The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  Monok Ochem gestured, and the scene around them blurred, the light fading.

  A moment before the darkness became absolute, a faint shout from the Tiste Edur drew Onrack’s attention. The warrior turned, in time to see a figure standing a dozen paces away. Tall, lithely muscled, with a fine umber-hued pelt and long, shaggy hair reaching down past the shoulders. A woman. Her breasts were large and pendulous, her hips wide and full. Prominent, flaring cheekbones, a broad, full-lipped mouth. All this registered in an instant, even as the woman’s dark brown eyes, shadowed beneath a solid brow, scanned across the three T’lan Imass before fixing on Trull Sengar.

  She took a step towards the Tiste Edur, the movement graceful as a deer’s—

  Then the light vanished entirely.

  Onrack heard another surprised shout from Trull Sengar. The T’lan Imass strode towards the sound, then halted, thoughts suddenly scattering, a flash of images cascading through the warrior’s mind. Time folding in on itself, sinking away, then rising once more—

  Sparks danced low to the ground, tinder caught, flames flickering.

  They were in the crevasse, standing on its littered floor. Onrack looked for Trull Sengar, found the Tiste Edur lying prone on the damp rock a half-dozen paces away.

  The T’lan Imass approached.

  The mortal was unconscious. There was blood smearing his lap, pooling beneath his crotch, and Onrack could see it cooling, suggesting that it did not belong to Trull Sengar, but to the Eres woman who had…taken his seed.

  His first seed. But there had been nothing to her appearance suggesting virginity. Her breasts had swollen with milk in the past; her nipples had known the pressure of a pup’s hunger. The blood, then, made no sense.

  Onrack crouched beside Trull Sengar.

  And saw the fresh wound of scarification beneath his belly button. Three parallel cuts, drawn across diagonally, and the stained imprints of three more—likely those the woman had cut across her own belly—running in the opposite direction.

  ‘The Eres witch has stolen his seed,’ Monok Ochem said from two paces away.

  ‘Why?’ Onrack asked.

  ‘I do not know, Onrack the Broken. The Eres have the minds of beasts—’

  ‘Not to the exclusion of all else,’ Onrack replied, ‘as you well know.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Clearly, this one had intent.’

  Monok Ochem nodded. ‘So it would seem. Why does the Tiste Edur remain unconscious?’

  ‘His mind is elsewhere—’

  The bonecaster cocked its head. ‘Yes, that is the definition of unconscious—’

  ‘No, it is elsewhere. When I stepped close, I came into contact with sorcery. That which the Eres projected. For lack of any other term, it was a warren, barely formed, on the very edge of oblivion. It was,’ Onrack paused, then continued, ‘like the Eres themselves. A glimmer of light behind the eyes.’

  Ibra Gholan suddenly drew his weapon.

  Onrack straightened.

  There were sounds, now, beyond the fire’s light, and the T’lan Imass could see the glow of flesh and blood bodies, a dozen, then a score. Something else approached, the foot-falls uneven and shambling.

  A moment later, an aptorian demon loomed into the light, a shape unfolding like black silk. And riding its humped, singular shoulder, a youth. Its body was human, yet its face held the features of the aptorian—a massive, lone eye, glistening and patterned like honeycomb. A large mouth, now opening to reveal needle fangs that seemed capable of retracting, all but their tips vanishing from sight. The rider wore black leather armour, shaped like scales and overlapping. A chest harness bore at least a dozen weapons, ranging from long-knives to throwing darts. Affixed to the youth’s belt were two single-hand crossbows, their grips fashioned from the base shafts of antlers.

  The rider leaned forward over the spiny, humped shoulder. Then spoke in a low, rasping voice. ‘Is this all that Logros can spare?’

  ‘You,’ Monok Ochem said, ‘are not welcome.’

  ‘Too bad, Bonecaster, for we are here. To guard the First Throne.’

  Onrack asked, ‘Who are you, and who has sent you here?’

  ‘I am Panek, son of Apt. It is not for me to answer your other question, T’lan Imass. I but guard the outer ward. The chamber that is home to the First Throne possesses an inner warden—the one who commands us. Perhaps she can answer you. Perhaps, even, she will.’

  Onrack picked up Trull Sengar. ‘We would speak with her, then.’

  Panek smiled, revealing the crowded row of fangs. ‘As I said, the Throne Room. No doubt,’ he added, smile broadening, ‘you know the way.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  In the oldest, most fragmentary of texts, will be found obscure mention of the Eres’al, a name that seems to refer to those most ancient of spirits that are the essence of the physical world. There is, of course, no empirical means of determining whether the attribution of meaning—the power inherent in making symbols of the inanimate—was causative, in essence the creative force behind the Eres’al; or if some other mysterious power was involved, inviting the accretion of meaning and significance by intelligent forms of life at some later date.

  In either case, what cannot be refuted is the rarely acknowledged but formidable power that exists like subterranean layers in notable features of the land; nor that such power is manifested with subtle yet profound efficacy, even so much as to twist the stride of gods—indeed, occasionally sufficient to bring them down with finality…

  PREFACE TO THE COMPENDIUM OF MAPS

  KELLARSTELLIS OF LI HENG

  The vast shelves and ridges of coral had been worn into flat-topped islands by millennia of drifting sand and wind. Their flanks were ragged and rotted, pitted and undercut, the low ground in between them narrow, twisting and filled with sharp-edged rubble. To Gamet’s eye, the gods could not have chosen a less suitable place to encamp an army.

  Yet there seemed little choice. Nowhere else offered an approach onto the field of battle, and, as quickly became evident, the position, once taken, was as defensible as the remotest mountain keep: a lone saving grace.

  Tavore’s headlong approach into the maw of the enemy, to the battleground of their choosing, was, the Fist suspected, the primary source of the unease and vague confusion afflicting the legions. He watched the soldiers proceeding, in units of a hundred, on their way to taking and holding various coral islands overlooking the basin. Once in place, they would then construct from the rubble defensive barriers and low walls, followed by ramps on the south sides.

  Captain Keneb shifted nervously on his saddle beside the Fist as they watched the first squads of their own legion set out towards a large, bone-white island on the western-most edge of the basin. ‘They won’t try to dislodge us from these islands,’ he said. ‘Why bother, since it’s obvious the Adjunct intends to march us right into their laps?’

  Gamet was not deaf to the criticisms and doubt hidden beneath Keneb’s words, and he wished he could say something to encourage the man, to bolster faith in Tavore’s ability to formulate and progress sound tactics. But even the Fist was unsure. There had been no sudden revelation of genius during the march from Aren. They had, in truth, walked straight as a lance northward. Suggesting what, exactly? A singlemindedness worthy of imitation, or a failure of imagination? Are the two so different, or merely alternate approaches to the same thing? And now they were being arrayed, as stolid as ever, to advance—probably at dawn the next day—towards the enemy and their entrenched fortifications. An enemy clever enough to create singular and difficult approaches to their positions.

  ‘Those ramps will see the death of us all,’ Keneb muttered. ‘Korbolo Dom’s prepared for this, as any competent, Malazan-trained commander would. He wants us crowded and struggling uphill, beneath an endless hail of arrows, quarrels and ballista, not to mention sorcery. Look at how smooth he’s made those ramp surfaces, Fist. The cobbles, when slick with streaming blood, will be like greas
e underfoot. We’ll find no purchase—’

  ‘I am not blind,’ Gamet growled. ‘Nor, we must assume, is the Adjunct.’

  Keneb shot the older man a look. ‘It would help to have some reassurance of that, Fist.’

  ‘There shall be a meeting of officers tonight,’ Gamet replied. ‘And again a bell before dawn.’

  ‘She’s already decided the disposition of our legion,’ Keneb grated, leaning on his saddle and spitting in the local fashion.

  ‘Aye, she has, Captain.’ They were to guard avenues of retreat, not for their own forces, but those the enemy might employ. A premature assumption of victory that whispered of madness. They were outnumbered. Every advantage was with Sha’ik, yet almost one-third of the Adjunct’s army would not participate in the battle. ‘And the Adjunct expects us to comply with professional competence,’ Gamet added.

  ‘As she commands,’ Keneb growled.

  Dust was rising as the sappers and engineers worked on the fortifications and ramps. The day was blisteringly hot, the wind barely a desultory breath. The Khundryl, Seti and Wickan horse warriors remained south of the coral islands, awaiting the construction of a road that would give them egress to the basin. Even then, there would be scant room to manoeuvre. Gamet suspected that Tavore would hold most of them back—the basin was not large enough for massed cavalry charges, for either side. Sha’ik’s own desert warriors would most likely be held in reserve, a fresh force to pursue the Malazans should they be broken. And, in turn, the Khundryl can cover such a retreat…or rout. A rather ignoble conclusion, the remnants of the Malazan army riding double on Khundryl horses—the Fist grimaced at the image and angrily swept it from his mind. ‘The Adjunct knows what she is doing,’ he asserted.

  Keneb said nothing.

  A messenger approached on foot. ‘Fist Gamet,’ the man called out, ‘the Adjunct requests your presence.’

  ‘I will keep an eye on the legion,’ Keneb said.

  Gamet nodded and wheeled his horse around. The motion made his head spin for a moment—he was still waking with headaches—then he steadied himself with a deep breath and nodded towards the messenger.

  They made slow passage through the chaotic array of troops moving to and fro beneath the barked commands of the officers, towards a low hill closest to the basin. Gamet could see the Adjunct astride her horse on that hill, along with, on foot, Nil and Nether.

  ‘I see them,’ Gamet said to the messenger.

  ‘Aye, sir, I’ll leave you to it, then.’

  Riding clear of the press, Gamet brought his horse into a canter and moments later reined in alongside the Adjunct.

  The position afforded them a clear view of the enemy emplacements, and, just as they observed, so too in turn were they being watched by a small knot of figures atop the central ramp.

  ‘How sharp are your eyes, Fist?’ the Adjunct asked.

  ‘Not sharp enough,’ he replied.

  ‘Korbolo Dom. Kamist Reloe. Six officers. Kamist has quested in our direction, seeking signs of mages. High Mages, specifically. Of course, given that Nil and Nether are with me, they cannot be found by Kamist Reloe’s sorceries. Tell me, Fist Gamet, how confident do you imagine Korbolo Dom feels right now?’

  He studied her a moment. She was in her armour, the visor of her helm lifted, her eyes half-lidded against the bright glare bouncing from the basin’s hard-packed, crackled clay. ‘I would think, Adjunct,’ he replied slowly, ‘that his measure of confidence is wilting.’

  She glanced over. ‘Wilting. Why?’

  ‘Because it all looks too easy. Too overwhelmingly in his favour, Adjunct.’

  She fell silent, returning her gaze to the distant enemy.

  Is this what she wanted me for? To ask that one question?

  Gamet switched his attention to the two Wickans. Nil had grown during the march, leading Gamet to suspect that he would be a tall man in a few years’ time. He wore only a loincloth and looked feral with his wild, unbraided hair and green and black body-paint.

  Nether, he realized with some surprise, had filled out beneath her deer-skin hides, a chubbiness that was common to girls before they came of age. The severity of her expression was very nearly fixed now, transforming what should have been a pretty face into a mien forbidding and burdened. Her black hair was shorn close, betokening a vow of grief.

  ‘Kamist’s questing is done,’ the Adjunct suddenly pronounced. ‘He will need to rest, now.’ She turned in her saddle and by some prearranged signal two Wickan warriors jogged up the slope. Tavore unhitched her sword-belt and passed it to them. They quickly retreated with the otataral weapon.

  Reluctantly, Nil and Nether settled cross-legged onto the stony ground.

  ‘Fist Gamet,’ the Adjunct said, ‘if you would, draw your dagger and spill a few drops from your right palm.’

  Without a word he tugged off his gauntlet, slid his dagger from its scabbard and scored the edge across the fleshy part of his hand. Blood welled from the cut. Gamet held it out, watched as the blood spilled down to the ground.

  Dizziness struck him and he reeled in the saddle a moment before regaining his balance.

  Nether voiced a hiss of surprise.

  Gamet glanced down at her. Her eyes were closed, both hands pressed against the sandy ground. Nil had assumed the same posture and on his face flitted a wild sequence of emotions, fixing at last on fear.

  The Fist was still feeling light-headed, a faint roaring sound filling his skull.

  ‘There are spirits here,’ Nil growled. ‘Rising with anger—’

  ‘A song,’ Nether cut in. ‘Of war, and warriors—’

  ‘New and old,’ her brother said. ‘So very new…and so very old. Battle and death, again and again—’

  ‘The land remembers every struggle played out on its surface, on all its surfaces, from the very beginning.’ Nether grimaced, then shivered, her eyes squeezed shut. ‘The goddess is as nothing to this power—yet she would…steal.’

  The Adjunct’s voice was sharp. ‘Steal?’

  ‘The warren,’ Nil replied. ‘She would claim this fragment, and settle it upon this land like a parasite. Roots of shadow, slipping down to draw sustenance, to feed on the land’s memories.’

  ‘And the spirits will not have it,’ Nether whispered.

  ‘They are resisting?’ the Adjunct asked.

  Both Wickans nodded, then Nil bared his teeth and said, ‘Ghosts cast no shadows. You were right, Adjunct. Gods, you were right!’

  Right? Gamet wondered. Right about what?

  ‘And will they suffice?’ Tavore demanded.

  Nil shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Only if the Talon Master does what you think he will do, Adjunct.’

  ‘Assuming,’ Nether added, ‘Sha’ik is unaware of the viper in her midst.’

  ‘Had she known,’ Tavore said, ‘she would have separated his head from his shoulders long ago.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Nether replied, and Gamet heard the scepticism in her tone. ‘Unless she and her goddess decided to wait until all their enemies were gathered.’

  The Adjunct returned her gaze to the distant officers. ‘Let us see, shall we?’

  Both Wickans rose, then shared a glance unwitnessed by Tavore.

  Gamet rubbed his uncut hand along his brow beneath the helm’s rim, and his fingers came away dripping with sweat. Something had used him, he realized shakily. Through the medium of his blood. He could hear distant music, a song of voices and unrecognizable instruments. A pressure was building in his skull. ‘If you are done with me, Adjunct,’ he said roughly.

  She nodded without looking over. ‘Return to your legion, Fist. Convey to your officers, please, the following. Units may appear during the battle on the morrow which you will not recognize. They may seek orders, and you are to give them as if they were under your command.’

  ‘Understood, Adjunct.’

  ‘Have a cutter attend to your hand, Fist Gamet, and thank you. Also, ask the guards to return to me my sword.’
/>
  ‘Aye.’ He wheeled his horse and walked it down the slope.

  The headache was not fading, and the song itself seemed to have poisoned his veins, a music of flesh and bone that hinted of madness. Leave me in peace, damn you. I am naught but a soldier. A soldier…

  Strings sat on the boulder, his head in his hands. He had flung off the helm but had no memory of having done so, and it lay at his feet, blurry and wavering behind the waves of pain that rose and fell like a storm-tossed sea. Voices were speaking around him, seeking to reach him, but he could make no sense of what was being said. The song had burgeoned sudden and fierce in his skull, flowing through his limbs like fire.

  A hand gripped his shoulder, and he felt a sorcerous questing seep into his veins, tentatively at first, then flinching away entirely, only to return with more force—and with it, a spreading silence. Blissful peace, cool and calm.

  Finally, the sergeant was able to look up.

  He found his squad gathered around him. The hand fixed onto his shoulder was Bottle’s, and the lad’s face was pale, beaded with sweat. Their eyes locked, then Bottle nodded and slowly withdrew his hand.

  ‘Can you hear me, Sergeant?’

  ‘Faint, as if you were thirty paces away.’

  ‘Is the pain gone?’

  ‘Aye—what did you do?’

  Bottle glanced away.

  Strings frowned, then said, ‘Everyone else, back to work. Stay here, Bottle.’

  Cuttle cuffed Tarr and the corporal straightened and mumbled, ‘Let’s go, soldiers. There’s pits to dig.’

  The sergeant and Bottle watched the others head off, retrieving their picks and shovels as they went. The squad was positioned on the southwesternmost island, overlooking dunes that reached out to the horizon. A single, sufficiently wide corridor lay directly to the north, through which the enemy—if broken and fleeing—would come as they left the basin. Just beyond it lay a modest, flat-topped tel, on which a company of mounted desert warriors were ensconced, the crest dotted with scouts keeping a careful eye on the Malazans.