The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  Rud looked away again. ‘I am not certain love was involved.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Do you wish more tea, Rud Elalle?’

  ‘No, thank you. It is a potent brew.’

  ‘Necessary, for the journey to come.’

  Rud frowned. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘This night, we shall travel. There are things you must see. It is not enough that I simply lead you this way and that—I do not expect a loyal hound at my heel, I expect a comrade standing at my side. To witness is to approach comprehension, and you will need that, when you decide.’

  ‘Decide what?’

  ‘The side you will take in the war awaiting us, among other things.’

  ‘Other things. Such as?’

  ‘Where to make your stand, and when. Your mother chose a mortal for your father for a good reason, Rud. Unexpected strengths come from such mating: the offspring often exhibit the best traits from both.’

  Rud started as a stone cracked in the fire. ‘You say you will lead me to places, Silchas Ruin, for you have no wish that I be naught but a loyal, mindless hound. Yet it may be that I shall not, in the end, choose to stand beside you at all. What then? What if I find myself opposite you in this war?’

  ‘Then one of us will die.’

  ‘My father left me in your care—and this is how you betray his trust?’

  Silchas Ruin bared his teeth in a humourless smile. ‘Rud Elalle, your father gave you to my care not out of trust—he knows me too well for that. Consider this your first lesson. He shares your love for the Imass of the Refugium. That realm—and every living thing within it—is in danger of annihilation, should the war be lost—’

  ‘Starvald Demelain—but the gate was sealed!’

  ‘No seal is perfect. Will and desire gnaw like acid. Well. Hunger and ambition are perhaps more accurate descriptions of that which assails the gate.’ He collected the blackened pot from beside the coals and poured Rud’s cup full once more. ‘Drink. We have strayed from the path. I was speaking of the ancient forces—your kin, if you like. Among them, the Eleint. Was Draconus a true Eleint? Or was he something else? All I can say is, he wore the skin of a Tiste Andii for a time, perhaps as a sour joke, mocking our self-importance—who can know? In any case, it was inevitable that Anomander, my brother, would step into the Consort’s path, and all those opportunities for knowledge and truth came to a swift end. To this day,’ he added, sighing, ‘I wonder if Anomander regrets killing Draconus.’

  Rud started. His mind was awhirl. ‘What of the Imass? This war—’

  ‘I told you,’ Silchas Ruin snapped, face betraying his irritation. ‘Wars are indifferent to the choice of victims. Innocence, guilt, such notions are irrelevant. Grasp hold of your thoughts and catch up. I wondered if Anomander has regrets. I know that I do not. Draconus was a cold, cold bastard—and with the awakening of Father Light, ah, well, we saw then the truth of his jealous rage. The Consort cast aside, see the malice of the spurned ignite a black fire in his eyes! When we speak of ancient times, Rud Elalle, we find in our words things far nearer to hand, and all those emotions we imagined new, blazing with our own youth, we find to be ancient beyond imagining.’ He spat into the coals. ‘And this is why poets never starve for things to sing about, though rare is the one who grows fat upon them.’

  ‘I will defend the Refugium,’ said Rud, hands clenching into fists.

  ‘We know that, and that is why you are here—’

  ‘But that makes no sense! I should be there, standing before the gate!’

  ‘Another lesson. Your father may love the Imass, but he loves you more.’

  Rud surged to his feet. ‘I will return—’

  ‘No. Sit down. You have a better chance of saving them all by accompanying me.’

  ‘How?’

  Silchas Ruin leaned forward and reached into the fire. He scooped up two handfuls of coals and embers. He held them up. ‘Tell me what you see, Rud Elalle, Ryadd Eleis—do you know those words, your true name? They are Tiste Andii—do you know what they mean?’

  ‘No.’

  Silchas Ruin studied the embers cupped in his hands. ‘Just this. Your true name, Ryadd Eleis, means “Hands of Fire”. Your mother looked into the soul of her son, and saw all there was to see. She may well have cherished you, but she also feared you.’

  ‘She died because she chose betrayal.’

  ‘She was true to the Eleint blood within her—but you also possess the blood of your father, a mortal, and he is a man I came to know well, to understand as much as anyone could. A man I came to respect. He was the first to comprehend the girl’s purpose, the first to realize the task awaiting me—and he knew that I did not welcome the blood that would stain my hands. He chose not to stand in my way—I am not yet certain what happened at the gate, the clash with Wither, and poor Fear Sengar’s misplaced need to stand in Scabandari’s stead—but through it all, Kettle’s fate was sealed. She was the seed of the Azath, and a seed must find fertile soil.’ He dropped the embers—now cooled—back on to the fire. ‘She is young yet. She needs time, and unless we stand against the chaos to come, she will not have that time—and the Imass will die. Your father will die. They will all die.’ He rose and faced Rud. ‘We leave now. Korabas awaits.’

  ‘What is Korabas?’

  ‘For this we must veer. Kallor’s dead warren should suffice. Korabas is an Eleint, Ryadd. She is the Otataral Dragon. There is chaos in a human soul—it is your mortal gift, but be aware—like fire it can turn in your hands.’

  ‘Even to one named “Hands of Fire”?’

  The Tiste Andii’s red eyes seemed to flatten. ‘My warning was precise.’

  ‘What do we seek in meeting this Korabas?’

  Silchas slapped the ashes from his palms. ‘They will free her, and that we cannot stop. I mean to convince you that we should not even try.’

  Rud found his fists were still clenched tight, aching at the ends of his arms. ‘You give me too little.’

  ‘Better than too much, Ryadd.’

  ‘Because like my mother, you fear me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Between you and your brothers, Silchas Ruin, who was the most honest?’

  The Tiste Andii cocked his head, and then smiled.

  A short time later, two dragons lifted into the darkness, one gleaming polished gold that slid in and out of the gloom in lurid smears; the other was bone white, the pallor of a corpse in the night—save for the twin embers of its eyes.

  They rose high and higher still above the Wastelands, and then vanished from the world.

  In their wake, in a nest of rocks, the small fire glowed fitfully in its bed of ashes, eating the last of itself. Until nothing was left.

  Sandalath Drukorlat gave the hapless man one last shake that sent spittle whipping from his lips, and then threw him further up the shoreline. He scrambled to his feet, fell over, got up a second time and stumbled unsteadily away.

  Withal cleared his throat. ‘Sweetness, you seem a little short of temper lately.’

  ‘Challenge yourself, husband. Find something to improve my mood.’

  He glanced out at the crashing waves, licked salt from around his mouth. The three Nachts were sending the scrawny refugee off with hurled shells and dead crabs, although not a single missile managed to strike the fleeing man. ‘The horses have recovered, at least.’

  ‘Their misery has just begun.’

  ‘I couldn’t quite make out what happened, but I take it the Shake vanished through a gate. And, I suppose, we’re going to chase after them.’

  ‘And before they left, one of their own went and slaughtered almost all of the witches and warlocks—the very people I wanted to question!’

  ‘We could always go to Bluerose.’

  She stood straight, almost visibly quivering. He’d heard, once, that lightning went from the ground up and not the other way round. Sandalath looked ready to ignite and split the heavy clouds overhead. Or cut a devastating path through
the ramshackle, stretched-out camp of those islanders Yan Tovis had left behind—the poor fools lived in squalid driftwood huts and wind-torn tents, all along the highwater line like so much wave-tossed detritus. And though the water was ever rising, so that the spray of the tumultuous seas now drenched them, not one had the wherewithal to move.

  Not that they had anywhere to go. The forest was a blackened wasteland of stumps and ash for as far as he could see.

  Just outside Letheras, Sandalath had cut open a way into a warren, a place she called Rashan, and the ride through it had begun in terrifying darkness that quickly dulled to torrid monotony. Until it began falling apart. Chaos, she said. Inclusions, she said. Whatever that means. And the horses went mad.

  They had emerged into the proper world on the slope facing this strand, the horses’ hoofs pounding up clouds of ash and cinders, his wife howling in frustration.

  Things had eased up since then.

  ‘What in Hood’s name are you smiling about?’

  Withal shook his head. ‘Smiling? Not me, beloved.’

  ‘Blind Gallan,’ she said.

  There had been more and more of this lately. Incomprehensible expostulations, invisible sources of irritation and blistering fury. Face it, Withal, the honeymoon’s over.

  ‘In the habit of popping up like a nefarious weed. Spouting arcane nonsense impressing the locals. Never trust a nostalgic old man—or old woman, I suppose. Every tale they spin has a hidden agenda, a secret malice for the present. They make the past—their version of it—into a kind of magic potion. “Sip this, friends, and return to the old times, when everything was perfect.” Bah! If it’d been me doing the blinding, I wouldn’t have stopped there. I would have scooped out his entire skull.’

  ‘Wife, who is this Gallan?’

  She bridled, jabbed a finger at him. ‘Did you think I hadn’t lived before meeting you? Oh, pity poor Gallan! And if he left a string of women in the wake of his wanderings, why, be so good as to indulge the sad creature—well, this is what comes of it, isn’t it?’

  Withal scratched his head. See what happens when you marry an older woman? And face it, it doesn’t take a Tiste Andii to have about a hundred thousand years of history behind her. ‘All right,’ he said slowly, ‘what now, then?’

  She gestured after the refugee she’d sent scampering. ‘He doesn’t know if Nimander and the others were with the Shake—there were thousands—the only time he saw Yan Tovis was at the landing, and she was three thousand paces away. But, then, who else could have managed to open the gate? And then keep it open to admit ten thousand people? Only Andii blood can open the Road, and only royal Andii blood could keep it open! By the Abyss, they must have bled one of their own dry!’

  ‘This road, Sand, where does it lead?’

  ‘Nowhere. Oh, I should never have left Nimander and his kin! The Shake not only listened to Blind Gallan, they then went and believed him!’ She stepped closer and raised a hand, as if to strike him.

  Withal backed up a step.

  ‘Oh, gods, just get the horses, Withal.’

  As he set off, he glanced—with odd longing—after the still-running refugee.

  A short time later they sat mounted, pack-horses behind them, while Sandalath, motionless, seemed to study something in front of them that only she could see. The waves thrashed to their left, the burnt forest stank on their right. The Nachts fought over a thick, massive length of driftwood that probably weighed more than all three put together. That’d make a good club . . . for a damned Toblakai. Sink brace plugs, wrap the knobby end in hammered iron. Stud with beaten bronze rivets and maybe a spike or three. Draw wire down the length of the shaft, and then sink a deep and heavy counterweight butt—

  ‘It’s healing, but the skin is thin.’ She suddenly had a knife in her hand. ‘I can get us through, I think.’

  ‘Do you have royal blood then?’

  ‘Snap shut that trap or I’ll do it for you. I told you, it’s a huge wound—barely mended. In fact, it seems weaker on the other side, which isn’t good, isn’t right, in fact. Did they stay on the Road? They must have known that much at least. Withal, listen well. Ready a weapon—’

  ‘A weapon? What kind of weapon?’

  ‘Wrong choice. Find another one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stupidity won’t work. Try that mace on your belt.’

  ‘That’s a smith’s hammer—’

  ‘And you’re a smith, so presumably you know how to use it.’

  ‘So long as my victim lays his head on an anvil, aye.’

  ‘Can’t you fight at all? What kind of husband are you? You Meckros—always fighting off pirates and such, or so you always said—’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Unless they were just big fat lies, trying to impress your new woman.’

  ‘I haven’t used a weapon in decades—I just make the damned things! And why do I need to anyway? If you wanted a bodyguard you should have said so in the first place, and I could have hired on to the first ship out of Lether Harbour!’

  ‘Abandon me, you mean! I knew it!’

  He reached up to tear at his hair and then recalled that he didn’t have enough of it. Gods, life can be damned frustrating, can’t it just? ‘Fine.’ He tugged loose the hammer. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Now, remember, I died the first time because I don’t know anything about fighting, and I don’t want to die a second time—’

  ‘What’s all this talk about fighting and dying? It’s just a gate, isn’t it? What in Hood’s name is on the other side?’

  ‘I don’t know, you idiot! Just be ready!’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For anything!’

  Withal slipped his left foot out of its stirrup and swung down to the littered sand.

  Sandalath stared. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going to piss, and maybe whatever else I can manage. If we’re going to end up in a hoary mess, I don’t want fouled breeches, not stuck in a saddle, not riding with a horde of shrieking demons on my tail. Besides, I probably only have a few moments of living left to me. When I go I plan on doing it clean.’

  ‘Just blood and guts.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That’s pathetic. As if you’ll care.’

  He went off to find somewhere private.

  ‘Don’t take too long!’ she shouted after him.

  There was a time, aye, when I could take as damned well long as I pleased.

  He returned and would have climbed back into the saddle, but Sandalath insisted he wash his hands in the sea. Once this was done, he collected up the hammer, brushed sand from it, and then mounted the horse.

  ‘Anything else needing doing?’ she asked. ‘A shave, perchance? Buff your boots, maybe?’

  ‘Good suggestions. I’ll just—’

  With a snarl she slashed her left palm. The air split open before them, gaping red as the wound in her hand. ‘Ride!’ she yelled, kicking her horse into a lunge.

  Cursing, Withal followed.

  They emerged on to a blinding, blasted plain, the road beneath them glittering like crushed glass.

  Sandalath’s horse squealed, hoofs skidding, slewing sideways as she sawed on the reins. Withal’s own beast made a strange grunting sound, then its head seemed to drop out of sight, front legs folding with sickening snaps—

  Withal caught a glimpse of a pallid, overlong hand, slashing through the path where his horse’s head had been a moment earlier, and then a curtain of blood lifted before him, wrapped hot and thick over his face, neck and chest. Blinded, flaying empty air with his mace, he pitched forward, leaving the saddle, and struck the road’s savage surface. The cloth of his jerkin disintegrated, and the skin of his chest followed suit. The breath was knocked from his lungs. He vaguely heard the hammer bounce and skitter down the road.

  Sudden bellowing roars, the impact of something huge against bare flesh and bone. Splintering blows drumming the road beneath him—the hot splash of something drenching his back—he clawe
d the blood from his eyes, managed to lift himself to his hands and knees—coughing, spewing vomit.

  The thundering concussions continued, and then Sandalath was kneeling beside him. ‘Withal! My love! Are you hurt—oh, Abyss take me! Too much blood—I’m sorry, oh, I’m sorry, my love!’

  ‘My horse.’

  ‘What?’

  He spat to clear his mouth. ‘Someone chopped off my horse’s head. With his hand.’

  ‘What? That’s your horse’s blood? All over you? You’re not even hurt?’ The hands that had been caressing him now shoved him away. ‘Don’t you dare do that again!’

  Withal spat a second time, and then pushed himself to his feet, eyes fixing on Sandalath. ‘This is enough.’ As she opened her mouth for a retort he stepped close and set a filthy finger against her lips. ‘If I was a different kind of man, I’d be beating you senseless right about now—no, don’t give me that shocked look. I’m not here to be kicked around whenever your mood happens to turn foul. A little measure of respect—’

  ‘But you can’t even fight!’

  ‘Maybe not, and neither can you. What I can do, though, is make things. And something else, too, I can decide, at any time, when I’ve had enough. And I will tell you this right now, I’m damned close.’ He stepped back. ‘Now, what in Hood’s name just—gods below!’

  This shout burst from him in shock—three enormous, hulking, black-skinned demons were on the road just beyond the dead horse. One of them held a club of driftwood that looked like a drummer’s baton in its huge hands, and was using it to pound down some more on a mangled, crushed corpse. The other two followed the blows as if gauging the effects of each and every crushing impact. Bluish blood had sprayed out on the road, along with other less identifiable discharges from the pulped ruin of their victim’s body.