The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘I do not challenge you, Onos Toolan,’ said Bakal, licking dry lips.

  Tool flinched.

  In the silence following that, not one of the other warriors spoke.

  Damn you, Bakal. I was almost . . . free.

  Bakal spoke again, ‘Warleader, I suggest we examine the dead at the end of the valley, to determine what manner of weapon cut them down.’

  ‘I will lead the Barghast from this plain,’ Tool said.

  ‘Clans will break away, Warleader.’

  ‘They already are doing so.’

  ‘You will have only the Senan.’

  ‘I will?’

  Bakal shrugged. ‘There is no value in you killing a thousand Senan warriors. There is no value in challenging you—I have never seen a blade sing so fast. We shall be furious with you, but we shall follow.’

  ‘Even if I am a leader with no favours to grant, Bakal, no loyalty I would purchase from any of you?’

  ‘Perhaps that has been true, Onos Toolan. In that, you have been . . . fair. But it need not remain so . . . empty. Please, you must tell us what you know of this enemy—who slays with rocks and dirt. We are not fools who will blindly oppose what we cannot hope to defeat—’

  ‘What of the prophecies, Bakal?’ Tool then smiled wryly at the warrior’s scowl.

  ‘Ever open to interpretation, Warleader. Will you speak to us now?’

  Tool gestured at the valley below. ‘Is this not eloquent enough?’

  ‘Buy our loyalty with the truth, Onos Toolan. Gift us all with an even measure.’ Yes, this is how one leads. Anything else is suspect. Every other road proves a maze of deceit and cynicism. After a moment, he nodded. ‘Let us look upon the fallen Snakehunters.’

  The sun was low on the horizon when the two scouts were brought into Maral Eb’s presence where he sat beside a dung fire over which skewers of horse meat sizzled. The scouts were both young and he did not know their names, but the excitement he observed in their faces awakened his attention. He pointed to one. ‘You shall speak, and quickly now—I am about to eat.’

  ‘A Senan war-party,’ the scout said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We were the ones backtracking the Snakehunters’ trail, Warchief. They are camped in a hollow not a league from here.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘A hundred, no more than that. But, Warchief, there is something else—’

  ‘Out with it!’

  ‘Onos Toolan is with them.’

  Maral Eb straightened. ‘Are you certain? Escorted by a mere hundred? The fool!’

  His two younger brothers came running at his words and Maral Eb grinned at them. ‘Stir the warriors—we eat on the march.’

  ‘Are you sure of this, Maral?’ his youngest brother asked.

  ‘We strike,’ the warchief snarled. ‘In darkness. We kill them all. But be certain every warrior understands—no one is to slay Tool. Wound him, yes, but not unto death—if anyone gets careless I will have him or her skinned alive and roasted over a fire. Now, quickly—the gods smile down upon us!’

  The Barahn warchief led his four thousand warriors across the rolling plains at a ground-devouring trot. One of the two scouts padded twenty paces directly ahead, keeping them to the trail, whilst others ranged further out on the flanks. The moon had yet to rise, and even when it did, it would be weak, shrouded in perpetual haze—these nights, the brightest illumination came from the jade streaks to the south, and that was barely enough to cast shadows.

  The perfect setting for an ambush. None of the other tribes would ever know the truth—after all, with Tool and a hundred no doubt elite warriors dead the Senan would be crippled, and the Barahn Clan would achieve swift ascendancy once Maral Eb attained the status of Warleader over all the White Face Barghast. And was it not in every Barahn warrior’s interest to hide the truth? The situation was ideal.

  Weapons and armour were bound, muffled against inadvertent noise, and the army moved in near silence. Before long, the lead scout hurried back to the main column. Maral Eb gestured and his warriors halted behind him.

  ‘The hollow is two hundred paces ahead, Warchief. Fires are lit. There will be pickets—’

  ‘Don’t tell me my business,’ Maral Eb growled. He drew his brothers closer. ‘Sagal, take your Skullsplitters north. Kashat, you lead your thousand south. Stay a hundred paces back from the pickets, low to the ground, and form into a six-deep crescent. There is no way we can kill those sentinels silently, so the surprise will not be absolute, but we have overwhelming numbers, so that will not matter. I will lead my two thousand straight in. When you hear my war-cry, brothers, rise and close. No one must escape, so leave a half hundred spread wide in your wake. It may be we will drive them west for a time, so be sure to be ready to wheel your crescents to close that route.’ He paused. ‘Listen well to this. Tonight, we break the most sacred law of the White Faces—but necessity forces our hand. Onos Toolan has betrayed the Barghast. He dishonours us. I hereby pledge to reunite the clans, to lead us to glory.’

  The faces arrayed before him were sober, but he could see the gleam in their eyes. They were with him. ‘This night shall stain our souls black, my brothers, but we will spend the rest of our lives cleansing them. Now, go!’

  Onos Toolan sat beside the dying fire. The camp was quiet, as his words of truth now sank into hearts like the flames, flaring and winking out.

  The stretch of ages could humble the greatest of peoples, once all the self-delusions were stripped away. Pride had its place, but not at the expense of sober truth. Even back on Genabackis, the White Faces had strutted about as if unaware that their culture was drawing to an end; that they had been pushed into inhospitable lands; that farms and then cities rose upon ground they once held to be sacred, or rightly theirs as hunting grounds or pasture lands. All around them, the future showed faces ghastlier and more deadly than anything white paint could achieve—when Humbrall Taur had led them here, to this continent, he had done so in fullest comprehension of the extinction awaiting his Barghast should they remain on Genabackis, besieged by progress.

  Prophecies never touched on such matters. By nature, they were proclamations of egotism, rife with pride and bold fates. Humbrall Taur had, however, managed a clever twist or two in making use of them.

  Too bad he is gone—I would rather have stood at his side than in his place. I would rather—

  Tool’s breath caught and he lifted his head. He reached out and settled one hand down on the packed earth, and then slowly closed his eyes. Ah, Hetan . . . my children . . . forgive me.

  The Imass rose, turned to the nearest other fire. ‘Bakal.’

  The warrior looked over. ‘Warleader?’

  ‘Draw your dagger, Bakal, and come to me.’

  The warrior did not move for a moment, and then he rose, sliding the gutting knife from its scabbard. He walked over, cautious, uncertain.

  My warriors . . . enough blood has been shed. ‘Drive the knife deep, directly under my heart. When I fall, begin shouting these words—as loud as you can. Shout “Tool is dead! Onos Toolan lies slain! Our Warleader lies dead!” Do you understand me, Bakal?’

  The warrior, eyes wide, slowly backed away. Others had caught the words and were now rising, converging.

  Tool closed on Bakal once again. ‘Be quick, Bakal—if you value your life and the lives of every one of your kin here. You must slay me—now!’

  ‘Warleader! I will not—’

  Tool’s hands snapped out, closed on Bakal’s right hand and wrist.

  The warrior gasped, struggled to tug free, but against Tool’s strength, he was helpless. The Imass pulled him close. ‘Remember—shout out my death, it is your only hope—’

  Bakal sought to loosen his grip on his knife, but Tool’s huge, spatulate hand wrapped his own as would an adult’s a child’s. The other, closed round his wrist, dragged him inexorably forward.

  The blade’s tip touched Tool’s leather armour.

  Whimpering, Baka
l sought to throw himself backward—but the imprisoned arm did not move. He tried to drop to his knees, and his elbow dislocated with a pop. He howled in pain.

  The other warriors—who had stood frozen—suddenly rushed in.

  But Tool gave them no time. He drove the dagger into his chest.

  Sudden, blinding pain. Releasing Bakal’s wrist, he staggered back, stared down at the knife buried to its hilt in his chest.

  Hetan, my love, forgive me.

  There was shouting all round him now—horror, terrible confusion, and then, on his knees, Bakal lifted his head and met Tool’s gaze.

  The Imass had lost his voice, but he sought to implore the man with his eyes. Shout out my death! Spirits take me—shout it out loud! He stumbled, lost his footing, and fell heavily on to his back.

  Death—he had forgotten its bitter kiss. So long . . . so long.

  But I knew a gift. I tasted the air in my lungs . . . after so long . . . after ages of dust. The sweet air of love . . . but now . . .

  Night-stained faces crowded above him, paint white as bone.

  Skulls? Ah, my brothers . . . we are dust—

  Dust, and nothing but—

  He could hear shouting, alarms rising from the Senan encampment. Cursing, Maral Eb straightened, saw the sentinels clearly now—all running back into the camp.

  ‘Damn the gods! We must charge—’

  ‘Listen!’ cried the scout. ‘Warchief—listen to the words!’

  ‘What?’

  And then he did. His eyes slowly widened. Could it be true? Have the Senan taken matters into their own hands?

  Of course they have! They are Barghast! White Faces! He raised his sword high in the air. ‘Barahn!’ he roared. ‘Hear the words of your warchief! Sheathe your weapons! The betrayer is slain! Onos Toolan is slain! Let us go down to meet our brothers!’

  Voices howled in answer.

  They will have someone to set forward—they will not relinquish dominance so easily—I might well draw blood this night after all. But none will stand long before me. I am Maral Eb, slayer of hundreds.

  The way lies open.

  It lies open.

  The Barahn warchief led his warriors down into the hollow.

  To claim his prize.

  Hetan woke in the night. She stared upward, eyes wide but unseeing, until they filled with tears. The air in the yurt was stale, darkness heavy and suffocating as a shroud. My husband, I dreamed the flight of your soul . . . I dreamed its brush upon my lips. A moment, only a moment, and then it was as if a vast wind swept you away.

  I heard your cry, husband.

  Oh, such a cruel dream, beloved.

  And now . . . I smell dust in the air. Rotted furs. The dry taste of ancient death.

  Her heart pounded like a mourner’s drum in her chest, loud, heavy, the beat stretching with each deep breath she took. That taste, that smell. She reached up to touch her own lips. And felt something like grit upon them.

  O beloved, what has happened?

  What has happened—

  To my husband—to the father of my children—what has happened?

  She let out a ragged sigh, forcing out the unseemly fear. Such a cruel dream.

  From the outer room, the dog whined softly, and a moment later their son suddenly sobbed, and then bawled.

  And she knew the truth. Such a cruel truth.

  Ralata crouched in the high grasses and studied the figures gathered round the distant fire. None had stirred in the time she had been watching. But the horses were tugging at their stakes and even from here she could smell their terror—and she did not understand, for she could see nothing—no threat in any direction.

  Even so, it was strange that none of her sisters had awakened. In fact, they did not move at all.

  Her confusion was replaced by unease. Something was wrong.

  She glanced back at the hollow where waited her horse. The animal seemed calm enough. Collecting her weapons, Ralata rose and padded forward.

  Hessanrala might be a headstrong young fool, but she knew her trade as well as any Ahkrata warrior—she should be on her feet by now, drawing the others in with silent hand gestures—was it just a snake slithering among the horses’ hoofs? A scent on the wind?

  No, something was very wrong.

  As she drew within ten paces, she could smell bile, spilled wastes, and blood. Mouth dry, Ralata crept closer. They were dead. She knew that now. She had failed to protect them—but how? What manner of slayer could creep up on five Barghast warriors? As soon as night had fallen, she had drawn near enough to watch them preparing camp. She had watched them rub down the horses; had watched them eat and drink beer from Hessanrala’s skin. They had set no watch among themselves, clearly relying upon the horses should danger draw near. But Ralata had remained wakeful, had even seen when the horses first wakened to alarm.

  Beneath the stench of death there was something else, an oily bitterness reminding her of serpents. She studied the movements of the Akryn mounts—no, they were not shying from any snake in the grasses. Heads tossed, ears cocking in one direction after another, eyes rolling.

  Ralata edged towards the firelight. Once lit, dried dung burned hot but not bright, quick to sink into bricks of pulsating ashes; in the low, lurid reflection, she could see fresh blood, glistening meat from split corpses.

  No quick knife thrusts here. No, these were the wounds delivered by the talons of a huge beast. Bear? Barbed cat? If so, why not drag at least one body away . . . to feed upon? Why ignore the horses? And how was it that Ralata had seen nothing; that not one of her kin had managed to utter a death-cry?

  Gutted, throat-slit, chests ripped open—she saw the stubs of ribs cut clean through. Talons sharp as swords—or swords in truth? All at once she recalled, years ago, on the distant continent they had once called home, visions of giant undead, two-legged lizards. K’Chain Che’Malle, arrayed in silent ranks in front of the city called Coral. Swords at the end of their wrists instead of hands—but no, the wounds she looked upon here were different. What then had triggered that memory?

  Ralata slowly inhaled once more, deeply, steadily, running the acrid flavours through her. Yes, the smell. Although, long ago, it was more . . . stale, rank with death.

  But the kiss upon the tongue—it is the same.

  The horses ducked and fanned out, heads snapping back as they reached the ends of their tethers. A faint downdraught of wind—the whish of wings—

  Ralata threw herself flat, rolled, making for the legs of the horses—anything to put between her and whatever hovered above.

  Thuds in the air, leathery hissing—she stared up into the night, caught a vast winged silhouette that devoured a sweep of stars. A flash, and then it was gone.

  Hoofs kicked at her, and then settled.

  She heard laughter in her head—not her own, something cold, contemptuous, fading now into some inner distance, until even the echoes were gone.

  Ralata rose to her feet. The thing had flown northeastward. Of course, there could be no tracking such a creature, but at least she had a direction.

  She had failed to protect her kin. Perhaps, however, she could avenge them.

  The Wastelands were well named, but Torrent had always known that. He had last found water two days past, and the skins strapped to his saddle would suffice him no more than another day. Travelling at night was the only option, now that the full heat of summer had arrived, but his horse was growing gaunt, and all that he could see before them beneath dull moonlight was a vast, flat stretch of sunbaked clay and shards of broken stone.

  The first night following the gate and his parting ways with Cafal and Setoc, he had come upon a ruined tower, ragged as a rotten fang, the walls of which seemed to have melted under enormous heat. The destruction was so thorough not a single window or dressed facing survived, and much of the structure’s skeleton was visible as sagging latticework snarled with twisted ropes of rusting metal wire. He had never before seen anything remotely lik
e it, and superstitious fear kept him from riding closer.

  Since then, Torrent had seen nothing of interest, nothing to break the monotony of the blasted landscape. No mounds, no hills, not even ancient remnants of myrid, rodara and goat pens, as one often found on the Awl’dan.

  It was nearing dawn when he made out a humped shape ahead, directly in his path, barely rising above the cracked rock. The ripple of furs—a torn, frayed hide riding hunched, narrow shoulders. Thin, grey hair seeming to float up from the head in the faint, sighing wind. A girdled skirt of rotted strips of snakeskin flared out from the seated form. He drew closer. The figure’s back was to Torrent, and beyond the wind-tugged hair and accoutrements, it remained motionless as he walked his horse up and halted five paces behind it.

  A corpse? From the weathered pate beneath the sparse hair, it was likely. But who would have simply left one of their own out on this lifeless pan?

  When the figure spoke, Torrent’s horse started back, nostrils flaring. ‘The fool. I needed him.’

  The voice was rough as sand, hollow as a wind-sculpted cave. He could not tell if it belonged to a man or a woman.

  It uttered something between a sigh and a hissing snarl, and then asked, ‘What am I to do now?’

  The Awl warrior hesitated, and then said, ‘You speak the language of my people. Are you Awl? No, you cannot be. I am the last—and what you wear—’

  ‘You have no answer, then. I am used to disappointment. Indeed, surprise is an emotion I have not known for so long, I believe I have forgotten its taste. Be on your way then—this world and its needs are too vast for one such as you. He would have fared better, of course, but now he’s dead. I am so . . . irritated.’

  Torrent dismounted, collecting one of his waterskins. ‘You must be thirsty, old one.’