The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  Itkovian had glanced at Stonny, then shrugged. ‘Both Stonny Menackis and I are blessed with exceptional horses. We shall endeavour to keep pace.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Mortal Sword.’

  ‘What is it, Itkovian?’

  ‘What lies ahead, sir, that troubles you so?’

  ‘I’m not sure, friend, but I’m feeling sick to my stomach. I believe we are about to be betrayed.’

  Itkovian had said nothing to that for a long moment, then, ‘Sir, if one regards recent events with an unclouded eye, then one might observe that the betrayal has already occurred.’

  Gruntle had simply shrugged, turning to his followers. ‘Stay tight, you damned misfits. Anyone straggles at the start and you’ll be left behind.’

  Stonny moved over to Itkovian’s side, leading her horse.

  ‘Do you know,’ Itkovian asked her, ‘what is about to occur?’

  ‘Probably nothing,’ she snapped, swinging up into her saddle. ‘Gruntle must’ve bumped his head—’

  She got no further, as before them Gruntle and his legion seemed to blur, to meld together in an indistinct flicker of barbed stripes, a single form, massive, low to the ground – that suddenly flowed forward, cat-like, and was gone in the night.

  ‘Beru fend!’ Stonny hissed. ‘After it!’ she cried, driving heels to her horse’s flanks.

  And so they had ridden, hard.

  They passed by Brood’s encampment, had noted that it was rousing, even though dawn was still a bell away, with considerable haste.

  They witnessed, without a word exchanged between them, the flash and flare of sorcery in the sky to the southwest.

  Occasionally, through the darkness, they caught a glimpse of the huge creature they pursued, the dull flicker of yellow, black-slashed, moving as if through impossibly high grasses, as if beneath jungle fronds, webbed in shadows, a fluid hint of motion, deadly in its speed and in its silence.

  Then the sky began to lighten, and the horizon to the south was revealed, stands of trees, the trader road wending between them.

  Still the striped beast defied the eye, evaded sharp detection as it reached the parkland’s hills.

  Lathered, mouths coughing foam, the horses thundered on, hooves pounding heavy and ragged. Neither animal would ever recover from this ordeal, Itkovian knew. Indeed, their deaths waited only for the journey’s end.

  Brave and magnificent, and he wondered if the sacrifice was worth it.

  They rode the track between coppiced stands, the path gently rising towards what Itkovian judged to be an escarpment of some kind.

  Then, directly ahead, wagons. A few figures, turning to watch them approach.

  If they had seen the creature, they showed no sign – no alarms had been raised, all seemed calm.

  Itkovian and Stonny rode past the Malazan rearguard.

  The crackle of sorcery – close.

  Soldiers lined the ridge before them, an army assembled, facing south – now breaking into disorganized motion. Dismay struck Itkovian with palpable force, a flood of raw pain, of immeasurable loss.

  He reeled in his saddle, forced himself upright once more. Urgency thundered through him, now, sudden, overwhelming.

  Stonny was shouting, angling her stumbling horse to the right, leaving the road, approaching a hilltop where stood the Malazan standard, drooped in the windless air. Itkovian followed, but slower, drawing back. His soul was drowning in cold horror.

  His horse surrendered its gallop, staggered, head thrusting out. Canter to a weaving, loose walk, then halting, slowly drawing square-footed twenty paces from the hill’s base.

  Then dying.

  Numbed, Itkovian slipped his boots from the stirrups, drew an aching leg over the beast’s rump, then dropped down to the ground.

  On the hill to his right, he saw Stonny, stumbling free from her horse – the slope had defeated it – and clambering upward. Gruntle and his troop had arrived, human once again, crowding the hill, yet seemingly doing nothing.

  Itkovian turned his gaze away, began walking along one side of the road, which had straightened for the final, downhill approach to the killing field, and the city beyond.

  Cold horror.

  His god was gone. His god could not deflect it as it had once done, months ago, on a plain west of Capustan.

  Loss and sorrow, such as he had never felt before.

  The truth. Which I have known. Within me. Hidden, now revealed I am not yet done.

  Not yet done.

  He walked, seeing nothing of the soldiers to his left and right, stepping clear of the uneven line, leaving behind the army that now stood, weapons lowered, broken before the battle had even begun – broken by a man’s death.

  Itkovian was oblivious. He reached the slope, continued on.

  Down.

  Down to where the T’lan Imass waited in ranks before eight hundred K’Chain Che’Malle.

  The T’lan Imass, who, as one, slowly turned round.

  * * *

  Warrens flared on the hilltop.

  Bellowing, Gruntle ordered his followers to take position on the south slope. He stood, motionless after so long, still trembling from the god’s power. The promise of murder filled him, impassive yet certain, a predator’s intent that he had felt once before, in a city far to the north.

  His vision was too sharp, every motion tugging at his attention. He realized he had his cutlasses in his hands.

  He watched Orfantal stride from a warren, Brood appearing behind him. He saw Stonny Menackis, looking down on three corpses. Then the warlord was pushing past her, sparing but a single glance at the bodies on his way to where a fourth body lay – closer to where Gruntle stood. A Tiste Andii woman. Two figures crouched beside her, flesh rent, one whose soul still writhed in the grip of savage, chaotic sorcery. The other … Silverfox, round face streaked with tears.

  He saw Kruppe, flanked by Hetan and Cafal. The Daru was pale, glassy-eyed, and seemed moments from unconsciousness. Strange, that, for it was not grief that so assailed the Daru. He saw Hetan suddenly reach for him even as he collapsed.

  But the man Gruntle was looking for was nowhere to be seen.

  He strode to the south crest to observe the positioning of his legion. They were readying weapons. Assembling below them were the Grey Swords, clearly preparing to advance on the city—

  —a city shrouded in smoke, lit with the flash of sorcery, of munitions, a city ripping itself apart—

  Gruntle’s hunting gaze found the man.

  Itkovian.

  Walking towards the T’lan Imass.

  A sharp cry sounded from the hilltop behind Gruntle, and he turned to see Silverfox straightening from Korlat’s side, wheeling round—

  But the tens of thousands of T’lan Imass faced Itkovian now.

  Gruntle watched his friend’s steps slow, then stop when he was twenty paces from the undead warriors.

  Silverfox screamed in comprehension, began running—

  Aye, Summoner. You were about to send them against the K’Chain Che’Malle. Gruntle did not need to stand within hearing range to know what Itkovian said, then, to the silent T’lan Imass.

  You are in pain. I would embrace you now …

  He felt his god’s horror, burgeoning to overwhelm his own—

  As the T’lan Imass made reply.

  Falling to their knees. Heads bowing.

  Ah, Summoner …

  And, now, it was far too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  There can be no true rendition of betrayal, for the moment hides within itself, sudden, delivering such comprehension that one would surrender his or her own soul to deny all that has come to pass. There can be no true rendition of betrayal, but of that day, Ormulogun’s portrayal is the closest to what was true that any mortal could hope to achieve …

  N’ARUHL’S COMMENTARY ON ORMULOGUN’S SLAYING OF WHISKEYJACK

  Footsteps in the hallway announced yet another guest—Coll had no idea if invit
ed or not – and he pulled his gaze away from the two ancient Rath’ councillors kneeling before the burial pit, to see a robed figure appear in the doorway. Unmasked, face strangely indistinct.

  The Knight of Death swung in a crackle of armour to face the newcomer. ‘K’rul,’ he grated, ‘my Lord welcomes you to his sacred abode.’

  K’rul? Isn’t there an old temple in Darujhistan – the one with the belfry – K’rul’s Belfry. Some kind of elder … Coll glanced over, met Murillio’s eyes, saw the same slow realization writ plain on his friend’s features. An Elder God has entered this chamber. Stands a half-dozen paces away. Bern fend us all! Another blood-hungry bastard from antiquity—

  K’rul strode towards the Mhybe.

  Coll, hand settling on the grip of his sword, fear rising to lodge in his throat, stepped into the Elder God’s path. ‘Hold,’ he growled. His heart pounded as he locked gazes with K’rul, seeing in those eyes … nothing. Nothing at all. ‘If you’re planning on opening her throat on that altar, well, Elder God or not, I won’t make it easy for you.’

  Rath’Togg’s toothless mouth dropped open in a gasp on the other side of the pit.

  The Knight of Death made a sound that might have been laughter, then said in a voice that was no longer his own, ‘Mortals are nothing if not audacious.’

  Murillio moved up to stand at Coll’s side, raising a trembling hand to close on the hilt of his rapier.

  K’rul glanced at the undead champion and smiled. ‘Their most admirable gift, Hood.’

  ‘Until it turns belligerent, perhaps. Then, it is best answered by annihilation.’

  ‘Your answer, yes.’ The Elder God faced Coll. ‘I have no desire to harm the Mhybe. Indeed, I am here for her … salvation.’

  ‘Well then,’ snapped Murillio, ‘maybe you can explain why there’s a burial pit in here!’

  ‘That shall become clear in time … I hope. Know this: something has happened. Far to the south. Something … unexpected. The consequences are unknown – to us all. None the less, the time has come for the Mhybe—’

  ‘And what does that mean, precisely?’ Coll demanded.

  ‘Now,’ the Elder God replied, moving past him to kneel before the Mhybe, ‘she must dream for real.’

  * * *

  They were gone. Gone from her soul, and with their departure – with what Itkovian had done, was doing – all that she had hoped to achieve had been torn down, left in ruins.

  Silverfox stood motionless, cold with shock.

  Kallor’s brutal attack had revealed yet another truth – the T’lan Ay had abandoned her. A loss that twisted a knife blade into her soul.

  Once more, betrayal, the dark-hearted slayer of faith. Nightchill’s ancient legacy. Tattersail and Bellurdan Skullcrusher both – killed by the machinations of Tayschrenn, the hand of the Empress. And now … Whiskeyjack. The two marines, my twin shadows for so long. Murdered.

  Beyond the kneeling T’lan Imass waited the K’Chain Che’Malle undead. The huge creatures made no move towards the T’lan Imass – yet. They need only wade into the ranks, blades chopping down, and begin destroying. My children are beyond resistance. Beyond caring. Oh, Itkovian, you noble fool.

  And this mortal army – she saw the Grey Swords down below, readying lassos, lances and shields – preparing to charge the K’Chain Che’Malle. Dujek’s army was being destroyed within the city – the north gate had to be breached. She saw Gruntle, Trake’s Mortal Sword, leading his motley legion down to join the Grey Swords. She saw officers riding before the wavering line of Malazans, rallying the heartbroken soldiers. She saw Artanthos – Tayschrenn – preparing to unleash his warren. Caladan Brood knelt beside Korlat, High Denul sorcery enwreathing the Tiste Andii woman. Orfantal stood behind the warlord – she felt the dragon in his blood, icy hunger, eager to return.

  All for naught. The Seer and his demonic condors … and the K’Chain Che’Malle … will kill them all.

  She had no choice. She would have to begin. Defy the despair, begin all that she had set in motion so long ago. Without hope, she would take the first step on the path.

  Silverfox opened the Warren of Tellann.

  Vanished within.

  * * *

  A mother’s love abides.

  But I was never meant to be a mother. I wasn’t ready. I was unprepared to give so much of myself. A self I had only begun to unveil.

  The Mhybe could have turned away. At the very beginning. She could have defied Kruppe, defied the Elder God, the Imass – what were these lost souls to her? Malazans, one and all. The enemy. Dire in the ways of magic. All with the blood of Rhivi staining their hands.

  Children were meant to be gifts. The physical manifestation of love between a man and a woman. And for that love, all manner of sacrifice could be borne.

  Is it enough that the child issued from my flesh? Arrived in this world in the way of all children? Is the simple pain of birth the well-spring of love? Everyone else believed so. They took the bond of mother and child as given, a natural consequence of the birth itself.

  They should not have done that.

  My child was not innocent.

  Conceived out of pity, not love; conceived with dread purpose – to take command of the T’lan Imass, to draw them into yet another war – to betray them.

  And now, the Mhybe was trapped. Lost in a dreamworld too vast to comprehend, where forces were colliding, demanding that she act, that she do … something.

  Ancient gods, bestial spirits, a man imprisoned in pain, in a broken, twisted body. This cage of ribs before me – is it his? The one I spoke with, so long ago? The one writhing so in a mother’s embrace? Are we as kin, he and I? Both trapped in ravaged bodies, both doomed to slide ever deeper into this torment of pain ?

  The beast waits for me – the man waits for me. We must reach out to each other. To touch, to give proof to both of us that we are not alone.

  Is this what awaits us?

  The cage of ribs, the prison, must be broken from the outside.

  Daughter, you may have forsaken me. But this man, this brother of mine, him I shall not forsake.

  She could not be entirely sure, but she believed that she started crawling once more.

  The beast howled in her mind, a voice raw with agony.

  She would have to free it, if she could. Such was pity’s demand.

  Not love.

  Ah, now I see …

  Thus.

  * * *

  He would embrace them. He would take their pain. In this world, where all had been taken from him, where he walked without purpose, burdened with the lives and deaths of tens of thousands of mortal souls – unable to grant them peace, unable – unwilling – to simply cast them off, he was not yet done.

  He would embrace them. These T’lan Imass, who had twisted all the powers of the Warren of Tellann into a ritual that devoured their souls. A ritual that had left them – in the eyes of all others – as little more than husks, animated by a purpose they had set outside themselves, yet were chained to – for eternity.

  Husks, yet … anything but.

  And that was a truth Itkovian had not expected, had no way to prepare for.

  Insharak Ulan, who was born third to Inal Thoom and Sultha A’rad of the Nashar Clan that would come to be Kron’s own, in the spring of the Year of Blighted Moss, below the Land of Raw Copper, and I remember—

  I remember—

  A snow hare, trembling, no more than a dusk-shadow’s length from my reach, my child’s arm and hand stretching. Streaks in the white, the promise of summer. Trembling hand, trembling hare, born together in the snows just past. Reaching out. Lives touching – small-heart-patter, slow-drum-hunger my chest’s answer to the world’s hidden music – I remember—

  Kalas Agkor – my arms wrapped about little Jala, little sister, hot with fever but the fire grew too hot, and so, in my arms, her flesh cooled to dawn-stone, mother keening – Jala was the ember now lifeless, and from that day, in mother’s eyes, I
became naught but its bed of ash—

  Ulthan Arlad herd-tracks in the snow, tufts of moult, ay on the flanks, we were hungry in that year yet held to the trail, old as it was—

  Karas Av riding Bonecaster Thal’s son in the Valley of Deep Moss, beneath the sun we were breaking the ancient law – I was breaking the ancient law, I, mate to Ibinahl Chode, made the boy a man before his circle was knotted—

  —in the Year of the Broken Antler, we found wolf cubs—

  —I dreamed I said no to the Ritual, I dreamed I strode to Onos T’oolan’s side—

  —a face streaming tears – my tears—

  —Chode, who watched my mate lead the boy into the valley, and knew the child would be remade into a man – knew that he was in the gentlest of hands—

  —the grasslands were burning—

  —ranag in the Horned Circle—

  —I loved her so—

  Voices, a flood, memories – these warriors had not lost them. They had known them as living things – within their own dead bodies.

  Known them.

  For almost three hundred thousand years.

  —friend to Onrack of the Logros, I last saw him kneeling amidst the corpses of his clan. All slain in the street, yet the Soletaken were finally broken. Ah, at such a cost—

  —oh, heart laid at his feet, dear Legana Breed. So clever, sharpest of wit, oh how he made me laugh—

  —our eyes met, Maenas Lot and I, even as the Ritual began its demand, and we saw the fear in each other’s eyes – our love, our dreams of more children, to fill the spaces of those we had lost out on the ice, our lives of mingled shadows – our love, that must now be surrendered—

  —I, Cannig Tol, watched as my hunters hurled their spears. She fell without making a sound, the last of her kind on this continent, and had I a heart, it would have burst, then. There was no justice in this war. We’d left our gods behind, and knelt only before an altar of brutality. Truth. And I, Cannig Tol, shall not turn away from truth—

  Itkovian’s mind reeled back, sought to fend off the diluvial tide, to fight himself clear of his own soul’s answering cry of sorrow, the torrent of truths shattering his heart, the secrets of the T’lan Imass – no, the Ritual – how – Fener’s Tusks, how could you have done that to yourselves ?