yet smooth, and moments later she landed lightly on uneven bedrock. Snail shells crunched underfoot; she heard the faint snap of small rodent bones.

  Blinking, gasping one breath after another deep into her lungs, she simply stood for a time, knees slightly flexed, hands out to her sides.

  She could smell an animal stench, thick, as if she found herself in a den in some hillside.

  The darkness slowly faded. She saw rock walls on which scenes had been pecked, others painted in earthy hues. She saw the half-shells of gourds crowding the rough floor on both sides – she had landed upon a sort of path, reaching ahead and behind, perhaps three paces wide. Before her, six or seven paces away, it ended in a stone wall. Behind her, the trail blended into darkness. She looked once more at the objects cluttering the flanks. In each gourd there was thick, dark liquid. She knew instinctively that it was blood.

  The image etched into the wall in front, where the path ended, now snared her attention, and slowly its details began to resolve. A carriage or wagon, a swarm of vague shapes all reaching up for it on both sides, with others hinted at in its wake. A scene of frenzy and panic, the figure sitting on the bench holding reins that seemed to whip about – but no, her mind was playing tricks in this faint light, and that sound, as of wheels slamming and rocking and spinning over broken ground, was only her lunging heart, the rush of blood in her ears.

  But Picker stared, transfixed.

  A soldier with nothing left to believe in is a terrible thing to behold. When the blood on the hands is unjust blood, the soul withers.

  Death becomes a lover, and that love leads to but one place. Every time, but one place.

  Friends and family watch on, helpless. And in this tragic scene, the liars, the cynical bearers of poison, they are nowhere to be found.

  Endest Silann had once been a priest, a believer in forces beyond the mortal realm; a believer in the benign regard of ancestors, spirits, each one a moral lodestone that cut through the dissembling, the evasions of responsibility, the denials of culpability – a man of faith, yes, in the traditional sense of the word. But these things no longer found harbour in his soul. Ancestors dissolved into the ground, leaving nothing but crumbling flecks of bone in dark earth. Spirits offered no gifts and those still clinging to life were bitter and savage, too often betrayed, too often spat upon, to hold any love for anyone.

  He now believed that mortals were cursed. Some innate proclivity led them again and again on the same path. Mortals betrayed every gift granted them. They betrayed the giver. They betrayed their own promises. Their gods, their ancestors, their children – everywhere, betrayal.

  The great forests of Kharkanas had been cut down; the squalid dying islands of growth left behind had each one fallen to fire or blight. The rich soils washed down into the rivers. The flesh of the land was stripped back to reveal bedrock bones. And hunger stalked the children. Mothers wailed, fathers tried on hardened masks of resolve, but before any of this both had looked out upon the ravaged world with affronted disbelief – someone’s to blame, someone always is, but by the Abyss, do not look at me!

  But there was nowhere else to look. Mother Dark had turned away. She had left them to fates of their own devising, and in so doing, she had taken away their privilege of blaming someone else. Such was a godless world.

  One might think, then, that a people would rise to fullest height, stand proud, and accept the notion of potential culpability for each decision made or not made. Yes, that would be nice. That would be something to behold, to feed riotous optimism. But such a moment, such stature, never came. Enlightened ages belonged to the past or waited for the future. Such ages acquired the gloss of iconic myth, reduced to abstractions. The present world was real, filled with the grit of reality and compromise. People did not stand tall. They ducked.

  There was no one about with whom Endest Silann could discuss all this. No one who might – just might – understand the significance of what he was thinking.

  Rush headlong. Things are happening. Standing stones topple one against another and on and on. Tidal surges lift ever higher. Smoke and screams and violence and suffering. Victims piled in heaps like the plunder of cannibals. This is the meat of glee, the present made breathless, impatience burning like acid. Who has time to comprehend?

  Endest Silann stood atop the lesser tower of the keep. He held out one hand, knuckles to the earth, as black rain pooled in the cup of his palm.

  Was the truth as miserable as it seemed?

  Did it all demand that one figure, one solitary figure, rise to stand tall? To face that litany of destruction, the brutality of history, the lie of progress, the desecration of a home once sacred, precious beyond imagining? One figure? Alone?

  Is his own burden not enough? Why must he carry ours? Why have we done this to him? Why, because it’s easier that way, and we so cherish the easy paths, do we not? The least of effort defines our virtues. Trouble us not, for we dislike being troubled.

  The children are hungry. The forests are dead, the rivers poisoned. Calamity descends again and again. Diseases flower like mushrooms on corpses. And soon we will war over what’s left. As we did in Kharkanas.

  He will take this burden, but what does that mean? That we are freed to stay unchanging? Freed to continue doing nothing?

  The black water overflowed the cup, spilled down to become rain once more.

  Even the High Priestess did not understand. Not all of it, no. She saw this as a single, desperate gambit, a cast of the knuckles on which rode everything. But if it failed, well, there’d be another game. New players, the same old tired rules. The wealth wagered never lost its value, did it? The heap of golden coins will not crumble. It will only grow bigger yet.

  Then, if the players come and go, while the rules never change, does not that heap in fact command the game? Would you bow to this god of gold? This insensate illusion of value?

  Bow, then. Press forehead to the hard floor. But when it all goes wrong, show me no affronted disbelief.

  Yes, Anomander Rake would take that burden, and carry it into a new world. But he would offer no absolution. He would deliver but one gift – an undeserved one – and that was time.

  The most precious privilege of all. And what, pray tell, shall we do with it?

  Off to his left, surmounting a much higher tower, a dragon fixed slitted eyes upon a decrepit camp beyond the veil of Night. No rain could blind it, no excuse could brave its unwavering regard. Silanah watched. And waited.

  But the waiting was almost over.

  Rush then, to this feast. Rush, ye hungry ones, to the meat of glee.

  The wall had never been much to begin with. Dismantled in places, unfinished in others. It would never have withstood a siege for any length of time. Despite its execrable condition, the breach made by the Hounds of Shadow was obvious. An entire gate was gone, filled with the flame-licked wreckage of the blockhouses and a dozen nearby structures. Figures now clambered in its midst, hunting survivors, fighting the flames.

  Beyond it, vast sections of the city – where heaving clouds of smoke lifted skyward, lit bright by raging gas-fires – suddenly ebbed, as if Darujhistan’s very breath had been snatched away. Samar Dev staggered, fell to her knees. The pressure closing about her head felt moments from crushing the plates of her skull. She cried out even as Karsa crouched down beside her.

  Ahead, Traveller had swung away from the destroyed gate, seeking instead another portal to the east, through which terrified refugees now spilled out into the ramshackle neighbourhood of shanties, where new fires had erupted from knocked-down shacks and in the wak
e of fleeing squatters. How Traveller intended to push his way through that mob—

  ‘Witch, you must concentrate.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In your mind, raise a wall. On all sides. Make it strong, give it the power to withstand the one who has arrived.’

  She pulled away from his hand. ‘Who? Who has arrived? By the spirits, I can’t stand—’

  He slapped her, hard enough to knock her down. Stunned, she stared up at him.

  ‘Samar Dev, I do not know who, or what – it is not the Hounds. Not even Shadowthrone. Someone is there, and that someone blazes. I – I cannot imagine such a being—’

  ‘A god.’

  He shrugged. ‘Build your walls.’

  The pressure had eased and she wondered at that, and then realized that Karsa had moved round, placing himself between her and the city. She saw sweat running down the Toblakai’s face, streaming like rain. She saw the tightness in his eyes. ‘Karsa—’

  ‘If we are to follow, you and me both, then you must do this. Build walls, witch, and hurry.’

  His gaze lifted to something behind her and all at once she felt a breath of power at her back, gusting against her, sinking past clothes, past skin, through flesh and then deep into her bones. She gasped.

  The pressure was pushed back, left to rage against immense barriers now shielding her mind.

  She climbed to her feet.

  Side by side, they set out after Traveller.

  He was cutting across a ragged strip of fallow field, dust rising with each stride, making for the gate at a sharp angle.

  The surging mob of people blocking the portal seemed to melt back, and she wondered what those refugees had seen in Traveller’s face as he marched straight for them. Whatever it had been, clearly it was not something to be challenged.

  A strange, diffuse light now painted the city, the uneven wall, the domes, minarets and spires visible behind it. From a thousand throats erupted a moaning wail. Of shock, of dread. She saw faces lift, one by one. She saw eyes widen.

  Grunting, Karsa glanced back, and then halted. ‘Gods below!’