The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  The wind moaned in the wake of her words.

  None spoke. Even Errastas stood as one stunned.

  Bones clattering, Olar Ethil walked to the shattered boulder. ‘Kilmandaros,’ she said, ‘you are a cow. A miserable, brainless cow. The Imass made this sanctuary in an act of love, as a place where not one of us could reach in to poison their souls.’

  Kilmandaros clenched her fists, staring blankly at the old woman. ‘I don’t care,’ she said.

  ‘I can destroy the young gods,’ Errastas suddenly said. ‘Every one of them.’

  ‘And have you told Kilmandaros about your secret killer?’ Olar Ethil inquired. ‘Oh yes, I knew you were there. I understand what you’ve done. What you intend.’

  Sechul Lath frowned. He’d lost this trail. Too soon after Olar Ethil’s speech, from which he still reeled. Secret killer?

  ‘Tell her,’ Olar Ethil went on, ‘of the Eleint.’

  ‘When the slayer has been unleashed, when it has done what it must,’ Errastas smiled, ‘then Kilmandaros shall receive a gift.’

  ‘She slays the slayer.’

  ‘So that, when all is done, we alone are left standing. Olar Ethil, all those things you spoke of, they are irrelevant. The Jaghut are too few, living or undead, to pose any sort of threat. The dust of the T’lan Imass has crossed the ocean and even now closes upon the shores of Assail, and we all know what awaits them there. And Kharkanas is dead, as you say. What matter that one of Royal Andiian blood has returned to it? Mother Dark is turned away from her children. As for the Tiste Liosan, they are leaderless and do any of us here actually think Osserc will go back to them?’

  Sechul Lath hugged himself tighter. He would not look at Kilmandaros. Neither Olar Ethil nor Errastas had spoken of the Forkrul Assail. Were they ignorant? Was the knowledge that Sechul held within him—that Kilmandaros possessed, as well—truly a secret? Olar Ethil, we cannot trust you. Errastas should never have invited you here. You are worse than K’rul. More of a threat to us than Draconus, or Edgewalker. You are Eleint and you are T’lan Imass, and both were ever beyond our control.

  ‘The Master of the Deck,’ said Mael, ‘has an ally. One that even you, Olar Ethil, seem unaware of, and she is more of a wild knuckle than anything Sechul Lath was ever in the habit of casting.’ His cold eyes settled upon the Errant. ‘You would devour our children, but even that desire proves that you have lost touch, that you—we, all of us here—are nothing more than the spent forces of history. Errant, our children have grown up. Do you understand the significance of that?’

  ‘What stupidity are you—’

  ‘Old enough,’ cut in Sechul Lath, all at once comprehending, ‘to have children of their own.’ Abyss below!

  Errastas blinked, and then gathered himself, waving a hand in dismissal. ‘Easily crushed once we have dealt with their parents, don’t you think?’

  ‘Crushed. As we were?’

  Errastas glared at Mael.

  Sechul Lath barked a wry laugh. ‘I see your point, Mael. Our killing the gods could simply clear the way for their children.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ said Errastas. ‘I have sensed nothing of . . . grandchildren. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Hood summons the dead,’ Olar Ethil said, as if Mael’s words had launched her down a track only she could see. ‘The fourteen undead Jaghut—they did not belong to him. He has no control over them. They were summoned by an ascendant who had been mortal only a few years ago.’ She faced Mael. ‘I have seen the dead. They march, not as some mindless mob, but as would an army. It is as if the world on the lifeless side of Hood’s Gates has changed.’

  Mael nodded. ‘Prompting the question, what is Hood up to? He was once a Jaghut. Since when do Jaghut delegate? Olar Ethil, who was this recent ascendant?’

  ‘Twice brought into the world of worship. Once, by a tribal people, and named Iskar Jarak. A bringer of wisdom, a saviour. And the other time, as the commander of a company of soldiers—promised to ascension by a song woven by a Tanno Spiritwalker. Yes, the entire company ascended upon death.’

  ‘Soldiers?’ Errastas was frowning. ‘Ascended?’ Confused. Frightened by the notion.

  ‘And what name did he possess among these ascended soldiers?’ Mael asked.

  ‘Whiskeyjack. He was a Malazan.’

  ‘A Malazan.’ Mael nodded. ‘So too is the Master of the Deck. And so too is the Master’s unpredictable, unknowable ally—the Adjunct Tavore, who leads a Malazan army east, across the Wastelands. Leads them,’ he turned to Sechul Lath, ‘into Kolanse.’

  The bastard knows! He understands the game we’re playing! It was a struggle not to betray everything with a glance to Kilmandaros. Seeing the quiet knowledge in Mael’s eyes chilled him.

  Olar Ethil bestowed on them a third cackle, a gift no one welcomed.

  Errastas was no fool. Suspicion glittered from his eye as he studied Sechul Lath. ‘Well now,’ he said in a low tone, ‘all those nights tossing the bones for Kilmandaros here . . . I suppose you found plenty of things to talk about, killing time as it were. Some plans, perhaps, Setch? Foolish of me, I see now, to imagine you were content with simply wasting away, leaving it all behind. It seems,’ and the smile he gave was dangerous, ‘you played me. Using all of your most impressive talents.’

  ‘This meeting,’ drawled Mael, ‘was premature. Errant, consider yourself banished from Letheras. If I sense your return, I will hunt you down and drown you as easily as you did Feather Witch.’

  He walked to the spring, descended into the sinkhole and vanished from sight.

  Olar Ethil pointed a finger at Kilmandaros, waggled it warningly, and then set off, northward. A miserable collection of skin and bones. The three remaining Elder Gods watched her walk away. When the T’lan Imass was perhaps fifty paces distant, she veered into her draconic form, dust billowing, and then lifted skyward.

  A low growl came from Kilmandaros.

  Sechul Lath rubbed at his face. He sighed. ‘The power you seek to bleed dry, Errastas,’ he said, facing the Errant, ‘well, it turns out we were all working to similar ends.’

  ‘You anticipated me.’

  Sechul shrugged. ‘We had no expectation that you would just show up at the door.’

  ‘I do not appreciate being played, Setch. Do you see no value to my alliance?’

  ‘You have irrevocably altered the strategy. As Mael pointed out, though perhaps for different reasons, this meeting was premature. Now our enemies are awakened to us.’ He sighed again. ‘Had you stayed away, stayed quiet, why, Mother and I—we’d have stolen that power from beneath their very noses.’

  ‘To share solely between the two of you.’

  ‘To the victors the spoils.’ But none of this mad usurpation, this desire to return to what once was. ‘But, I dare say, had you come begging, we might well have proved magnanimous . . . for old times’ sake.’

  ‘I see.’

  Kilmandaros faced him. ‘Do you, Master of the Holds? You summoned us here, only to find that you are the weakest, the most ignorant among us. You forced us all—Sechul, Mael, Olar Ethil, to put you in your place. To make you realize that you alone have been wallowing in self-pity and wasting away doing nothing. Perhaps Mael thinks our time is done, but then, why has he ensured that his worship is on the ascent? That a Jhistal Priest of Mael now rises to take the throne of the most powerful empire this world has seen since the time of Kallor and Dessimbelackis? Who among us has proved the witless one this day?’

  With a snarl, Errastas swung away from them.

  Sechul turned to his mother. ‘Mael was warning us, I think. This Adjunct Tavore he spoke of. These infernal Malazans.’

  ‘And the children of the gods. Yes, many warnings, Sechul. From Olar Ethil as well. Jaghut, T’lan Imass, Tiste Andii—bah!’

  ‘All subtlety is lost,’ agreed Sechul Lath. ‘Errastas, return to us, we have much to discuss. Come now, I will tell you of the path we have already prepared. I will tell you just how close we are to
achieving all that we desire. And you, in turn, can tell us how you intend to release the Otataral Eleint. Such exchanges are the heart of an alliance, yes?’

  His poor friend had been humiliated. Well, there was value in lessons. So long as it’s someone else receiving them.

  Kilmandaros spoke: ‘Time has come to build anew the bridge, Errastas. Let us ensure that it is strong, immune to fire and all manner of threat. Tell me of how I will kill the Otataral Eleint—for that promise alone I will stand with you.’

  He returned to them, eventually, as they had known he would.

  ‘They never burned the bridge behind them before finishing the one in front of them. But there then came a day when the bridges ran out. Nowhere ahead. The road’s end.’ Cuttle reached out and a clay jug was pressed into his hand. He drank down another mouthful, and would not look at the young soldiers with whom he shared the brazier. The rush of water under the flat-bottomed hull was an incessant wet scrape, far too close beneath the sapper for his liking. Silly, he reflected, being a marine who hated water. Rivers, lakes, seas and rain, he despised them all.

  ‘Black Coral,’ someone said in a low, almost reverent tone.

  ‘Like the ten thousand veins in a hand,’ Cuttle said sourly, ‘stories spread out. Not a single Malazan army out there doesn’t know about them. The Chain of Dogs, the Fall. The Aren Way. Blackdog. Pale. And . . . Black Coral, where died the Bridgeburners.’

  ‘They didn’t all die,’ objected that same soldier.

  It was too dark to make out the speaker, and Cuttle didn’t recognize the voice. He shrugged. ‘High Mage Quick Ben. Dead Hedge—but he died there and that’s why we call him Dead Hedge, so that’s one who didn’t make it. Maybe a handful of others did. But the Bridgeburners were finished and that’s how the histories will tell it. Destroyed at Black Coral, at the close of the Pannion War. The few who crawl out of such things, well, they vanish like the last wisps of smoke.’ He drank down another mouthful. ‘It’s how things are.’

  ‘It’s said they were dropped into the city by the Black Moranth,’ another soldier said. ‘And they went and took the palace—went straight for the Pannion Domin himself. Was Whiskeyjack dead by then? Does anyone know? Why wasn’t he leading them? If he’d done that, maybe they wouldn’t have—’

  ‘Stupid, that kind of thinking.’ Cuttle shook his head. He could hear the faint sweeps from the other barges—the damned river was packed with them, with Letherii crews struggling day and night to avoid collisions and tangled lines. Bonehunters and Commander Brys’s escort—almost twenty thousand soldiers, support elements, pack animals—the whole lot, riding this river south. Better than walking. Better, and worse, reminding him of past landings, marines struggling beneath the hail of arrows and slingstones, dying and drowning. Barges raging with flames, the shrieks of burning men and women.

  Not that they would be landing under fire. Not this time. This was a leisurely journey, surrounded by allies. It was all so civilized, so peaceful, that Cuttle’s nerves were shredded. ‘It’s just how it played out. Choices are made, accidents happen, the fates fall. Remember that, when our own falls on us.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to sing songs about us,’ the hidden speaker said. ‘We’re not the Bridgeburners. Not the Grey Swords. Not Coltaine’s Seventh. She said as much, the Adjunct did.’

  ‘Open that last jug,’ someone advised.

  Cuttle finished the one in his hand. Three fast swallows. He sent the empty vessel over the side. ‘ “Bonehunters”,’ he said. ‘Was that Fiddler’s idea? Maybe. Can’t really remember.’ I just remember the desperation. I remember the Adjunct. And Aren’s quiet streets and empty walls. I remember being broken, and now I’m wondering if anything’s changed, anything at all. ‘Histories, they’re just what’s survived. But they’re not the whole story, because the whole story can never be known. Think of all the histories we’ve gone and lost. Not just kingdoms and empires, but the histories inside every one of us, every person who ever lived.’ As the new jug of peach rum came within reach Cuttle’s hand snapped out to snare it. ‘What do you want? Any of you? You want the fame of the Bridgeburners? Why? They’re all dead. You want a great cause to fight for? To die for? Show me something worth that.’

  He finally looked up, glared at the half-circle of coal-lit faces, so young, so bleak now.

  And from behind him, a new voice spoke. ‘Showing’s not enough, Cuttle. You need to see, you need to know. I’m standing here, listening to you, and I’m hearing the rum; it’s running through a soldier who thinks he’s at his end.’

  Cuttle took another drink. ‘Just talk, Sergeant Gesler. That’s all.’

  ‘Bad talk,’ Gesler said, pushing in. Soldiers moved aside to make room as he settled down opposite the sapper. ‘They wanted stories, Cuttle. Not a reason to throw themselves over the side. Those are the cheapest reasons of all—you should know that.’

  ‘Speaking freely here, Sergeant, that’s how it was.’

  ‘I know. This ain’t no official dressing down. That’s for your own sergeant to do, and if he was here, he’d be tacking up your hide right about now. No, you and me, we’re just two old soldiers here.’

  Cuttle gave a sharp nod. ‘Fine, then. I was just saying—’

  ‘I know. I heard. Glory’s expensive.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And it’s not worth it.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But that’s where you’re wrong, Cuttle.’

  There was speaking freely and that’s what this was, but Cuttle wasn’t a fool. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘All those choices you complained about, the ones that take you to the place you can’t avoid, the place none of us can escape. You say it’s not worth it, Cuttle, that’s a choice, too. It’s the one you’ve decided to make. And maybe you want company, and that’s what all this is about. Personally, I think you’re a damned liability—not because you ain’t a good soldier. You are. And I know for a fact that when the iron sings, having you at my back makes no itch. But you keep pissing on the coals, Cuttle, and then complaining about the smell.’

  ‘I’m a sapper with a handful of munitions, Gesler. When they’re gone, then I step into the crossbow ranks, and I ain’t as fast a loader as I used to be.’

  ‘I already said it’s not your soldiering that worries me. Maybe you reload slower, but your shots will count and don’t try saying otherwise.’

  Cuttle answered with a gruff nod. He’d asked for this, this dressing down that wasn’t supposed to happen. This speaking freely that was now nailing him like a rusty nail to the wooden deck. In front of a bunch of pups.

  ‘There were sappers,’ Gesler continued, ‘long before the munitions came along. In fact, the sappers will need veterans like you, the ones who remember those days.’ He paused, and then said, ‘I got you a question, Cuttle.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Tell me the one thing that can rot an army.’

  ‘Time with nothing to do.’

  ‘Nothing to do but talk. Why is it the people with the least useful things to say do most of the talking?’

  The unseen speaker from earlier spoke up behind Gesler, ‘Because their pile of shit never gets smaller, Sergeant. In fact, just keeps getting bigger.’

  Cuttle heard the relief in the laughter that followed. His face was burning, but that might just be the coals, or the rum, or both. Could be he was just drunk. ‘All this talk of piss and shit,’ he muttered, forcing himself upright. He weaved, managed to find his balance, and then turned about and stumbled off in the direction of the stern.

  As the sapper staggered away, Gesler said, ‘You that spoke, behind me—that you, Widdershins?’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant. Was wandering past when I heard the bleating.’

  ‘Go after him, make sure he doesn’t topple o’er the rail.’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant. And, uh, thanks, he was dragging even me down.’

  Gesler rubbed at his face. His skin felt loose and slack, all suppleness long go
ne. Getting old, he decided, was miserable. ‘Needs a shaking awake,’ he said under his breath. ‘And don’t we all. Here, give me that jug, I’ve worked up a thirst.’

  He didn’t recognize any of the faces he could make out round the brazier. They were young, foot-soldiers, the ones who’d barely known a fight since joining up. They’d watched the marines assault Y’Ghatan, and fight on the landing in Malaz City. They’d watched those marines set off to invade the Letherii mainland. They’d done a lot of watching. And no amount of marching, or drilling, or war-games could make a young soldier hungrier for glory than did all that watching.

  He knew how they looked upon the marines. He knew how they bandied the names back and forth, the legends in the making. Throatslitter, Deadsmell, Hellian, Masan Gilani, Crump, Mayfly and all the rest. He knew how they damn-near worshipped Sergeant Fiddler. And gods forbid anything bad should happen to him.

  Maybe Cuttle had a point with all that pushing down. On things like glory, the making of legends. Maybe he was undermining all those romantic notions for a good reason. Don’t hold to any faith. Even legends die. Gesler shivered, drank down a mouthful of rum.

  Tasted like shit.

  Bottle slipped away. He’d listened to Cuttle. He’d watched Gesler slide morosely into the sapper’s place, settling in for a night of drinking.

  The entire army lounged on the open decks. Getting bored and lazy. After the eastward trek from Letheras, they’d crossed River Lether and marched through the rich lands to the south, finally reaching this river, known as the Gress. No shortage of food, drink, or whores the whole damned way. A sidling pace, a march that barely raised a sweat. League upon league of bickering, nasty hangovers and nobody having a clue what they were up to, where they were going, and what was waiting for them.