The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  He will leave this city a heap of rubble. He will leave its citizens a mountain of shattered bones. Gods, look at him! Standing calm, so deep in shadow as to be almost invisible – Karsa does not see him, no. The Toblakai’s focus rests on the Seguleh, as he circles her at a distance. And she moves like a cat to ever face him.

  Oh, she is a fighter all right.

  And Karsa will throw her over the damned wall.

  If she dares close. As she must. Get inside that huge flint sword.

  Over the wall. Or through it.

  Her heart pounded, the beat rapid, disturbingly erratic.

  She sensed someone at her side and saw, with a jolt of alarm, a Tiste Edur – and she then recognized him. Preda…Tomad. Tomad Sengar.

  The Emperor’s father.

  Karsa, you don’t want this audience—

  An explosion of motion as the two contestants closed – afterwards, none could agree on who moved first, as if some instinctive agreement was reached between the Seguleh and Karsa, and acted upon faster than thought itself.

  And, as iron rang on stone – or stone on iron – Karsa Orlong did something unexpected.

  Pounded down with one foot. Hard onto the packed sand.

  In the midst of the Seguleh’s lithe dance.

  Pounded down, hard enough to stagger onlookers as the entire compound floor thundered.

  The Seguleh’s perfect balance…vanished.

  No doubt it was but a fraction, the dislodging so minor few would even register it, and no doubt her recovery was as instantaneous – but she was already reeling back to a savage blow with the flat of Karsa’s blade, both wrists broken by the impact.

  Yet, as she toppled, she twisted, one foot lashing upward towards the Toblakai’s crotch.

  He caught her kick with one hand, blocking the blow, then boldly lifted her into the air.

  She swung the other foot.

  And the Toblakai, laughing, released his sword and snagged that leg as well.

  And held her there.

  Dangling.

  Behind Taralack Veed, there was a soft sigh, and the Gral, blinking, turned round.

  Icarium smiled. Then said in a low voice, ‘We have met, I think. He and I. Perhaps long ago. A duel that was interrupted.’

  By Mappo. Has to be. Mappo, who saw a storm coming between these two. Oh, Trell…

  Taralack licked dry lips. ‘Would you resume that duel, Icarium?’

  The Jhag’s brows lifted fractionally. Then he shook his head, leaving that as his answer.

  Thank the spirits.

  From Preda Tomad Sengar, a grunt.

  ‘These games,’ Samar Dev ventured, drawing his attention, ‘they are intended to entertain, yes? Each contest more challenging than the last.’

  The Tiste Edur eyed her, expressionless, then he said, ‘Among the audience, there are those who are entertained.’

  ‘Yes.’

  After a moment, he added, ‘Yes, this Tarthenal will come last. The decision was unanimous among our observers.’ Then he shrugged and said, ‘I came to see for myself. Although my judgement has no relevance.’

  ‘That Seguleh was very good,’ Samar Dev said.

  ‘Perhaps. But she has sparred with no others.’

  ‘They hold her in great respect.’

  ‘Even now? When will he set her down?’

  She shook her head.

  Tomad Sengar turned away. ‘The Tarthenal is superb.’

  ‘And yet your son is better.’

  This halted him once more and he stared back at her with narrowed eyes. ‘Your Tarthenal is superb,’ he repeated. ‘But he will die anyway.’

  The Tiste Edur walked away.

  Finally responding to shouts and entreaties from the onlookers, Karsa Orlong set the woman down onto the ground.

  Three Letherii healers rushed in to tend to her.

  Collecting his sword, Karsa straightened, then looked round.

  Oh, thought Samar Dev, oh no.

  But Icarium was gone. As was his Gral keeper.

  The Toblakai walked towards her.

  ‘I didn’t need to know,’ she said.

  ‘No, you knew already.’

  Oh, gods!

  Then he drew closer and stared down at her. ‘The Jhag fled. The Trell who was with him is gone. Probably dead. Now there is a desert warrior I could break with one hand. There would have been none to stop us, this Icarium and me. He knew that. So he fled.’

  ‘You damned fool, Karsa. Icarium is not the kind of warrior who spars. Do you understand me?’

  ‘We would not have sparred, Samar Dev.’

  ‘So why spend yourself against him? Is it not these Edur and their Letherii slaves you seek vengeance against?’

  ‘When I am finished with their Emperor, I will seek out Icarium. We will finish what we began.’

  ‘Beware gathering the men before the battering ram, Karsa Orlong.’

  ‘A foolish saying,’ he pronounced after a moment.

  ‘Oh, and why is that?’

  ‘Among the Teblor, men are the battering ram. Look upon me, Samar Dev. I have fought and won. See the sweat on my muscles? Come lie with me.’

  ‘No, I feel sick.’

  ‘I will make you feel better. I will split you in two.’

  ‘That sounds fun. Go away.’

  ‘Must I hunt down another whore?’

  ‘They all run when they see you now, Karsa Orlong. In the opposite direction, I mean.’

  He snorted, then looked round. ‘Perhaps the Seguleh.’

  ‘Oh, really! You just broke her arms!’

  ‘She won’t need them. Besides, the healers are mending her.’

  ‘Gods below, I’m leaving.’

  As she strode away, she heard his rumbling laugh. Oh, I know you make sport of me. I know and yet I fall into your traps every time. You are too clever, barbarian. Where is that thick-skulled savage? The one to match your pose?

  Dragging mangled legs, every lurch stabbing pain along the length of his bent, twisted spine, Hannan Mosag squinted ahead, and could just make out the scree of river-polished stones rising like a road between the cliffs of the gorge. He did not know if what he was seeing was real.

  Yet it felt right.

  Like home.

  Kurald Emurlahn, the Realm of Shadow. Not a fragment, not a torn smear riven through with impurities. Home, as it once was, before all the betrayals ripped it asunder. Paradise awaits us. In our minds. Ghost images, all perfection assembled by will and will alone. Believe what you see, Hannan Mosag. This is home.

  And yet it resisted. Seeking to reject him, his broken body, his chaos-stained mind.

  Mother Dark. Father Light. Look upon your crippled children. Upon me. Upon Emurlahn. Heal us. Do you not see the world fashioned in my mind? All as it once was. I hold still to this purity, to all that I sought to create in the mortal realm, among the tribes I brought to heel – the peace I demanded, and won.

  None could have guessed my deepest desire. The Throne of Shadow – it was for me. And by my rule, Kurald Emurlahn would grow strong once again. Whole. Rightfully in its place.

  Yes, there was chaos – the raw unbound power coursing like impassable rivers, isolating every island of Shadow. But I would have used that chaos – to heal.

  Chains. Chains to draw the fragments together, to bind them together.

  The Fallen God was a tool, nothing more.

  But Rhulad Sengar had destroyed all that. In the reach of a child’s hand. And now, everything was dying. Poisoned. Crumbling into dissolution.

  He reached the base of the scree, smooth round pebbles clacking beneath his clawed fingers. Coarse sand under his nails, wet, biting. My world.

  Rain falling in wisps of mist, the pungent smell of moss and rotting wood. And on the wind…the sea. Surmounting the steep slope of stones, the boles of Blackwood trees stood arrayed like sentinels.

  There were no invasive demons here. This world was the world of the Tiste Edur.


  The shadow of a gliding owl slipped over the glistening slide, crossing his intended path, and Hannan Mosag froze.

  No. It cannot be. There is no-one alive to claim that title.

  He is dead.

  He was not even Tiste Edur!

  And yet, who stood alone before Rhulad Sengar? Yes, she has his severed finger. The owl – most ancient of omens – the owl, to mark the coming of the one.

  Yet anger surged within him.

  It is for me to choose. Me! Mother Dark! Father Light! Guide me to the Throne of Shadow. Emurlahn reborn! It is this, I tell you both, this or the King in Chains, and behind him the Crippled God! Hear my offer!

  ‘Andii, Liosan, Edur, the Armies of the Tiste. No betrayal. The betrayals are done – bind us to our words as you have bound each other. Light, Dark and Shadow, the first elements of existence. Energy and void and the ceaseless motion of the ebb and flow between them. These three forces – the first, the greatest, the purest. Hear me. I would so pledge the Edur to this alliance! Send to me those who would speak for the Andii. The Liosan. Send them – bring your children together!

  ‘Mother Dark. Father Light. I await your word. I await…’

  He could go no further.

  Weeping, Hannan Mosag rested his head on the stones. ‘As you say,’ he muttered. ‘I will not deny the omen. Very well, it is not for me to choose.

  ‘He shall be our Mortal Sword of Emurlahn – no, not the old title. The new one, to suit this age. Mortal Sword.’ Madness – why would he even agree? Letherii…

  ‘So be it.’

  Dusk had arrived. Yet he felt a sliver of warmth against one cheek, and he lifted his head. The clouds had broken, there, to the east – a welling band of darkness.

  And, to the west, another slash parting the overcast.

  The lurid glow of the sun.

  ‘So be it,’ he whispered.

  Bruthen Trana stepped back as the prostrate Warlock King flinched, Hannan Mosag’s legs drawing up like an insect in death.

  A moment later, the warlock’s bloodshot eyes prised open. And seemed to see nothing for a moment. Then they flicked upward. ‘Warrior,’ he said thickly, then grimaced and spat a throatful of phlegm onto the grimy pavestones. ‘Bruthen Trana. K’ar Penath speaks boldly of your loyalty, your honour. You are Tiste Edur – as we all once were. Before – before Rhulad.’ He coughed, then pushed himself into a sitting position, raising his head with obvious effort to glower up at Bruthen Trana. ‘And so, I must send you away.’

  ‘Warlock King, I serve this empire—’

  ‘Errant take this damned empire! You serve the Tiste Edur!’

  Bruthen Trana regarded the broken creature below, said nothing.

  ‘I know,’ Hannan Mosag said, ‘you would lead our warriors – through the palace above us. Room by room, cutting down every one of the Chancellor’s pernicious spies. Cutting Rhulad free of the snaring web spun about him – but that fool on his throne could not recognize freedom if it sprouted wings on his shoulders. He will see it as an attack, a rebellion. Listen to me! Leave the Chancellor to us!’

  ‘And Karos Invictad?’

  ‘All of them, Bruthen Trana. So I vow before you.’

  ‘Where do you wish me to go, Warlock King? After Fear Sengar?’

  Hannan Mosag started, then shook his head. ‘No. But I dare not speak the name of the one you must find. Here, in this realm, the Crippled God courses in my veins – where I travelled a few moments ago, I was free then. To understand. To…pray.’

  ‘How will I know where to look? How will I know when I find the one you seek?’

  The Warlock King hesitated. He licked his lips, then said, ‘He is dead. But not dead. Distant, yet is summoned. His tomb lies empty, yet was never occupied. He is never spoken of, though his touch haunts us all again and again.’

  Bruthen Trana raised a hand – not surprised to see that it trembled. ‘No more. Where shall I find the beginning of the path?’

  ‘Where the sun dies. I think.’

  The warrior scowled. ‘West? But you are not sure?’

  ‘I am not. I dare not.’

  ‘Am I to travel alone?’

  ‘For you to decide, Bruthen Trana. But before all else, you must get something – an item – from the Letherii slave. Feather Witch – she hides beneath the Old Palace—’

  ‘I know those tunnels, Warlock King. What is this item?’

  Hannan Mosag told him.

  He studied the twisted warlock for a moment longer – the avid gleam in Hannan Mosag’s eyes bright as fever – then spun round and strode from the chamber.

  Bearing lanterns, the squad of guards formed a pool of lurid yellow light that glimmered along the waters of Quillas Canal as they trudged, amidst clanking weapons and desultory muttering, across the bridge. Once on the other side, the squad turned right to follow the main avenue towards the Creeper district.

  As soon as the glow trundled away, Tehol nudged Ublala and they hurried onto the bridge. Glancing back at the half-blood, Tehol scowled, then hissed, ‘Watch me, you fool! See? I’m skulking. No – hunch down, look about suspiciously, skitter this way and that. Duck down, Ublala!’

  ‘But then I can’t see.’

  ‘Quiet!’

  ‘Sorry. Can we get off this bridge?’

  ‘First, let me see you skulk. Go on, you need to practise.’

  Grumbling, Ublala Pung hunched low, his beetled brow rippling as he looked first one way, then the other.

  ‘Nice,’ Tehol said. ‘Now, hurry up and skulk after me.’

  ‘All right, Tehol. It’s just that there’s the curfew, and I don’t want trouble.’

  They reached the other side and Tehol led the way, thirty paces into the wake of the guards, then an abrupt cut to the left, coming within sight of the Tolls Repository. Into an alley, where he crouched, then gestured frantically for Ublala to do the same.

  ‘All right,’ he whispered, ‘do you know which wing?’

  Ublala blinked in the gloom. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know where this Tarthenal is quartered?’

  ‘Yes. With all the other champions.’

  ‘Good. Where is that?’

  ‘Well, it must be somewhere.’

  ‘Good thinking, Ublala. Now, stay close to me. I am, after all, a master of this thieving skulduggery.’

  ‘Really? But Bugg said—’

  ‘What? What did my miserable manservant say? About me? Behind my back?’

  Ublala shrugged. ‘Lots of things. I mean, nothing. Oh, you misheard me, Tehol. I didn’t say anything. You’re not a clumsy oaf with a head full of grander delusions, or anything. Like that.’ He brightened. ‘You want me to box him about the ears again?’

  ‘Later. Here’s what I think. Near the Imperial Barracks, but a wing of the Eternal Domicile. Or between the Eternal Domicile and the Old Palace.’

  Ublala was nodding.

  ‘So,’ Tehol continued, ‘shall we get going?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think this night is going to go well. Never mind, just stay with me.’

  A quick peek into the street, up one way, down the other, then Tehol moved out, keeping low against the near wall. As they drew closer to the Eternal Domicile, the shadows diminished – lantern poles at intersections, broader streets, and there soldiers positioned at postern gates, outside corner blockhouses, soldiers, in fact, everywhere.

  Tehol tugged Ublala into the last usable alley, where they crouched once more in gloom. ‘This looks bad,’ he whispered. ‘There’s people, Ublala. Well, listen, it was a good try. But we’ve been bested by superior security and that’s that.’

  ‘They’re all standing in their own light,’ Ublala said. ‘They can’t see nothing, Tehol. Besides, I got in mind a diversion.’

  ‘A diversion like your usual diversions, Ublala? Forget it. Shurq Elalle’s told me about that last time—’

  ‘Yes, like that. It worked, didn’t it?’

  ‘But
that was to get her inside the Gerrun Estate – her, not you. Aren’t you the one who wants to talk to this champion?’

  ‘That’s why you’re doing the diversion, Tehol.’

  ‘Me? Are you mad?’

  ‘It’s the only way.’

  They heard the scuff of boots from the street, then a loud voice: ‘There! Who’s skulking in that alley?’

  Ublala flinched down. ‘How did he know?’

  ‘We better run!’

  They bolted, as a spear of lantern-light lanced across the alley mouth; then, pursued by shouting soldiers, the two fugitives reached the far end of the alley.

  Where Tehol went left.

  And Ublala went right.

  Alarms resounded in the night.

  The answering of his prayers was nothing like Bruthen Trana had imagined. Not through the grotesque creature that was Hannan Mosag, the Warlock King. The very man who had started the Edur down this path of dissolution. Ambition, greed and betrayal – it was all Bruthen could manage to stand still before Hannan Mosag, rather than strangle the life from the Warlock King.

  Yet from that twisted mouth had come…hope. It seemed impossible. Macabre. Mocking Bruthen Trana’s visions of heroic salvation. Rhulad falls – the whole Sengar bloodline obliterated – and then…Hannan Mosag. For his crimes. Honour can be won – I will see to that.

  This is how it must be.

  He was not unduly worried over the Letherii. The Chancellor would not live much longer. The palace would be purged. The Patriotists would be crushed, their agents slain, and those poor prisoners whose only crime, as far as he could tell, was to disagree with the practices of the Patriotists – those prisoners, Letherii one and all, could be freed. There was no real sedition at work here. No treason. Karos Invictad used such accusations as if they encompassed a guilt that needed no proof, as if they justified any treatment of the accused he desired. Ironically, in so doing he subverted humanity itself, making him the most profound traitor of all.

  But not even that mattered much. Bruthen Trana did not like the man, a dislike that seemed reason enough to kill the bastard. Karos Invictad took pleasure in cruelty, making him both pathetic and dangerous. If he were permitted to continue, there was the very real risk that the Letherii people would rise up in true rebellion, and the gutters in every city of the empire would run crimson. No matter. I do not like him. For years I was witness to his contempt for me, there in his eyes. I will brook the affront no longer.