The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  Reaching a ramp, he made his way across, and took position atop the second tier. Across a distance less than a bowshot, the Letherii commander had attained the top of the berm, his Ve’Gath clearing a path with vicious, sweeping strokes of their halberds that sent bodies spinning through the air.

  ‘I see you!’ roared Diligence.

  Brys Beddict felt his horse crumpling under him, and as he flung his feet clear of the stirrups and twisted to evade the falling beast he saw an enormous quarrel driven deep into its chest. Landing in a crouch, he readied his blood-smeared sword.

  The trench below was a mass of Kolansii infantry, pikes thrust upward and awaiting their descent. On either side of the prince, the Ve’Gath were fending off flanking counter-attacks, and their ferocity forced the breach yet wider.

  The moment he straightened, three shouted words struck him like a fist, snapping his head back, and all at once he was under siege.

  The Forkrul Assail had found him. At last. You saw. You saw and wanted me first. Oh, friend, you are most welcome to me.

  He rose under the barrage, lifted his head, and met the eyes of the Pure.

  ‘I see you! Kneel! YIELD TO MY WILL!’

  ‘You see me? Tell me, Assail, whom do you see?’

  ‘I will command you – I will take all that is within you—’

  Brys Beddict, King’s Champion and prince of Lether, spread open his arms, and smiled. ‘Then have me.’

  And from his soul, from a deep, unlit world of silts and crushed bones, there came a stirring, a sudden billowing of dark clouds, and from this maelstrom…names. A torrent, a conflagration. ‘Saeden Thar, Lord Protector of Semii, Haravathan of the River People, Y’thyn Dra the Mountain of Eyes, Woman of Sky above the Erestitidan, Blessed Haylar Twin-Horns of the Elananas, Horastal Neh Eru SunBearer and Giver of Crops in the Valley of the Sanathal, Itkovas Lord of Terror among the K’ollass K’Chain Che’Malle of Ethilas Nest…’ And the names rose unending, flowing through Brys Beddict’s mind, one after another. ‘Tra Thelor of the Twin Rivers, Sower of Spring among the Grallan. Adast Face of the Moon among the Korsone…’

  All the forgotten gods, and as each name whispered out, sweeping into the torrid current of the Forkrul Assail’s warren – his terrible power of the voice, of words and all their magic – Brys felt part of himself tearing away, snatched loose, drowned in the swirling flow.

  There was no stopping this. The Pure had found him in the manner that Brys had desired – as he rode to the forefront of his army, as he fought between two K’Chain Che’Malle, as he delivered unopposable slaughter. Find me, he had prayed. Find me – I am waiting for you. Find me!

  Once begun, once the warren was a torrent between the Assail and the prince, there was no stopping it. Power fed power, and its fuel was justice. Let them be known. All the forgotten gods. All their forgotten people. All the ages past, all the mysteries lost. This unending stream of rise and fall, dream and despair, love and surrender.

  They deserve utterance, one more time. One last time.

  Take them, take me. You with your power in words, me with my power in names. Without me, your words are nothing.

  Come, let us devour each other.

  He could see the Pure now with a sudden clarity, a tall, ancient male, one arm outthrust, one finger pointing across at Brys, but the Assail was motionless, frozen in place – no – Brys’s eyes narrowed. He was crumbling. His face was a stretched mask, thin over the bizarre skeletal structure underneath. His eyes wept red, his mouth was open, pulling taut as the jaw angled down – as if the names were pouring down the Pure’s throat, as if he was drowning in their deluge.

  Brys’s own soul was shredding apart. The world – this valley, this battle – all fell away. He could feel the pressure of the sea now, could feel his legs planted in shin-deep mud, and the current rushed past him, scouring the flesh from the bones of his soul, and still he had more to give.

  Clouds of silt billowed and seethed around him – he was losing his vision – something was blinding his soul, something new, unexpected.

  No matter. I am almost done with him – no, the names do not cease, they can never cease, and once my voice is gone there will be another. Some day. To guard what would otherwise be for ever lost. For you, Forkrul Assail, I have held back on one final name – the one to gather up your own life and carry it into the darkness.

  This is the name of your god, Forkrul Assail. You thought it a name forgotten.

  But I remember. I remember them all.

  Blinded, deafened by some unknown roar, feeling the last of his soul ripping free, Brys Beddict smiled and spoke then the last name. The name of the slain god of the Forkrul Assail.

  He heard the Pure’s shriek as the power of the name reached out, clutched him tight. For this one god, alone among them all, did not come bereft of its people. This god flowed into the soul of its own child.

  It does not do, to abandon one’s own gods, for when they return, so unexpected, they are most vengeful.

  The current pulled him from the silts, drove him forward into a darkness so complete, so absolute, that he knew it to be the Abyss itself.

  I have saved my people, my dear soldiers – let them fight on. Let them take breaths, in owning and in release, in all the measures of living. I have done as a prince should do – Tehol, be proud of me. Aranict, do not curse me.

  The sorrow of the ages closed around him. This was one river from which there could be no escape. Do not grieve. We all must come to this place.

  My friends, it is time to leave—

  Impossibly, he felt hands close from behind, hard as iron over his shoulders. And a harsh voice hissed in his ear. ‘Not so fast.’

  Faint stood close to Aranict. The Atri-Ceda was standing, head bowed, her arms out-thrust – but her hands and forearms had vanished inside a billowing, grey-brown cloud, and water was streaming down from her elbows. The air around her was rank, thick with the decay of tidal flats.

  Faint could see the veins standing out on Aranict’s taut neck, could see the muscles of her shoulders straining. And the Atri-Ceda was slowly being pulled forward – whatever was inside that swirling cloud was seeking to drag her into its maw.

  Off to one side, Precious Thimble was on her knees, shrieking without surcease.

  They had seen Brys Beddict, there atop the first earthen embankment – they had seen the standing stones rise from the ground around him, pushing upward through dirt and rocks, almost black with slime and filth. They had seen the prince’s armour and clothing disintegrating, and then on the man’s pallid skin dark swarms – tattoos, runes – emerging only to be torn free, spinning wild around him, and then rushing across, hammering into the Forkrul Assail.

  And then, as if within a whirlwind, Brys Beddict vanished inside swirling gloom that was so thick as to be impenetrable. It spread out, devouring the huge menhirs.

  Aranict now began howling – she was being pulled forward – and Faint suddenly understood. She has him. She has hold of the prince! Gods below—

  Faint staggered towards the Atri-Ceda – but something resisted with devastating pressure, bitter cold, and she was flung back, gasping, spitting out blood. On her hands and knees, she lifted her head and looked across.

  Most of Aranict’s arms had disappeared inside the cloud. And now Faint could make out words in the Atri-Ceda’s cries.

  ‘Mael! Damn you! Help me!’

  Faint crawled over to Precious Thimble. ‘Stop that screaming, witch! Look at me! No, here, look at me!’

  But the eyes that fixed on Faint belonged to a mad woman. ‘I can’t help her! Can’t you see that? She’s gone too far – too deep – how is she even alive? It’s impossible!’ Precious Thimble pulled away, scrabbling like a crab. ‘He’s lost! He’s for ever lost!’

  Faint stared at the witch, as the words slowly sank deep. But that’s not fair. Not a love like that – no! You can’t take it away – don’t you dare kill it! ‘Precious! What can I do? To help? Tell
me!’

  ‘Nothing!’

  Go to Hood then.

  She spun round, drawing a dagger. Mael’s an Elder God – but Aranict must understand this. He cannot answer this prayer, not the way it is now. I won’t stand here to see this love die. I won’t. The blade cut a glistening slash along her left arm, and then, fumbling to take the knife in her left hand, she carved deep diagonally across her right forearm. Forcing herself forward, she reached for Aranict.

  Mael – take my blood in offering. Just fucking take it!

  The pressure sought to rebuff her, but she pushed harder – and then she was through, floundering, unable to breathe, the cold crushing her – she saw her blood billowing out as if under water, saw it spin on currents – so much of it – she almost lost sight of Aranict.

  Desperate, feeling her bones cracking, Faint pushed closer, reached out and took the Atri-Ceda into an embrace.

  Mael…don’t you dare…don’t you dare tell me this is not enough.

  Precious Thimble had stared, disbelieving, as Faint struggled to reach Aranict. Her blood was a thick billowing cloud streaming out from her, curling round to whirl into the dark cloud. There seemed to be no end to it.

  Someone had taken hold of the witch – strong arms closing round her, lifting her from the ground. Twisting now, she looked up.

  Amby Bole’s face was almost unrecognizable. ‘This is bad magic,’ he said.

  ‘Save Faint! Save her!’

  But the man shook his head. ‘No one can live in there.’

  ‘Save her, Amby! For my love – save her!’

  His frown deepened, his eyelids suddenly fluttering, and he met her eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘You want me? I’m yours, damn you – just save Faint!’

  Bole threw her down, visage darkening. ‘All the fun ended with you! I don’t want you, witch! I don’t ever want to see you again!’

  Precious stared up at him, and then she snarled. ‘I will chase you, Amby! I’ll hunt you down, no matter where you go! Year after year, I will follow you, I swear it! There’s nowhere you can run to – you understand me? Nowhere!’

  ‘I hate you!’

  ‘The only place you could hope to escape me – is there!’ and she pointed at that billowing cloud of blood now obscuring Faint and Aranict.

  Amby made an animal cry, spun and ran heavy-footed – straight into the crimson cloud.

  Precious Thimble fell back. Gods below but that man is stupid!

  ‘Hold on, my love,’ whispered a voice close to Faint’s ear. ‘Some laws even an Elder God cannot easily defy. But he’s trying.’

  Faint felt the life leaving her. She was lying against the legs of Aranict – she could feel them cold as bars of ice. Were her eyes open? All she could see was the redness of her own blood. ‘Sweetest, is that you?’

  ‘Always knew you had a romantic streak. What a thing to do!’

  ‘I’m dying.’

  ‘Looks like it. Regretting your moment of madness?’

  Faint shook her head – or tried to. ‘Only if it fails.’

  ‘Well, how often do we regret successes?’

  ‘Is it enough, Sweetie? It’s all I have.’

  ‘You’re in water, fool, of course it looks like a lot – and if you stay in here any longer you’ll bleed out for sure. Now, wish I could help you – wish I could help both of you, but I’m just a ghost. Well, not even that. Could be I’m just a voice in your head, Faint, born out of some bizarre misguided guilt.’

  ‘Oh, thanks for that.’

  A foot slammed into the side of her head, half stunning her, and she struggled feebly as hands groped across her body, briefly closing on one of her tits before moving on – and then back again for a second squeeze.

  Abruptly someone was lifting her from the muddy silts, throwing her over one bony shoulder. She felt one hand clutch and then leave her thigh, felt the fingers brush her knee as the arm reached out.

  A deep grunt seemed to thrum through Faint, and she felt the stranger’s feet slip suddenly, as if pulled by some inexorable pressure – and then the heels planted firm, and – impossibly – she felt him heave back against the current. One step, and then another. Another…

  Amby Bole reappeared from the crimson cloud, Faint hanging limp over one shoulder. His other arm was stretched back behind him, and Precious saw him strain, saw him leaning hard, and then out from the cloud emerged Aranict, held by the back of her collar, and after her – the naked form of Brys Beddict.

  The cloud erupted, burst apart in a welter of icy water.

  The four figures fell to the ground, Faint rolling out almost to the witch’s knees. Precious Thimble stared down, saw the blood still pumping from the woman’s slashed arms. She closed trembling hands on both wrists, healing spells tumbling out on her breath.

  Soldiers were rushing up. Shouts filled the air.

  Precious Thimble’s hands tightened on the wounds, but now there were only scars beneath her palms, and she could feel Faint’s pulse. But…gods, it’s there – I can feel it. It’s…faint. A sudden giggle escaped her – but that was just relief. She’d always hated puns. Proper women did. She scowled down at the scars. Hold on, where did I get that power? Looking up, she saw Amby Bole lying motionless on the muddy ground. Beyond him soldiers crowded round Aranict, who knelt with her prince, cradling his head on her lap.

  And then Precious Thimble caught a glimpse of motion from one of Brys’s hands, out from under the cloak someone had thrown over him.

  I can’t believe it.

  Faint stirred, groaned, eyes opening, stared unseeing for a moment, and then focused on the witch. She slowly frowned. ‘I’m not dead?’

  ‘No. I’ve just healed you. The Atri-Ceda made it out, too. So did the prince. Your blood bought passage – though how that watery piss you call blood ever passed muster in the eyes of an Elder God, I’ll never know.’

  ‘What – but how? Who saved us? Who dragged us free?’

  Sudden coughing from where Amby Bole lay sprawled.

  Precious Thimble shook her head. ‘The only one who could, Faint, some idiot from Blackdog Swamp.’

  The dozen menhirs erupting from the earthworks around Prince Brys Beddict had ruptured the embankment for sixty paces, driving fighting soldiers from their feet – bodies tumbling into the trenches even as enormous mounds of earth and stones poured down, burying scores alive.

  The Ve’Gath beneath Grub elected to escape the chaos by leaping forward, across the entire trench, and landed close to where the Forkrul Assail stood. The K’Chain Che’Malle had shattered its halberd some time earlier, and now wielded a double-bladed axe in one hand and a falchion in the other.

  The Forkrul Assail stood with his face stretched as if in agony, tilted back, the eyes shut and the mouth stretched wide open. When the Ve’Gath advanced, he gave no sign of awareness. Two swift thumping strides and the falchion swung down, taking the motionless Pure between his right shoulder and neck. The blade tore down through the chest, ripped free in a spray of bone shards.

  The other Ve’Gath had followed its kin and now came in from the left. An instant after the first Ve’Gath’s attack, its heavy single-bladed axe slammed into the side of the Assail’s head in an explosion of skull fragments and gore.

  The Forkrul Assail collapsed in red ruin.

  Even as Grub struggled to wheel the beast round, two heavy quarrels hissed across – between him and the Ve’Gath’s head – and punched into the side of the other Ve’Gath. The impact staggered the giant reptile, and then it fell over, hind legs scything the air.

  ‘Back! Back across!’

  The K’Chain Che’Malle burst into motion, sprinting down the length of the berm – fifteen, twenty paces, and then wheeling to plunge down amidst crowds of Kolansii in the first trench. Weapons hammered down, slashed and chopped a carnage-strewn path through to the other side.

  Pike blades glanced across the armour encasing Grub’s legs and girdling his hips – and then they were clawin
g up the other side, winning free atop what remained of the first bank.

  Grub looked round for the prince – for any officer – but the chaos reigned on all sides.

  Had Brys fallen? There was no way of knowing.

  But Grub now saw Letherii soldiers lifting their heads, saw them tracking his thumping trek across the front of the warring forces – watching the Ve’Gath clear attackers from its path with devastating sweeps of its bladed weapons.

  They’re looking to me.

  But I know nothing.

  Fool! Nothing but a life of war! Look well – decide what must be done! Twisting in the saddle, he scanned the climbing slope to his left, squinted at the succession of fortified tiers – and saw soldiers streaming from the highest positions.

  But between them and the Letherii…four trenches. No, this is impossible. We’ve lost a third of the army against this first trench alone!

  Grub faced the Letherii ranks once more. ‘Withdraw!’ he shouted. ‘By the prince’s command, withdraw!’

  And he saw, all along the front, the Letherii soldiers disengaging, shields up as they backed away, others dragging wounded comrades with them.

  Another quarrel hissed past – too close. Cursing, Grub kicked at the sides of the Ve’Gath. ‘Down from the ridge – along the front – put those weapons away and find us some shields! Better yet, pick up some of the wounded – as many as you can carry!’

  The beast skidded down the slope, righted itself and, staying low beneath the cover of the first berm, began picking its way through heaps of bodies.

  Grub stared down at the terrible carnage. I remember on the wall and that man and all the ones who fell around him – he fought and fought, until they overcame him, brought him down, and then there was a cross and he was nailed to it and the crows spun and screamed and fell from the sky.

  I remember the old man on his horse, reaching down to collect me up – and the way he wheeled outside the gate, to stare back – as if he could see all the way we’d come – the bloody road where I was born, where I came alive.