The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  He studied this mortal. ‘She accepts this?’

  ‘Yes! And quickly – D’rek is dying beneath us.’

  ‘But my power is alien – I have no means of binding it to this world, mortal.’

  ‘Find a way! You have to!’

  He was freed. He could walk from this place. He could leave these mortals – not even the deadly power of the Otataral Dragon could harm him. Otataral, after all, is nothing more than the scab this world makes to answer the infection. And what is that infection? Why, it is me.

  The Crippled God looked down upon this mortal. He kneels, as all broken mortals kneel. Against the cruelty of this and every world, a mortal can do nothing but kneel.

  Even before a foreign god.

  And what of the love I possess? Perhaps there is nothing – but no, there is no such thing as foreign love.

  He closed his eyes, released his mind to this world.

  And found them waiting for him.

  Two Elder Gods, each taking a hand – their touches heartbreakingly gentle. The crushing pressure in this place had levelled every feature, darkness and silts swirling in unceasing dance. Currents raged on all sides, but none could reach through – the gods held them at bay.

  No, only one of these Elders possessed that power, and he was named Mael of the Seas.

  They led him across this plain, this ocean bed lost to the sun’s light.

  To where knelt another mortal – but only his soul remained, though for the moment it once more occupied the body it had abandoned long ago: rotted with decay, swirl-tattoos seeming to flow in the currents from the naked form. He knelt with his hands thrust down, buried deep in the silts, as if seeking a lost coin, a precious treasure, a memento.

  When he looked up at them, the Crippled God saw that he was blind.

  ‘Who is this?’ the mortal asked. ‘Who is this, nailed so cruelly to this tree? Please, I beg you – I cannot see. Please, tell me. Is it him? He tried to save me. It cannot have come to this. It cannot!’

  And the Elder God who was not Mael of the Seas then spoke. ‘Heboric, you but dream, and this dream of yours is not a conversation. Only a monologue. In this dream, Heboric Ghosthands, you are trapped.’

  But the mortal named Heboric shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. All I have touched I have destroyed. Friends. Gods. Even the child – I lost her too, to the Whirlwind. I lost them all.’

  ‘Heboric Ghosthands,’ said Mael, ‘will you fill this ocean with your tears? If you believe this notion to be new, know this: these waters were so filled…long ago.’

  The other Elder God said, ‘Heboric, you must awaken from this dream. You must free your hands – they have waited for this moment since the island. They have touched and taken the Jade and now within you reside a million lost souls – souls belonging to this foreign god. And, too, your hands have touched Otataral, the summoner of Korabas.’

  But Heboric sank back down, groping in the silts once more. ‘I killed my god.’

  ‘Heboric,’ said Mael of the Seas, ‘even gods of war will tire of war. It seems that only mortals will not. No matter. He has absolved you of all blame. His blood has brought life to dead lands. He deems it a worthy sacrifice.’

  ‘But that sacrifice will fail, Heboric,’ said the other Elder God, ‘if you do not awaken from your dream.’

  ‘Who is upon the tree?’

  ‘Heboric, there is no one upon the tree.’

  The sightless eyes lifted once again. ‘No one?’

  ‘Let us see your hands, old friend. I have awakened all the warrens, and all now lead to one place. A cavern far beneath a barrow, made by the jaws of D’rek. Shall we walk there now, Heboric?’

  ‘A barrow?’

  ‘A barrow.’

  ‘No one dreams within a barrow.’

  Both Elder Gods were silent to that, and when the Crippled God looked at each of them in turn he saw that they were weeping – he could see the tears on their weathered faces, as if they stood, not at the bottom of an ocean, but upon a desert.

  Or upon the broken skin of a barrow.

  When Heboric dragged his hands from the silts, one glowed emerald through the billowing clouds, the other the hue of Otataral. The face he now turned to the Elder Gods was filled with sudden fear. ‘Will I be alone there? In that cavern?’

  ‘No,’ replied Mael of the Seas. ‘Never again.’

  ‘Who was upon the tree?’

  ‘We go to her now, Heboric Ghosthands.’

  They began walking, and the Crippled God could feel the sorceries of this realm drawing towards them, gathering, conjoining to make this road.

  Then, ahead on the path, he saw the glimmer of a lantern – a figure, now guiding them forward, but from a great distance.

  The journey seemed to take an eternity. Things sank down from time to time, coming from the darkness above, stirring clouds of silt into the currents. He saw ships of wood, ships of iron. He saw the carcasses of serpentine monsters. He saw a rain of human corpses, shark-gnawed and dragged down boots first to land upon the bottom as if to walk – perhaps even to join this procession – but then their legs folded beneath them, and the silts made for them a soft place to rest.

  He thought he saw mounted warriors, glimmering green and blue, tracking them from a distance.

  The lantern light was suddenly closer, and the Crippled God saw their guide standing before a cave chewed into the face of a massive cliffside.

  When they reached the mouth of that cave, the two Elder Gods paused and both bowed to their guide, but that ghastly figure gave no sign of acknowledgement, only turned away, as if to take its light on to some other path. As if to lead others to their own fates.

  They strode down a winding tunnel, and emerged in a vast cavern.

  The Elder God who was not Mael of the Seas faced the Crippled God. ‘Long have you wandered the blood I gave to this realm. I am K’rul, the Maker of Warrens. Now it is time for you to leave, to return to your home.’

  The Crippled God considered this, and then said, ‘I am flesh and bone. Made in the guise of a human. Where my children call down to me, I cannot go. Would you have me summon them down?’

  ‘No. That would mean our deaths – all of us.’

  ‘Yes. It would.’

  ‘There will be a way,’ K’rul said. ‘It begins with Heboric, but it ends at the hands of another.’

  ‘This flesh you wear,’ Mael of the Seas added, ‘is unsuited to your return. But it was the best that they could do.’

  ‘Fallen One,’ said K’rul, ‘will you trust us?’

  The Crippled God looked at Heboric, and then he released his grip on the hands of the Elder Gods. Reached for Heboric’s.

  But the mortal stepped back, and said, ‘Not yet, and not both of them. Both of them will kill you. I will reach for you, Lord, when the moment arrives. This I promise.’

  The Crippled God bowed, and stepped back.

  And with his Otataral hand, Heboric, once named Light-Touch, reached through the waters above him. Copper light burst forth, filled the entire cavern.

  The vast fingers that erupted from the barrow encompassed the entire mound – but they did not tear the ground. Ghostly, translucent, they arced high overhead, and closed about the Otataral Dragon.

  Korabas loosed a deafening scream – but if it was a cry of pain, torment or release Fiddler could not tell.

  Beyond the Otataral Dragon, which was even now being drawn closer down above them, the manifestation of T’iam – growing ever more corporeal, forming a multi-headed leviathan – began to tear itself apart once more. Distant shrieks, as dragons pulled away, lunged free.

  Most fled as if their tails were on fire. Fiddler stared, now unmindful of the vast, descending form of the Otataral Dragon, as they raced away, while others, too badly damaged, spun earthward, striking the ground with thunderous concussions. It’s fucking raining dragons.

  Quick Ben stared upward, praying under his breath, and then his eyes narrowed – he
could see through Korabas. He has her – whoever you are, you have her now.

  Gods, this is going to work.

  I promised, Burn. I promised you, didn’t I?

  All right, so maybe I can’t take all the credit.

  Maybe.

  For modesty’s sake, if I ever talk about it, I mean. But here, in my head… I did it!

  Kalam saw the infernal pride burgeoning in the wizard’s face and knew precisely what the scrawny bastard was thinking. The assassin wanted to hit the man. At least ten times.

  Crouched, even as the ghostly body of the Otataral Dragon slipped down around them all, Kalam turned to look at the Crippled God. Who stood motionless, eyes shut, hands still raised into the sky.

  Maybe a dragon can fly you up there, friend. They’re not all fleeing, are they?

  A woman he’d never seen before slumped down beside him, offered him an inviting smile. ‘I like the look of you,’ she said.

  Gods, not another one. ‘Who in Hood’s name are you?’

  Her smile flashed wider. ‘I am the woman who stole the moon. Oh, I see that you don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he replied. ‘Fine, you stole it – but then you broke the fucking thing!’

  Fury lit her face most becomingly. ‘I am Apsal’ara, the Mistress of Thieves!’

  He grinned at her. ‘Never liked thieves.’ Frustrate them. Works every time.

  Hearing the exchange, Quick Ben snorted.

  Kalam, you never learn, do you? Or maybe you just can’t help yourself.

  The roof of the cavern suddenly glowed white-hot, and Heboric spun to the Crippled God. ‘Now! Open your eyes – you can’t be down here when she arrives. No one can!’

  The Crippled God turned. He sensed the two Elder Gods were gone.

  Farewell, Mael of the Seas and K’rul Maker of Warrens.

  ‘Open your eyes!’

  And so he did, and in that moment he felt Heboric take his hand.

  Koryk had dragged himself behind a tilted standing stone, his eyes fixed upon the Crippled God not five paces away. There was a need inside him, unbearable, savage. It wanted to devour him. It wanted to annihilate the world, the one he lived in, the one that had nothing but the thinnest skin between what hid inside and what lay outside.

  There was no answer. None but the obvious one – the one he dared not look at. If he did, he would have to face his own story – not as some nostalgic bravado, but as the succession of hurts that he was not unique in carrying. And he would see all the scars – the ones he bore, the others he had made on those close to him.

  He stared at the Crippled God, as if it could somehow save his soul.

  And the Fallen One opened his eyes – and stared directly into Koryk’s.

  Jade fire lit a whirling pillar round the god, spinning ever faster, the glow brightening, the air howling.

  Their gazes were locked together through the emerald flames.

  And Koryk saw something – there, awakening, a look…a promise.

  He felt his soul reaching forth – closer…closer – reaching to touch.

  The Crippled God smiled at him, with such love, such knowing.

  The shadow rising behind him was out of place – it could not belong inside those raging fires. Yet Koryk saw it lifting, taking form. He saw two arms rising from that shape, saw the raw, dull gleam of dagger blades.

  Shadow.

  Koryk’s scream of warning ripped raw his throat – he flung himself forward—

  Even as Cotillion’s knives plunged down.

  To sink into the Crippled God’s back.

  Shock took that otherworldly face – as if the smile had never been – and the head rocked back, the body arching in agony.

  Someone slammed into Koryk, dragged him to the ground. He fought, howling.

  The green fire ignited, shot spiralling into the sky – so fast it was gone in moments.

  Koryk stared after it, one hand stretching upward.

  Beside him, too close to bear, he heard Fiddler say, ‘It was the only way, Koryk. It’s for the best. Nothing you can—’

  Suddenly sobbing, Koryk pushed the man away, and then curled up, like a child who lived in a world of broken promises.

  Hedge pulled Fiddler away from the sobbing soldier. Fiddler shot him a helpless look.

  ‘He’ll shake out of it,’ Hedge said. ‘Once it all settles and he works it out, he’ll be fine, Fid.’

  Quick Ben and Kalam joined the two sappers, and Fiddler fixed his eyes on the wizard. ‘Was it real, Quick? What I saw – did I…’

  The wizard gestured and they followed him to one edge of the summit. He pointed down to a lone figure standing some distance away, little more than a silhouette, its back to them. ‘Care to ask him, Fid?’

  Ask him? After all we’ve done…how to see this? Ask him? What if he answers me? ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Listen, you were right – it had to be this way.’

  Yes! It had to – we didn’t do all this for nothing!

  Fiddler stepped back, eyed the three men standing before him. ‘Look at us,’ he whispered. ‘I never thought…’

  ‘Send them down, Fid,’ said Hedge. ‘Your soldiers – get ’em to carry the wounded down off this fucking barrow.’

  ‘What?’

  Quick Ben and Kalam were now eyeing Hedge suspiciously.

  The man scowled at the attention. ‘Fid, send them down, will you? This is just for us – don’t you see? What’s coming – it’s just for us.’

  When Fiddler turned, he saw his soldiers. And, feeling grief grip his heart, he forced himself to look from one face to the next. In his mind, he spoke their names. Tarr. Koryk. Bottle. Smiles. Balm. Throatslitter. Deadsmell. Widdershins. Hellian. Urb. Limp. Crump. Sinter. Kisswhere. Maybe. Flashwit. Mayfly. Clasp. Nep Furrow. Reliko. Vastly Blank. Masan Gilani. ‘Where’s Nefarias Bredd?’ he demanded.

  Sergeant Tarr tilted his head. ‘Captain?’

  ‘Where is he, damn you?’

  ‘There is no Nefarias Bredd, sir. We made him up – on the march to Y’Ghatan. Got us a bad loaf of bread. Someone called it nefarious. We thought it was funny – like something Braven Tooth would’ve made up.’ He shrugged.

  ‘But I—’ Fiddler turned to Hedge, saw the man’s blank look. ‘Oh, never mind,’ he sighed, facing his soldiers again. ‘All of you, go down – take Sweetlard and Rumjugs with you. I’ll…I’ll be down shortly.’

  He watched them walk away. He knew their thoughts – the emptiness now overtaking them. Which would in the days and nights ahead slowly fill with grief, until they were all drowning. Fiddler looked back up at the sky. The Jade Strangers looked farther away. He knew that was impossible. Too soon for that. Still…

  A faint wind swept across the summit, cool and dry.

  ‘Now,’ said Hedge.

  Fiddler thought he heard horses, drawing up, and then three figures were climbing into view. Ghostly, barely visible to his eyes – he could see through them all.

  Whiskeyjack. Trotts. Mallet.

  ‘Aw, shit,’ said Kalam, kicking at a discarded helm. It spun, rolled down the hillside.

  Whiskeyjack regarded him. ‘Got something to say, Assassin?’

  And the man suddenly grinned. ‘It stinks, sir, from here to the throne.’

  The ghost nodded, and then squinted westward for a moment before turning to Hedge. ‘Well done, soldier. It was a long way back. You ready for us now?’

  Fiddler felt something crumble inside him.

  Hedge drew off his tattered leather cap, scratched at the few hairs left on his mottled scalp. ‘That depends, sir.’

  ‘On what?’ Whiskeyjack demanded, eyes fixing hard on the sapper.

  Hedge glanced over at Fiddler. ‘On him, sir.’

  And Fiddler knew what he had to say. ‘I let you go long ago, Hedge.’

  ‘Aye. But that was then and this isn’t. You want me to stay? A few more years, maybe? Till it’s your time, I mean?’

  I
f he spoke at all, Fiddler knew that he would lose control. So he simply nodded.

  Hedge faced Whiskeyjack. ‘Not yet, sir. Besides, I was talking with my sergeants just the other day. About buying us a bar, back in Malaz City. Maybe even Smiley’s.’

  Fiddler shot the man a glare. ‘But no one can find it, Hedge. Kellanved went and hid it.’

  ‘Kitty-corner to the Deadhouse, that’s where it is. Everyone knows, Fid.’

  ‘But they can’t find it, Hedge!’

  The man shrugged. ‘I will.’

  ‘Fiddler,’ Whiskeyjack said. ‘Pay attention now. Our time is almost done here – sun’s soon to rise, and when it does, we will have left this world for the last time.’ He gestured and Mallet stepped forward, carrying a satchel. He crouched down and removed the straps, and then drew out a fiddle. Its body was carved in swirling Barghast patterns. Seeing that, Fiddler looked up at Trotts. The warrior grinned, showing his filed teeth.

  ‘I did that, Fid. And that mistake there, up near the neck, that was Hedge’s fault. He tugged my braid. Blame him. I do.’

  Mallet carefully set the instrument down, placing the bow beside it. The healer glanced up, almost shyly. ‘We all had a hand in its making, Fid. Us Bridgeburners.’

  ‘Take it,’ ordered Whiskeyjack. ‘Fiddler, you were the best of us all. You still are.’

  Fiddler looked over at Quick Ben and Kalam, saw their nods, and then at Hedge, who hesitated, as if to object, and then simply shrugged. Fiddler met Whiskeyjack’s ethereal eyes. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The ghost then surprised him by stepping forward, reaching down and touching the fiddle. Straightening, he walked past them, to stand facing the lowland to the west.

  Fiddler stared after him, frowning.

  Sighing, Hedge spoke low at his side. ‘She’s out there, sembled now – they’re keeping their distance. They’re not sure what’s happened here. By the time she comes, it’ll be too late.’

  ‘Who? By the time who comes?’

  ‘The woman he loves, Fid. Korlat. A Tiste Andii.’

  Tiste Andii. Oh…no.

  Hedge’s grunt was strained with emotion. ‘Aye, the sergeant’s luck ain’t never been good. He’s got a long wait.’