The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  The brooding, cliff-like palace of Prince Jelarkan was like no other building in Capustan. Windowless, the grey-stoned structure towered in a chaotic confusion of planes, angles, overhangs and seemingly pointless ledges. It rose well above the flanking coast-facing wall, and in his mind’s eye the mercenary watched huge boulders arcing towards it from the killing field beyond, crashing into its sides, sending the whole edifice down into ruin.

  Unworthy of you. Where resides the comforting knowledge of history’s vast, cyclical sweep, the ebb and flow of wars and of peace? Peace is the time of waiting for war. A time of preparation, or a time of wilful ignorance, blind, blinkered and prattling behind secure walls.

  Within the palace, the Mortal Sword Brukhalian was mired in yet another meeting with the prince and a half-dozen representatives of the Mask Council. The Grey Swords’ commander forbore such tangled marathons with what seemed to Karnadas superhuman patience. I would never have suffered this spider-bitten dance, not this long, not night after night, weeks on end. Still, it’s remarkable what can be achieved even as the debates rage on, and on. How many of the Mortal Sword’s – and Prince Jelarkan’s – proposals have already been implemented, whilst the wrangling continues unending and those masked bastards utter their lists of objections in all ignorance. It’s too late, you fools – we’ve already done what we could … to save your damned city.

  In his mind’s eye rose the fur-painted, articulated mask of the one priest on the Council he and the company should have been able to count on as an ally. Rath’Fener spoke for the Boar of Summer – the Grey Swords’ own patron god. But political ambition consumes you, as it does your rivals in the Council. You kneel before summer’s bloody tusk, yet … is it naught but a lie?

  The wind howled, the only answer to Karnadas’s silent question. Lightning lit the clouds churning over the distant bay. Rath’Fener was a priest of the Sceptred Rank, a veteran of temple politics and thus at the pinnacle of what a mortal could achieve within Fener’s sanctified walls. But the Boar of Summer is not a civilized god. Ranks and orders and ivory-clasped gowns … secular pomp, petty plays of arrogance in the pursuit of mundane power. No, I must not impugn Rath’Fener with questions of his faith – he serves our god in his own way.

  The Boar of Summer was the voice of war. Dark and grisly, as ancient as humanity itself. The song of battle – the screams of the dying and the vengeful, the discordant, hacking music of iron weapons, of shields resounding to blows, of hissing arrows and quarrels … And forgive us all, the voice grows to a roar. It is not the time to hide behind temple walls. Not the time for foolish politics. We serve Fener by striding the soaked, steaming earth, weapons bared in quicksilver promise. We are the clash and clangour, the bellows of rage, pain and terror …

  Rath’Fener was not the only priest of the Boar in this city to have achieved a Sceptred Rank. The difference was this: while Rath’Fener possessed such an ambition – to kneel before the boar cloak and humbly assume the ancient title of Destriant, vacant for so long – Karnadas had already achieved it.

  Karnadas could put Rath’Fener in his place with a simple unveiling of his own position in the mortal hierarchy. In his place? I could depose the bastard with a gesture. But Brukhalian had forbidden him that sweet revelation. Nor could the Mortal Sword be swayed. The time for such a move was not propitious, he’d said, its yield as yet of too low a currency. Patience, Karnadas, that time will come …

  Not an easy thing to accept …

  ‘Is this a welcome night, Destriant?’

  ‘Ah, Itkovian, I did not see you there in the gloom. ‘Tis the Boar’s storm, this night. So, how long have you stood there, Shield Anvil?’ How long, in your cold, closed-in fashion, have you stared upon your High Priest? Black-mannered Itkovian, will you ever unsheathe your true self?

  There was no way to read the man’s expression in the darkness. ‘Moments only, Destriant.’

  ‘Does sleep elude you, sir?’

  ‘Not when I seek it.’

  Looking upon the Shield Anvil’s blue chain surcoat beneath the grey rain-cape, the wrist-length cuffed gauntlets now slick and black with rain, Karnadas slowly nodded. ‘I had not realized it was so close to dawn. Do you anticipate being gone for long?’

  Itkovian shrugged. ‘No, assuming they have indeed crossed in strength. I am restricted to leading but two wings in any case. Should we come upon little more than scouting parties, however, then the first blows against the Domin shall be made.’

  ‘At last,’ the Destriant said, grimacing as yet another gust of wind roiled over the battlement.

  There was silence for a while.

  Then Karnadas cleared his throat. ‘What then, may I ask, has brought you up here, Shield Anvil?’

  ‘The Mortal Sword has returned from the latest gathering. He wishes to speak with you.’

  ‘And he has sat patiently waiting whilst we chatted?’

  ‘I would imagine so, Destriant.’

  The two Grey Swords turned to the tower’s spiral stairs. They descended the slick, limned steps amidst streams trickling down the stone walls to either side. By the third tier down they could see their breaths. Until the arrival of the company, these barracks had been left virtually uninhabited for close to a century. The chill that had seeped into the thick-walled old fortress keep defied every effort to dispel it. Among the major structures in Capustan, it predated the Daru Keep – now re-named the Thrall and home to the Mask Council – and every other building with the exception of Prince Jelarkan’s Palace. And that palace was not raised by human hands, most certainly not. I’d swear that on Fener’s bristly hump.

  Reaching ground level, Itkovian pushed open the squealing door that led directly into the central Round Hall. Alone in the massive, barely furnished chamber stood the Mortal Sword Brukhalian, motionless before the hearth and almost spectral despite his formidable height and build. His back was to the two newcomers, his long, wavy black hair unbound and down to just above his belted hips.

  ‘Rath’Trake believes,’ the commander rumbled without turning, ‘there are unwelcome intruders on the plains west of the city. Demonic apparitions.’

  Karnadas unclasped his cloak and shook the water from it. ‘Rath’Trake, you said. I admit I do not understand the Tiger’s sudden claim to true godhood. That a cult of a First Hero should have succeeded in shouldering its way into a council of temples—’

  Brukhalian slowly turned, his soft brown eyes fixing on the Destriant. ‘An unworthy rivalry, sir. The Season of Summer is home to more than one voice of war, or would you now challenge the fierce spirits of the Barghast and the Rhivi as well?’

  ‘First Heroes are not gods,’ Karnadas growled, rubbing at his face as the cold, wind-blasted numbness faded. ‘They’re not even tribal spirits, sir. Have any of the other priests supported Rath’Trake’s claim?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought as—’

  ‘Of course,’ Brukhalian went on, ‘they also are not convinced that the Pannion Domin intends to lay siege to Capustan.’

  Karnadas clamped his mouth shut. Point taken, Mortal Sword.

  Brukhalian’s gaze flicked to Itkovian. ‘Are your wings unfurled, Shield Anvil?’

  ‘They are, sir.’

  ‘It would be foolish, do you not think, sir,’ the Mortal Sword said, ‘to discard such warnings during your patrol?’

  ‘I discard nothing, sir. We shall be vigilant.’

  ‘As you always are, Shield Anvil. You may take charge of your wings, now, sir. The Twin Tusks guard you.’

  Itkovian bowed, then strode from the room.

  ‘And now, dear priest,’ Brukhalian said. ‘Are you certain of this … invitation of yours?’

  Karnadas shook his head. ‘No, I am not. I can discern nothing of its sender’s identity, nor even if its stance is true to ours or inimical.’

  ‘Yet it awaits a reply still?’

  ‘Yes, Mortal Sword, it does.’

  ‘Then let us make one. Now.’


  Karnadas’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Sir, perhaps then we should call in a Mane, in case we invite an enemy into our midst?’

  ‘Destriant, you forget. I am Fener’s own weapon.’

  Aye, but will that be enough? ‘As you say, sir.’ Karnadas strode to a cleared space in the chamber. He folded back the sodden sleeves of his shirt, then made a slight gesture with his left hand. A small, pulsing orb of light took form in front of the priest. ‘This fashioning is in our language,’ he said, studying the manifestation again. ‘The language of Fener’s Reve, intimating a certain knowledge of our company and its immortal benefactor. There is a message intended in such knowing.’

  ‘Which you have yet to ascertain.’

  A scowl flickered for a moment in the Destriant’s weathered face. ‘I have narrowed the list of possibilities, Mortal Sword. Such knowledge suggests arrogance in the sender, or, indeed, it offers us a hint of brotherhood.’

  ‘Release the invitation, sir.’

  ‘As you command.’ He gestured again. The orb brightened, then began growing, its light thinning, the sphere growing translucent. Karnadas stepped back to give it space, fighting down his alarm at the sheer power behind this communication. ‘Sir, there are souls within this. Not two or three – a dozen, maybe more – yet they are bound within one. I have not seen its like before.’

  A figure, sitting cross-legged, slowly took form within the orb, dark-skinned, lean, wearing light leather armour. The man’s face showed an expression of mild surprise. In the background, the two Grey Swords could see the interior walls of a small tent. A brazier sat before the man, giving his dark eyes a lurid glow.

  ‘Address him,’ Brukhalian commanded.

  ‘In what language, sir? Our native Elin?’

  The figure cocked his head at the quiet exchange. ‘That’s an awkward dialect,’ he said in Daru, ‘with Daru the obvious mother. Can you understand me?’

  Karnadas nodded. ‘Aye, close enough to Capan.’

  The man straightened. ‘Capan? I’ve reached through, then! You are in Capustan, excellent. Are you the city’s rulers, then?’

  The Destriant frowned. ‘You do not know us? Your … communication suggested a certain knowledge of our Reve…’

  ‘Ah, yes, well, that particular weaving of my warrens has a way of reflecting those who stumble on it – though only among priests, of course, the target it was intended to reach. I assume you are of Capstan’s temple council? What’s that title again – Mask Council, yes?’

  ‘No,’ Brukhalian rumbled, ‘we are not.’

  ‘Go on, please, I am truly intrigued now.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it, sir,’ the Mortal Sword replied, stepping forward. ‘Your invitation has been answered by Destriant Karnadas – who stands beside me – at my request. I command the Grey Swords—’

  ‘Mercenaries! Hood’s breath! If I’d wanted to contact a bunch of over-priced sword-hackers—’

  ‘Sir.’ Brukhalian’s voice was hard but low. ‘We are an army of the Boar of Summer. Sworn to Fener. Each soldier among us has chosen this path. Schooled in the sacred scriptures, blessed by the Destriant’s hand in the Tusked One’s name. Aye, we are a company of … sword-hackers. We are also our own temple, our acolytes numbering well over seven thousand – and the number grows with each day.’

  ‘All right, all right, sir, I understand now. Wait – you say you’re growing? The city’s given you leave to accept new followers?’

  Brukhalian smiled. ‘Capustan is but half armed, sir. Remnants of its tribal origins remain, and peculiar ones they are. Women are forbidden from the art of war. The Boar of Summer, however, acknowledges no such arbitrary exclusions—’

  ‘And you’re getting away with it?’ the man laughed.

  ‘Our new acolytes number but twelve hundred to date. Since many second- and third-born daughters are cast out onto the city’s streets, none among the rulers have as yet noticed the diminishment of those numbers. Now, I have granted you enough in the way of introduction. Who, sir, are you?’

  ‘How rude of me. I am Adaephon Ben Delat To make things simpler, call me Quick Ben—’

  ‘You are from Darujhistan?’ Karnadas asked.

  ‘Hood, no, I mean, no, I am not. I am with … uh, Caladan Brood.’

  ‘We have heard that name since coming north,’ Brukhalian said. ‘A warlord who leads an army against an invading empire.’

  ‘Well, that invading empire has … withdrawn its interests. In any case, we are seeking to get a message through to Capustan’s rulers…’

  ‘If only it were that simple,’ Karnadas muttered.

  The Mortal Sword was nodding. ‘Then you must choose, sir. The Mask Council and the city’s Prince Jelarkan are balanced upon the claim. There are countless factions among the council itself, and some discord has resulted. The Grey Swords answer to the prince. Our task is simple – to make the taking of Capustan by the Pannion Domin too costly. The Seer’s expansion will stop at the city’s walls and go no further. Thus, you can deliver your warlord’s message to me and hence to the prince. Or you can resume your attempts to contact the Mask Council.’

  ‘We suspected it’d get complicated,’ Quick Ben sighed. ‘We know next to nothing of your company. Or, rather, knew next to little. With this contact I am no longer so ignorant.’ The man’s eyes swung to Karnadas. ‘Destriant. In Fener’s Reve that means Arch-Priest, doesn’t it? But only in the martial arena – the temple of hallowed ground that is the field of battle. Does Fener’s representative in the Mask Council acknowledge that you outrank him or her, as a tiger does a cat?’

  Karnadas grimaced. ‘He does not know my true title, sir. There are reasons for that. I am impressed by your knowledge of Fener’s priesthood. No, more than impressed. I am stunned.’

  The man seemed to flinch. ‘Well, yes. Thank you.’ He turned to study Brukhalian. ‘You’re the god’s Mortal Sword.’ He paused then, and it was as if the full significance of that title only now struck home, for his eyes slowly widened. ‘Uh, all right. I think the warlord would endorse my decision to deliver his message to you. In fact, I have no doubt at all. Good.’ He drew a breath, then resumed. ‘Caladan Brood leads an army to the relief of Capustan. The siege – as I’m sure you well understand – is not only inevitable, it is imminent. Now, our challenge is getting there in time—’

  ‘Sir,’ Brukhalian interrupted, frowning, ‘how large is Caladan Brood’s army? Understand, we will be facing perhaps sixty thousand Pannions – veterans one and all. Does he grasp the maelstrom he so generously wishes to enter on our behalf?’

  ‘Well, we don’t have the numbers to match. But we will be’ – Quick Ben grinned – ‘bringing a few surprises with us. Now, Destriant – we need to reconvene. I need to bring the warlord and his officers in on this. Can I suggest we resume this conversation in a bell’s time?’

  ‘Perhaps it would be best to postpone it until the dead of night, sir,’ Brukhalian said. ‘My daylight hours are rather full – and public. As are Prince Jelarkan’s.’

  Quick Ben nodded. ‘Two bells before next dawn, then.’ He glanced around all of a sudden. ‘I’ll need a bigger tent…’

  A moment later he faded from view. The sphere contracted once more, then slowly vanished at a wave from Karnadas. The Destriant turned to Brukhalian. ‘This was unexpected.’

  The Mortal Sword granted. ‘We must be certain to condition the prince, sir. Perhaps this warlord’s army can harry the besieging forces slightly, but it will probably achieve little else. We must keep Jelarkan’s vision realistic … assuming we tell him.’

  We’ll not win this war. Aye. No false hopes here.

  Brukhalian asked, ‘What think you of this Quick Ben?’

  ‘A man of many veils, sir. An ex-priest of Fener, perhaps. His knowledge was too precise.’

  ‘Many souls, within one, you said.’

  Karnadas shivered. ‘I must have been mistaken,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the ritual required the assistance of o
ther mages, and it was these that I sensed.’

  Brukhalian studied his priest long and hard at that, but said nothing. He turned away after a moment. ‘You look exhausted, sir. Get some sleep.’

  Karnadas slowly bowed.

  * * *

  As the spell faded, Quick Ben sighed, glanced to his right. ‘Well?’

  Seated against the tent’s wall on that side, Whiskeyjack leaned forward to refill their goblets with Gredfallan ale. ‘They’ll fight,’ the bearded man said, ‘for a while at least. That commander looks a tough sword-hacker, but it might be all show and no iron – he must be a shrewd enough man of business to know the value of appearances. What was that you called him?’

  ‘Mortal Sword. Not likely – once, long ago, that title was for real. Long before the Deck of Dragons acknowledged the place of Knights of the High Houses, Fener’s cult had its own. They’ve got the serious titles down with exactness. Destriant … Hood’s breath, there hasn’t been a real Destriant in the cult for a thousand years. The titles are for show, Whiskeyjack—’

  ‘Indeed,’ the commander cut in, ‘then why keep it a secret from the Fener priest on the Mask Council?’

  ‘Uh. Well … Oh, it’s simple. That priest would know it for a lie, of course. There, easy answer to your question.’

  ‘Easy answer, as you say. So, are easy answers always, right answers, Quick?’

  Ignoring the question, the wizard drained his goblet. ‘In any case, I’d count the Grey Swords as best among the bunch over there, but that’s not saying much.’

  ‘Were they fooled by the “accidental” contact?’

  ‘I think so. I’d shaped the spell to reflect the company’s own nature – whether greedy and rapacious, or honourable or whatever. I admit, though, I didn’t expect it to find pious faith. Still, the spell was intended to be malleable, and so it was.’

  Whiskeyjack climbed to his feet, wincing as he put his weight down on his bad leg. ‘I’d better track down Brood and Dujek, then.’

  ‘At the head of the column, is my guess,’ Quick Ben said.