The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1250 page)

‘
EVEN SHOULD YOU SUCCEED, COTILLION. BEYOND ALL EXPECTATION,
beyond, even, all desire. They will still speak of your failure.'

He stood in the place where the Whorl had manifested – a wounding in the fabric of Shadow, a place now slowly healing. There was nothing else here, nothing to give evidence to the struggles that had occurred, the blood that had been spilled. Still, Chaos felt closer than it ever had, as if moments from erupting once again.
The madness of sorcerers, the ambitions of the starved…we're surrounded by fools wanting more than what they have. And, alas, it's all too familiar company, and the ugly truth is that we may not be out of place in that crowd.
Edgewalker's words haunted him. The breathtaking ambition, the sheer verve of all that they had set in motion.
But now we have finally arrived – it's all cut loose, and so much – so much – is out of our hands.

He saw footprints in the grey dust, reminding him that there were other arenas, distant places where battles raged on. Nothing was simple, and in the spilling of blood no one could guess the myriad channels it would carve.

Shadowthrone, old friend, we have done what we could – but the game is much bigger than we ever imagined. This gamble…gods, this gamble.
One hand drifted to one of the knives at his belt. And then he shook himself, straightening.

Take a deep breath, lad. Here goes…

‘What you ask of me, it is too much. Yes, of course I see the necessity – I may have sickened, even threatened, but magic is not my enemy. It never was. Indeed, I envy its gifts to this world. Upon my own…ah, no matter. Belief can be rotten. All it takes is one betrayal to steal away an entire future.

‘You would not have recognized me in my anger. It shone blinding bright. There remain those, among the multitudes I left behind, who imagine themselves gods, for all their mortal trappings. They would maintain a tyranny such as no true god could ever imagine. They would enslave generation upon generation – all those sharing the same soil, the same water, the same air. They conspire to keep them on their knees. Bowed in servitude. And each slave, measuring his or her life, can see – if they dare – only the truth, and so most of my world, most of my children, live a life of despair and suffering, and ever growing rage.

‘Is this all there must be? The tyrants would have it so. I sometimes dream…yes, I know you have little time… I dream of returning, swords blazing with holy vengeance. I dream, Shadowthrone, of murdering every one of those fuckers. Is this what it means to be a god? To be an implacable weapon of justice?

‘Wouldn't that be nice. I agree.

‘No, I'm not that much of a fool. It will be no different. And should you achieve the impossible with your handful of mortals, should you free me…and find the path, the moment I take my first step upon the soil of my home they will emasculate me. Bleed me. Gut me, and then stretch my hide overhead. They'll need shade from the torrid heat of all the fires they themselves lit. That is the problem with tyrants, they outlive us all.

‘I will do what you ask. Rather, I shall try. Pieces of me remain missing and I despair of ever seeing them again. It is my understanding that the one named Skinner, usurper and tyrant king of my House of Chains, has many enemies. He can now count me among them. Do you imagine he loses sleep?

‘No, I don't either. Betrayers never do.

‘Shadowthrone. You will not betray me, will you?'

 

‘Karsa Orlong, where are all the gods of peace?'

He stepped outside, straightening. ‘I know not.'

Picker turned to face the city. Many troubles there. Perhaps at last they had begun to settle. But…all that boiled beneath the surface, well, that never went away. ‘Do you know how to get there?'

He eyed her. ‘I know how to get there.'

She drew a deep breath – she could hear movement inside the hut behind the giant. Picker lifted her gaze until it locked with the Toblakai's. ‘I call upon the vow you made long ago, Karsa Orlong of the Teblor. When you walk to where you must go, a crippled priest will find you. In the street, a broken man, a beggar, and he will speak to you. And by his words, you shall understand.'

‘I already understand, Malazan.'

‘Karsa—'

‘There are too many gods of war.' And then he took up his sword, and inside the hut a woman began weeping. ‘And not one of them understands the truth.'

‘Karsa—'

His teeth were bared as he said, ‘When it comes to war, woman, who needs gods?'

She watched as he set off. And under her breath she whispered, ‘Darujhistan, I beg you, do not get in this man's way.'

 

Dust roiled over the distant encampment. Squinting, Paran took another bite of the alien fruit his foragers had found, and wiped at the juices dribbling down into his beard.

‘That is not helping, High Fist.'

He glanced over. Ormulogun was scratching desperately on a bleached board with his willow charcoal stick. At his feet squatted a fat toad, watching his efforts with gimlet eyes.

‘Nothing will help that,' the toad sighed.

‘Posterity!' snapped the Imperial Artist.

‘Posterity my ass,' Gumble replied. ‘Oh, was that not droll of me? Critics are never appreciated for what they truly are.'

‘What? Leeches sucking on the talent of others, you mean?'

‘It is my objectivity that you so envy, Ormulogun.'

‘And you,' the artist muttered, ‘can stick that objectivity up your posterity, toad.'

Paran took a last bite of the fruit, examined the furry pit, and then flung it over the wall. He wiped his hands on his thighs and turned. ‘Fist Rythe Bude.'

The woman was leaning out over a parapet. She straightened. ‘Sir?'

‘Assemble the companies at their stations. It's time.'

‘Aye, sir.'

Lounging nearby, Noto Boil drew the fish spine from between his front teeth and stepped forward. ‘Is it truly?'

‘Weapons,' said Paran. ‘Kept hidden away. But there comes a time, Noto, when they must be unsheathed. A time, in fact, to put proof to the pretensions.' He eyed the cutter. ‘The gods have been kicking us around for a long time. When do we say
enough
?'

‘And in their absence, High Fist, will we manage things any better?'

‘No,' Paran said, walking past him, ‘but at least then we won't have the option of blaming someone else.'

 

Sister Belie scanned the distant walls. Suddenly, not a soldier in sight. ‘They've quit,' she said. ‘Now, the question is, do they leave the way they came, or do they march out from the gate – or what's left of it – and try to break the siege?'

Standing beside her, Watered Exigent glanced back at the camp. ‘If the latter, Sister, then we are, perhaps, in trouble.'

Sister Belie pretended not to hear him. If his seed of doubt thirsted for water, he would have to find it elsewhere.
Another week. That is all we need. And then Brother Serenity will be here, with five thousand heavily armoured foreigners.
The besieging forces were damaged – that last assault had been brutal. She was down to half strength. Her hold on them was fragile, and this was not a familiar feeling.

‘I see no movement at the gate, Sister Belie.'

There was a barrier to dismantle, and that would take time.
But… I feel it. They're coming for us.
‘Assemble the companies, Exigent. That gate is the bottleneck. If we can lock them there, we hold them until they're exhausted, too mauled to force the issue.'

‘And if they break us instead?'

She turned, studied him. ‘Do you doubt the power of my will? Do you imagine that this Master of the Deck can manage anything more than fending me off? I will not yield, Exigent. Understand that. And if it means that every single one of our Shriven – and every single one of their Watered commanders – ends up a corpse on the field, then so be it.'

Watered Exigent paled, and then he saluted. ‘I will inform the commanders that we shall advance.'

‘Have them ready, Exigent. The command to advance shall be mine and mine alone.'

‘Of course, Sister Belie.'

After he had left, she returned her attention to the keep. Still no activity at the barricade.
Perhaps my feeling about this is wrong. Perhaps indeed he flees through a warren, and just like that, the siege is done. But he will return. Somewhere – this thorn is yet to leave our side, I am certain of it.

Her eyes narrowed, and she blinked rapidly to clear a sudden blurring of her vision – but the problem was not with her eyes. To either side of the barricaded gate, the massive walls had grown strangely smudged, all along the breadth, as if stone had become water.

And from these places, troops appeared in formation, and then skirmishers and archers, fanning out from main ranks. The five-deep lines then unfolded and began linking up with those to either side.

Cavalry thundered into view on the far left flank, riding hard for a rise to the west.

She heard the shouts of confusion from her commanders, felt the recoiling fear of the Shriven.
He opened gates through the walls. He knew we would be studying the barricade, waiting for them to begin dismantling it. He knew we wouldn't advance until they did so. And now we are not ready.

Sister Belie swung round. ‘Form a line! Form a line!'
My voice will take their souls, and I will drive the Shriven forward, like wolves unleashed. They will ignore their wounds. Their fear. They will think only of slaughter. By the time my last soldier falls, the enemy will have ceased to be a military threat. This I swear!

She saw her Watered commanders taking control of their companies, their voices powerful as iron-toothed whips. She could feel it now – the cold, implacable sorcery of Akhrast Korvalain, gathering, and she was pleased at its burgeoning strength.

And then someone shrieked, and Sister Belie staggered.
What? I have lost one of my commanders! How?

She saw a swirl of soldiers, closing in to where one of the Watered had been standing a moment earlier. Terror and confusion rippled outward.

Forty paces distant from that scene, another commander suddenly died, his chest blossoming wounds.

They have infiltrated assassins!
She awakened her voice. ‘FIND THEM! ASSASSINS! FIND THEM!'

The companies were in chaos. ‘FACING RANKS, PREPARE FOR THE ENEMY!'

She saw Exigent, heard his shouts as he struggled to reassert order on his milling Shriven. As she moved to join him, there was a blossom of darkness behind the man. Sister Belie shrieked a warning, but – too late. Knives sank home. Exigent arched in shock, and then was falling.

Akhrast Korvalain, I call upon your power!
She set off down the slope. The darkness had vanished, but then, as magic heightened her vision, she could see its swirling path – there would be no hiding from her, not now.
A mage. How dare he!
‘NO POWER BUT MINE!'

And she saw that whirling black cloud stagger, saw it pinned in place, writhing in sudden panic.

Hands twitching in anticipation, she advanced on it. Off to her right, she could hear the enemy's horns announce the attack – she would deal with that later.
I can still save this. I must!

The darkness convulsed in the grip of her power.

Now only six paces between her and the hidden mage. ‘NO POWER BUT MINE!'

The sorcery erupted, vanished with a thunderous detonation, and she saw before her a man staggering, sinking down to his knees. Dark-skinned, bald, gaunt –
not the Master of the Deck.
No matter. She would rend him limb from limb.

Four paces, her boots crunching on gravel, and he looked up at her.

And smiled. ‘Got you.'

She did not even hear her killer as he came up behind her, but the long knives that burst from her chest lifted her from her feet. She twisted, balanced on two hilts, as her slayer raised her yet higher. Then, with a low grunt, he flung her to one side. She was thrown through the air, landing hard, rolling across sharp stones.

The bastard had severed the veins beneath both her hearts. And now, lying in her last moments, her head lolled and she saw him. Burly, ebon-skinned, the long-bladed knives dripping in his hands.

Her Watered were all dead. She heard the enemy ranks smashing into her disordered forces. She heard the slaughter begin.

Faintly, she caught the mage speaking to the assassin. ‘Sheathe that Otataral blade, Kalam, and be quick about it.'