The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Barathol dragged his legs loose, leaving trails of blood and pieces of meat. He rolled, grasping hold of the axe handle, and then heaved himself to his feet.

  Pallid’s huge head turned.

  Baran broke clear into the alley.

  The white Hound looked over, and, with another snarl, the beast pivoted round and fled.

  A moment later Baran flashed past.

  Barathol sagged back on wobbly legs. Drawing in one cold breath after another, he turned his gaze once more upon the motionless body opposite. With a sob, he dragged himself to his feet and stumbled over.

  In the strange, mysterious places within the brain, places that knew of themselves as Chaur, a black flood was seeping in, and one by one those places began to drown. Fitful sparks ebbed, and once gone did not light again. His state of unconsciousness slipped into something deeper, a kind of protective oblivion that mercifully hid from Chaur the fact that he was dying.

  His expression was serene, save for the slow sag along one side of his face, and when Barathol rolled back his eyelids, the pupil of one eye was vastly dilated.

  Weeping, the blacksmith pulled Chaur’s head and upper body on to his thighs. The rest of the world, the explosions, the screams, the thunder of battle, all fell away, and it was some time before Barathol realized that someone was clambering out of the rubble that was the gaol. A staccato cascade of curses in Falari, Malazan, Dobri and Daru. Blinking, the blacksmith lifted his gaze.

  ‘Antsy – here, please, I need your help! Please. He’s hurt.’

  The ex-Bridgeburner was covered in dust but otherwise unscathed. ‘I lost my damned sword. I lost my damned crossbow. I lost my damned sharpers. I lost my—’

  ‘Antsy! Hood’s breath, please help me – we need to find a healer. High Denul – there must be one in the city. There must be!’

  ‘Well, there’s Mallet, but he’s – shit, he’s dead. I forgot. Can’t believe I forgot.’ Antsy crouched down and studied Chaur for a moment, and then he shook his head. ‘He’s done for, Barathol. Cracked skull, bleeding into his brain – you can always tell, when one side of the face goes—’

  ‘I know all that, damn you. We need a healer! Think, Antsy – there must be someone.’

  ‘Maybe, but not close – we got to cross half the city, Barathol, and with them Hounds—’

  ‘Never mind the Hounds.’ The blacksmith gathered Chaur up into his arms and straightened.

  Antsy stared. ‘You can’t carry him—’

  ‘Then help me!’

  ‘I’m trying! Let me think.’

  At that moment they both heard the clumping of hoofs, the clack of wooden wheels on cobbles. And they turned to the alley mouth.

  Behold, the ox. Too weary to run. Even the cart in its wake clumped in exhaustion. Stolid legs trembled. Mucus slathered down in a gleaming sheet that dragged dusty tendrils between the beast’s front hoofs. The painful clarity of panic was fading, dulling its eyes once more, and when the two man-things arrived and set down a third body on the bed of the cart, why, this was old business as far as the ox was concerned. At last, the world had recovered its sanity. There were tasks to be done, journeys to complete. Salvation sweeter than mam’s milk.

  Tired but content, the beast fell in step beside the man-things.

  The two cousins stood on the rooftop, looking out over the city. Conflagrations lit the night sky. A section of the Gadrobi District was aflame, with geysers of burning gas spouting high into the air. A short time earlier a strange atmospheric pressure had descended, driving down the fires – nothing was actually spreading, as far as could be determined, and the detonations had grown more infrequent. Even so, there was no one fighting the flames, which was, all things considered, hardly surprising.

  In the courtyard below, Studious Lock was fussing about over the fallen compound guards, both of whom had been dragged out on to pallets. Miraculously, both still lived, although, having survived the assassins, there remained the grave chance that they would not survive Studlock’s ministrations. Scorch and Leff had set themselves the task of patrolling outside the estate, street by alley by street by alley, round and round, crossbows at the ready and in states of high excitement.

  ‘These Hounds,’ said Rallick, ‘are most unwelcome.’

  ‘It seems walls don’t stop them either. Any idea why they’re here?’

  When Rallick did not reply, Torvald glanced over and saw that his cousin was staring up at the shattered moon.

  Torvald did not follow his gaze. That mess unnerved him. Would those spinning chunks now begin raining down? Rallick had noted earlier that most of the fragments seemed to be heading the other way, growing ever smaller. There was another moon that arced a slower path that seemed to suggest it was farther away, and while it appeared tiny its size was in fact unknown. For all anyone knew, it might be another world as big as this one, and maybe now it was doomed to a rain of death. Anyway, Torvald didn’t much like thinking about it.

  ‘Rallick—’

  ‘Never mind, Tor. I want you to stay here, within the walls. I doubt there will be any trouble – the Mistress has reawakened her wards.’

  ‘Tiserra—’

  ‘Is a clever woman, and a witch besides. She’ll be fine, and mostly will be worrying about you. Stay here, cousin, until the dawn.’

  ‘What about you?’

  Rallick turned about then, and a moment later Torvald sensed that someone else had joined them, and he too swung round.

  Vorcan stood, wrapped in a thick grey cloak. ‘The High Alchemist,’ she said to Rallick, ‘suggested we be close by…in case we are needed. The time, I believe, has come.’

  Rallick nodded. ‘Rooftops and wires, Mistress?’

  She smiled. ‘You make me nostalgic. Please, take the lead.’

  And yes, Torvald comprehended all the subtle layers beneath those gentle words, and he was pleased. Leave it to my cousin to find for himself the most dangerous woman alive. Well, then again, maybe I found myself the second most, especially if I forget to buy bread on my way home.

  Edging round the corner of the wall, an alley behind them, a street before them, Scorch and Leff paused. No point in being careless now, even though there’d be no attack from any assassins any time soon, unless of course they did breed fast as botflies, and Scorch wasn’t sure if Leff had been joking with that, not sure at all.

  The street was empty. No refugees, no guards, no murderous killers all bundled in black.

  Most important of all: no Hounds.

  ‘Damn,’ hissed Leff, ‘where are them beasts? What, you smell badder and worster than anyone else, Scorch? Is that the problem here? Shit, I want me a necklace of fangs. And maybe a paw to hang at my belt.’

  ‘A paw? More like a giant club making you walk tilted over. Now, that’d be funny to see, all right. Worth getting a knock or two taking one of ’em down, just to see that. A Hound’s paw, hah hah.’

  ‘You said you wanted a skull!’

  ‘Wasn’t planning to wear it, though. To make me a boat, just flip it upside down, right? I could paddle round the lake.’

  ‘Skulls don’t float. Well, maybe yours would, being cork.’

  They set out on to the street.

  ‘I’d call it Seahound, what do you think?’

  ‘More like Sinkhound.’

  ‘You don’t know anything you think you know, Leff. That’s your problem. Always has been, always will be.’

  ‘Wish there’d been twenty more of them assassins.’

  ‘There were, just not attacking us. We was the diversion, that’s what Tor said.’

  ‘We diverted ’em, all right.’

  At that moment a Hound of Shadow slunk into view, not twenty paces away. Its sides were heaving, strips of flesh hanging down trailing threads of blood. Its mouth was crusted with red foam. It swung its head and eyed them.

  In unison, Scorch and Leff lifted their crossbows into vertical positions, and spat on the barbed heads. Then they slowly settled the weapo
ns back down, trained on the Hound.

  Nostrils flaring, the beast flinched back. A moment later and it was gone.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘I knew you smelled bad, damn you! We almost had it!’

  ‘Wasn’t me!’

  ‘It’s no fun wandering around with you, Scorch, no fun at all. Every chance we get, you go and mess it all up.’

  ‘Not on purpose. I like doing fun stuff as much as you do, I swear it!’

  ‘Next time,’ muttered Leff. ‘We shoot first and argue later.’

  ‘Good idea. Next time. We’ll do it right the next time.’

  Beneath a moon that haunted him with terrifying memories, Cutter rode Coll’s horse at a slow trot down the centre of the street. In one hand he gripped the lance, but it felt awkward, too heavy. Not a weapon he’d ever used, and yet something made him reluctant to abandon it.

  He could hear the Hounds of Shadow, unleashed like demons in his poor city, and this too stirred images from the past, but these were bittersweet. For she was in them, a presence dark, impossibly soft. He saw once more every one of her smiles, rare as they had been, and they stung like drops of acid on his soul.

  He had been so lost, from the very morning he awoke in the monastery to find her gone. Oh, he’d delivered his brave face, standing there beside a god and unwilling to see the sympathy in Cotillion’s dark eyes. He had told himself that it was an act of courage to let her go, to give her the final decision. Courage and sacrifice.

  He no longer believed that. There was no sacrifice made in being abandoned. There was no courage in doing nothing. Regardless of actual age, he had been so much younger than her. Young in that careless, senseless way. When thinking felt hard, unpleasant, until one learned to simply shy away from the effort, even as blind emotions raged, one conviction after another raised high on the shining shield of truth. Or what passed for truth; and he knew now that whatever it had been, truth it was not. Blustery, belligerent stands, all those pious poses – they seemed so childish now, so pathetic. I could have embraced the purest truth. Still, nobody would listen. The older you get, the thicker your walls. No wonder the young have grown so cynical. No wonder at all.

  Oh, she stood there still, a dark figure in his memories, the flash of eyes, the beginnings of a smile even as she turned away. And he could forget nothing.

  At this moment, Challice, having ascended to the top of the estate tower – that ghoulish Gadrobi embarrassment – now stepped out on to the roof, momentarily buffeted by a gust of smoke. She held in her hands the glass globe in which shone the prisoner moon, and she paused, lifting her gaze, and stared in wonder at the destruction now filling a third of the sky.

  But she had left him with bad habits. Terrible ones, and they had proceeded to shape his entire life. Cutter remembered the expression on Rallick’s face – the shock and the dismay – as he looked down at the knife buried in his shoulder. The recognition – yes, Cutter was Apsalar’s creation, through and through. Yes, another man had been lost.

  It seemed wryly fitting that the moon was breaking into pieces in the night sky, but to find amusement in such a poignant symbol was proving a struggle. He did not possess Rallick’s hardness, the layers of scar tissue worn like armour. And, for all that she had given him, Cutter was not her perfect reflection. He could not silence the anguish he felt inside, the legacy of delivering murder, making the notion of justice as unpalatable as a prisoner’s gruel. And these were things she did not feel.

  He rode on.

  The Hounds knew him, he was sure of that, and if that meant anything on this night, then he had no reason to fear them.

  The occasional refugee darted across his path. Like ousted rats, the desperate hunt for cover filled their minds, and the faces flashing past seemed empty of anything human. Survival was a fever, and it left eyes blank as those of a beached fish. Witnessing this, Cutter felt his heart breaking.

  This is my city. Darujhistan. Of the Blue Fires. It does not deserve this.

  No, he did not fear the Hounds of Shadow. But he now despised them. The devastation they were delivering was senseless, a pointless unleashing of destruction. He did not think Cotillion had anything at all to do with that. This stank of Shadowthrone, the fickleness, the cruel indifference. He had freed his beasts to play. In blood and snapped bones. In flames and collapsed tenements. All this fear, all this misery. For nothing.

  Awkward or not, the lance felt reassuring in his hand. Now, if only Shadowthrone would show himself, why, he’d find a place to plant the damned thing.

  There, within its tiny, perfect world, the moon shone pure, unsullied. There had been a time, she realized, when she too had been like that. Free of stains, not yet bowed to sordid compromise, feeling no need to shed this tattered skin, these glazed eyes.

  Women and men were no different in the important things. They arrived with talents, with predispositions, with faces and bodies either attractive to others or not. And they all made do, in all the flavours of living, with whatever they possessed. And there were choices, for each and every one of them. For some, a few of those choices were easier than others, when the lure of being desirable was not a conceit, when it reached out an inviting hand and all at once it seemed to offer the simplest path. So little effort was involved, merely a smile and thighs that did not resist parting.

  But there was no going back. These stains didn’t wash off. The moon shone pure and beautiful, but it remained for ever trapped.

  She stared up into the sky, watched how fragments spun out from a fast-darkening core. The momentum seemed to have slowed, and indeed, she thought she could see pieces falling back, inward, whilst dust flattened out, as if transformed into a spear that pierced all that was left of the moon.

  The dust dreams of the world it had once been.

  But the dust, alas, does not command the wind.

  Cutter knew now that he had – since her – taken into his arms two women as if they were capable of punishing him, each in turn. Only one had succeeded, and he rode towards her now, to stand before her and tell her that he had murdered her husband. Not because she had asked him to, because, in truth, she did not have that sort of hold over him, and never would. No, Gorlas Vidikas was dead for other reasons, the specifics of which were not relevant.

  She was free, he would say. To do as she pleased. But whatever that would be, he would tell her, her future would not – could never – include him.

  ‘See, there he is, at her side. What gall! Kills her husband and now she hangs on his arm. Oh, made for each other, those two. And may Hood find them the deepest pit, and soon.’

  He could face that down, if need be. But he would not subject her to such a fate. Not even for love could he do that.

  He had returned to his city, only to lose it for ever.

  This journey to Challice would be his last. By dawn he would be gone. Darujhistan would not miss him.

  She looked down once more at the imprisoned moon cupped in her hands. And here, she realized, was her childhood in all its innocence. Frozen, timeless, and for ever beyond her reach. She need only let her gaze sink in, to find all that she had once been. Cursed with beauty, blessed with health and vigour, the glow of promise—

  Dust of dreams, will you now command the wind?

  Dust of dreams, is it not time to set you free?

  It was easy, then, to climb up on to the low wall, to stare down at the garden flagstones far below. Easy, yes, to set it all free.

  Together, they plummeted through the smoky air, and when they struck, the globe shattered, the tiny moon flung loose to sparkle briefly in the air. Before twinkling out.

  Dreams will not linger, but their dust rides the winds for ever.

  Kruppe is no stranger to sorrow. The round man need only look at his own waistline to grasp the tragedies of past excesses, and understand that all the things that come to pass will indeed come to pass. Heart so heavy he must load it into a wheelbarrow (or nearly so), and with not a single sly wink to offe
r, he leaves the grim confines of the Phoenix Inn and commences the torrid trek to the stables, where he attends to his sweet-natured mule, deftly avoiding its snapping bites and lashing kicks.

  The moon’s face has broken apart into a thousand glittering eyes. Nothing can hide and all is seen. All can see that there is nothing left to hide. Dread clash is imminent.

  The vast pressure snuffs blazing fires as would a thumb and finger a candle wick, snuff! Here and there and elsewhere, too. But this blessing is borne with harsh, cruel burden. A god has died, a pact been sealed, and in a street where onlookers now gather at the very edges, a most honourable man sits hunched over his knees, head bowed low. The wind takes ethereal chains emerging from the sword in his hands, and tugs them, tears at them, shreds them into ghostly nothings that drift up only to vanish in the smoke enwreathing the city.

  Will he rise again?

  Can he answer this final challenge?

  What sort of man is this? This white-maned Tiste Andii whose hands remain stained with a brother’s blood, a people’s vast loss?

  Ah, but look closely. The core burns still, hot and pure, and it gathers unto itself, bound by indomitable will. He will take the wounds of the heart, for Anomander Rake is the sort of man who sees no other choice, who accepts no other choice.

  Still. For now, grant him a few more moments of peace.

  The round man rides out into Darujhistan.

  There are temptations, and to some they can prove, ah, overwhelming. If need be, the round man can prove a most blunt barrier.

  Just ask the man with the hammer.

  As a warrior walked alone – in his wake a Toblakai and a witch, on the flanks three, now four Hounds of Shadow – an ox and cart drew to a halt outside an estate. The two men leading it separated, one heading to the back of the cart to set a trembling hand upon a chest – terrified that he might find it still, silent – and a moment later a faint sob broke free, but it was one of relief. The other man hurried up to the postern gate and tugged on a braided cord.