The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  “None, so far as I’m aware,” Brood answered. “Ease up on the lad, Kallor. He pulled off the last one. Remember, you were young once, too.”

  The old warrior shrugged. “Jorrick’s last success belongs to the Lady of Luck if anything. It surely was not the product of genius.”

  “I’ll not argue you that one,” Brood said.

  “May I ask, what is the reason for speaking with K’azz in person?”

  Brood looked around. “Where’s that damn horse of mine, anyway?”

  “Probably cowering,” Kallor said dryly. “Word is, his legs have become shorter and stubbier beneath your prodigious self. I remain unconvinced that such a thing is possible, but who can argue with a horse?”

  “I need some of the Prince’s men,” Brood said, heading off down an aisle. “To be more precise,” he said, over his shoulder, “I need the Crimson Guard’s Sixth Blade.”

  Watching Caladan Brood stride away, Kallor sighed. “Rake again, is it, Warlord? You’d do better to follow my advice and destroy him. You will rue dismissing my advice, Brood.” His dull eyes followed Brood until he turned a corner and disappeared from sight. “Consider that my last warning.”

  The charred earth crunched under their horses’ hooves. The glance that Toc the Younger threw back over his shoulder was received with a grim nod from Captain Paran. They were nearing the source of last night’s column of fire.

  As Toc had promised, leaving the city had proved a simple matter; none accosted them, and the gates had been left ajar. Their horses were indeed Wickan-bred, lean and long-limbed; and though their ears flattened and eyes rolled they held to the discipline of their reins.

  The still midday air was heavy with the stench of sulfur, and already a fine coat of ash covered the two riders and their horses. Overhead the sun was a bright copper orb. Toc stopped his mount and waited for the captain to arrive.

  Paran wiped grimy sweat from his brow and adjusted his helmet. The camail felt heavy on his shoulders as he squinted ahead. They were heading toward the place where the pillar of fire had come from. The night just past had been one of deep fear for Paran: neither he nor Toc had ever witnessed such a conflagration of sorcery. Though they had camped leagues away they had felt the heat pouring from it. Now, as they approached, all Paran could feel was dread.

  Neither he nor Toc spoke. Perhaps a hundred yards eastward rose something that looked like a misshapen tree stump, one gnarled, blackened branch reaching skyward. In a perfect circle around it the grassy sward was untouched for perhaps five yards. A dark smudge lay in this unburned area, slightly off to one side.

  Paran nudged his mount forward and Toc followed after unslinging and stringing his bow. As Toc caught up with the captain, Paran saw that his companion had nocked an arrow.

  The closer they approached the less like a tree the charred thing looked. The limb that reached out from it had familiar lines. Paran’s gaze narrowed some more, then he cursed and spurred his horse. He closed the distance quickly, leaving behind a startled Toc.

  Arriving, he dismounted and strode up to what he now saw were two bodies, one gigantic. Both had been burned beyond recognition, but Paran held no illusions as to who the other was. All that come close to me, all that I care for . . . “Tattersail,” he whispered, then fell to his knees.

  Toc joined him, but remained in the saddle, standing in the stirrups and scanning the horizon. A minute later he dismounted and walked a slow circle around the embracing bodies, stopping at the dark smudge they’d seen from a distance. He crouched to study it.

  Paran raised his head and struggled to keep his eyes on the figures. The limb belonged to the giant. The fire that had consumed them both had blackened the arm for most of its length, but its hand was only slightly scorched. Paran stared at the grasping fingers and wondered what salvation the giant had reached for in its moment of death. The freedom that is death, a freedom denied me. Damn the gods, damn them all. Numbed, he was slow to realize that Toc called to him.

  It was an effort to rise to his feet. He staggered to where Toc still crouched. On the ground before the man was a torn burlap sack.

  “Tracks lead from this,” Toc said shakily, a strange expression on his face. He scratched vigorously at his scar, then rose. “Heading northeast.”

  Paran looked at his companion without comprehension. “Tracks?”

  “Small, like a child’s. Only . . .”

  “Only what?”

  The man hugged himself. “Those feet were mostly bones.” He met the captain’s blank stare. “As if the soles were gone, rotted or burned away—I don’t know . . . Something horrible has happened here, Captain. I’m glad it’s heading away, whatever it is.”

  Paran turned back to the two entwined figures. He flinched. One hand reached up to touch his face. “That’s Tattersail,” he said, in a flat voice.

  “I know. I’m sorry. The other one is the Thelomen High Mage Bellurdan. It has to be.” Toc looked down at the burlap sack. “He took leave to come out here and bury Nightchill.” He added quietly, “I don’t think Nightchill needs burying anymore.”

  “Tayschrenn did this,” Paran said.

  Something in the captain’s voice brought Toc round.

  “Tayschrenn. And the Adjunct. Tattersail was right. They would not have killed her otherwise. Only she didn’t die easily, she never took the easy path in anything. Lorn’s taken her from me, just like she’s taken everything else.”

  “Captain . . .”

  Paran’s hand unconsciously gripped the pommel of his sword. “That heartless bitch has a lot coming to her, and I mean to deliver it.”

  “Fine,” Toc growled. “Just let’s be smart about it.”

  Paran glared at him. “Let’s get going, Toc the Younger.”

  Toc glanced one last time into the northeast. This wasn’t over, he told himself, shivering. He winced as a savage, painful itch rose beneath his scar. Though he tried, he found he could not reach through to it. And a formless fire burned behind his empty eye-socket—something he had been experiencing often lately. Muttering, he strode to his horse and climbed into the saddle.

  The captain had already swung his own mount and the trailing horse southward. The set of the man’s back spoke volumes to Toc the Younger, and he wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake in accompanying him. Then he shrugged. “Well,” he said, to the two charred bodies, as he rode past, “it’s done, ain’t it?”

  The plain below lay sheathed in darkness. Looking to the west, Crone could still see the setting sun. She rode the highest winds, the air around her bitter cold. The Great Raven had left Caladan Brood’s company two days ago. Since then, she’d detected no sign of life in the wastes below. Even the massive herds of Bhederin, which the Rhivi were in the habit of following, had disappeared.

  At night, Crone’s senses were limited, though it was in such darkness that she could best detect sorcery. As she winged ever southward she scanned the land far below with a hungry eye. Others among her brethren from Moon’s Spawn regularly patrolled the plains in service to Anomander Rake. She’d yet to see one, but it was only a matter of time. When she did, she would ask them if they’d detected any source of magic recently.

  Brood was not one to overreact. If something was happening down here that soured his palate, it could be momentous, and she wanted to know of it before anyone else.

  Fire flashed in the sky ahead of her, perhaps a league distant. It flared briefly, tinged green and blue, then disappeared. Crone tensed. That had been sorcery, but of a kind she’d never known. As she swept into the area the air washed over her hot and wet, with a charnel stench that reminded her of—she cocked her head—burned feathers.

  A cry sounded ahead, angry and frightened. Crone opened her beak to reply, then shut it again. It had come from one of her kin, she was certain, but for some reason she felt the need to hold her tongue. Then another ball of fire flashed, this time close enough to Crone that she saw what it engulfed: a Great Raven.

 
Her breath hissed from her beak. In that brief instant of light she’d seen half a dozen more of her brethren wheeling in the sky ahead of her and to the west. She thrummed her wings and angled toward them.

  When she could hear their panicked flapping about her on all sides, Crone called out, “Children! Attend to Crone! The Great Mother has come!”

  The ravens voiced relieved cries and closed in around her. They all shrieked at once in an effort to tell her what was happening, but Crone’s angry hiss silenced them at once. “I heard among you Hurtle’s voice,” Crone said, “did I not?”

  One male swept near her. “You did,” he replied. “I am Hurtle.”

  “I’ve just come from the north, Hurtle. Explain to me what has occurred.”

  “Confusion,” Hurtle drawled sarcastically.

  Crone cackled. She loved a good joke more than anyone. “Indeed! Go on, lad!”

  “Before dusk Kin Clip detected a flare of sorcery below her on the plain. It was odd, its feel, but clearly a Warren had just opened and something had issued onto the plain. Kin Clip spoke to me of this, then investigated. I shadowed her from above during the descent, and so saw what she saw. Crone, it has come to my mind that once again the art of soul-shifting has been exercised.”

  “Eh?”

  “Traveling on the ground and having just come from a Warren was a small puppet,” Hurtle explained, “animate and possessing great power. When this puppet detected Clip he gestured at her and she burst into flames. Since then, the creature has disappeared into its Warren, reappearing only to kill another of us.”

  “Why do you remain?” Crone demanded.

  Hurtle chuckled. “We would determine its course, Crone. Thus far, it seems to travel southward.”

  “Very well. Now that that’s been confirmed, leave and take the others with you. Return to Moon’s Spawn and report to our lord.”

  “As you command, Crone.” Hurtle dipped a wing and slid off into darkness. His voice called out and was answered by a chorus.

  Crone waited. She wanted to be certain that they had all departed the area before doing some investigating on her own. Was this puppet the thing birthed in the pillar of fire? It didn’t seem likely. And what kind of sorcery did it employ that no Great Raven could absorb? There was an Eldering taste about this. Soul-shifting was no simple cantrip, and it had never been common among the wizards even when its techniques were known. Too many tales of madness born within the shifting.

  Perhaps this puppet had survived from these times. Crone thought about that. Unlikely.

  Magic bloomed on the plain below, then faded. A small magical force scampered from the spot, weaving as it ran. There, thought Crone, there lie the answers to my questions. Destroy my younglings, will you? Would you so easily disdain Crone?

  She crooked her wings and dropped. The air whistled around her. She raised a penumbra of protective magic that encapsulated her just as the small figure ceased its march and looked up. Faintly, Crone heard a manic laugh rise up to meet her, then the puppet gestured.

  The power that engulfed Crone was immense, far beyond anything she anticipated. Her defenses held but she found herself buffeted, as if fists punched her from every direction. She cried out in pain, spinning as she fell. It took all her strength and will to thrust out her battered wings and catch a rising current of air. She voiced an outraged, alarmed shriek as she climbed higher into the night sky. A glance down revealed that the puppet had returned once again to its Warren, for nothing magical was visible.

  “Aye.” She sighed. “What a price to pay for knowledge! Elder Warren indeed, the eldest of them all. Who plays with Chaos? Crone knows naught. All things are gathering, gathering here.” She found another stream of wind and angled south. This was something Anomander Rake must know of, never mind Caladan Brood’s instructions that the Tiste Andii lord be kept ignorant of almost everything. Rake was good for more than Brood credited him. “Destruction, for one.” Crone laughed. “And death. Good at death!”

  She picked up speed, so did not notice the dead smudge on the land below her, nor the woman camped in its center. There was no magic there to speak of, in any case.

  Adjunct Lorn squatted by her bedroll, her eyes scanning the night sky. “Tool, was all that connected to what we witnessed two nights ago?”

  The T’lan Imass shook his head. “I think not, Adjunct. If anything, this concerns me more. It is sorcery, and it ignores the barrier I have set around us.”

  “How?” she asked quietly.

  “There is only one possibility, Adjunct. It is Eldering, a lost Warren of ages past, returned to us. Whoever its wielder might be, we must assume it tracks us, with purpose.”

  Lorn straightened wearily, then stretched her back, feeling her vertebrae pop. “Is its flavor Shadowthrone’s?”

  “No.”

  “Then I will not assume it’s tracking us, Tool.” She eyed her bedroll.

  Tool faced the woman and watched in silence as she prepared to sleep. “Adjunct,” he said, “this hunter appears able to penetrate my defenses, and thus it may open its Warren’s portal directly behind us, once we are found.”

  “I’ve no fear of magic,” Lorn muttered. “Let me sleep.”

  The T’lan Imass fell silent, but he continued staring down at the woman as the hours of night crawled on. Tool moved slightly as dawn lightened the east, then was still again.

  Groaning, Lorn rolled onto her back as the sunlight reached her face. She opened her eyes and blinked rapidly, then froze. She slowly raised her head to find the T’lan Imass standing directly above her. And, hovering inches from her throat, was the tip of the warrior’s flint sword.

  “Success,” Tool said, “demands discipline, Adjunct. Last night we witnessed an expression of Elder magic, choosing as its target ravens. Ravens, Adjunct, do not fly at night. You might think the combination of my abilities with yours ensures our safety. That is no guarantee, Adjunct.” The T’lan Imass withdrew his weapon and stepped to one side.

  Lorn drew a shaky breath. “A flaw,” she said, pausing to clear her throat before continuing, “which I admit to, Tool. Thank you for alerting me to my growing complacency.” She sat up. “Tell me, doesn’t it strike you as odd that this supposedly empty Rhivi Plain should display so much activity?”

  “Convergence,” Tool said. “Power ever draws other power. It is not a complicated thought, yet it escaped us, the Imass.” The ancient warrior swung his head to the Adjunct. “As it escapes their children. The Jaghut well understood the danger. Thus they avoided one another, abandoned each other to solitude, and left a civilization to crumble into dust. The Forkrul Assail understood as well, though they chose another path. What is odd, Adjunct, is that of these three founding peoples, it is the Imass whose legacy of ignorance survived the ages.”

  Lorn stared at Tool. “Was that an attempt at humor?” she asked.

  The T’lan Imass adjusted his helmet. “That depends on your mood, Adjunct.”

  She climbed to her feet and strode to check her horses. “You’re getting stranger every day, Tool,” she said quietly, more to herself than to the Imass. Into her mind returned the first thing she had seen when she’d opened her eyes—that damned creature and his sword. How long had he stood like that? All night?

  The Adjunct paused to test her shoulder tentatively. It was healing quickly. Perhaps the injury had not been as severe as she’d first thought.

  As she saddled her horse she chanced to glance at Tool. The warrior stood staring at her. What kind of thoughts would occupy someone who’d lived through three hundred thousand years? Or did the Imass live? Before meeting Tool she had generally thought of them as undead, hence without a soul, the flesh alone animated by some external force. But now she wasn’t so sure.

  “Tell me, Tool, what dominates your thoughts?”

  The Imass shrugged before replying. “I think of futility, Adjunct.”

  “Do all Imass think about futility?”

  “No. Few think at all.�
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  “Why is that?”

  The Imass leaned his head to one side and regarded her. “Because, Adjunct, it is futile.”

  “Let’s get going, Tool. We’re wasting time.”

  “Yes, Adjunct.”

  She climbed into the saddle, wondering how the Imass had meant that.

  Book Four

  Assassins

  I dreamed a coin

  with shifting face—

  so many youthful visages

  so many costly dreams,

  and it rolled and rang

  ’round the gilded rim

  of a chalice

  made for gems

  LIFE OF DREAMS

  ILBARES THE HAG

  Chapter Eleven

  The night held close

  as I wandered

  my spirit unfooted

  to either earth or stone

  unraveled from tree

  undriven by iron nail

  but like the night itself

  a thing of air

  stripped of light

  so I came upon them,

  those masons who cut and carved

  stone in the night

  sighting by stars and battered hand.

  “What of the sun?” asked I of them.

  “Is not its cloak of revelation

  the warmth of reason

  in your shaping?”

  And one among them answered,

  “No soul can withstand

  the sun’s bones of light

  and reason dims

  when darkness falls—

  so we shape barrows in the night

  for you and your kin.”

  “Forgive my interruption, then,” said I.

  “The dead never interrupt,” said the mason,

  “they but arrive.”

  PAUPER’S STONE

  DARUJHISTAN

  “Yet another night, yet another dream,” Kruppe moaned, “with naught but a scant fire to keep this wanderer company.” He held his hands over the flickering, undying hearth that had been stoked by an Elder God. It seemed an odd gift, but he sensed a significance to it. “Kruppe would understand this meaning, for rare and unwelcome is this frustration.”