The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  Monok Ochem shrugged. ‘A common enough fate. He is lost.’

  ‘Lost?’

  ‘I suggest we work together to weave a ritual,’ the bonecaster said, ‘and so fashion a gate. For this, we shall need Tellann, your own warren, Liosan, and the blood of this Tiste Edur. Onrack, we shall undertake your destruction once we have returned to our own realm.’

  ‘That would seem expedient,’ Onrack replied.

  Trull’s eyes had widened. He stared at the bonecaster. ‘Did you say my blood?’

  ‘Not all of it, Edur…if all goes as planned.’

  Chapter Ten

  All that breaks must be discarded even as the thunder of faith returns ever fading echoes.

  PRELUDE TO ANOMANDARIS

  FISHER

  The day the faces in the rock awakened was celebrated among the Teblor by a song. The memories of his people were, Karsa Orlong now knew, twisted things. Surrendered to oblivion when unpleasant, burgeoning to a raging fire of glory when heroic. Defeat had been spun into victory in the weaving of every tale.

  He wished Bairoth still lived, that his sagacious companion did more than haunt his dreams, or stand before him as a thing of rough-carved stone in which some chance scarring of his chisel had cast a mocking, almost derisive expression.

  Bairoth could have told him much of what he needed to know at this moment. While Karsa’s familiarity with their homeland’s sacred glade was far greater than either Bairoth’s or Delum Thord’s, and so ensured the likenesses possessed some accuracy, the warrior sensed that something essential was missing from the seven faces he had carved into the stone trees. Perhaps his lack of talent had betrayed him, though that did not seem the case with the carvings of Bairoth and Delum. The energy of their lives seemed to emanate from their statues, as if merged with the petrified wood’s own memory. As with the entire forest, in which there was the sense that the trees but awaited the coming of spring, of rebirth beneath the wheel of the stars, it seemed that the two Teblor warriors were but awaiting the season’s turn.

  But Raraku defied every season. Raraku itself was eternal in its momentousness, perpetually awaiting rebirth. Patience in the stone, in the restless, ever-murmuring sands.

  The Holy Desert seemed, to Karsa’s mind, a perfect place for the Seven Gods of the Teblor. It was possible, he reflected as he slowly paced before the faces he had carved into the boles, that something of that sardonic sentiment had poisoned his hands. If so, the flaw was not visible to his eyes. There was little in the faces of the gods that could permit expression or demeanour—his recollection was of skin stretched over broad, robust bone, of brows that projected like ridges, casting the eyes in deep shadow. Broad, flat cheekbones, a heavy, chinless jaw…a bestiality so unlike the features of the Teblor…

  He scowled, pausing to stand before Urugal which, as with the six others, he had carved level with his own eyes. Serpents slithered over his dusty, bared feet, his only company in the glade. The sun had begun its descent, though the heat remained fierce.

  After a long moment of contemplation, Karsa spoke out loud. ‘Bairoth Gild, look with me upon our god. Tell me what is wrong. Where have I erred? That was your greatest talent, wasn’t it? Seeing so clearly my every wrong step. You might ask: what did I seek to achieve with these carvings? You would ask that, for it is the only question worth answering. But I have no answer for you—ah, yes, I can almost hear you laugh at my pathetic reply.’ I have no answer. ‘Perhaps, Bairoth, I imagined you wished their company. The great Teblor gods, who one day awakened.’

  In the minds of the shamans. Awakened in their dreams. There, and there alone. Yet now I know the flavour of those dreams, and it is nothing like the song. Nothing at all.

  He had found this glade seeking solitude, and it had been solitude that had inspired his artistic creations. Yet now that he was done, he no longer felt alone here. He had brought his own life to this place, the legacies of his deeds. It had ceased to be a refuge, and the need to visit was born now from the lure of his efforts, drawing him back again and again. To walk among the snakes that came to greet him, to listen to the hiss of sands skittering on the moaning desert wind, the sands that arrived in the glade to caress the trees and the faces of stone with their bloodless touch.

  Raraku delivered the illusion that time stood motionless, the universe holding its breath. An insidious conceit. Beyond the Whirlwind’s furious wall, the hourglasses were still turned. Armies assembled and began their march, the sound of their boots, shields and gear a deathly clatter and roar. And, on a distant continent, the Teblor were a people under siege.

  Karsa continued staring at the stone face of Urugal. You are not Teblor. Yet you claim to be our god. You awakened, there in the cliff, so long ago. But what of before that time? Where were you then, Urugal? You and your six terrible companions?

  A soft chuckle from across the clearing brought Karsa around.

  ‘And which of your countless secrets is this one, friend?’

  ‘Leoman,’ Karsa rumbled, ‘it has been a long time since you last left your pit.’

  Edging forward, the desert warrior glanced down at the snakes. ‘I was starved for company. Unlike you, I see.’ He gestured at the carved boles. ‘Are these yours? I see two Toblakai—they stand in those trees as if alive and but moments from striding forth. It disturbs me to be reminded that there are more of you. But what of these others?’

  ‘My gods.’ He noted Leoman’s startled expression and elaborated, ‘The Faces in the Rock. In my homeland, they adorn a cliffside, facing onto a glade little different from this one.’

  ‘Toblakai—’

  ‘They call upon me still,’ Karsa continued, turning back to study Urugal’s bestial visage once more. ‘When I sleep. It is as Ghost Hands says—I am haunted.’

  ‘By what, friend? What is it your…gods…demand of you?’

  Karsa shot Leoman a glance, then he shrugged. ‘Why have you sought me out?’

  Leoman made to say one thing, then chose another. ‘Because my patience is at an end. There has been news of events concerning the Malazans. Distant defeats. Sha’ik and her favoured few are much excited…yet achieve nothing. Here we await the Adjunct’s legions. In one thing Korbolo Dom is right—the march of those legions should be contested. But not as he would have it. No pitched battles. Nothing so dramatic or precipitous. In any case, Toblakai, Mathok has given me leave to ride out with a company of warriors—and Sha’ik has condescended to permit us beyond the Whirlwind.’

  Karsa smiled. ‘Indeed. And you are free to harass the Adjunct? Ah, I thought as much. You are to scout, but no further than the hills beyond the Whirlwind. She will not permit you to journey south. But at least you will be doing something, and for that I am pleased for you, Leoman.’

  The blue-eyed warrior stepped closer. ‘Once beyond the Whirlwind, Toblakai—’

  ‘She will know none the less,’ Karsa replied.

  ‘And so I will incur her displeasure.’ Leoman sneered. ‘There is nothing new in that. And what of you, friend? She calls you her bodyguard, yet when did she last permit you into her presence? In that damned tent of hers? She is reborn indeed, for she is not as she once was—’

  ‘She is Malazan,’ Toblakai said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Before she became Sha’ik. You know this as well as I—’

  ‘She was reborn! She became the will of the goddess, Toblakai. All that she was before that time is without meaning—’

  ‘So it is said,’ Karsa rumbled. ‘Yet her memories remain. And it is those memories that chain her so. She is trapped by fear, and that fear is born of a secret which she will not share. The only other person who knows that secret is Ghost Hands.’

  Leoman stared at Karsa for a long moment, then slowly settled into a crouch. The two men were surrounded by snakes, the sound of slithering on sand a muted undercurrent. Lowering one hand, Leoman watched as a flare-neck began entwining itself up his arm. ‘Your words, Toblakai, whisper of defea
t.’

  Shrugging, Karsa strode to where his tool kit waited at the base of a tree. ‘These years have served me well. Your company, Leoman. Sha’ik Elder. I once vowed that the Malazans were my enemies. Yet, from what I have seen of the world since that time, I now understand that they are no crueller than any other lowlander. Indeed, they alone seem to profess a sense of justice. The people of Seven Cities, who so despise them and wish them gone—they seek nothing more than the power that the Malazans took from them. Power that they used to terrorize their own people. Leoman, you and your kind make war against justice, and it is not my war.’

  ‘Justice?’ Leoman bared his teeth. ‘You expect me to challenge your words, Toblakai? I will not. Sha’ik Reborn says there is no loyalty within me. Perhaps she is right. I have seen too much. Yet here I remain—have you ever wondered why?’

  Karsa drew out a chisel and mallet. ‘The light fades—and that makes the shadows deeper. It is the light, I now realize. That is what is different about them.’

  ‘The Apocalyptic, Toblakai. Disintegration. Annihilation. Everything. Every human…lowlander. With our twisted horrors—all that we commit upon each other. The depredations, the cruelties. For every gesture of kindness and compassion, there are ten thousand acts of brutality. Loyalty? Aye, I have none. Not for my kind, and the sooner we obliterate ourselves the better this world will be.’

  ‘The light,’ Karsa said, ‘makes them look almost human.’

  Distracted as he was, the Toblakai did not notice Leoman’s narrowing eyes, nor the struggle to remain silent.

  One does not step between a man and his gods.

  The snake’s head lifted in front of Leoman’s face and hovered there, tongue flicking.

  ‘The House of Chains,’ Heboric muttered, his expression souring at the words.

  Bidithal shivered, though it was hard to tell whether from fear or pleasure. ‘Reaver. Consort. The Unbound—these are interesting, yes? For all the world like shattered—’

  ‘From whence came these images?’ Heboric demanded. Simply looking upon the wooden cards with their lacquered paintings—blurred as they were—was filling the ex-priest’s throat with bile. I sense…flaws. In each and every one. That is no accident, no failing of the hand that brushed them into being.

  ‘There is no doubting,’ L’oric said in answer to his question, ‘their veracity. The power emanating from them is a sorcerous stench. I have never before witnessed such a vigorous birth within the Deck. Not even Shadow felt—’

  ‘Shadow!’ Bidithal snapped. ‘Those deceivers could never unveil that realm’s true power! No, here, in this new House, the theme is pure. Imperfection is celebrated, the twist of chaotic chance mars one and all—’

  ‘Silence!’ Sha’ik hissed, her arms wrapped tight about herself. ‘We must think on this. No-one speak. Let me think!’

  Heboric studied her for a moment, squinting to bring her into focus, even though she sat beside him. The cards from the new House had arrived the same day as the news of the Malazan defeats on Genabackis. And the time since then had been one of seething discord among Sha’ik’s commanders, sufficient to dampen her pleasure at hearing of her brother Ganoes Paran’s survival, and now leading her to uncharacteristic distraction.

  The House of Chains was woven into their fates. An insidious intrusion, an infection against which they’d had no chance to prepare. But was it an enemy, or the potential source for renewed strength? It seemed Bidithal was busy convincing himself that it was the latter, no doubt drawn in that direction by his growing disaffection with Sha’ik Reborn. L’oric, on the other hand, seemed more inclined to share Heboric’s own misgivings; whilst Febryl was unique in remaining silent on the entire matter.

  The air within the tent was close, soured by human sweat. Heboric wanted nothing more than to leave, to escape all this, yet he sensed Sha’ik clinging to him, a spiritual grip as desperate as anything he’d felt from her before.

  ‘Show once more the new Unaligned.’

  Yes. For the thousandth time.

  Scowling, Bidithal searched through the Deck, then drew out the card, which he laid down in the centre of the goat-hair mat. ‘If any of the new arrivals is dubious,’ the old man sneered, ‘it is this one. Master of the Deck? Absurd. How can one control the uncontrollable?’

  There was silence.

  The uncontrollable? Such as the Whirlwind itself?

  Sha’ik had clearly not caught the insinuation. ‘Ghost Hands, I would you take this card, feel it, seek to sense what you can from it.’

  ‘You make this request again and again, Chosen One,’ Heboric sighed. ‘But I tell you, there is no link between the power of my hands and the Deck of Dragons. I am of no help to you—’

  ‘Then listen closely and I shall describe it. Never mind your hands—I ask you now as a once-priest, as a scholar. Listen. The face is obscured, yet hints—’

  ‘It is obscured,’ Bidithal interrupted in a derisive tone, ‘because the card is no more than the projection of someone’s wishful thinking.’

  ‘Cut me off again and you will regret it, Bidithal,’ Sha’ik said. ‘I have heard you enough on this subject. If your mouth opens again I will tear out your tongue. Ghost Hands, I will continue. The figure is slightly above average in height. There is the crimson streak of a scar—or blood perhaps—down one side of the face—a wounding, yes? He—yes, I am certain it’s a man, not a woman—he stands on a bridge. Of stone, shot through with cracks. The horizon is filled with flames. It seems he and the bridge are surrounded, as if by followers, or servants—’

  ‘Or guardians,’ L’oric added. ‘Your pardon, Chosen One.’

  ‘Guardians. Yes, a good possibility. They have the look of soldiers, do they not?’

  ‘On what,’ Heboric asked, ‘do these guardians stand? Can you see the ground they stand upon?’

  ‘Bones—there is much fine detail there, Ghost Hands. How did you know?’

  ‘Describe those bones, please.’

  ‘Not human. Very large. Part of a skull is visible, long-snouted, terribly fanged. It bears the remnants of a helmet of some sort—’

  ‘A helmet? On the skull?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Heboric fell silent. He began rocking yet was only remotely aware of the motion. There was a sourceless keening growing in his head, a cry of grief, of anguish.

  ‘The Master,’ Sha’ik said, her voice trembling, ‘he stands strangely. Arms held out, bent at the elbows so that the hands depend, away from the body—it is the strangest posture—’

  ‘Are his feet together?’

  ‘Almost impossibly so.’

  As if forming a point. Dull and remote to his own ears, Heboric asked, ‘And what does he wear?’

  ‘Tight silks, from the way they shimmer. Black.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There is a chain. It cuts across his torso, left shoulder down to right hip. It is a robust chain, black wrought iron. There are wooden discs on his shoulders—like epaulets, but large, a hand’s span each—’

  ‘How many in all?’

  ‘Four. You know something now, Ghost Hands. Tell me!’

  ‘Yes,’ L’oric murmured, ‘you have thoughts on this—’

  ‘He lies,’ Bidithal growled. ‘He has been forgotten by everyone—even his god—and he now seeks to invent a new importance.’

  Febryl spoke in a mocking rasp. ‘Bidithal, you foolish man. He is a man who touches what we cannot feel, and sees what we are blind to. Speak on, Ghost Hands. Why does this Master stand so?’

  ‘Because,’ Heboric said, ‘he is a sword.’

  But not any sword. He is one sword, above all, and it cuts cold. That sword is as this man’s own nature. He will cleave his own path. None shall lead him. He stands now in my mind. I see him. I see his face. Oh, Sha’ik…

  ‘A Master of the Deck,’ L’oric said, then sighed. ‘A lodestone to order…in opposition to the House of Chains—yet he stands alone, guardians or no, while the
servants of the House are many.’

  Heboric smiled. ‘Alone? He has always been thus.’

  ‘Then why is your smile that of a broken man, Ghost Hands?’

  I grieve for humanity. This family, so at war with itself. ‘To that, L’oric, I shall not answer.’

  ‘I shall now speak with Ghost Hands alone,’ Sha’ik pronounced.

  But Heboric shook his head. ‘I am done speaking, for now, even with you, Chosen One. I will say this and nothing more: have faith in the Master of the Deck. He shall answer the House of Chains. He shall answer it.’

  Feeling ancient beyond his years, Heboric climbed to his feet. There was a stir of motion beside him, then young Felisin’s hand settled on his forearm. He let her guide him from the chamber.

  Outside, dusk had arrived, marked by the cries of the goats as they were led into the enclosures. To the south, just beyond the city’s outskirts, rumbled the thunder of horse hoofs. Kamist Reloe and Korbolo Dom had absented themselves from the meeting to oversee the exercises of the troops. Training conducted in the Malazan style, which Heboric had to admit was the renegade Fist’s only expression of brilliance thus far. For the first time, a Malazan army would meet its match in all things, barring Moranth munitions. Tactics and disposition of forces would be identical, ensuring that numbers alone would decide the day. The threat of the munitions would be answered with sorcery, for the Army of the Whirlwind possessed a full cadre of High Mages, whilst Tavore had—as far as they knew—none. Spies in Aren had noted the presence of the two Wickan children, Nil and Nether, but both, it was claimed, had been thoroughly broken by Coltaine’s death.

  Yet why would she need mages? She carries an otataral sword, after all. Even so, its negating influence cannot be extended over her entire army. Dear Sha’ik, you may well defeat your sister after all.

  ‘Where would you go, Ghost Hands?’ Felisin asked.

  ‘To my home, lass.’

  ‘That is not what I meant.’

  He cocked his head. ‘I do not know—’