The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  He suspected that he would never know. He was riding across level ground again, his horse’s hoofs kicking through the dusty plough tracks – and ahead and to his right, his Letherii soldiers had reached the first of the earthworks. Behind the companies, crews swarmed to position the heavy onagers, driving wedges beneath the front runners to lift the arc of fire.

  The enemy had begun releasing their own salvos of heavy bolts from raised fortlets flanking the trenches. Those deadly quarrels tore deep gashes into the advancing ranks.

  His soldiers had begun dying. Because I asked them to. Dying, in the name of a failed wish. I have brought them to this.

  But…why? Why do they follow? They are no more fools than I am. They know – my title means nothing. It is an illusion. No, worse, a delusion. Nobility is not something you can wear, like a damned cloak of jewels. You can’t buy it. You can’t even be born into it. The nobility we talk about is nothing but a mockery of all that it used to mean.

  By no measure am I noble.

  Why do you follow?

  Gods, why do I presume to lead? Into this?

  Brys Beddict drew his sword, but the taste of ashes filled his mouth. So many conceits, gathering here, crowding this moment and all the moments to come. Now then, shake yourself awake, Brys. The time has come…to find us a name.

  He twisted his horse round, headed for the nearest avenue between companies, and rode to meet the enemy.

  High Cutter Syndecan was still kneeling beside the body of Krughava, staring down into her pale, lifeless visage. In the clearing behind him all the officers and veterans had gathered, and the arguments were raging fierce on all sides. Horror, shock and confusion – the Perish was moments from tearing itself apart.

  Syndecan was the eldest among them all. A veteran of many campaigns, a soldier in the long, hopeless battle that was staunching wounds, breathing life into dying lungs. And, once more, he could only sit, silent, looking down at yet another of his failures.

  She came among us. A brave, brave woman. We all knew: her pride was ever her enemy. But see here, she came to us – imagine how doing that must have stung that pride. And yet, even over this powerful flaw within her, she finally triumphed.

  What could be more heroic than that?

  When at last he straightened – though in truth it was no more than thirty heartbeats since Krughava’s fall – all the voices fell away. He was the veteran. He was the one they would now turn to, desperate for guidance. Oh, all you fools. What to do? What to do now?

  He cleared his throat. ‘I do not know what has happened here. I do not know if the Shield Anvil slew a young woman, or a god. Nor can I judge his reasons for doing so – this, this is beyond all of us.’

  A young soldier called out, ‘Brother Syndecan! Do we fight this day?’

  He’d been thinking about that, from the moment of Krughava’s fall, and he recalled looking across to the hacked corpse of Tanakalian, and thinking, you are only what we deserved. ‘Brothers, sisters, on this day, yes, we must fight!’

  Silence answered him.

  He had expected as much. They would not follow blindly – not any more. Not after this.

  ‘Brothers, sisters! There has been murder in our fold – we were witness to it! And in witnessing, we are made part of this crime. We must be cleansed. Today, we must fight to regain our honour!’

  ‘But who is the damned enemy?’

  And here, the old veteran found himself at an impasse. Wolves help me, I don’t know. And I’m not the one to decide. Veteran, am I? Yes, but the only wise veterans are the ones who have left war and killing behind them. No, I’m just the biggest fool among you all. Oh, fine then! Time to fall back on useless superstition. Isn’t that what old soldiers turn to when all else fails? ‘Brothers, sisters! We must seek a sign! We must look to the world – here and on this day! We must—’

  And then his eyes widened.

  Faces turned. Eyes stared –

  – as the Prince of Lether lunged into view atop the high berm at the fort’s facing wall. Surging up and on to the narrow, ragged edge – and how the horse found purchase there was a mystery. That beast then reared, hoofs scything the air, with the prince glaring down at them all. And at that moment, from either side of the valley’s length, came the sound of battle’s clash.

  Gods take me! Think I just pissed my breeches.

  Abrastal sat astride her charger – the beast felt thin beneath her, but was still quivering in anticipation. Bastard loves this – the stench of blood, the screams – wants at them. Gods, war is a fever! She glanced back at Spax and his mass of warriors. ‘Hold them, Warchief! Wait for it!’

  The Gilk Barghast glared up at her. ‘But how long? Your damned soldiers are dying on that front – at least let us charge and take out one of the fortlets. Those onagers are carving you bloody!’

  She knew that – she could see the terrible casualties those perfectly emplaced weapons were delivering as her legion struggled to overrun the first line of defences. ‘I said wait, Spax! I will need you and the Teblor to move fast when that Assail finds out—’

  ‘But what if it’s all gone wrong at the Spire? Firehair! We can collapse this flank – just let us loose, damn you!’

  But something had caught her eye – she wheeled her mount round, stared towards the centre. ‘Jheckan’s fat cock! The Perish are pouring out of their trenches! Spax!’

  ‘I see them! Do you see Krughava?’

  Abrastal shook her head. ‘They’re too far away – listen, form a line to hold our inside flank, Warchief. If I was commanding that position and saw it uncontested, I’d do precisely what they’re doing right now – out and into our unprotected sides.’

  ‘They’ll see us’ – Spax was now at her side, a heavy axe in his hand, a spear in the other, his face half hidden by his ornate shell helm – ‘and wheel round to bite the Letherii flank – Brys has no reserves to guard against them.’

  ‘If they do that,’ Abrastal said in a snarl, ‘you know what to do, Spax.’

  ‘Climb up their hairy asses, yes. But—’

  ‘Just ready your warriors,’ she cut in, and then jabbed her spurs into her mount’s sides. ‘I’m going for a closer look!’

  ‘Not too close!’

  She pushed her horse into a canter, the beast’s armour cladding a weaponsmith’s clamour around her. When four bodyguards rode to join her she waved them back. She hated the fools. Worse than hens. But the one messenger who drew close she gestured forward.

  Beyond the Perish, the Letherii army had locked jaws with the first line of defenders, but they too were being savaged by the Kolansii onagers. She saw that the prince had deployed his own artillery, and the rate of fire from these heavy weapons was superior to the enemy’s. At least three positions were concentrating fire on the nearest fortlet, and the raised redoubt was studded with heavy quarrels. Foot archers and skirmishers had advanced under the cover of that counterfire and were now assaulting the position.

  The prince knew his business. But would it matter? Already the losses were appalling – and she knew her own Evertine soldiers were suffering the same behind her.

  And now, these Perish…a part of her wanted to sink her teeth into the throat of the Grey Helms. For all that betrayal and treachery thrived in the court games of the Bolkando kingdom, out here it was a far deadlier indulgence. Maybe this is teaching me a lesson. About backstabbing, lying and cheating to get your way.

  No, try as I might, I can’t swing it across. The palace is my world and I’ll run it the way I like.

  Hoofs thundering, she was fast closing on the Perish – the soldiers were smoothly forming up now that they’d cleared the fort, and she saw them wheeling to face her. ‘You want us first, do you? Spax will be so pleased!’

  But that wasn’t tactical – no, clearly they should have swung to face the Letherii. And as she drew yet closer, the front ranks before her made no effort to draw weapons. Can it be? Has Krughava won them over? Where is she? Where is
Tanakalian? Errant’s nudge, who’s commanding this army?

  Abrastal waved up the messenger. ‘Stay close, until we’re within earshot, and then halt yourself. I will ride on. Listen well to this parley, soldier – the lives of thousands may well count on it, should I fail to win clear.’

  The young woman, selected for her riding ability, was pale beneath the rim of her helm, but she nodded.

  ‘Your eyes are better than mine – do you see a commander anywhere?’

  ‘Highness, there is one – with the grey face. He has been gesturing – sending out orders. There,’ and she pointed.

  ‘I see him. What’s with the face paint?’

  ‘He’s a cutter, Highness. A field medic.’

  Whatever. ‘No matter. Looks as if he’s the one wanting to talk – I don’t like this. What has happened to Krughava?’

  They slowed to a canter, and at the appropriate distance the messenger halted, whilst the queen trotted forward. She studied the cutter. An old man, at least in so far as these Grey Helms went. His face was well worn with tracks of sorrow and loss, and she saw nothing in that face to suggest that anything had changed in his outlook. Her unease deepened.

  The cutter raised a hand in greeting. ‘Highness, the Grey Helms welcome you. I am Syndecan, elected commander following the tragic deaths of the Mortal Sword and the Shield Anvil.’

  Abrastal felt her jaws clench. The words had struck like a blow to her chest. Leave it, woman. Now is not the time. ‘You are arrayed. State your intentions, Syndecan – as you can see, we’ve got us a fight here and I really cannot waste any more time while you decide which way the fucking wind’s blowing.’

  The man recoiled as if slapped, and then he drew a deep breath and slowly straightened. ‘The Perish Grey Helms humbly place themselves under the command of you and Prince Brys.’ He made a faint gesture to the troops behind him. ‘We face you because we could not determine the whereabouts of the prince. Highness, the Pure Forkrul Assail was injured in a clash with our Destriant. It is safe to assume, however, that he will recover. And when that happens…we anticipate an awakening of dire sorcery.’

  ‘Can you defend against it?’

  The old man shook his head. ‘I fear not, Highness. We have lost our place as the weapon of the wolf gods. You see us as we are – simple soldiers seeking to regain our honour as men and women. That and nothing more.’

  ‘As soon as that Pure is made aware of the attack on the Spire, he will disengage as many soldiers as he feels he can spare.’

  ‘We understand this, Highness.’

  ‘Are your soldiers rested, Syndecan? Can you fast-trot down this valley, and find an undefended ascent?’ She made her voice louder, addressing the soldiers waiting behind the cutter. ‘Grey Helms! Can you stand in the path of the Kolansii who will soon drive east to the Spire?’

  In answer the soldiers shipped their shields on to their backs, began tightening straps.

  Abrastal grunted. Who needs words?

  Syndecan spoke. ‘Do you require that we delay the enemy, or stop them in their tracks?’

  ‘There are not enough of you to stop them, Commander, and you know it. If I can, I will spare you my Barghast, and the Teblor – but they may be arriving late to the fight.’

  ‘We shall hold until they arrive, Highness.’

  Abrastal hesitated, and then called, ‘What I’ve seen of you thus far, Perish, has been sticks up the ass and plenty of proper marching and not much else. Well, now’s your chance to show the world what you can do in a real fight.’

  They seemed to weather this, either in humility or in shame. She had expected a wave of anger, but saw not a single spark. Her gaze fell once more to the cutter. ‘Syndecan, you’ll need to work hard at inspiring this lot – they’re broken.’

  ‘Yes, Highness, we are. But on this day, I believe that this is no weakness. We shall answer the world.’

  She studied him for a moment longer, and then collected her reins. ‘I trust you’ll forgive my Barghast if they face you while you pass.’

  The man simply nodded.

  ‘Fare you well, then. If justice truly exists, perhaps your Mortal Sword will stand with you, if only in spirit. Seek to match her measure, all of you, and perhaps you will indeed find your honour once more.’

  Dragging her mount round, she set off.

  The messenger fell in alongside her. Abrastal glanced over. ‘You’ve the lighter burden here. Ride ahead and inform Warchief Spax that the Perish march to take position in the expected path of the Kolansii relief force. They will pass south of our position at a fast-trot – but he is to face his warriors on them the entire time. Repeat my words back to me.’

  The messenger did so, without error.

  ‘Ride then. Go!’

  Abrastal watched the younger woman swiftly pulling away. Was I ever that young? It’s the curse of nobility that we must be made to grow up all too fast. But then, look at you – tits barely budding and you’re in the middle of a damned war.

  And I can’t even remember your name.

  But should we both survive this, I’m sending you to learn embroidery, and a year or two of flirting with artists and musicians and other ne’er-do-wells.

  Growling under her breath, the queen of Bolkando shook her head. Rose in her saddle to glare at the forward lines of her beloved legion.

  They’d yet to even take the first entrenchments – and that slope was a mass of dead and dying soldiers, getting deeper with every moment that passed. Errant’s tug – they’ve got us by the balls here. We need to push harder – no let-up on this pressure. Time for the Saphii, then – assuming they’ve gotten all yellow-eyed on that brave-spit they guzzle before battle. They should be well primed.

  But were they all doing little more than going through the motions? Fourteenth Daughter – can you hear me?… Thought not. I could use your eyes right now, just to see where things stand over there. You should be in the damned bay by now. You should be in a good position to witness…everything.

  Once more she shook her head – too many things in her damned skull!

  Her horse was tiring and she slowed her pace a fraction – she might need one more charge out of this beast. The queen takes the sword and shows her face beneath the mask. But the world does not tremble as it should, for the mask only comes off in the face of death. Husband, dear me, your wife’s strayed too far this time.

  She drew her sword as she closed – the Saphii commander was standing to the right of the royal entourage, his eyes upon her as were the eyes of virtually everyone else. She pointed her sword directly at him, saw him suddenly straighten as if in delight, raising his spear in one hand, and then he was moving, his tall dark figure speeding across the ground, back to his troops.

  And she saw them now, too, leaping and dancing in a frenzy of excitement. Oh, Kolansii, you have no idea what is about to hit you.

  Captain Feveren, Ninth Cohort of the Evertine Legion, slid back down the slope on a greasy mass of bodies, swearing all the way down to the base, where he was thrown up against the shins of the soldiers struggling to do what he’d just tried. He’d lost sight of his own troops – those that remained alive – but such details barely mattered now. The only cohesion left was the one that defined the living from the dead.

  This was slaughter. Twice they had momentarily overrun the first trench, only to be thrown back by indiscriminate fire from ranks of onagers, the huge quarrels tearing through multiple bodies, blood and gore exploding in torrents, men and women flung about like rag dolls. Shields shattered with impacts, breaking the shoulders behind them, driving soldiers down to their knees. The bank of the first berm was a ceaseless mudslide of all that could spill out from a human body, streaming over pale limbs, over staring, sightless faces, ruptured armour and tangled embraces.

  Cursing, he struggled to find his feet again. He could feel another push coming from the ranks pressing against him, and wanted to be in a position to ride that tide upward. They were going to take
that damned trench, no matter—

  But the Evertine infantry were being jostled, the solid lines broken apart – and Feveren swore upon seeing tall Saphii pushing through, their eyes bright yellow with that infernal drug they took before battle, the froth thick on their lips.

  ‘Clear paths!’ the captain bellowed. ‘Clear paths!’

  But the command was not needed – nothing would stop the Saphii spear-wielders, not this close to the enemy.

  Lighter-armoured, lithe and fleet of foot, the warriors seemed to clamber like spiders up the slope of the berm. In one hand they held their spears, and in the other a pick of some sort – its business end a splay of talon-like hooks that they swung down into dead and dying flesh alike, pulling themselves yet higher.

  In moments the first line of Saphii had reached the top, and over and out of sight.

  The screams from the first trench intensified.

  ‘Follow!’ bellowed Feveren. ‘Follow!’

  And up they went.

  Somehow, they’d lifted him to his feet. But his mind remained lost in a deafening roar. Brother Diligence raised his head, struggled to find his balance. Officers surrounded him, healers crowded close, and, from a great distance, the sounds of battle took hold of the air above the valley, shaking it without pause.

  He sought to make sense of the cacophony in his head. He heard screams, horrified screams, rising in waves of panic and dread, but even that seemed far away. Far away, yes. That voice – so far away. Abruptly he shoved his helpers from his side, and then staggered as at last he could make out the words, the sources of those desperate screams.

  Sister Reverence!

  Her answer came in a savage torrent. ‘Brother Diligence! Your battle is feint! We are attacked! K’Chain Che’Malle! T’lan Imass! We cannot hold – gods, the slaughter!’

  He silenced her hard as a slap. You must hold, Sister! We are coming!

  Looking around, he saw the panic in the eyes of the Watered – they had felt her, had heard her frantic cries. ‘Attend!’ he bellowed. ‘Maintain the defences of the two lowest tiers – the rest are to withdraw to the high road – they must march east to the Spire with all haste! Weapons and armour and one skin of water and nothing more! You have one bell to get twenty-five thousand soldiers on the road!’