The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  ‘There is no need,’ he replied. ‘I already know.’

  Do you? whispered the wind.

  ‘You want me to falter. In despair. I know your tricks, wind. And I know, too, that you are probably all that remains of some ancient, long-forgotten god. Hood knows, maybe you are all of them, their every voice a tangled mess, pushing dust and sand and little else. You want me to fall to my knees before you. In abject worship, because maybe then some trickle of power will come to you. Enough to make your escape.’ He grunted a laugh. ‘But this is for you to ponder, wind. Among all the fallen, why do you haunt me?’

  Why not? You boldly assert bone and flesh. You would spit in Hood’s face – you would spit in mine if you could think of a way to dodge my spitting it right back.

  ‘Aye, I would at that. Which is my point. You chose wrongly, wind. Because I am a soldier.’

  Let’s play a game.

  ‘Let’s not.’

  Among the Fallen, who—

  ‘The answer is children, wind. More children than anyone else.’

  Then where is your despair?

  ‘You understand nothing,’ he said, pausing to spit. ‘For a man or a woman to reach adulthood, they must first kill the child within them.’

  You are a most vicious man, soldier.

  ‘You still understand nothing. I have just confessed my despair, wind. You win the game. You win every game. But I will march on, into your icy breath, because that’s what soldiers do.’

  Odd, it does not feel as if I have won.

  On a flat stretch of cold but not yet frozen mud, he came upon tracks. Broad, flattened and bony feet, one set, heading in the same direction. Someone…seeking perhaps what he sought. Water pooled in the deep prints, motionless and reflecting the pewter sky.

  He crouched down, studying the deep impressions. ‘Be useful, wind. Tell me who walks ahead of me.’

  Silent. One who does not play.

  ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  Undead.

  He squinted down at the tracks, noting the wide, slightly misaligned gait, the faint streaks left by dangling tufts of hide, skins, whatever. ‘T’lan Imass?’

  Broken.

  ‘Two, maybe three leagues ahead of me.’

  More. Water crawls slowly here.

  ‘I smell snow and ice.’

  My breath betrays all that I devour. Turn back to a sweeter kiss, beloved.

  ‘You mean the reek of fly-swarmed swamp I’ve endured for the past two months?’ He straightened, adjusted his heavy pack.

  You are cruel. At least the one ahead says nothing. Thinks nothing. Feels nothing.

  ‘T’lan Imass for certain, then.’

  Broken.

  ‘Yes, I understood you the first time.’

  What will you do?

  ‘If need be, I will give you a gift, wind.’

  A gift? Oh, what is it?

  ‘A new game – you have to guess.’

  I will think and think and—

  ‘Hood’s breath – oh – oh! Forget I just said that!’

  —and think and think…

  They rode hard, westward at first, paralleling the great river for most of two days, before reaching the feeder track that angled northerly towards Almas, a modest town distinguished only by its garrison and stables, where Atri-Preda Yan Tovis, Varat Taun and their Letherii company could rest, resupply and requisition fresh mounts.

  Varat Taun knew flight when he saw it, when he found himself part of it. Away from Letheras, where, a day before their departure, the palace and barracks seemed caught in a rising storm of tension, the smell of blood heady in the air, a thousand rumours cavorting in all directions but none of them possessing much substance, beyond news relating the casting out of two families, the widows and children of two men who had been the Chancellor’s bodyguards, and who were clearly no longer among the living.

  Had someone tried to assassinate Triban Gnol? He’d wondered that out loud early in this journey and his commander had simply grunted, as if nothing in the notion surprised or even alarmed her. Of course she knew more than she was letting on, but Twilight had never been free with her words.

  Nor am I, it turns out. The horrors of what I witnessed in that cavern – no, nothing I can say could possibly convey the…the sheer extremity of the truth. So best leave it. The ones who will witness will not live long past the experience. What then will remain of the empire?

  And is this not why we are running away?

  A foreigner rode with them. A Mocker, Yan Tovis had said, whatever that meant. A monk of some sort. With the painted face of a cavorting mummer – what mad religion is that? Varat Taun could not recall the strange little man saying a word – perhaps he was mute, perhaps his tongue had been cut out. Cultists did terrible things to themselves. The journey across the seas and oceans of the world had provided a seemingly endless pageantry of bizarre cultures and customs. No amount of self-mutilation in misguided service to some god would surprise Varat Taun. The Mocker had been among the challengers, but the absurdity of this was now obvious – after the first day of riding he had been exhausted, reeling in the saddle. He was, evidently, a healer.

  Who healed me. Who guided me out from the terror and confusion. I have spoken my gratitude, but he just nodded. Did he witness the visions in my mind? Is he now struck mute, his very sanity under siege? In any case, he was no challenger to the Emperor, and that was why he now rode beside Yan Tovis, although what value she placed in this Mocker escaped the lieutenant.

  Perhaps it’s no different from how she views me. I ride in this company in an act of mercy. Soon to be sent to a posting in my home city. To be with my wife and my child. Twilight is not thinking as an Atri-Preda – not even her duty as a soldier was enough to compel her to report what she had learned to her superiors.

  But this is not the first time, is it? Why should I be surprised? She surrendered Fent Reach to the Edur, didn’t she? No battle, they just opened the gates.

  ‘Clearly, she loves the Edur so much she can go with them, to take command of the Letherii forces in the fleets.’ So went the argument, dry and mocking.

  The truth may be that Yan Tovis is a coward.

  Varat Taun did not like that thought, even as it now hounded him. He reminded himself of the battles, the skirmishes, both on water and ashore, where there had been nothing – not a single moment – when he had been given cause to doubt her courage.

  Yet here, now, she was fleeing Letheras with her elite company.

  Because I confirmed that Gral’s claims. Besides, would I willingly stand beside Icarium again? No, not at his side, not in the same city, preferably not on the same damned continent. Does that make me a coward as well?

  There had been a child, in that cavern, a strange thing, more imp than human. And it had managed what no-one else could – taking down Icarium, stealing away his rage and all the power that came with it. Varat Taun did not think there would be another such intervention. The defenders of the First Throne had possessed allies. The Emperor in Gold could not but refuse the same. There would be no-one there to stop Icarium. No-one but Rhulad himself, which was of course possible.

  It is our lack of faith in our Emperor that has set us on this road.

  But what if neither one will fall? What if Icarium finds himself killing Rhulad again and again? Ten times, fifty, a hundred – ten thousand? An endless succession of battles, obliterating all else. Could we not see the end of the world?

  Icarium cannot yield. Rhulad will not. They will share that inevitability. And they will share the madness that comes of it.

  Bluerose would not be far enough away. No place will.

  He had left behind the one man who understood what was coming better than anyone else. The barbarian. Who wore a heavy hood to hide his features when among strangers. Who spat on his hands to smooth back his hair. Who greeted each and every dawn with a litany of curses against all who had wronged him. Yet, now, I see him in my mind as if looking upon a
brother.

  He and I alone survived. Together, we brought Icarium out.

  His thoughts had brought him to this moment, this conflation of revelations, and he felt his heart grow cold in his chest. Varat Taun pushed his horse to a greater pace, until he came up alongside his commander. ‘Atri-Preda.’

  She looked across at him.

  ‘I must go back,’ he said.

  ‘To warn them?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What of your family, Varat Taun?’

  He glanced away. ‘I have realized something. Nowhere is far enough.’

  ‘I see. Then, would you not wish to be at her side?’

  ‘Knowing I cannot save them…’ Varat shook his head. ‘The Gral and I – together – I don’t know, perhaps we can do something – if we’re there.’

  ‘Can I talk you out of this?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Very well. Errant’s blessing on you, Varat Taun.’

  ‘He is right,’ said the Mocker behind them. ‘I too must return.’

  A heavy sigh gusted from Yan Tovis. ‘So be it – I should have known better than to try to save anyone but myself – no, I’m not as bitter as that sounded. My apologies. You both have my blessing. Be sure to walk those horses on occasion, however.’

  ‘Yes sir. Atri-Preda? Thank you.’

  ‘What word do I send to your wife?’

  ‘None, sir. Please.’

  Yan Tovis nodded.

  Varat Taun guided his mount off the road, reining in. The monk followed suited, somewhat more awkwardly. The lieutenant watched in some amusement. ‘You have no horses in your lands?’

  ‘Few. Cabal is an archipelago for the most part. The mainland holdings are on the sides of rather sheer cliffs, a stretch of coast that is severely mountainous. And what horses we do have are bred for labour and food.’

  To that, Varat Taun said nothing.

  They waited on the side of the track, watching the column of mounted soldiers ride past.

  Errant take me, what have I done?

  The lake stretched on with no end in sight. The three figures had rowed their well-provisioned boat for what passed for a day and most of a night in the Shadow Realm, before the craft ran aground in shallows. Unable to find a way past, they had shouldered the packs and disembarked, wading in silty, knee-deep water. Now, midway through the next day, they dragged exhausted, numbed legs through a calm lake that had been no deeper than their hips since dawn – until they reached a sudden drop-off.

  Trull Sengar had been in the lead, using his spear to probe the waters ahead, and now he moved to one side, step by step, the butt of the weapon stirring the grey, milky silts along the edge. He continued on for a time, watched by his companions. ‘Doesn’t feel natural,’ he finally said, making his way back to the others. ‘The drop-away is smooth, even.’ Moving past Onrack and Quick Ben, he resumed probing the ledge in the opposite direction. ‘No change here.’

  The wizard voiced a long, elaborate string of curses in his Malazan tongue, then said, ‘I could take to the air, drawing on Serc – although how long I could manage that is anyone’s guess.’ He glared across at Onrack. ‘You can just melt into silts, you damned T’lan Imass.’

  ‘Leaving me,’ said Trull, who then shrugged. ‘I will swim, then – there may well be a resumption of the shallows ahead – you know, we’ve been walking on an unnaturally level bottom for some time. Imagine for the moment that we are on a submerged concourse of some sort – enormous, granted, but still. This drop-off could simply mark a canal. In which case I should soon find the opposite side.’

  ‘A concourse?’ Quick Ben grimaced. ‘Trull, if this is a concourse beneath us it’s the size of a city-state.’

  Onrack said, ‘You will find one such construct, Wizard, covering the southeast peninsula of Stratem. K’Chain Che’Malle. A place where ritual wars were fought – before all ritual was abandoned.’

  ‘You mean when the Short-Tails rebelled.’

  Trull swore under his breath. ‘I hate it when everyone knows more than me.’ Then he snorted. ‘Mind you, my company consists of a mage and an undead, so I suppose it’s no surprise I falter in comparison.’

  ‘Falter?’ Onrack’s neck creaked loud as the warrior turned to regard the Tiste Edur. ‘Trull Sengar, you are the Knight of Shadow.’

  Quick Ben seemed to choke.

  Above the wizard’s sudden fit of coughing, Trull shouted: ‘I am what? Was this Cotillion’s idea? That damned upstart—’

  ‘Cotillion did not choose you, friend,’ Onrack said. ‘I cannot tell you who made you what you now are. Perhaps the Eres’al, although I do not comprehend the nature of her claim within the realm of Shadow. One thing, however, is very clear – she has taken an interest in you, Trull Sengar. Even so, I do not believe the Eres’al was responsible. I believe you yourself were.’

  ‘How? What did I do?’

  The T’lan Imass slowly tilted its head to one side. ‘Warrior, you stood before Icarium. You held the Lifestealer. You did what no warrior has ever done.’

  ‘Absurd,’ snapped Trull. ‘I was finished. If not for Quick Ben here – and the Eres’al – I’d be dead, my chopped-up bones mouldering outside the throne room.’

  ‘It is your way, my friend, to disarm your own achievements.’

  ‘Onrack—’

  Quick Ben laughed. ‘He’s calling you modest, Edur. And don’t bother denying the truth of that – you still manage to startle me on that count. I’ve lived most of my life among mages or in the ranks of an army, and in neither company did I ever find much in the way of self-deprecation. We were all too busy pissing on each other’s trees. One needs a certain level of, uh, bravado when it’s your job to kill people.’

  ‘Trull Sengar fought as a soldier,’ Onrack said to the wizard. ‘The difference between you two is that he is unable to hide his grief at the frailty of life.’

  ‘Nothing frail about us,’ Quick Ben muttered. ‘Life stays stubborn until it has no choice but to give up, and even then it’s likely to spit one last time in the eye of whatever’s killed it. We’re cruel in victory and cruel in defeat, my friends. Now, if you two will be quiet for a moment, I can go in search of a way out of here.’

  ‘Not flying?’ Trull asked, leaning on his spear.

  ‘No, a damned gate. I’m beginning to suspect this lake doesn’t end.’

  ‘It must end,’ the Edur said.

  ‘The Abyss is not always twisted with wild storms. Sometimes it’s like this – placid, colourless, a tide rising so slowly that it’s impossible to notice, but rise it does, swallowing this tilted, dying realm.’

  ‘The Shadow Realm is dying, Quick Ben?’

  The wizard licked his lips – a nervous gesture Trull had seen before from the tall, thin man – then shrugged. ‘I think so. With every border an open wound, it’s not that surprising. Now, quiet everyone. I need to concentrate.’

  Trull watched as Quick Ben closed his eyes.

  A moment later his body grew indistinct, grainy at its edges, then began wavering, into and out of solidity.

  The Tiste Edur, still leaning on his spear, grinned over at Onrack. ‘Well, old friend, it seems we wander the unknown yet again.’

  ‘I regret nothing, Trull Sengar.’

  ‘It’s virtually the opposite for me – with the exception of talking you into freeing me when I was about to drown in the Nascent – which, I’ve just realized, doesn’t look much different from this place. Flooding worlds. Is this more pervasive than we realize?’

  A clattering of bones as the T’lan Imass shrugged. ‘I would know something, Trull Sengar. When peace comes to a warrior…’

  The Edur’s eyes narrowed on the battered undead. ‘How do you just cast off all the rest? The surge of pleasure at the height of battle? The rush of emotions, each one threatening to overwhelm you, drown you? That sizzling sense of being alive? Onrack, I thought your kind felt…nothing.’

  ‘With awakening memories,�
�� Onrack replied, ‘so too other…forces of the soul.’ The T’lan Imass lifted one withered hand. ‘This calm on all sides – it mocks me.’

  ‘Better a wild storm?’

  ‘I think, yes. A foe to fight. Trull Sengar, should I join this water as dust, I do not think I would return. Oblivion would take me with the promise of a struggle ended. Not what I desire, friend, for that would mean abandoning you. And surrendering my memories. Yet what does a warrior do when peace is won?’

  ‘Take up fishing,’ Quick Ben muttered, eyes still closed, body still wavering. ‘Now enough words from you two. This isn’t easy.’

  Wavering once more in and out of existence, then, suddenly – gone.

  Ever since Shadowthrone had stolen him away – when Kalam needed him the most – Quick Ben had quietly seethed. Repaying a debt in one direction had meant betraying a friend in another. Unacceptable.

  Diabolical.

  And if Shadowthrone thinks he has my loyalty just because he pushed Kal into the Deadhouse, then he is truly as mad as we all think he is. Oh, I’m sure the Azath and whatever horrid guardian resides in there would welcome Kalam readily enough. Mount his head on the wall above the mantel, maybe – all right, that’s not very likely. But the Azath collects. That’s what it does, and now it has my oldest friend. So, how in Hood’s name do I get him out?

  Damn you, Shadowthrone.

  But such anger left him feeling unbalanced, making concentration difficult. And the skin rotting from my legs isn’t helping either. Still, they needed a way out. Cotillion hadn’t explained much. No, he’d just expected us to figure things out for ourselves. What that means is that there’s only one real direction. Wouldn’t do to have us get lost now, would it?

  Slightly emboldened – a momentary triumph over diffidence – Quick Ben concentrated, his senses reaching out to the surrounding ether. Solid, clammy, a smooth surface yielding like sponge under the push of imagined hands. The fabric of this realm, the pocked skin of a ravaged world. He began applying more pressure, seeking…soft spots, weaknesses – I know you exist.

  Ah, you are now aware of me – I can feel that. Curious, you feel almost…feminine. Well, a first time for everything. What had been clammy beneath his touch was now simply cool. Hood’s breath, I’m not sure I like the images accompanying this thought of pushing through.