The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Dead! Where’s your fucking squad?’

  ‘With your sergeant,’ snapped Ordinary Grey. ‘Except for my Semk here…’

  They were being jostled, ever losing ground. Grid Ffan’s eyes shifted past the sergeant and then widened. ‘Someone sewed up his fucking mouth!’

  ‘He likes it that way. Now listen – the south flank—’

  ‘We ain’t got a south flank!’

  ‘She’s over there – her and that Shadow Dancer and that captain with piss-ice in his beard. The Assail’s finished, but the heavy infantry’s about to fold us up. She named you, Ffan! Just like she named me and Could Howl. You understanding me?’

  Grid Ffan shifted round. ‘Hare Ravage! Sample! Find the others – we’re pulling out of this press!’

  The squad’s huge mailed fist turned to the corporal. ‘I barely got a swing in! Been waiting for fucking ever, Corporal!’

  ‘We’ll get you your Hood-damned fight, you Kanese squid-eater – we’re taking on a whole army of heavies!’

  ‘How many of us?’ Sample demanded, her blue-tinted skin ashen with dust.

  Ffan turned back to Ordinary Grey, who answered, ‘Maybe ten.’

  The Napan’s grin flashed white, and in a sharp, piercing voice, she cried out, ‘Shades, Brutan, Asp, Shipwreck and Gill Slime! With us! Move, damn you all!’

  Pores sagged beside Kindly, who risked a moment to glower down at the man. ‘Get out of here! You’re a damned liability!’

  ‘Just need – to – catch my breath!’

  Beyond Pores, in the seething press, Kindly saw a dozen or so soldiers moving through the ranks away from the frontline. ‘What in Hood’s name are they doing?’ But he saw no panic in the faces of the soldiers closest to them – words were shouted back and forth, and the ranks shifted to make room for them to pass.

  Pores straightened once more, followed Kindly’s glare. ‘Ordinary Grey… Ffan and Sample. And there’s that scary Semk – it’s the ones she called on, sir.’

  ‘Is it now?’

  Another hard shove from the front staggered them back again.

  ‘Head back to the camp, Pores – do something useful. Protect the children.’

  ‘I don’t think – oh, right. Sir—’

  ‘I’m moving up again – get out of here.’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘That’s it – you’re up on report, soldier! Now go before I kill you myself!’

  Lesser Watered Trissin moved past the bones of Brother Aloft – she struggled to not look down, yet could not help herself. Locusts still crawled here and there, out from under the bones or the slack skins of intestines, still crowded the gaping jaws.

  She could feel Sister Freedom’s fury and pain as the wounded Pure lashed out – the T’lan Imass would not win that battle – but they were taking all the Forkrul Assail’s concentration. In truth, it was High Watered Melest who was commanding the assault, from the centre.

  She saw, ahead of them, a line of four soldiers, and her eyes widened – this is all they have for us? They are mad!

  Off to the right, spilling out from the enemy phalanx, came a dozen or so medium infantry.

  A laugh burst from her. ‘This is what they offer in opposition?’ She gestured, her mind snapping out the command to spread out, widen the facing line.

  They would sweep past these fools, and then wheel round to close on the flank from behind.

  The battle was as good as done.

  ‘Adjunct,’ said Ruthan Gudd, ‘we need to fall back – into the phalanx. We can’t stay out here – we can’t hold that advance—’

  But Tavore Paran seemed to be beyond words. Blood flowed down her face, as if all that she had contained, all that she had held inside, was now pushing free.

  Gods below. ‘Take her left, Lostara – with Henar on yours. I’ve got the right. Adjunct! Fuck this waiting, let’s charge.’

  Her head snapped round, the eyes raw and wild.

  And then the four of them were moving forward.

  Trissin shouted in shock – they were attacking!

  And now she saw – one of the soldiers was sheathed in ice, even unto the long sword in his hand. And another was coming forward with the fluid grace of water, two swords seeming to flow from her hands. Apart from the ice-bound figure, the others were covered in blood – these were the ones who had stood against Brother Aloft. That woman – she commands this army.

  What is she doing?

  What are they all doing?

  Grid Ffan swore in a stream of languages and then yelled, ‘Run, you fools! Catch up to ’em!’ And as they pelted forward, ten regulars racing to join up with their Adjunct and her officers, the corporal found breath to bark out orders.

  ‘Hare Ravage – go far end and arrive hard! Sample – follow him up! Shades Elar and Brutan Harb – back up the Shadow Dancer and the Bluerose. Shipwreck and Could Howl, stay with me for the Adjunct! You too, Grey.’

  Sergeant Ordinary Grey cursed. ‘I outrank you, Ffan!’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Right,’ the man gasped. ‘You all, what Ffan said! Carry on, Corporal!’

  ‘Asp Slither – got any magic? How ’bout you, Gill?’

  ‘’S coming back,’ hissed Gill Slime.

  And Asp Slither cackled like a strangled swan. ‘Just watch me!’ she crowed.

  ‘No!’ Ffan shouted – they were only a dozen or so paces away now. ‘Hold back, both of you! Find their fucking commander and hit the fucker with all you fucking got, you fucking got it?’

  The Kartoolii mage cackled a second time and loomed close. ‘No, sir. What do you mean?’

  A strange burbling sound spat out from Could Howl.

  Ffan shot the Semk a look. ‘That’s some laugh you got there.’

  They arrived like a whirlwind, into the front line of the Kolansii. Swords were a blur in the hands of the dancer, and, where they touched, blood sang forth and bodies tumbled back. The ice-clad soldier waded in, blows bouncing from him unnoticed, and cut deep into the ranks, his sword seemingly everywhere. The tall soldier on the dancer’s left was bellowing as he beat down the Kolansii in front of him, shieldslamming another and knocking the two men off their feet, where they fouled those coming up behind them. And the commander fought with breathtaking precision, every motion either evading a thrust or dealing death, on her face an expression that struck ice through Trissin’s heart.

  And then the other soldiers arrived, four coming up around the commander, three of them howling like demons, the fourth with his mouth horribly sewn tight. They struck in a manic frenzy, driving the Kolansii back.

  She saw a huge soldier collide with the heavies who had swung round the ice-bound man, somehow knocking three of them to the ground. His short sword lashed down, seemingly little more than touching each Kolansii on the side of the neck – and from three throats blood sprayed out.

  ‘Surround them!’ screamed Trissin from three ranks behind the fighting. ‘Cut them—’

  A ball of flames engulfed the Kolansii commander, raging wild, and from the cloudless sky above lightning crashed down, the impact thundering, flinging soldiers to the ground, the strike creating a vast hole in the ranks. Burnt flesh and parts of bodies rained down.

  Three demons clawed up from the ground beneath the burning woman, their bodies covered in protruding mouths filled with dagger-length fangs, the talons on the ends of their fingers long as sabres, their heads swarming with coal-red eyes. Roaring, they lunged into the raging flames, tearing the commander to pieces.

  Seeing all this, Grid Ffan shot a wild look back at his mages – saw them convulsed with laughter. Fucking illusionists! ‘Tone it down, you fools! You want t’give it all away?’

  Gill Slime and Asp Slither looked up, suddenly straight-faced.

  ‘Got anything else?’ Ffan demanded.

  Both shook their heads.

  ‘Then get up here and fight!’

  The Kolansii had recovered, were now pushing to close once again. And m
ore were swinging round on the far side, forcing Sample and Hare Ravage to back up.

  Swearing, Ffan worked up close to the Adjunct.

  ‘Sir! We need to fall back into the phalanx! Adjunct!’

  When she did not reply – or even seem to hear him – he cursed and said to the sergeant beside him, ‘Grey, listen. We come up and around her, either side – we make us a wall so she can’t get past us. Shipwreck, go there – and you, Semk, right here – we’re going to force her back and into the ranks, understood?’

  ‘It’s the battle lust, sir!’ shouted Shipwreck, staggering drunkenly as was his way in moments of high excitement, when his damaged inner ear started acting up.

  ‘I know what the fuck it is, idiot. Now, let’s do this!’

  Lostara Yil was being pulled away from the Adjunct’s flank – Henar Vygulf was hard pressed, now defending himself from attackers on two sides. The sudden arrival of the regulars had eased the threat, but only momentarily – there were simply too many of the bastards.

  Sobbing, bearing countless wounds, Lostara Yil drew closer to her love.

  Don’t die. Please. Don’t die.

  A sword blade clipped Henar’s head. He staggered, stunned.

  Lostara screamed, now fighting blind to the threats pressing in around her, her gaze fixed on Henar.

  The two regulars collapsed in to fend off the blows rushing down towards Henar. A woman and a man, the former Nathii, the latter Seven Cities – she had never seen them before, but they fought the attackers to a standstill above her love, who’d dragged off his cracked helm, blood gushing down from a scalp wound, and was trying to regain his feet.

  Lostara hacked down a Kolansii on her left, leapt over his crumpling form. The grace was gone now. Only brutal savagery remained. She opened another man’s throat.

  The Nathii woman shrieked, a sword driven through her chest. Dropping her weapon she took hold of the arm gripping that sword, and pulled her attacker down as she fell. Her companion’s short sword licked out, cut through half his neck; the man was shouting, trying to drag Henar back to his feet, until an axe crushed the back of the regular’s head, through helm and bone, and flung him forward, limbs flopping. But Henar was on his feet once more – and Lostara reached his side. Just beyond, a row of faces: Malazan regulars, shouting from their line on the flank, screaming and beckoning. Close! Hurry! Come to us!

  Lostara spun round, blades whipping out. ‘Henar! To the ranks! Go!’

  She saw the other regulars spilling back, all of them arrayed protectively round the Adjunct as they forced her towards the ranks. Ruthan Gudd and one huge regular were fighting to prevent the group from getting cut off, enveloped, but even they were being pushed back.

  Take me, Cotillion! Please, I beg you! Take me!

  But from her patron god…nothing. She twisted to her left, marched ahead to hold the enemy.

  A dozen Kolansii rushed her.

  The Khundryl had pushed as deep as they could into the press of heavy infantry. They had gone farther than Warleader Gall had thought possible. But now the horses were all dead, and so too the last of his warriors. But the advance had been blocked – bodies alone were enough to prevent the enemy from swinging round the Malazan wing – so now they were simply pushing inward, forcing the regulars into an ever-contracting formation.

  A sword had ripped open everything below his ribcage. He was lying on his back, on the corpses of strangers and kin, his intestines spilled out and tangled round his legs.

  Something was pulsing in the air – he could not be certain if it came from outside or from somewhere deep inside him. No. Outside. Voices, rising in rhythm, but he could not quite make out the word. Again and again, the sound rising and falling, coming from somewhere off to his right.

  He found the pounding of his heart falling into that pulse, and warmth flowed through him, though he knew not the reason for it.

  Darkness was drawing close.

  That sound. That sound…voices. They are voices. Rising from the Malazans. What are they saying? What do they shout, again and again?

  Abruptly, thick blood crackled in one ear, opened a way through, and he could at last hear the endlessly repeated cry.

  ‘Khundryl! Khundryl! Khundryl!’

  A word for his fading heart, a song for his ending life. Coltaine, I shall stand before you. We shall ride with your Wickans. I see crows over the Ancestral Hills—

  Sister Freedom strode forward as the huge Imass toppled. She kicked him on to his back, plunged her battered hands down, closed her fingers through torn, papery skin and ripped sinews, and took hold of his spine. She paused a moment, glaring at the one with the flint-studded harpoon who was rising yet again a few paces away.

  The Forkrul Assail was a mass of wounds and broken bones, but she was far from dead. Bellowing, she lifted the T’lan Imass from the ground and broke his spine like a branch, twisting it amidst snapping, grinding sounds. Flinging the corpse away, she advanced on the last undead warrior.

  ‘This ends now!’

  The female warrior backed away.

  They were both down from the rise, down among heaps of bodies – cold flesh and thick, cooling blood underfoot, limbs that flopped away with each step.

  Fury filled Freedom. At the murder of Brother Aloft. At the pathetic audacity and stubbornness of these T’lan Imass. At this army of foreigners who refused to break, who did nothing but die where they stood, killing her soldiers and killing yet more of them.

  She would destroy them – soon, once this last Imass was crushed and torn apart.

  She stepped over a dead horse-warrior, one boot cracking into the side of the man’s head.

  The blow rang loud, and Gall opened his eyes. Blinked up at the sky. I should be dead. Why am I not yet dead?

  Behind him he heard someone speak. ‘Surrender to me, T’lan Imass. Your kin are all gone. There is no point in continuing this fight. Stand and I will destroy you. But I will give you leave to depart. Be done with this – it is not your battle.’

  Gall reached down, took hold of a handful of his intestines, just under his ribcage and tore it free. He groped, slicing open the palm of his hand on a discarded sword – a Kolansii blade, straight and tipped for thrusting. A child’s toy. Not like my tulwar. But it will have to do. He climbed to his feet, almost folded as a weight slipped behind his ribs and sternum – with his free hand he reached in, to hold everything up.

  Turning, he found himself staring at the back of the Forkrul Assail. Beyond her stood a T’lan Imass, the one he knew to be named Nom Kala. Her left thigh had been shattered, bent and splintered, yet still she stood, her spear held at the ready.

  Gall stepped forward, and drove the sword through the Forkrul Assail, through her spine. She arched in shock, the breath rushing from her.

  The Khundryl fell back, his lungs slipping past his spread fingers to flop in his lap.

  He was dead before his head hit the ground.

  Nom Kala stepped forward. The Forkrul Assail’s eyes were wide, staring into her own. The T’lan Imass had been watching those eyes for what seemed an eternity, since the moment they had risen up from the ground beneath her. She had studied the malice and ferocity in that unhuman glare. She had witnessed the flares of pleasure and triumph each time the Assail had shattered another of her kin. She had seen their delight when breaking Kalt Urmanal’s spine.

  But now there was a sword thrust through the Forkrul Assail, iron gleaming blue-red, and those eyes held nothing but astonishment.

  Nom Kala took one more step closer. Then drove her harpoon into the bitch’s eye.

  Hard enough to drive through, punching out the back of the Assail’s skull.

  The Malazan army was crumbling. Driven back, pushed ever tighter inward, they left bodies heaped in ribboned mounds with every step they yielded. Joined by a stumbling Pores, Banaschar led the non-combatants – the children of the Snake and the Khundryl – as far back as they dared, but it was clear that the Kolansii sought only
to annihilate the Bonehunters. All the heavy infantry now working round from the south were ignoring the huddled mass of unarmed onlookers.

  Blistig was still fighting, a hard, defiant knot at the front of the centre phalanx. Banaschar could see Kindly, there on the right, doing the same. And Faradan Sort on his left. These three Fists, chosen by the Adjunct, simply refused to fall.

  The ex-priest could no longer see Tavore, but something told him that she still stood – somewhere in the ranks on the south-facing line. That attack, with the squad of regulars coming up to join it, had been…extraordinary.

  And that magic was…ridiculous. But see that commander – lying dead. That’s real enough. Not much Assail blood in that one, to have succumbed to nothing but invented nightmares. Nice play, regulars.

  But it was all hopeless. All that he’d seen here, all that he’d witnessed.

  He felt a presence to his right and turned to see Hanavat, and a step behind her and to one side, Rutt carrying the child. ‘Your husband – I am sorry,’ said Banaschar.

  She shook her head. ‘He stopped them. They all did. And now – see? The Forkrul Assail herself has fallen.’

  ‘It was well fought, was it not?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Tell me, have you named the child?’

  Hanavat met his eyes. ‘I believed…what is the point? Until this moment. Until you spoke.’ Then her eyes fell from his. ‘Yet for the life of me, I cannot think of one.’

  ‘Gall?’

  ‘Gall bears but one face in my life, and so it shall ever be. Priest, I am lost.’

  He could say nothing to that.

  We are all lost.

  Banaschar faced the terrible battle once more, Hanavat upon one side with the boy and the baby, Pores upon the other. They looked on, silent.

  To where the Bonehunters were dying. Every one of them.

  The air swirling brittle with outrage, High Fist Ganoes Paran rode to the top of the ridge, Fist Rythe Bude at his side. Behind them the Host was drawing up at the trot – he did not need to look behind him, or listen to Bude’s desperate breaths, to know that they were exhausted.