The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  A shudder took Hedge and he looked away. ‘The sergeants were the last of ’em.’

  ‘They ain’t dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cut up, aye. But just unconscious. Deadsmell figures it was heat prostration.’

  ‘Heat— Gods below, I told ’em to drink all they had!’

  ‘They’re big women, Hedge.’

  ‘My last Bridgeburners.’

  ‘Aye, Hedge, your last Bridgeburners.’

  Hedge opened his eyes and looked over at his friend – but Fid’s own eyes remained shut, face towards the darkening sky. ‘Really? What you said?’

  ‘Really.’

  Hedge settled back. ‘Think we can stop ’em again?’

  ‘Of course we can. Listen, you ain’t hiding another cusser, are you?’

  ‘No. Hood take me, I been carrying that one for bloody ever. And all that time, it was a dud!’

  Faces floated behind Fiddler’s eyes. Stilled in death, when so many memories of each one gave them so much life – but that life was trapped now, inside Fiddler’s own mind. And there they would remain, when in opening his eyes – which he was not yet ready to do – he would see only that stillness, the emptiness.

  He knew which world he wanted to live in. But, people didn’t have that choice, did they? Not unless they killed the spark inside themselves first. With drink, with the oblivion of sweet smoke, but those were false dreams and made mockery of the ones truly lost – the ones whose lives had passed.

  Around him, the desperate gulps of breath were fading, the groans falling off as wounds were bound. Few soldiers had the strength to move, and he knew that they were now settled as he was, here against this stone. Too tired to move.

  From the slope on all sides, the low cries and moans of wounded Kolansii lifted up, soft and forlorn, abandoned. The Malazans had killed hundreds, had wounded even more, and still the attackers would not relent, as if this hill had become the lone island in a world of rising seas.

  But it’s not that.

  It’s just the place we chose. To do what’s right.

  But then, maybe that alone gives reason to take us down, to destroy us.

  Hedge was silent beside him, but not asleep – if he had been, his snores would have driven them all from this place, the Crippled God included, chains be damned. And from the army still surrounding them, down on the lower ground, nothing more than a sullen mutter of sound – soldiers resting, checking weapons and armour. Readying for the next assault.

  The last assault.

  Twenty-odd soldiers cannot stop an army.

  Even these soldiers.

  Someone coughed nearby, from some huddle of stones, and then spoke. ‘So, who are we fighting for again?’

  Fiddler could not place the voice.

  Nor the one that replied, ‘Everyone.’

  A long pause, and then, ‘No wonder we’re losing.’

  Six, a dozen heartbeats, before someone snorted. A rumbling laugh followed, and then someone else burst out in a howl of mirth – and all at once, from the dark places among the rocks of this barrow, laughter burgeoned, rolled round, bounced and echoed.

  Fiddler felt his mouth cracking wide in a grin, and then he barked a laugh, and then another. And then he simply could not stop, pain clenching his side. Beside him, Hedge was suddenly hysterical, twisting over and curling up as the laughter poured out of him.

  Tears now in Fiddler’s eyes – wiping them frantically – but the laughter went on.

  And on.

  Smiles looked over at the others in her squad, saw them doubling over, saw faces flushed and tears streaming down. Bottle. Koryk. Even Tarr. And Smiles…smiled.

  When her squad-mates saw that, they convulsed as if gut-stabbed.

  Lying jammed in a crack between two stones a third of the way down the slope, half buried beneath Kolansii corpses, and feeling the blood draining away from the deep, mortal wounds in his chest, Cuttle heard that laughter.

  And in his mind he went back, and back. Childhood. The battles they fought, the towering redoubts they defended, the sunny days of dust and sticks for swords and running this way and that, where time was nothing but a world without horizons – and the days never closed, and every stone felt perfect in the palm of the hand, and when a bruise arrived, or a cut opened red, why he need only run to his ma or da, and they would take his shock and indignation and make it all seem less important – and then that disturbance would be gone, drifting into the time of before, and ahead there was only the sun and the brightness of never growing up.

  To the stones and sweat and blood here in his last resting place, Cuttle smiled, and then he whispered to them in his mind, You should have seen our last stands. They were something.

  They were something.

  Darkness, and then brightness – brightness like a summer day without end. He went there, without a single look back.

  Lying beneath the weight of the chains, the Crippled God, who had been listening, now heard. Long-forgotten, half-disbelieved emotions rose up through him, ferocious and bright. He drew a sharp breath, feeling his throat tighten. I will remember this. I will set out scrolls and burn upon them the names of these Fallen. I will make of this work a holy tome, and no other shall be needed.

  Hear them! They are humanity unfurled, laid out for all to see – if one would dare look!

  There shall be a Book and it shall be written by my hand. Wheel and seek the faces of a thousand gods! None can do what I can do! Not one can give voice to this holy creation!

  But this is not bravado. For this, my Book of the Fallen, the only god worthy of its telling is the crippled one. The broken one. And has it not always been thus?

  I never hid my hurts.

  I never disguised my dreams.

  And I never lost my way.

  And only the fallen can rise again.

  He listened to the laughter, and suddenly the weight of those chains was as nothing. Nothing.

  ‘They have resurr—’ Brother Grave stopped. He turned, faced the dark hill.

  Beside him, High Watered Haggraf’s eyes slowly widened – and on all sides the Kolansii soldiers were looking up at the barrow, the weapons in their hands sagging. More than a few took a backward step.

  As laughter rolled down to them all.

  When Brother Grave pushed harshly through the soldiers, marching towards the corpse-strewn foot of the hill, Haggraf followed.

  The Pure halted five paces beyond the milling, disordered ranks, stared upward. He flung Haggraf a look drawn taut with incredulity. ‘Who are these foreigners?’

  The High Watered could only shake his head, a single motion.

  Brother Grave’s face darkened. ‘There are but a handful left – there will be no retreat this time, do you understand me? No retreat! I want them all cut down!’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  The Forkrul Assail glared at the soldiers. ‘Form up, all of you! Prepare to advance!’

  Suddenly, from the hill, deathly silence.

  Brother Grave smiled. ‘Hear that? They know that it is over!’

  A faint whistling in the air, and then Haggraf grunted in pain, staggering to one side – an arrow driven through his left shoulder.

  Brother Grave spun to him, glared.

  Teeth clenching, Haggraf tore the iron point from his shoulder, almost collapsing from the burst of agony as blood streamed down. Staring down at the glistening sliver of wood in his hand, he saw that it was Kolansii.

  Snarling, Brother Grave wheeled and forced his way back through the press of soldiers. He would join this assault – he would ride his Jhag horse to the very top, cutting down every fool who dared stand in his way.

  In his mind, seeping in from the soldiers surrounding him, he could hear whispers of dread and fear, and beneath that palpable bitterness there was something else – something that forced its way through his utter command of their bodies, their wills.

  These were hardened veterans, one and all. By their hands t
hey had delivered slaughter, upon foes armed and unarmed, at the command of the Forkrul Assail. They had been slaves for years now. And yet, like a black current beneath the stone of his will, Brother Grave sensed emotions that had nothing to do with a desire to destroy the enemy now opposing them.

  They were in…awe.

  The very notion infuriated him.

  ‘Silence! They are mortal! They have not the wits to accept the inevitable! You will fight them, you will take them down, every last one of them!’ Seeing them wither before his command, a surge of satisfaction rushed through him and he moved on.

  ‘And I will claim the Crippled God,’ he hissed under his breath, finally pushing clear of the troops, marching towards his hobbled horse. ‘I will wound him and Akhrast Korvalain shall be reborn, and then none will be able to oppose me. None!’

  Motion off to his left caught his attention. He halted, squinted into the green-tinted gloom.

  Someone was walking towards him across the plain.

  What now?

  At forty paces he saw the figure raise its arms.

  The sorcery that erupted from him was a blinding, coruscating wave, argent as the heart of lightning. It tore across the ground between them, struck one edge of the Kolansii ranks, and scythed through them.

  Bellowing in answer, Brother Grave threw up his hands a moment before the magic struck.

  He was flung backwards through the air, only to slam into something unyielding – something that gave an animal grunt.

  Strength fled Brother Grave. He looked down, stared at two long blades jutting from his chest. Each knife had pierced through one of his hearts.

  Then a low voice rumbled close to one ear. ‘Compliments of Kalam Mekhar.’

  The assassin let the body sag, slide off his long knives. Then he turned and slashed through the rope hobbling the horse. Moved up alongside the beast’s head. ‘I hate horses, you know. But this time you’d better run – even you won’t like what’s coming.’ He stepped back, slapped the animal’s rump.

  The bone-white Jhag horse bolted, trying a kick that Kalam barely managed to dodge. He glared after it, and then turned to face the Kolansii soldiers –

  – in time to see another wave of Quick Ben’s brutal sorcery hammer into the press of troops, tearing down hundreds. The rest scattered.

  And the High Mage was shouting, running now. ‘Through the gap, Kalam! Hurry! Get to that barrow! Run, damn you!’

  Growling, the assassin lumbered forward. I hate horses, aye, but I hate running even more. Shoulda ridden the damned thing – then this would be easy. Better still, we should never have let the other one go. Quick’s going on soft on me.

  A Kolansii officer with Assail blood in him stepped into his path, clutching his wounded shoulder.

  Kalam cut the man’s head off with a scissoring motion of his long knives, knocked the headless body to one side, and continued on. He knew that tone from Quick Ben. Run like a damned gazelle, Kalam!

  Instead, he ran like a bear.

  With luck, that would be fast enough.

  Hedge knew that sound, recognized that flash of blinding magefire. He rose, dragging Fiddler to his feet. ‘Quick Ben! Fiddler – they’re here!’

  On all sides, the last few marines were rising, weapons hanging, their faces filling with disbelief.

  Hedge pointed. ‘There! I’d know that scrawny excuse for a man anywhere! And there – that’s Kalam!’

  ‘They broke the Kolansii,’ Fiddler said. ‘Why are they running?’

  As Hedge spun round – as if to shout to the marines – his hand suddenly clenched on Fiddler’s arm, and the captain turned.

  He looked skyward.

  ‘Gods below!’

  She was the finder of paths. There were ways through the worlds that only she had walked. But now, as she forced her will through the warren’s veil, she could feel the pressure behind her – a need that seemed without answer.

  Instinct had taken her this far, and the world beyond was unknown to her.

  Has my course been true? Or nothing but a lie I whispered to myself, over and over, as if the universe would bend to my will?

  I promised so much to my lord.

  I led him home, I led him to the throne of his ancestors.

  I promised answers. To all of the hidden purposes behind all that his father had done. I promised him a meaning to all this.

  And I promised him peace.

  She emerged into a dying day, trod lifeless grasses beneath her moccasin-clad feet. And the sky above was crazed with emerald comets, the light stunning her eyes with its virulence. They seemed close enough to touch, and in the falling rain of that light she heard voices.

  But a moment later those actinic arcs were not alone in the heavens. Vast shadows tore ragged trails through the green glow, coming from her right with the fury of clashing storm clouds. Blood and gore spattered the ground around her like hail.

  She spun in that direction, and the breath escaped Apsal’ara in a rush.

  A blight was taking the land, faster than any wildfire – and above it was a dragon, appallingly huge, assailed on all sides by lesser kin.

  Korabas!

  She saw the front of that blight rushing towards her.

  She turned and ran. Reached desperately for warrens, but nothing awakened – it was all being destroyed. Every path, every gate. Life’s myriad fires were being snuffed out, crushed like dying embers.

  What have I done?

  They are following – they trusted in me! My lord and his followers are coming – there is no stopping that, but they will arrive in a realm which they cannot leave.

  Where flies Korabas, there shall be T’iam!

  What have I done?

  Suddenly, in the distance ahead, sure as a dreaded dawn, the rift she had made tore open wide, and five dragons sailed out, their vast shadows rushing towards her. Four were black as onyx, the fifth the crimson hue of blood.

  Desra. Skintick. Korlat. Silanah. Nimander.

  And awaiting them, in the skies above this world, between earth and the fiery heavens, the air swarmed with their kin. And Korabas.

  At war.

  She saw her lord and his followers drawn into that maelstrom – all will lost, stolen away by what was coming.

  Where flies Korabas, there shall be T’iam.

  And the goddess of the Eleint had begun to manifest.

  Panicked, weeping, Apsal’ara began running again, and there, in the distance, beckoned a hill crowded with crags and boulders, and upon that hill there were figures.

  As Fiddler turned to face the west, he found himself staring at the most massive dragon he had ever seen. Harried by scores of lesser dragons, seemingly torn to shreds, it was labouring straight for them.

  He spun – the Adjunct’s sword was now bleeding coppery, rust-stained light, visibly trembling where it was driven into the earth. Oh no. We’re all dead.

  The land beneath the Otataral Dragon was withering, crumbling to dust and cracked, bare clay. The devastation spread out like floodwaters over the plains.

  The sword wasn’t enough. We all knew that. When we stood here – her, me, the priest…

  The priest!

  He whirled round.

  At that moment Quick Ben reached the crest. ‘No one leaves the barrow! Stay inside the ring!’

  The ring? ‘Gods below. D’rek!’

  The wizard heard him and flashed a half-panicked grin. ‘Well said, Fid! But not gods below. Just one.’

  Kalam stumbled into view behind Quick Ben, lathered in sweat and so winded he fell to his knees, face stretched in pain as he struggled to catch his breath.

  Hedge threw the assassin a waterskin. ‘You’re out of shape, soldier.’

  Fiddler saw his marines drawing up – their eyes were on the approaching dragon, and the hundreds of other, smaller dragons swooping down upon it in deadly waves. When some of them saw the blight, spreading out and now rushing closer, they flinched back. Fiddler well understood th
at gesture. ‘Quick Ben! Can she protect us?’

  The wizard scowled across at him. ‘You don’t know? She’s here, isn’t she? Why else would she be here?’ He then advanced on Fiddler. ‘Didn’t you plan this?’

  ‘Plan? What fucking plan?’ he retorted, unwilling to budge. ‘Banaschar said something…his god was coming – to offer protection—’

  ‘Exactly – wait, what kind of protection?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  The blight struck the lower ground, caught the scattered Kolansii soldiers. They disintegrated in billows of dust.

  The Malazans threw themselves to the ground, covering their heads.

  Fiddler simply stared, as the Otataral Dragon voiced a terrible cry that seemed to hold in it a world’s pain and anguish, age upon age – and its tattered wings, snapping like torn sails, thundered wildly in the air as the creature halted directly above the barrow. Quick Ben pulled him down to the ground.

  Nearby the earth shook as the corpse of a dragon slammed into it. A curtain of blood slapped the hillside.

  The wizard dragged himself close. ‘Stay low – she’s fighting it. Gods, it’s killing her!’

  Twisting round on the ground, Fiddler looked over at the Crippled God. His eyes widened.

  Forged by the gods, the chains shattered like ice, links exploding, flinging shards in a vicious hail. Soldiers cried out, flinched away. The Crippled God remained lying on the ground, motionless. He had carried that weight for so long, he felt unable to move.

  Yet his chest filled with air, the unyielding constriction now gone. The sudden release from pain left him hollow inside. Trembling took his body, and he turned his head.

  The mortals were screaming, though he could not hear them. They looked upon him with desperate need, but he no longer understood what they desired of him. And then, blinking, he stared up, not at the hovering, dying dragon, but beyond it.

  My worshippers. My children. I hear them. I hear their calls.

  The Crippled God slowly sat up, staring down at his mangled hands, the uneven fingers, the nubs where nails should have been. He studied his scarred, seamed skin, the slack muscles beneath it. Is this mine? Is this how I am?