The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1218 page)

The drunk seducer with nowhere to take it. How shit-fouled miserable is that? Breaks the heart.

And he'd always a kind word for Ma, when she went to him to get the one knife we owned sharpened. Hardly charged a thing either. ‘That blade a mouse couldn't shave with, hah! Hey, boy, your ma ever let you shave a mouse? Good practice for when one shows up under yer nose! Few years yet, though.'

‘So,' said someone in the crowd, ‘a jealous man – no, make it a jealous, stupid man. With wood for brains.' And a few people laughed, but they weren't pleasant laughs. People were working up to something. People knew something. People were figuring it out.

Like a bird in a thorn bush, Ma slipped inside without a sound. I followed her, thinking about poor old Ginanse and wondering who was gonna sharpen Ma's knife now. But Da got up right then and went in a step before me. His hands were dripping melted fat.

I don't remember exactly what I saw. Just a flash, really. Up close to Da's face, just under his huge, bearded jaw. And he made a gurgling sound and his knees bent as if he was about to sit down – right on me. I jumped back, tripped in the doorway and landed in the dust beside the bench.

Da was making spitting sounds, but not from his mouth. From his neck. And when he landed on his knees, twisting round in the doorway as if wanting to come back outside, the front of his chest was all wet and bright red. I looked into my father's eyes. And for the first and only time in my life with him, I actually saw something alive in there. A flicker, a gleam, that went out for good as he slumped on the threshold.

Behind him, Ma stood holding that little knife in her right hand.

‘Here y'go, boy, hold it careful now. It's sharp enough to shave a mouse – Bridgeburner magic, what I can do with decent iron. Give us another smile, sweet Elade, it's all the payment I ask, darling.'

 

‘Well now, recruit, y'ever stand still? Seen you goin' round and round and round. Tell me, was your old man a court clown or something?'

No, Master-Sergeant, my da was a wood-cutter.

‘Really? Outlier blood? But you're a scrawny thing for a wood-cutter's son. Not one for the trade then?'

He died when I was seven, Master-Sergeant. I was of no mind to follow his ways. I ended up learning most from my ma's side of the family – had an aunt and uncle who worked with animals.

‘Found you a name, lad.'

Master-Sergeant?

‘See, I wrote it right here, making it official. Your name is Widdershins, and you're now a marine. Now get out of my sight – and get someone to beat those dogs. That barking's driving me mad.'

 

‘How's the stomach, Wid?'

‘Burns like coals, Sergeant.'

A half-dozen regulars were coming up alongside them. The one in the lead eyed Balm and said, ‘Fist Blistig assigned us t'this one, Sergeant. We got it in hand—'

‘Best under a blanket, Corporal,' said Balm.

Throatslitter piped an eerie laugh, and the squad of regulars jumped at the sound.

‘Your help's always welcome,' Balm added. ‘But from now on, these wagons got details of marines to help guard 'em.'

The corporal looked nervous enough for Widdershins to give him a closer look.
Now that's an awfully plump face for someone on three tiny cups a day.

The corporal was stubborn or stupid enough to try again. ‘Fist Blistig—'

‘Ain't commanding marines, Corporal. But tell you what, go to him and tell him all about this conversation, why don't you? If he's got a problem he can come to me. I'm Sergeant Balm, Ninth Squad. Or, if I rank too low for him on all this, why, he can hunt down Captain Fiddler, who's up ahead, on point.' Balm cocked his head and scratched his jaw. ‘Seem to recall, from my basic training days, that a Fist outranks a captain – hey, Deadsmell, is that right?'

‘Mostly, Sergeant. But sometimes, well, it depends on the Fist.'

‘And the captain,' added Throatslitter, nudging Widdershins with a sharp elbow.

‘Now there's a point,' Balm mused. ‘Kinda sticky, like a hand under a blanket.'

Throatslitter's second laugh sent them scurrying.

‘Those soldiers looked flush,' Widdershins muttered once they'd retreated into the gloom. ‘At first, well, the poor fools were just following orders, so I thought you was being unkind, Sergeant – but now I got some suspicions.'

‘That's an executable offence,' said Deadsmell. ‘What you're suggesting there, Wid.'

‘It's going to happen soon if it hasn't already,' Widdershins said, grimacing. ‘We all know it. Why d'you think Fid nailed us to these wagons?'

Throatslitter added, ‘Heard we was getting our heavies for this, but then we weren't.'

‘Nervous, Throaty?' Widdershins asked. ‘Only the four of us, after all. The scariest thing about us is your awful laugh.'

‘Worked though, didn't it?'

‘They went to moan at their captain or whoever,' Balm said. ‘They'll be back with reinforcements, is my guess.'

Widdershins jabbed Throatslitter with his elbow, avenging that earlier prod. ‘Scared, Throaty?'

‘Only of your breath, Wid – get away from me.'

‘Got another squad on the other side of these wagons,' Balm pointed out. ‘Anyone see which one?'

They all looked over, but the three lines of wretched haulers mostly blocked their view. Throatslitter grunted. ‘Could be Whiskeyjack himself. If we get in trouble they won't be able to get through—'

‘What's your problem?' Balm demanded.

Throatslitter bared his teeth. ‘This is
thirst
we're dealing with here, Sergeant – no, all of you! Where I came from, droughts hit often, and the worst was when the city was besieged – and with Li Heng, well, during the scraps with the Seti that was pretty much every summer. So I know about thirst, all right? Once the fever strikes, there's no stopping it.'

‘Well isn't that cheery? You can stop talking now, Throatslitter, and that's an order.'

‘I think it's Badan Gruk's squad,' said Deadsmell.

Balm snorted.

Widdershins frowned. ‘That's a problem, Sergeant? They're Dal Honese just like you, aren't they?'

‘Don't be an idiot. They're from the southern jungles.'

‘So are you, aren't you?'

‘Even if I was, and I'm not saying I wasn't, or was, that'd make no difference, you understand me, Wid?'

‘No. Tayschrenn himself couldn't have worked out what you just said, Sergeant.'

‘It's complicated, that's all. But…Badan Gruk. Well, could be worse, I suppose. Though like Throaty said, we'd both have trouble supporting the other. I wish Fid ain't pulled the heavies from us. What d'you think he's done with 'em?'

Deadsmell said, ‘It was Faradan Sort who come up after Kindly, to talk to the captain. And I wasn't deliberately eavesdropping or nothing. I just happened to be standing close. So I didn't catch it all, but I think there might be some trouble with the food haulers on the back end. I'm thinking that's where the heavies went.'

‘What, to lighten the loads?'

Throatslitter yelped.

 

Lap Twirl scratched at the end of his nose where the tip had once been. ‘Kind've insulting,' he muttered, ‘them calling themselves Bridgeburners.'

Burnt Rope glanced over at the company marching on his left. Squinted at the three oxen plodding the way oxen plodded the world over.
It's how it looks when y'get someone doing something nobody wants t'do. Draught animals. Of course, it's all down to stupidity, isn't it? Do the work, get food, do more work to get more food. Over and over again. Not like us at all.
‘I don't care what they call themselves, Lap. They're marching just like us. In the same mess, and when we're all bleached bones, well, who could tell the difference between any of us?'

‘I could,' Lap Twirl said. ‘Easy. Just by looking at the skulls. I can tell if it's a woman or a man, young or old. I can tell if it's a city-born fool or a country one. Where I apprenticed, back in Falar, my master had shelves and shelves of skulls. Was doing a study – he could tell a Napan from a Quon, a Genabackan from a Kartoolian—'

Corporal Clasp, walking a step ahead, snorted loudly and then half turned, ‘And you believed him, Lap? Let me guess, that's how he made his living, isn't it? Wasn't it you Falari who had that thing about burying relatives in the walls of your houses? So when rival claims to some building came up, why, everyone ran to the skull-scriers.'

‘My master was famous for settling disputes.'

‘I just bet he was. Listen, working out a man or woman, old or young – sure, I'll buy that. But the rest? Forget it, Lap.'

‘Why are we talking about skulls again?' Burnt Rope asked. When no one seemed able to come up with an answer, he went on, ‘Anyway, I'm thinking it's all right that we got them Bridgeburners so close, instead of 'em regulars – if we get mobbed at this wagon here, we could call on 'em to help.'

‘Why would they do that?' Lap Twirl demanded.

‘Can't say. But Dead Hedge, he's a real Bridgeburner—'

‘Yeah,' drawled Clasp, ‘I heard that, too. Pure rubbish, you know. They're all dead. Everyone knows that.'

‘Not Fiddler…'

‘Except Fiddler…'

‘And Fiddler and Hedge were in the same squad. Along with Quick Ben. So Hedge is for real.'

‘All right, fine, so it isn't pure rubbish. But him helping us is. We get in trouble here, we got no one else to look to for help. Tarr's squad is on the other side of the haulers – no way t'reach us. So, just stay sharp, especially when the midnight bell sounds.'

From ahead of them all, Sergeant Urb glanced back. ‘Everyone relax,' he said. ‘There won't be any trouble.'

‘What makes you so sure, Sergeant?'

‘Because, Corporal Clasp, we got Bridgeburners marching beside us. And they got kittens.'

Burnt Rope joined the others in solemn nodding. Urb knew his stuff. They were lucky to have him. Even with Saltlick sent off back-column, they would be fine. Burnt Rope glanced enviously at that huge Letherii carriage. ‘Wish I had me some of them kittens.'

 

If anything, letting go was the easiest among all the choices left. The other choices crowded together, jostling and unpleasant, and stared with belligerent expressions. Waiting, expectant. And he so wanted to turn away from them all. He so wanted to let go.

Instead, the captain just walked, his scouts whispering around him like a score of childhood memories. He didn't want them around, but he couldn't send them away either. It was what he was stuck with. It's what we're all stuck with.

And so there was no letting go, not from any of this. He knew what the Adjunct wanted, and what she wanted of him.
And my marines, and my heavies. And none of it's fair and we both know it and that's not fair either.
Those other choices, willing him to meet their eye, stood before him like an unruly legion.
‘Take us, Fiddler, we're all that you meant to say, a thousand times in your life – when you looked on and remained silent, when you let it all slide past instead of taking a step right into the path of all that shit, all that cruel misery. When you…let it go. And felt bits of you die inside, small ones, barely a sting, and then gone.

‘But they add up, soldier. Don't they? So she says don't let go this time, don't sidestep. She says – well, you know what she says.'

Fiddler wasn't surprised that the chiding voice within him, the voice of those hardened choices ahead, was Whiskeyjack's. He could almost see his sergeant's eyes, blue and grey, the colour of honed weapons, the colour of winter skies, fixing upon him that knowing look, the one that said,
‘You'll do right, soldier, because you don't know how to do anything else. Doing right, soldier, is the only thing you're good at.'
And if it hurts?
‘Too bad. Stop your bitching, Fid. Besides, you ain't as alone as you think you are.'

He grunted. Now where had that thought come from? No matter. It was starting to look like the whole thing was useless. It was starting to look like this desert was going to kill them all. But until then, he'd just go on, and on, walking.

Walking.

A small, grubby hand tugged at his jerkin. He looked down.

The boy pointed ahead.

Walking.

Fiddler squinted. Shapes in the distance. Figures appearing out of the darkness.

Walking.

‘Gods below,' he whispered.

Walking.

TIME HAD BECOME MEANINGLESS. THEIR WORLD NOW ROLLED LIKE
waves, back and forth, awash with blood. Yan Tovis fought with her people. She could match her brother's savagery, if not his skill. She could cut down Liosan until the muscles of her arm finally failed, and she'd back away, dragging her sword behind her. Until the rainy, flat blackness unfurled from the corners of her vision and she staggered, chest screaming for breath, moments from slipping into unconsciousness, but somehow each time managing to pull herself back, pushing clear of the press and stumbling among the wounded and dying. And then down on to her knees, because another step was suddenly impossible, and all around her swirled the incessant tidal flow and ebb, the blur of figures moving from body to body, and the air was filled with terrible sound. Shrieks of pain, the shouts of the cutters and stretcher-bearers, the roar of endless, eternal battle.

She understood so much more now. About the world. About the struggle to survive in that world. In any world. But she could find words for none of it. These revelations were ineffable, too vast for the intellect to conquer. She wanted to weep, but her tears were long gone, and all that remained precious could be found in the next breath she took, and the one after that. Each one stunning her with its gift.

Reaching up one trembling forearm, she wiped blood and grime from her face. A shadow passed over her and she lifted her head to see the close pass of another dragon – but it did not descend to the breach, not this time, instead lifting high, seeming to hover a moment behind the curtain of Lightfall before backing away and vanishing into the glare.

Relief came in a nauseating rush that had her leaning forward. Someone came to her side, resting a light arm across her back.

‘Highness. Here, water. Drink.'

Yan Tovis looked up. The face was familiar only in that she'd seen this woman again and again in the press, fighting with an Andiian pike. Grateful, yet sick with guilt, she nodded and took the waterskin.

‘They've lost the will for it, Highness. Again. It's the shock.'

The shock, yes. That.

Half of my people are dead or too wounded to fight on. As many Letherii. And my brother stands tall still, as if it's all going to plan. As if he's satisfied by our stubborn insanity, this thing he's made of us all.

The smith will bend the iron to his will. The smith does not weep when the iron struggles and resists, when it seeks to find its own shape, its own truth. He hammers the sword, until he beats out a new truth. Edged and deadly.

‘Highness, the last of the blood has shattered. I – I saw souls, trapped within – breaking apart. Highness – I saw them screaming, but I heard nothing.'

Yan Tovis straightened, and now it was time to be the one giving comfort. Yet she'd forgotten how. ‘Those lost within, soldier, will for ever stand upon the Shore. There are…worse places to be.' If she could, she would flinch at her own tone. So lifeless, so cold.

Despite that, she felt something like will steal back into the young woman. It seemed impossible.
Yedan, what have you made of my people?

How long ago was it? In a place where days could not be measured, where the only tempo was the wash and flood of howling figures, this tide seething into the heart of midnight, she had no answer to this simplest of questions. Lifting the waterskin, she drank deep, and then, half in dread, half in disbelief, she faced Lightfall.

And the wound, where the last of the Liosan still alive on this side were falling to Shake swords and Andiian pikes. Her brother was down there. He had been down there for what seemed for ever, impervious to exhaustion, as units disengaged and others stumbled forward to relieve them, as the warriors of his Watch fell one by one, as veterans of the first battle stepped to the fore in their place, as they too began to fall, and Shake veterans arrived – like this woman at her side.

Brother. You can kill for ever. But we cannot keep up with you. No one can.

I see an end to this, when you stand alone, and the dead shall be your ground.

She turned to the soldier. ‘You need to rest. Deliver this news to Queen Drukorlat. The blood wall has shattered. The Liosan have retreated. Half of us remain.'

The woman stared. And then looked around, as if only now realizing the full extent of the horror surrounding them, the heaps of corpses, the entire strand a mass of supine bodies under blood-soaked blankets. She saw her mouth the word
half
.

‘When in the palace, rest. Eat.'

But the soldier was shaking her head. ‘Highness. I have one brother left to me. I cannot stay in the palace – I cannot leave his side for too long. I am sorry. I shall deliver your message and then return at once.'

Yan Tovis wanted to rail at her, but she bit down on her fury, for it was meant not for this woman, but for Yedan Derryg, who had done this to her people. ‘Tell me then, where is your brother?'

The woman pointed to a boy sleeping in a press of Shake fighters resting nearby.

The vision seemed to stab deep into Yan Tovis and she struggled to stifle a sob. ‘Be with him, then – I will find another for the message.'

‘Highness! I can—'

She pushed the waterskin into the woman's arms. ‘When he awakens, he will be thirsty.'

Seeing the soldier's wounded expression as she backed away, Yan Tovis could only turn from her, fixing her eyes once more upon the breach.
It's not you who has failed me
, she wanted to say to that soldier,
it is I who have failed you.
But then she was alone once more and it was too late.

Brother, are you down there? I cannot see you. Do you stand triumphant once more? I cannot see you.

All I can see is what you did. Yesterday. A thousand years ago. In the breath just past. When there are none but ghosts left upon the Shore, they will sing your praises. They will make of you a legend that none living will ever hear – gods, the span of time itself must be crowded with such legends, for ever lost yet whispered eternally on the winds.

What if that is the only true measure of time? All that only the dead have witnessed, all that only they can speak of, though no mortal life will ever hear them. All those stories for ever lost.

Is it any wonder we cannot grasp hold of the ages past? That all we can manage is what clings to our own lives, and what waits within reach? To all the rest, we are cursed to deafness.

And so, because she knew naught else to do, in her mind Yan Tovis reached out – to that moment a day past, or a breath ago, or indeed at the very dawn of time, when she saw her brother lead a sortie into the face of the Liosan centre, and his Hust sword howled with slaughter, and, with that voice, summoned a dragon.

 

She tightened the straps of her helm and readied her sword. Down at the breach the Liosan were pouring like foam from the wound, and Yan Tovis could see her Shake buckling. Everywhere but at the centre, where her brother hacked his way forward, and all the enemy reeling before him seemed to be moving at half his speed. He could have been cutting reeds for all the resistance they offered him. Even from this distance, blood washed like a bow wave before Yedan's advance, and behind him Shake fighters followed, and she could see how his deadliness infected them, raised them into a state of frenzied fury.

From one flank two Letherii companies pushed in to bolster her people, and she watched the line stiffen, watched it plant its feet and hold fast.

Yan Tovis set off for the other flank, increasing her pace until she was jogging. Anything faster would have instilled panic in those who saw her. But the longer she took, the closer that flank edged towards routing, and the more of her people died beneath the Liosan attackers. Her heart thundered, and trembling took possession of her entire body.

Into the press, shouting now, forcing her way through. Her fighters found her with wild, frightened eyes, fixed upon her with sudden hope.

But they needed more than hope.

She lifted her sword, and became a queen going to war. Unleashed, the battle lust of her royal line, the generation upon generation of this one necessity, this nectar of power, rising within her, taking away the words in her voice, leaving only a savage scream that made those close to her flinch and stare.

Huddling in a corner of her mind was a bleak awareness, observing with an ironic half-smile.
Do you hear me, brother? Here on your left? Do you nod in satisfaction? Do you feel my blood reaching to meet yours? Rulers of the Shake, once more fighting upon the Shore.

Oh, we have never been as pathetic as we are at this moment, Yedan. Pathetic in our fate, trapped in our roles, our place in things. We were born to this scene. Every freedom was a lie. A terrible, heart-crushing lie.

The enemy was suddenly before her. She greeted them with a smile, and then the flash of her sword.

To either side, her people rallied. Fighting with their queen – they could not let her stand alone, they could not leave her, not now, and what took hold of their lives then was something unruly and huge, a leviathan bristling awake. They struck back, halting the Liosan advance, and then pushed forward.

Light exploded like blood from the wound.

Yedan and his wedge of Shake fighters vanished in the gushing wave.

She saw her brother's followers flung back, tumbling like rag dolls in a hurricane. Weapons flew from hands, helms were torn loose, limbs flailed. They were thrown up against the shins of their kin holding the centre line, even as it reeled back to a howling wind that erupted from the wound.

In the fiery gale, Yedan stood suddenly alone.

Yan Tovis felt ice in her veins.
Dragon breath—

A massive shape looming in the breach, filling it, and then out from the fulminating light snapped a reptilian head, jaws open in a hissing snarl. Lunging down at her brother.

She screamed.

Heard the jaws impact the ground like the fist of a god – and knew that Yedan was no longer there. Her own voice now keening, she slashed forward, barely seeing those she cut down.

Manic laughter filled the air –
Hust! Awake!

She broke through, staggered, and saw—

The dragon's head was lifting in a spray of blood-soaked sand, the neck arching, the jaws stretching wide once more, and then, as if from nowhere, Yedan Derryg was directly beneath that enormous serpent head, and he was swinging his laughing sword – and that glee rose to a shriek of delight as the blade's edge chopped deep into the dragon's neck.

He was a man slashing into the bole of a centuries-old tree. The impact should have shattered the bones of his arms. The sword should have rebounded, or exploded in his hands, spraying deadly shards.

Yet she saw the weapon tear through that enormous, armoured neck. She saw the blood and gore erupt in its wake, and then a fountain of blood spraying into the air.

The dragon, its shoulders jammed in the breach, shook with the blow. The long neck whipped upward, seeking to pull away, and in the welling gape of the wound in its throat Yan Tovis saw the gleam of bone. Yedan had cut through to the dragon's spine.

Another gloating shriek announced his backswing.

The dragon's head and an arm's length of neck jumped away then, off to one side, and the yawning jaws pitched nose down and hammered the strand as if mocking that first lunge. The head tilted and then fell with a trembling thump, the eyes staring sightlessly.

The headless neck thrashed upward like a giant blind worm, spitting blood in lashing gouts, and on all sides of the quivering, decapitated beast black crystals pushed up from the drenched sand, drawing together, rising to form faceted walls – and from every corpse that had been splashed or buried in the deluge ghostly forms now rose, struggling within that crystal. Mouths opened in silent screams.

Dodging the falling head, Yedan had simply advanced upon the trembling body filling the breach. Using both hands, he drove the Hust sword, point first, deep into the beast's chest.

The dragon exploded out from the wound, scales and shattered bone, yet even as Yedan staggered beneath the flood of gore the blood washed from him as would rain upon oil.

Hust. Killer of dragons. You will shield your wielder, to keep your joy alive. Hust, your terrible laughter reveals the madness of your maker.

Yedan's desire to trap the corpse of a dragon in the breach was not to be – not this time – for she could see the ruined body being dragged back in heaving lunges –
more dragons behind this one, crowding the gate.

Will another come through? To meet the fate of its kin?

I think not.

Not yet.

Not for some time.

The Liosan on this side of the wound were dead, bodies heaped on all sides. Her Shake stood atop them, two, three deep under their unsteady feet, and she saw the shock in their faces as they stared upon Yedan Derryg, who stood before the wound – close enough to take a step through, if he so desired, and take the battle into the enemy's realm. And for a moment she thought he might – nothing was impossible with her brother – but instead he turned round, and met his sister's eyes.