The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Yes…but this is a Hust – a slayer of dragons.’

  ‘Was the usurper trying to tell you something, do you think?’

  ‘I begin to suspect the gift wasn’t the sword. The gift was what the sword meant – what it means.’ He sheathed the weapon. ‘The time has come, friend, for our last stand. War we shall now wage.’

  Another rattle from Tulas Shorn’s dry throat, but this time it was laughter. ‘I delight in this irony, beloved blade-brother. Very well, let us go and kill some dragons.’ Then he paused and cocked his head at Silchas. ‘Korabas…will she thank us?’

  ‘Do you expect her to?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Why should she? We will fail.’

  ‘Now,’ Silchas mused, ‘you give me reason to wonder. After all, will this not be the first time that she does not fall alone?’

  Tulas was silent for a moment, and then he said, ‘My friend, our deaths shall be our gift to her.’

  ‘Tulas, can two Ancients make a Storm?’

  ‘We shall have to try.’

  Anomander, I believe I shall see you soon. And Andarist, too.

  ‘Since we are about to die, Silchas, will you tell me what happened to the Throne of Shadow?’

  Silchas Ruin smiled and shook his head. ‘Perhaps, if the throne so desires, it will one day tell you itself.’

  ‘Thrones cannot speak.’

  ‘That is true, and it’s just as well, don’t you think?’

  ‘It is a good thing we are going to die side by side,’ Tulas Shorn growled, ‘else I would be forced to fight you after all.’

  They had moved well apart, and now they veered.

  And two Ancient dragons, one living, the other undead, lifted into the empty sky.

  Olar Ethil crouched in the grasses like a hare about to be flushed by a hawk. Torrent studied her for a moment longer, struggling to disguise his dark satisfaction, and then turned to check once more on the three children. They slept on – the hag had done something to them. It was just past midday and they’d not travelled far since the dawn. Behind him, the Bonecaster was muttering to herself.

  ‘Too many came through – nowhere to hide. I know now what is being attempted. It cannot work. I want it for myself – I will have it for myself! There are Ancients in the sky, but I am the most ancient one of all. I will see them driven back…but first, Korabas needs to die. They need to fail!’

  Torrent walked over to his horse. Examined the primitive-looking arrows in the quiver strapped beside the bow. Then he glanced back at Olar Ethil. ‘What are we waiting for?’

  Her battered face lifted. ‘I will not be part of this fight.’

  He looked round, seeing nothing but empty plains. ‘What fight?’

  ‘You are as good as dead already, pup. Soon I won’t need you any more. I have gifts to give. And he will forgive me – you’ll see, he’ll forgive me.’

  ‘How can I see anything if I’m to be dead soon?’

  She straightened, kicked at the grasses. Two skeletal lizards dodged out, evading her gnarled foot. He heard their clacking jaws as they scampered past him, down the slope and away.

  ‘That’s it then,’ Olar Ethil rasped, watching them flee. ‘They’re gone. Good. I never trusted them – GO!’ She hobbled to the edge of the ridge, shouted after them, ‘Find the great Storm of T’iam! As if that will help you, hah!’ Then she wheeled and stabbed a crooked finger at Torrent. ‘I am watching you, pup!’

  Torrent sighed. ‘It’s all going wrong, isn’t it?’

  ‘Errastas was a fool! And all the Elders who listened to him – his madness will kill them all! Good! So long as he leaves me alone.’

  ‘You’ve lost your mind, hag.’

  ‘Wake them up!’ Olar Ethil snapped. ‘We need to go south – and we must hurry!’

  ‘I smell the sea on this wind,’ Torrent said, facing east.

  ‘Of course you do, you fool. Now get the runts up – we must go!’

  You are losing your grip, witch, and you know it, don’t you? You think that whatever you set out to do will be enough, that it will solve everything – but now you’re discovering that it won’t. I hope I do live for a while longer – long enough to be standing over your corpse.

  ‘Your mind leaks, pup.’

  It only leaks what I let through.

  She shot him a look. Torrent turned away, went to awaken the children.

  Telorast lunged and leapt alongside Curdle. ‘We’ll be safe there, Curdle, won’t we? The chains of our curse – broken in the Storm! Right?’

  ‘What I planned from the very start, Telorast – and if you weren’t so thick you’d have guessed that long ago.’

  ‘It was that priest of the Worm, that clever drunk one – better than Not-Apsalar, better by far! He told us everything we needed to know, so I don’t have to guess, Curdle, because between us I’m the smarter one.’

  ‘The only smart thing you ever did was swindling me into being your friend.’

  ‘Friend lover sister or better half, it’s all the same with us, and isn’t that the best, Curdle? This is what it means to live a life of mystery and adventure! Oh – is my leg coming off? Curdle! My leg!’

  ‘It’s fine. Just wobbly. Soon it won’t matter. Soon we will have the bodies to match our egos and won’t that be a scary thing? Why, I can smell us a throne, Telorast. Can you?’

  But Telorast had skidded to a halt. ‘Wait! Curdle, wait! That Storm – it’ll devour us!’

  ‘So we get eaten – at least we’ll be free. And sooner or later, the Storm will break up. It has to.’

  ‘More like tear itself apart,’ Telorast hissed. ‘We’ve got to be careful then, Curdle, so we don’t get eaten for real.’

  ‘Well of course we’ll be careful. We’re brilliant.’

  ‘And sneaky.’

  ‘That’s why creatures like us never lose, Telorast. We overflow with talents – they’re spilling out everywhere!’

  ‘So long as my leg doesn’t fall off.’

  ‘If it does I’ll carry you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, drag you.’

  ‘You’re so sweet, Curdle.’

  ‘It’s because we’re in love, Telorast. Love is the reason I’d drag you anywhere. We love ourselves and so we deserve two thrones – at least two! We deserve them so we’ll have them, even if we have to kill ten thousand babies to get to them.’

  ‘Babies? Killing babies?’

  ‘Why not?’

  They resumed their swishing rush through the grasses. ‘I can almost see them, Telorast! An army of babies between us and those thrones. They can swing their bone rattles all they like – we’ll chew through them like cheese!’

  ‘And kittens and puppies and small mice, too!’

  ‘Stop it, Curdle – you’re making me hungry! And save your breath – we’ll need it to kill Korabas.’

  ‘Can’t kill Korabas with our breaths, Telorast – she’s Otataral, remember? We’ve got to do it the hard way – piece by bloody piece, until she’s raining down from the sky!’

  ‘It will be great. Won’t it? Curdle, won’t it?’

  ‘The best, Telorast. Almost as good as eating babies!’

  ‘How long is this going to take? Are we there yet, Curdle? My legs are about to fall off, I swear it.’

  ‘Hmm, maybe we should veer. For a bit, I mean. Just a bit, and then back down, and then we run for a while, and then veer again – what do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re almost as clever as me.’

  ‘And you’re almost as clever as me. We’re almost as clever as each other! Isn’t that great?’

  Paran reined in to let the boy off. Ordering the rest of the troop to remain where they were, he waved Mathok to accompany him as he rode closer to the foot of the pass. The old mountains formed a saddle neck ahead, and the slope gave them a clear view of the trenches, berms and redoubts crowding there.

  Figures swarmed the defences.

  ‘We’ve been seen,’ M
athok said.

  Five hundred strides from the base of the rough slope, Paran halted. Studied the vista. A cobbled road worked its way up the pass. At the first line of defences a half-ring of staked earthworks curled to face inward on that road – to attempt an assault there would invite a deadly enfilade. But the rest of the ground to either side of that road was rough and broken, almost a scree.

  ‘Had a wife once,’ Mathok muttered, ‘just like this.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The closer I got the uglier she looked. One of the many pitfalls in getting drunk at the full moon. Waking up to the horrors you’ve committed, and then having to live with them.’

  There were two distinct tiers to the defences, and the closer one bore the standards of Kolanse. ‘Shriven auxiliaries,’ Paran said. ‘We’ll have to go through them to get to the Wolf army. Now that’s an unexpected complication.’

  ‘But you know, I loved that woman with all my might – she was my best wife, it turned out.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She inherited and left me for a prettier man. You see, she woke up that morning feeling the same horror as me, and the closer I got…’

  ‘Mathok, looks like we’re going to have a fight on our hands after all.’

  ‘Your words make me happy.’

  ‘We need to overwhelm and rout the Shriven. Then we can deal with the mercenaries. As it turns out,’ he added, collecting his reins, ‘that might be just what we need to convince them to surrender.’

  ‘There’ll be a Pure up there, High Fist. More fun for Kalam and your High Mage.’

  ‘We’ll draw up tonight. Mathok, your warriors won’t be much use if they stay mounted.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Why do raiders ride horses, High Fist? Because it’s the quickest means of getting away.’

  ‘You’re not just raiders any more, Mathok.’

  ‘We’ll skirmish if that’s what you need, but we won’t like it. Now, that road, that’s a wide road, a military road. Clear the flanks and we can ride straight up it.’

  ‘Into the waiting teeth of those mercenaries? And uphill at that? I’ll not see you wasted. Sorry, no matter how thirsty you are for blood, you may have to wait a while longer.’

  The warrior grimaced and then shrugged. ‘We’re thirsty for blood, yes, but not if most of it is our own.’

  ‘Good,’ Paran grunted. ‘Keep your mob in check, that’s all I ask.’

  Mathok was studying him in a peculiar fashion. ‘High Fist, I’ve heard a lifetime of tales about the Malazan army. And I’ve run from a few close calls in my day, ended up getting chased for weeks.’ He jutted his chin at the pass. ‘But this – even those Shriven look to be enough to not only stop us dead, but hurt us bad in the doing.’

  ‘Your point?’

  ‘I fear for the Host, that’s all.’

  Paran nodded. ‘Come the morning, Mathok, find a high vantage point for you and your warriors. And I will show you everything you need to know about the Malazan army.’

  Two turns of the sand after the sun had set, the Host drew up a short distance from the base of the pass. Beneath the luminous green glow of the Jade Strangers, the companies broke out into their bivouacs. Forward pickets were established, although no probes were expected from the enemy. Soldiers ate a quick meal, and then rested. Most slept, although a few attended to their weapons and armour, their leather harnesses, their shields and footwear. Trailed by Fist Rythe Bude, Paran walked among the camps, exchanging words here and there with those soldiers too charged up or nervous to sleep.

  He had never expected to be commanding an army. He had never expected to take the place of Dujek Onearm. He thought often of that man, and took from Dujek all he could. The Host had known bad times. It deserved better, but Paran suspected that this sentiment was felt by every commander.

  When he and Rythe Bude finally retired to the command tent, they found Kalam and Quick Ben awaiting them. It was two turns before dawn.

  The assassin was wrapped in black muslin, pulling on his stained and worn leather gloves, and though he was wearing chain beneath the cloth, there was almost no sound while he paced. Quick Ben sat on the ground leaning back against a squat four-legged chest, his legs stretched out, his eyes half shut.

  Paran stared down at the wizard. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Are you ready? Usually I can smell when there’s been magic going on, and I can’t smell a thing, High Mage.’

  Quick Ben opened one eye to regard him. ‘If you can tell, High Fist, then so can the Pures up there. Trust me. We’re ready.’

  Paran glanced across at Rythe, who simply shrugged in reply. He squinted at her. ‘Get some sleep, Fist.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  After she’d left, Paran stepped into Kalam’s path. Muttering an oath, the assassin halted. Bared his teeth and said, ‘You’re getting on my nerves, High Fist.’

  Quick Ben spoke. ‘Do you have that card ready, High Fist?’

  Paran nodded, edging to one side so that Kalam could resume pacing.

  ‘Good,’ said the wizard. He sat up, reached for a leather satchel lying beside him. Rummaged inside it for a moment and then drew out a crooked stick on which was tied an arm’s length of twine. One end of the stick had been hacked into something resembling a point. Quick Ben stabbed that end into the floor. Then he removed from his satchel two small balls of weighted, knotted cloth, one black, the other gold. He bound these to the string, moving them away from the stick until the twine stretched straight. ‘Kalam,’ he said, ‘it’s time.’

  The assassin halted, shook himself like a bear.

  Climbing to his feet, Quick Ben faced Paran. ‘Don’t you even blink, sir. Understand?’

  ‘I will be vigilant, High Mage,’ Paran assured him. ‘But you have me a little concerned here. What do you think awaits you?’

  ‘Beyond one or two Pure Forkrul Assail?’ Quick Ben snorted, and then scowled. ‘Not sure. Something.’

  ‘Let’s get on with this,’ Kalam growled.

  Paran drew off his helm, set it down on the map table. In battle, he would attach the full face grille. It was an arcane piece, Untan, a gift from Rythe Bude, but he still wasn’t used to its full weight. Turning to face the two men he began, ‘I think we should—’ and then fell silent. He was alone in the tent. ‘Gods below, he’s good.’

  Heart suddenly pounding, nips of pain flaring in his stomach, he drew out the wooden card Ormulogun had prepared. Studied it in the lantern light. The first truly Malazan card for the Deck of Dragons. Artist, you did me proud. A single misshapen, vaguely polished object in the centre of a dark field.

  ‘Behold,’ Paran said under his breath, ‘the Shaved Knuckle in the Hole.’

  Invisible to all eyes, even those of the Pures, Kalam made his way silently up the cobbled road. Well, hopefully invisible to the Pures. Either way, we’ll soon find out. To his right and left now, deep foxholes where sentries stood, chests against the pit side, looking down on the foreign invaders. At their feet, the dull glow of signal lanterns. Past them, the first berms fronting the lead trench: mounded rocks and earth, high enough to provide cover from arrows and quarrels, treacherous enough underfoot for the attackers to lose their balance and slow their charge.

  The trenches themselves were solid with Kolanse soldiers, well armoured and armed with pikes. Seven paces behind them, higher up the slope, ran a long slit trench, stepped for the archers. They would loose their arrows at nearly point-blank range, over the heads of the first line of defenders and taking the Malazans at the top of the berm.

  Kalam hoped that Paran’s damned card was working. He hoped that the High Fist was now seeing what he was seeing. This could be brutal. There’s a decent commander up here, somewhere. Quick Ben – I don’t think this is the work of a Forkrul Assail. This has the feel of a professional campaigner. Probably the Wolves commander. I hope you’re thinking what I’m thinking.

  Hold on…mercenaries wearing wo
lf furs? No, couldn’t be them. Just some other bastards. Got to be.

  Two more tiers to match the lead line, with levelled ramps allowing for retreat, should the first trench be overrun. And plenty of reserves, positioned in three fortified camps just above the last tier. Kalam judged there to be at least six thousand Shriven here. Glad I’m not you, Paran.

  Higher still, where at last Kalam thought he could see the summit’s edge, beyond which the pass levelled out. A massive stone gate straddled the road, with a low skirting wall above a moat stretching out to either side, effectively blocking the entire pass. And this area was well lit, revealing companies of heavy infantry. They were awake, divided into squads of ten, each squad forming a circle facing inward – the soldiers were praying.

  Fanatics. That’s bad. We’ve seen this before, too many times. Surrender? Not a chance. Hold on… They were still too far away for him to be certain. He looked for standards, but none were raised. There, a fully armoured soldier near the gate. Gods below! Fucking Perish! Kalam paused, his mind racing, sweat suddenly trickling beneath his garments. They turned on us? Krughava? I can’t believe this – soldiers of the Wolves. Gods, who else could they have been? Kalam, you idiot. Hood take me, Hood take us all.

  But…if Krughava’s here, it’s no wonder the defences are bristling.

  All right, woman. He began moving forward once more. Betray us and you get what you deserve.

  The gateway was barred, with projecting spikes, all blackened iron. The lowest row of spikes, ankle-high, jutted a hand’s length beyond the higher ones, except for a matching row at eye level. There was a lone Perish sentry standing behind the gate, visor lowered, heavy spear leaning against one shoulder.

  Ten paces away, Kalam slipped down from the road, made his way along the drainage ditch, and down into the moat. At the bottom, short wooden spikes were jammed between sharp-edged rocks. The bank furthest from the wall was soaked in pitch. Firewall. Nothing nice here, nothing at all. Hope you’re close, Quick Ben. Hope you know what I’m going to have to do here.

  He carefully picked his way across the moat. Waited a moment, and then whispered the chain-word the wizard had given him. Sudden weightlessness. Reaching up, he made his way up and over the wall. At he touched ground on the other side, the weightlessness faded. Well, no alarm yet. So far, Quick’s promise of being able to hide magic seems to be holding. Ahead, more guards, but widely spaced enough for the assassin to slip easily between them. He set out, made his way into the camp.