The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  L’oric would have continued, but Korbolo Dom interrupted the High Mage.

  ‘And what is the significance of that to us? War needs no gods, only mortal contestants, two enemies and whatever reasons they invent in order to justify killing each other.’ He paused, smiling at L’oric, then shrugged. ‘All of which satisfies me well enough.’

  His words had pulled Sha’ik’s gaze from Heboric. An eyebrow rising, she addressed the Napan. ‘And what are your reasons, specifically, Korbolo Dom?’

  ‘I like killing people. It is the one thing I am very good at.’

  ‘Would that be people in general?’ Heboric asked him. ‘Or perhaps you meant the enemies of the Apocalypse.’

  ‘As you say, Ghost Hands.’

  There was a moment of general unease, then L’oric cleared his throat and said, ‘The usurpation, Korbolo Dom, is the one detail that a number of mages present may already know. I would lead us, gently, towards the less well known developments on far-away Genabackis. Now, to continue. The pantheon was shaken yet again—by the sudden, unexpected taking of the Beast Throne by Togg and Fanderay, the mated Elder Wolves that had seemed eternally cursed to never find each other—riven apart as they were by the Fall of the Crippled God. The full effect of this reawakening of the ancient Hold of the Beast is yet to be realized. All I would suggest, personally, is to those Soletaken and D’ivers among us: ‘ware the new occupants of the Beast Throne. They may well come to you, eventually, to demand that you kneel before them.’ He smiled. ‘Alas, all those poor fools who followed the Path of the Hand. The game was won far, far away—’

  ‘We were the victims,’ Fayelle murmured, ‘of deception. By minions of Shadowthrone, no less, for which there will one day be a reckoning.’

  Bidithal smiled at her words, but said nothing.

  L’oric’s shrug affected indifference. ‘As to that, Fayelle, my tale is far from done. Allow me, if you will, to shift to mundane—though if anything even more important—events. A very disturbing alliance had been forged on Genabackis, to deal with a mysterious threat called the Pannion Domin. Onearm’s Host established an accord with Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake. Supplied by the supremely wealthy city of Darujhistan, the joined armies marched off to wage war against the Domin. We were, truth be told, relieved by this event from a short-term perspective, though we recognized that in the long term such an alliance was potentially catastrophic to the cause of the rebellion here in Seven Cities. Peace on Genabackis would, after all, free Dujek and his army, leaving us with the potential nightmare of Tavore approaching from the south, and Dujek and his ten thousand disembarking at Ehrlitan then marching down from the north.’

  ‘An unpleasant thought,’ Korbolo Dom growled. ‘Tavore alone will not cause us much difficulty. But the High Fist and his ten thousand…that’s another matter. Granted, most of the soldiers are from Seven Cities, but I would not cast knuckles on the hope that they would switch sides. Dujek owns them body and soul—’

  ‘Barring a few spies,’ Sha’ik said, her voice strangely flat.

  ‘None of whom would have contacted us,’ L’oric said, ‘had things turned out…differently.’

  ‘A moment, please,’ young Felisin cut in. ‘I thought that Onearm and his host had been outlawed by the Empress.’

  ‘Thus permitting him to forge the alliance with Brood and Rake,’ L’oric explained. ‘A convenient and temporary ploy, lass.’

  ‘We don’t want Dujek on our shores,’ Korbolo Dom said. ‘Bridgeburners. Whiskeyjack, Quick Ben, Kalam, Black Moranth and their damned munitions—’

  ‘Permit me to ease your pattering heart, Commander,’ L’oric murmured. ‘We shall not see Dujek. Not anytime soon, at any rate. The Pannion War proved…devastating. The ten thousand lost close to seven thousand of their number. The Black Moranth were similarly mauled. Oh, they won, in the end, but at such a cost. The Bridgeburners…gone. Whiskeyjack…dead.’

  Heboric slowly straightened. The room was suddenly cold.

  ‘And Dujek himself,’ L’oric went on, ‘a broken man. Is this news pleasing enough? There is this: the scourge that is the T’lan Imass is no more. They have departed, one and all. No more will their terrors be visited upon the innocent citizens of Seven Cities. Thus,’ he concluded, ‘what has the Empress left? Adjunct Tavore. An extraordinary year for the empire. Coltaine and the Seventh, the Aren Legion, Whiskeyjack, the Bridgeburners, Onearm’s Host—we will be hard-pressed to best that.’

  ‘But we shall,’ Korbolo Dom laughed, both hands closed into pale-knuckled fists. ‘Whiskeyjack! Dead! Ah, blessings to Hood this night! I shall make sacrifice before his altar! And Dujek—oh, his spirit will have been broken indeed. Crushed!’

  ‘Enough gloating,’ Heboric growled, sickened.

  Kamist Reloe was leaning far forward, ‘L’oric!’ he hissed. ‘What of Quick Ben?’

  ‘He lives, alas. Kalam did not accompany the army—no-one knows where he has gone. There were but a handful of survivors from the Bridgeburners, and Dujek disbanded them and had them listed as casualties—’

  ‘Who lived?’ Kamist demanded.

  L’oric frowned. ‘A handful, as I said. Is it important?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Very well.’ L’oric glanced over at Sha’ik. ‘Chosen One, do you permit me to make contact once more with my servant in that distant army? It will be but a few moments.’

  She shrugged. ‘Proceed.’ Then, as L’oric lowered his head, she slowly leaned back in her chair. ‘Thus. Our enemy has faced irreparable defeat. The Empress and her dear empire reel from the final gush of life-blood. It falls to us, then, to deliver the killing blow.’

  Heboric suspected he was the only one present who heard the hollowness of her words.

  Sister Tavore stands alone, now.

  And alone is what she prefers. Alone is the state in which she thrives. Ah, lass, you would pretend to excitement at this news, yet it has achieved the very opposite for you, hasn’t it. Your fear of sister Tavore has only deepened.

  Freezing you in place.

  L’oric began speaking without raising his head. ‘Blend. Toes. Mallet. Spindle.

  Sergeant Antsy. Lieutenant Picker…Captain Paran.’

  There was a thump from the high-backed chair as Sha’ik’s head snapped back. All colour had left her face, the only detail Heboric could detect with his poor eyes, but he knew the shock that would be written on those features. A shock that rippled through him as well, though it was but the shock of recognition—not of what it portended for this young woman seated on this throne.

  Unmindful, L’oric continued, ‘Quick Ben has been made High Mage. It is believed the surviving Bridgeburners departed by warren to Darujhistan, though my spy is in fact uncertain of that. Whiskeyjack and the fallen Bridgeburners…were interred…in Moon’s Spawn, which has—gods below! Abandoned! The Son of Darkness has abandoned Moon’s Spawn!’ He seemed to shiver then, and slowly looked up, blinking rapidly. A deep breath, loosed raggedly. ‘Whiskeyjack was killed by one of Brood’s commanders. Betrayal, it seemed, plagued the alliance.’

  ‘Of course it did,’ Korbolo Dom sneered.

  ‘We must consider Quick Ben,’ Kamist Reloe said, his hands wringing together incessantly on his lap. ‘Will Tayschrenn send him to Tavore? What of the remaining three thousand of Onearm’s Host? Even if Dujek does not lead them—’

  ‘They are broken in spirit,’ L’oric said. ‘Hence, the wavering souls among them who sought me out.’

  ‘And where is Kalam Mekhar?’ Kamist hissed, inadvertently glancing over his shoulder then starting at his own shadow on the wall.

  ‘Kalam Mekhar is nothing without Quick Ben,’ Korbolo Dom snarled. ‘Even less now that his beloved Whiskeyjack is dead.’

  Kamist rounded on his companion. ‘And what if Quick Ben is reunited with that damned assassin? What then?’

  The Napan shrugged. ‘We didn’t kill Whiskeyjack. Their minds will be filled with vengeance for the slayer among Brood’s
entourage. Do not fear what will never come to pass, old friend.’

  Sha’ik’s voice rang startlingly through the room. ‘Everyone out but Heboric! Now!’

  Blank looks, then the others rose.

  Felisin Younger hesitated. ‘Mother?’

  ‘You as well, child. Out.’

  L’oric said, ‘There is the matter of the new House and all it signifies, Chosen—’

  ‘Tomorrow night. We will resume the discussion then. Out!’

  A short while later Heboric sat alone with Sha’ik. She stared down at him in silence for some time, then rose suddenly and stepped down from the dais. She fell to her knees in front of Heboric, sufficiently close for him to focus on her face. It was wet with tears.

  ‘My brother lives!’ she sobbed.

  And suddenly she was in his arms, face pressed against his shoulders as shudders heaved through her small, fragile frame.

  Stunned, Heboric remained silent.

  She wept for a long, long time, and he held her tight, unmoving, as solid as he could manage. And each time the vision of his fallen god rose before his mind’s eye, he ruthlessly drove it back down. The child in his arms—for child she was, once more—cried in nothing other than the throes of salvation. She was no longer alone, no longer alone with only her hated sister to taint the family’s blood.

  For that—for the need his presence answered—his own grief would wait.

  Chapter Eight

  Among the untried recruits of the Fourteenth Army, fully half originated from the continent of Quon Tali, the very centre of the empire. Young and idealistic, they stepped onto blood-soaked ground, in the wake of the sacrifices made by their fathers and mothers, their grandfathers and grandmothers. It is the horror of war that, with each newly arrived generation, the nightmare is reprised by innocents.

  THE SHA’IK REBELLION, ILLUSIONS OF VICTORY

  IMRYGYN TALLOBANT

  Adjunct Tavore stood alone in front of four thousand milling, jostling soldiers, while officers bellowed and screamed through the press, their voices hoarse with desperation. Pikes wavered and flashed blinding glares through the dusty air of the parade ground like startled birds of steel. The sun was a raging fire overhead.

  Fist Gamet stood twenty paces behind her, tears in his eyes as he stared at Tavore. A pernicious wind was sweeping the dust cloud directly towards the Adjunct. In moments she was engulfed. Yet she made no move, her back straight, her gloved hands at her sides.

  No commander could be more alone than she was now. Alone, and helpless.

  And worse. This is my legion. The 8th. The first to assemble, Beru fend us all.

  But she had ordered that he remain where he was, if only to spare him the humiliation of trying to impose some kind of order on his troops. She had, instead, taken that humiliation upon herself. And Gamet wept for her, unable to hide his shame and grief.

  Aren’s parade ground was a vast expanse of hard-packed, almost white earth. Six thousand fully armoured soldiers could stand arrayed in ranks with sufficient avenues between the companies for officers to conduct their review. The Fourteenth Army was to assemble before the scrutiny of Adjunct Tavore in three phases, a legion at a time. Gamet’s 8th had arrived in a ragged, dissolving mob over two bells past, every lesson from every drill sergeant lost, the few veteran officers and non-coms locked in a titanic struggle with a four-thousand-headed beast that had forgotten what it was.

  Gamet saw Captain Keneb, whom Blistig had graciously given him to command the 9th Company, battering at soldiers with the flat of his blade, forcing them into a line that broke up in his wake as other soldiers pressed forward from behind. There were some old soldiers in that front row, trying to dig in their heels—sergeants and corporals, red-faced with sweat streaming from beneath their helms.

  Fifteen paces behind Gamet waited the other two Fists, as well as the Wickan scouts under the command of Temul. Nil and Nether were there as well, although, mercifully, Admiral Nok was not—for the fleet had sailed.

  Impulses at war within him, Gamet trembled, wanting to be elsewhere—anywhere—and wanting to drag the Adjunct with him. Failing that, wanting to step forward, defying her direct order, to take position at her side.

  Someone came alongside him. A heavy leather sack thumped into the dust, and Gamet turned to see a squat soldier, blunt-featured beneath a leather cap, wearing barely half of a marine’s standard issue of armour—a random collection of boiled leather fittings—over a threadbare, stained uniform, the magenta dye so faded as to be mauve. No insignia was present. The man’s scarred, pitted face stared impassively at the seething mob.

  Gamet swung further round to see an additional dozen decrepit men and women, each standing an arm’s reach from the one in front, wearing unrepaired, piecemeal armour and carrying an assortment of weapons—few of which were Malazan.

  The Fist addressed the man in the lead. ‘And who in Hood’s name are you people?’

  ‘Sorry we was late,’ the soldier grunted. ‘Then again,’ he added, ‘I could be lying.’

  ‘Late? Which squads? What companies?’

  The man shrugged. ‘This and that. We was in Aren gaol. Why was we there? This and that. But now we’re here, sir. You want these children quelled?’

  ‘If you can manage that, soldier, I’ll give you a command of your own.’

  ‘No you won’t. I killed an Untan noble here in Aren. Name of Lenestro. Snapped his neck with these two hands.’

  Through the clouds of dust before them, a sergeant had clawed free of the mob and was approaching Adjunct Tavore. For a moment Gamet was terrified that he would, insanely, cut her down right there, but the man sheathed his short-sword as he drew up before her. Words were exchanged.

  The Fist made a decision. ‘Come with me, soldier.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ The man reached down and collected his kit bag.

  Gamet led him to where Tavore and the sergeant stood. An odd thing happened then. There was a grunt from the veteran at the Fist’s side, even as the wiry, red-and-grey-bearded sergeant’s eyes flickered past the Adjunct and fixed on the soldier. A sudden broad grin, then a quick succession of gestures—a hand lifting, as if holding an invisible rock or ball, then the hand flipping, index finger inscribing a circle, followed by a jerk of the thumb towards the east, concluded with a shrug. In answer to all this, the soldier from the gaol gave his kit bag a shake.

  The sergeant’s blue eyes widened.

  They arrived, coming alongside the Adjunct, who swung a blank gaze on Gamet.

  ‘Your pardon, Adjunct,’ the Fist said, and would have added more, but Tavore raised a hand and made to speak.

  She didn’t get a chance.

  The soldier at Gamet’s side spoke to the sergeant. ‘Draw us a line, will ya?’

  ‘I’ll do just that.’

  The sergeant pivoted and returned to the heaving ranks.

  Tavore’s eyes had snapped to the soldier, but she said nothing, for the man had set his bag down, drawn back its flap, and was rummaging inside it.

  Five paces in front of the legion’s uneven ranks, the sergeant once more drew his sword, then drove its blunt tip into the dust and set off, inscribing a sharp furrow in the ground.

  Draw us a line, will ya?

  The soldier crouched over his kit bag looked up suddenly. ‘You two still here? Go back to them Wickans, then all of you pull back another thirty, forty paces. Oh, and get them Wickans off their horses and a tight grip on the reins, and all of ya, take for yourselves a wide stance. Then when I give the signal, plug your ears.’

  Gamet flinched as the man began withdrawing a succession of clay balls from his bag. The bag…that thumped down beside me not fifty heartbeats ago. Hood’s breath!

  ‘What is your name, soldier?’ Adjunct Tavore rasped.

  ‘Cuttle. Now, better get moving, lass.’

  Gamet reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Adjunct, those are—’

  ‘I know what they are,’ she snapped. ‘And this m
an’s liable to kill fifty of my soldiers—’

  ‘Right now, lady,’ Cuttle growled as he drew out a folding shovel, ‘you ain’t got any. Now take it from me, that otataral blade at your comely hip ain’t gonna help you one bit if you decide to stand here. Pull ’em all back, and leave the rest to me and the sergeant.’

  ‘Adjunct,’ Gamet said, unable to keep the pleading from his tone.

  She shot him a glare, then wheeled. ‘Let us be about it, then, Fist.’

  He let her take the lead, paused after a few paces to glance back. The sergeant had rejoined Cuttle, who had managed to dig a small hole in what seemed an absurdly short time.

  ‘Cobbles down there!’ The sergeant nodded. ‘Perfect!’

  ‘About what I figured,’ Cuttle replied. ‘I’ll angle these crackers, with the cusser a hand’s width deeper—’

  ‘Perfect. I’d have done the same if I’d thought to bring some with me—’

  ‘You supplied?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘What I got here in my bag are the last.’

  ‘I can mend that, Cuttle.’

  ‘For that, Fid—’

  ‘Strings.’

  ‘For that, Strings, you’ve earned a kiss.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  Gamet pulled himself away with a shake of his head. Sappers.

  The explosion was a double thump that shook the earth, cobbles punching free of the overburden of dust—which had leapt skyward—to clack and clash in a maelstrom of stone chips and slivers. Fully a third of the legion were thrown from their feet, taking down others with them.

  Astonishingly, none seemed fatally injured, as if Cuttle had somehow directed the force of the detonation downward and out under the cobbles.

  As the last rubble pattered down, Adjunct Tavore and Gamet moved forward once again.

  Facing the silenced mob, Cuttle stood with a sharper held high in one hand. In a bellowing voice, he addressed the recruits. ‘Next soldier who moves gets this at his feet, and if you think my aim ain’t any good, try me! Now, sergeants and corporals! Up nice and slow now. Find your squads. You up here in front, Sergeant Strings here has drawn us a tidy nice line—all right, so it’s a bit messy right now so he’s drawing it again—walk up to it easy like, toes a finger’s width away from it, boots square! We’re gonna do this right, or people are going to die.’