The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  He kept his gaze ahead, trying not to notice all these regular soldiers with their salutes. Better to pretend they weren’t even there, weren’t paying them any attention, and they could walk out of this army, off to do whatever it was that needed doing, and no one needed to notice anything.

  Attention made him nervous, when the only attention he really wanted was from her. But if she gave it to him, he’d probably fall to pieces.

  I’d like to make love. Just once. Before I die. I’d like to hold her in my arms and feel as if the world’s just slid and shifted into its proper shape, making everything perfect. And I could see all of that, right there in her eyes.

  And looking up… I’d see all these soldiers saluting me.

  No, that’s not right. Don’t look up, Urb. Listen to yourself! Idiot!

  Widdershins found that he was walking beside Throatslitter. He’d not expected an actual military march, and already his bare feet inside his worn boots were raw. He’d always hated having to throw his heels down with every step, feeling the shocks shooting up his spine, and having to lift his knees higher than usual was wearing him out.

  He could see the end ahead, the edge of the damned camp. Once out of sight of these wretched regulars going all formal on them, they could relax again. He’d happily forgotten all this shit, those first months of training before he’d managed to slip across into the marines – where discipline didn’t mean striding in cadence and throwing the shoulders back and all that rubbish. Where it meant doing your job and not wasting time on anything else.

  He remembered the first officers he’d encountered, bitching about companies like the Bridgeburners. Sloppy, slouching slackers – couldn’t get ’em to stand in a straight line if their lives depended on it, and as likely to slit their officers’ throats as take an order. Well, not quite. If it was a good order, a smart order, they’d step up smart. If it was a stupid order, an order that would see soldiers die for no good reason, well, the choice was not doing it and getting hammered for insubordination, or quietly arranging a tragic battlefield casualty.

  Maybe the Bridgeburners had been the worst of the lot, but they’d also been the best, too. No, Widdershins liked being a marine, a Bonehunter in the tradition of their unruly predecessors. At least it had put an end to this kind of marching.

  His heels were already bloody in his boots.

  Deadsmell didn’t want to say goodbye, not to anyone. Not even Throatslitter limping one row ahead of him, whom with a choice comment or two he could make yelp that laugh – like squeezing a duck. Always entertaining, seeing people flinch on hearing it. And Deadsmell could do it over and over again.

  It’d been a while since he’d last heard it, but now was not the time – not with all these regulars on either side. All these men and women saying goodbye to us. The Bonehunters were in their last days. This tortured army could finally see the end of things – and it seemed to have come up on them fast, unexpected, appallingly close.

  But no. We marched across half a world. We chased a Whirlwind. We walked out of a burning city. We stood against our own in Malaz City. We took down the Letherii Empire, held off the Nah’ruk. We crossed a desert that couldn’t be crossed.

  Now I know how the Bridgeburners must have felt, as the last of them was torn down, crushed underfoot. All that history, vanishing, soaking red into the earth.

  Back home – in the Empire – we’re already lost. Just one more army struck off the ledgers. And this is how things pass, how things simply go away. We’ve gone and marched ourselves off the edge of the world.

  I don’t want to say goodbye. And I want to hear Throatslitter’s manic laugh. I want to hear it again and again, and for ever more.

  Hedge had drawn up his Bridgeburners just outside the northwest edge of the encampment. Waiting for the marines and heavies to appear, he scanned his collection of soldiers. They were loaded down, almost groaning beneath the weight of their gear. Way too many kittens.

  Sergeant Rumjugs caught his eye and he nodded. She moved up to position herself at his side as he turned to face the Bonehunter camp. ‘Ever seen the like, sir? Who do you think gave the command for that? Maybe the Adjunct herself?’

  Hedge shook his head. ‘No commands, Sergeant – this came from somewhere else. From the regulars themselves, rank and file and all that. I admit it, I didn’t think they had this in them.’

  ‘Sir, we heard rumours, about the marines and heavies…that maybe they won’t want us with them.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, Sergeant. When it comes right down to it, we don’t even take orders from the Adjunct.’

  ‘But didn’t she—’

  ‘I lied,’ Hedge said. ‘I ain’t talked to nobody. This is my decision.’ He glanced over at her. ‘Got a problem with that, Sergeant?’

  But she was grinning.

  Hedge studied her. ‘You find that funny, do you? Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘Sir, we heard rumours – other ones – about us not being real Bridgeburners. But you just proved ’em wrong, didn’t you? We don’t belong to nobody – only to each other, and to you, sir. You lied – hah!’

  Behind them Sweetlard said, ‘Last night I took a man t’bed for free, sir, and y’know why? When he asked me how old I was and I said twenty-six, he believed me. Lies are sweet, ain’t they?’

  ‘Here they come,’ said Hedge.

  Fiddler had appeared, leading his troops out from the camp. Even from this distance, Hedge could see the faces of the marines and heavies – sickly, grim. They’d not been expecting any sort of send-off. And they don’t know what to do with it. Did Fiddler throw a salute back? No, he wouldn’t have.

  Fid, I see you. You’re as bad off as the rest of ’em. Like you’re headed for the executioner.

  Us soldiers only got one kind of coin worth anything, and it’s called respect. And we hoard it, we hide it away, and there ain’t nobody who’d call us generous. Easy spenders we’re not. But there’s something feels even worse than having to give up a coin – it’s when somebody steps up and tosses one back at us.

  We get antsy. We look away. And part of us feels like breaking inside, and we get down on ourselves, and outsiders don’t understand that. They think we should smile and wave or stand proud. But we don’t want to do anything of the sort, even when we’re made to. It’s because of all the friends we left behind, on all those battlefields, because we know that they’re the ones deserving of all that respect.

  We could sit on a king’s hoard of those coins and still stay blind to all of ’em. Because some riches stick in the throat, and choke us going down.

  When he saw Fiddler look up and see him, Hedge strode over.

  ‘Don’t do this, Fid.’

  ‘Do what? I told you—’

  ‘Not that. You halt your company now. You form ’em up facing those regulars. You’re captain now and they’re looking to you. It’s the coin, Fiddler. You got to give it back.’

  The captain stared at Hedge for a long moment. ‘Didn’t think it’d be this hard.’

  ‘So you thought to just run away?’

  Fiddler shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t know what to do. Wasn’t sure what they wanted.’

  Cocking his head, Hedge said, ‘You’re not convinced they’re worth it, are you?’

  The captain was silent.

  Hedge shook his head. ‘We ain’t made for this, you and me, Fid. We’re sappers. When I get in trouble on all this stuff I just think what would Whiskeyjack do? Listen, you need those regulars to stand up, you need them to buy you the time needed. You need them to buy it with their own blood, their own lives. It don’t matter if you think they’ve not earned a damned thing. You got to give the coin back.’

  When Fiddler still hesitated, Hedge swung round and gestured to his Bridgeburners, then turned back. ‘We’re forming up, Fid, faces to the camp – you just gonna stand there, with all your marines and heavies mobbing up and not knowing where to fucking look?’

  ‘No,’ Fiddler replied in a
thick voice. ‘Hedge – I think… I just faltered a step. That’s all.’

  ‘Better now than a few days from now, hey?’

  As Hedge moved to join his squads, Fiddler called out. ‘Wait.’

  He turned back. ‘What now?’

  ‘Something else everyone needs to see, I think.’ And Fiddler stepped forward and held out his hand.

  Hedge eyed it. ‘You think that’s enough?’

  ‘Start there, idiot.’

  Smiling, Hedge grasped that forearm.

  And Fiddler pulled him into a hard embrace.

  Badalle stood atop a wagon, Saddic at her side, watching the scene at the edge of camp.

  ‘What’s happening, Badalle?’ Saddic asked.

  ‘Wounds take time to heal,’ she replied, watching the two men embracing, feeling a vast tension seem to drain away on all sides.

  ‘Are they lovers?’

  ‘Brothers,’ she said.

  ‘The one with the red beard – you called him Father, Badalle. Why?’

  ‘It’s what being a soldier is all about. That is what I have seen since we found them. You do not choose your family, and sometimes there’s trouble in that family, but you don’t choose.’

  ‘But they did. They chose to be soldiers.’

  ‘And then they come face to face with death, Saddic. That is the blood tie, and it makes a knot not even dying can cut.’ And that is why the others are saluting. ‘Soon,’ she said, ‘very soon, we are going to see this family awaken to anger.’

  ‘But Mother is sending those ones away. Will we ever see them again?’

  ‘It’s easy, Saddic,’ she said. ‘Just close your eyes.’

  Walking slowly, Pores made his way to the edge of the camp so that he could look out on the marines and heavies, who were now forming up to face the regulars. He looked round for the Adjunct but could not see her. Nor was Fist Blistig anywhere in sight – the man who tried to murder me.

  There is nothing more dangerous than a man without a sense of humour.

  As Fiddler and Hedge drew apart and headed for their respective companies, Faradan Sort came up alongside Pores, and then, on his other side, Fist Kindly.

  Pores sighed. ‘Fists. Was all this by your command?’

  ‘I was barking orders when they just stood up and left me standing there,’ said Faradan Sort. ‘They’re as bad as marines, these regulars.’

  ‘We will see if that’s true soon enough,’ Kindly said. ‘Master-Sergeant Lieutenant Pores, are you recovered?’

  ‘Some additional healing proved possible once we were away from the desert. As you see, sir, I am up and about.’

  ‘It is your innate laziness that still needs addressing.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Are you agreeing with me, Master-Sergeant Lieutenant Pores?’

  ‘I always agree with you, sir.’

  ‘Oh, enough, you two,’ Faradan Sort said. ‘We’re about to be saluted.’

  All the regulars had drawn to this side of the camp and stood in an uneven mass. There was an ease to all of this that Pores found…peculiar, as if the entire structure of the military, in all its rigidity and inane affectation, had ceased to be relevant. The regulars no longer held their own salute and now stood watching, for all the world like a crowd drawn down to the docks to see a fleet’s departure from the bay, while Captain Fiddler moved out to stand in front of his marines, facing them all. He lifted his hand in a salute, held it for a moment as his soldiers did the same, and then let the hand fall.

  And that was it. No answering gesture from the regulars. Pores grunted. ‘It’s the old coin thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Kindly in a rough voice. He cleared his throat and said, ‘That tradition was born on the Seti Plain, from the endless internecine warfare among the horse clans. Honest scraps ended in an exchange of trophy coins.’ He was silent for a few breaths, and then he sighed. ‘Seti combs are works of art. Antler and horn, polished to a lustre—’

  ‘I feel another bout of laziness coming on, sir. Isn’t it time you ordered me to do something?’

  Blinking, Kindly faced Pores. Then shocked him with a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not today.’ And he walked back into camp.

  Faradan Sort remained at his side for a moment longer. ‘If he had a son to choose, Pores…’

  ‘I’ve already been disowned once, Fist, and regardless of what you might think, I’m not a glutton for punishment.’

  She studied him. ‘He was saying goodbye.’

  ‘I know what it was,’ Pores snapped, wincing as he turned too quickly away. When she reached to take his arm, he waved her off. Both gestures made his chest hurt, but that was the kind of pain he welcomed these days. Keeping the other kind at bay.

  Forgot to thank him. Deadsmell. And now it’s too late. And now Kindly goes all soft on me. Where’s the fun in that?

  ‘Go back to your wagon,’ Faradan Sort said. ‘I’ll detail three squads for the harness.’

  No heavies now. ‘Better make it four, Fist.’

  ‘It is my understanding,’ she replied, ‘that we do not have far to go today.’

  Despite himself, he glanced over at her. ‘Really? Has she announced our destination, then?’

  ‘She has.’

  ‘And?’

  She looked across at him. ‘We’re looking for a suitable field of battle.’

  Pores thought about that for a few moments. ‘So they know we’re here.’

  ‘Yes, Lieutenant. And they are marching to meet us.’

  He looked to the departing column of marines and heavies. Then…where are they going? This is what I get for lying half dead for days, and then spoon-feeding old Shorthand, waiting for a word from him. Just one word. Something more than just staring into space – that’s not a proper way for a man to end his days.

  And now I don’t know what the Hood’s going on. Me, of all people.

  The camp was breaking up behind him. Everything coming down for the march, with barely a single word spoken. He’d never known an army as quiet as this one. ‘Fist.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will they fight?’

  She stepped close, her eyes cold as ice. ‘You don’t ask that kind of question, Pores. Not another word. Am I understood?’

  ‘Aye, Fist. I just don’t want to be the only one unsheathing my sword, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re in no condition for that.’

  ‘That detail hardly matters, Fist.’

  Making a face, she turned away. ‘I suppose not.’

  Pores watched her head back into the camp.

  Besides, I might need that sword. If Blistig gets close. It’s not like he’ll be of any use in the scrap – the very opposite, in fact. But I’ll choose the perfect moment. It’s all down to timing. All of life is down to timing, and that was always my talent, wasn’t it?

  I’m mostly a nice guy. Made a career of avoiding blood and fighting and all the unpleasant stuff. The challenge was pulling that off while being in an army. But…not as hard as it sounds.

  No matter. It’s not as if I’m afraid of war. It’s the chaos I don’t like. Kindly’s combs…now, you see, those I do understand. That man I understand. Through and through. And being his one unruly comb, why, how perfect was that?

  Mostly a nice guy, like I said. But Blistig tried killing me, for a few empty casks.

  I don’t feel like being nice any more.

  ‘Adjunct wishes to see you, Fist,’ said Lostara Yil.

  Blistig glanced up, saw the look in her eyes and decided to ignore it. Grunting, he straightened from where he had been sitting amidst discarded equipment.

  He followed the woman through the camp, paying little attention to the preparations going on around them. These regulars were good at going through all the motions – they’d done enough of it, after all, and had probably walked more leagues since forming up than most people did in a lifetime. But that didn’t add any notches on the scabbard, did it? For all their professiona
lism – suddenly rediscovered since the Blood for Water miracle, and not just rediscovered, but reinvented with a discipline so zealous it bordered on the obsessive – these regulars looked fragile to Blistig.

  They would melt away before the enemy at the first hint of pressure. He’d seen them lining the route taken by the marines and heavies; he’d seen their pathetic salutes. Good for gestures now, these soldiers, but their faces were empty. They had the look of the dead. Every man, every woman.

  When Lostara reached the entrance to the Adjunct’s tent, she halted, gesturing him inside.

  He moved past her, stepped within.

  Only the front chamber remained standing – the back end of the tent was already unstaked and hanging in a thick creased wall behind Tavore, who stood facing him. There was no one else present, not even that smirking priest, and Lostara Yil had not followed him in.

  ‘What is it, Adjunct? I have troops to oversee if you want us up and on the way before noon.’

  ‘Fist Blistig, I am placing you in command of the centre. You will have Fist Kindly on your right and Fist Faradan Sort on your left. Warleader Gall will hold the Khundryl in reserve, along with the skirmishers and archers.’

  He stared at her, dumbfounded. ‘You are describing the presentation for battle,’ he said. ‘But there won’t be any battle. It will be a rout. We will face Forkrul Assail – and you’ve gone and given up your sword. Their sorcery will overwhelm us.’

  Her eyes held on his, unwavering. ‘You will hold the centre, Fist. That is your only task in the upcoming engagement. You will be attacked by normal soldiers – Kolansii – a conventional army. Expect them to be highly disciplined and well trained. If there are heavy infantry among the enemy then you can be certain that they will strike for your position. You will not yield a single step, is that understood?’