The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (309 page)

‘And how far back do those annals go?’ Quick Ben asked casually, returning his attention to the corpse.

‘Seven tens.’

‘Decades?’

‘Centuries.’

‘So,’ the wizard said, straightening, ‘a singular killer.’

‘Then why,’ Paran murmured, ‘do I now believe that this man was killed by another Tiste Edur?’

The Moranth and Quick Ben turned to him, were silent.

Paran sighed. ‘A hunch, I suppose. A gut whisper.’

‘Captain,’ the wizard said, ‘don’t forget what you’ve become.’ He fixed his attention once more on the corpse. ‘Another Tiste Edur. All right, let’s circle this one, too.’

‘There is no objection,’ the Moranth officer said, ‘to the possibility.’

‘The Tiste Edur are of Elder Shadow,’ Quick Ben noted.

‘Within the seas, shadows swim. Kurald Emurlahn. The Warren of the Tiste Edur, Elder Shadow, is broken, and has been lost to mortals.’

‘Lost?’ Quick Ben’s brows rose. ‘Never found, you mean. Meanas – where Shadowthrone and Cotillion and the Hounds dwell—’

‘Is naught but a gateway,’ the Moranth officer finished.

Paran grunted. ‘If a shadow could cast a shadow, that shadow would be Meanas – is that what you two are saying? Shadowthrone rules the guardhouse?’

Quick Ben grinned. ‘What a delicious image, Captain.’

‘A disturbing one,’ he muttered in reply.
The Hounds of Shadow – they are the guardians of the gate. Damn, that makes too much sense to be in error. But the warren is also shattered. Meaning, that gate might not lead anywhere. Or maybe it belongs to the largest fragment. Does Shadowthrone know the truth? That his mighty Throne of Shadows is … is what? A castellan’s chair? A gatekeeper’s perch? My oh my, as Kruppe would say.

‘Ah,’ Quick Ben sighed, his grin fading, ‘I think I see your point. The Tiste Edur are active once more, by what we’ve seen here. They’re returning to the mortal world – perhaps they’ve re-awakened the true Throne of Shadow, and maybe they’re about to pay their new gatekeeper a visit.’

‘Another war in the pantheon – the Crippled God’s chains are no doubt rattling with his laughter.’ Paran rubbed at the bristle on his jaw. ‘Excuse me – I need some privacy. Carry on here, if you like – I won’t be long.’
I hope.

He strode inland twenty paces, stood facing northwest, eyes on the distant stars.
All right, I’ve done this before, let’s see if it works a second time …

The transition was so swift, so effortless, that it left him reeling, stumbling across uneven flagstones in swirling, mote-filled darkness. Cursing, he righted himself. The carved images beneath his feet glowed faintly, cool and vaguely remote.

So, I’m here. As simple as that. Now, how do I find the image I’m looking for? Raest? You busy at the moment? What a question. If you were busy we’d all be in trouble, wouldn’t we? Never mind. Stay where you are, wherever that is. This is for me to work out, after all.

Not in the Deck of Dragons – I don’t want the gateway, after all, do I. Thus, the Elder Deck, the Deck of Holds …

The flagstone directly before him twisted into a new image, one he had not seen before, yet he instinctively recognized it as the one he sought The carving was rough, worn, the deep grooves forming a chaotic web of shadows.

Paran felt himself being pulled forward, down, into the scene.

He appeared in a wide, low chamber. Unadorned, dressed stone formed the walls, water-stained and covered in lichen, mould and moss. High to his right and left were wide windows – horizontal slits – both crowded with a riot of creepers and vines that snaked down into the room, onto the floor and through a carpet of dead leaves.

The air smelled of the sea, and somewhere outside the chamber seagulls bickered above a crashing surf.

Paran’s heart thudded loud in his chest. He had not expected this.
I’m not in another realm. This is mine.

Seven paces ahead, on a raised dais, stood a throne. Carved from a single trunk of crimson wood, unplaned, broad strips of bark on its flanks, many of them split, had pulled away from the wood beneath. Shadows flowed in that bark, swam the deep grooves, spilling out to dart through the surrounding air before vanishing in the chamber’s gloom.

The Throne of Shadow. Not in some hidden, long-forgotten realm. It’s here, on – or rather in – my world … A small, tattered fragment of Kurald Galain.

… and the Tiste Edur have come to find it. They’re searching, crossing the seas, seeking this place. How do I know this?

He stepped forward. The shadows raced over the throne in a frenzy. Another step.
You want to tell me something, Throne, don’t you?
He strode to the dais, reached out—

The shadows poured over him.

Hound – not Hound! Blood and not blood! Master and mortal!

‘Oh, be quiet! Tell me of this place.’

The wandering isle! Wanders not! Flees! Yes! The Children are corrupted, the souls of the Edur are poisoned! Storm of madness – we elude! Protect us, Hound not Hound! Save us – they come!

‘The wandering isle. This is Drift Avalii, isn’t it? West of Quon Tali. I thought there were supposed to be Tiste Andii on this island—’

Sworn to defend! Spawn of Anomander Rake – gone! Leaving a blood trail, leading the Edur away with the spilling out of their own lives – oh, where is Anomander Rake? They call for him, they call and call! They beg for his help!

‘He’s busy, I’m afraid.’

Anomander Rake, Son of Darkness! The Edur have sworn to destroy Mother Dark. You must warn him! Poisoned souls, led by the one who has been slain a hundred times, oh, ’ware this new Emperor of the Edur, this Tyrant of Pain, this Deliverer of Midnight Tides!

Paran pulled himself back with a mental wrench, staggered a step further away, then another. He was sheathed in sweat, trembling with the aftermath of such visceral terror.

Barely conscious of his own intent, he whirled – the chamber around him blurring, swallowed by darkness, then, with a grinding shift, something deeper than darkness.

‘Oh, Abyss…’

A rubble-strewn plain beneath a dead sky. In the distance to his right, the groan of massive, wooden wheels, the slither and snap of chains, countless plodding footfalls. In the air, a pall of suffering that threatened to suffocate Paran where he stood.

Gritting his teeth, he swung towards the dreadful sounds, pushed himself forward.

Grainy shapes appeared ahead, coming directly for Paran. Leaning figures, stretched chains. Beyond them, a hundred or more paces distant, loomed the terrible wagon, massed with writhing bodies, clunking and shifting over stones, swallowed in a haze of mist.

Paran stumbled forward. ‘Draconus!’ he shouted. ‘Where in Hood’s name are you? Draconus!’

Faces lifted, then all but one—hooded and indistinct – lowered once more.

The captain slipped between victims of Dragnipur, closing on the one shadowed face still regarding him, stepping within reach of the mad, the numbed, the failing – not one of whom sought to impede him, or even acknowledged his presence. He moved as a ghost through the press.

‘Greetings, mortal,’ Draconus said. ‘Walk with me, then.’

‘I wanted Rake.’

‘You found his sword, instead. For which I am not sorry.’

‘Yes, I’ve spoken with Nightchill, Draconus – but don’t press me on that subject. When I reach a decision, you’ll be the first to know. I need to speak with Rake.’

‘Aye,’ the ancient warrior rumbled, ‘you do. Explain to him this truth, mortal. He is too merciful, too merciful to wield Dragnipur. The situation is growing desperate.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Dragnipur needs to feed. Look around us, mortal. There are those who, at long last, fail in pulling this burden. They are carried to the wagon, then, and tossed onto it – you think this preferable? Too weak to move, they are soon buried by those like them. Buried, trapped for eternity. And the more the wagon bears, the greater its weight – the more difficult the burden for those of us still able to heave on these chains. Do you understand? Dragnipur needs to feed. We require … fresh legs. Tell Rake – he must draw the sword. He must take souls. Powerful ones, preferably. And he must do so soon—’

‘What will happen if the wagon stops, Draconus?’

The man who forged his own prison was silent for a long time. ‘Project your vision, mortal, onto our trail. See for yourself, what pursues us.’

Pursues?
He closed his eyes, yet the scene did not vanish – the wagon lumbered on, there in his mind, the multitudes passing by him like ghosts. Then the massive contrivance was past, its groans fading behind him. The ruts of its wheels flanked him, each one as wide as an imperial road. The earth was sodden with blood, bile and sweat, a foul mud that drew his boots down, swallowed them up to his ankles.

His gaze followed those tracks, back, to the horizon.

Where chaos raged. Filling the sky, a storm such as he had never seen before. Rapacious hunger poured from it. Frenzied anticipation.

Lost memories.

Power born from rendered souls.

Malice and desire, a presence almost self-aware, with hundreds of thousands of eyes all fixed on the wagon behind Paran.

So … so eager to feed …

He recoiled.

With a gasp, Paran found himself stumbling once more alongside Draconus. The residue of what he had witnessed clung to him, making his heart drum savagely in his chest. Another thirty steps passed before he was able to raise his head, to speak. ‘Draconus,’ he grated, ‘you have made a very unpleasant sword.’

‘Darkness has ever warred against Chaos, mortal. Ever retreated. And each time that Mother Dark relented – to the Coming of Light, to the Birth of Shadow – her power has diminished, the imbalance growing more profound. Such was the state of the realms around me in those early times. A growing imbalance. Until Chaos approached the very Gate to Kurald Galain itself. A defence needed to be fashioned. Souls were … required…’

‘Wait, please. I need to think—’

‘Chaos hungers for the power in those souls – for what Dragnipur has claimed. To feed on such power will make it stronger – tenfold. A hundredfold. Sufficient to breach the Gate. Look to your mortal realm, Ganoes Paran. Devastating, civilization-destroying wars, civil wars, pogroms, wounded and dying gods – you and your kind progress at a perilous pace on the path forged by Chaos. Blinded by rage, lusting for vengeance, those darkest of desires—’

‘Wait—’

‘Where history means nothing. Lessons are forgotten. Memories – of humanity, of all that is
humane
– are lost. Without balance, Ganoes Paran—’

‘But you want me to shatter Dragnipur!’

‘Ah, now I understand your resistance to all that I say. Mortal, I have had time to think. To recognize the grave error I have made. I had believed, Ganoes Paran, in those early times, that only in Darkness could the power that is
order
be manifested. I sought to help Mother Dark – for it seemed she was incapable of helping herself. She would not answer, she would not even acknowledge her children. She had withdrawn, deep into her own realm, far from all of us, so far that we could not find her.’

‘Draconus—’

‘Hear me, please. Before the Houses, there were Holds. Before Holds, there was
wandering.
Your own words, yes? But you were both right and wrong. Not wandering, but migration. A seasonal round – predictable, cyclical. What seemed aimless, random, was in truth fixed, bound to its own laws. A truth – a power – I failed to recognize.’

‘So the shattering of Dragnipur will release the Gate once more – to its migration.’

‘To what gave it its own strength to resist Chaos, yes. Dragnipur has bound the Gate of Darkness to flight, for eternity – but should the souls chained to it diminish—’

‘The flight slows down—’

‘Fatally.’

‘So, either Rake begins killing – taking souls – or Dragnipur must be destroyed.’

‘The former is necessary – to buy us time – until the latter occurs. The sword must be shattered. The purpose of its very existence was misguided. Besides which, there is another truth I have but stumbled on – far too late for it to make any difference. At least to me.’

‘And that is?’

‘Just as Chaos possesses the capacity to act in its own defence, to indeed alter its own nature to its own advantage in its eternal war, so too can Order. It is not solely bound to Darkness. It understands, if you will, the value of balance.’

Paran felt an intuitive flash. ‘The Houses of the Azath. The Deck of Dragons.’

The hooded head shifted slightly and Paran felt cold, unhuman eyes fixing upon him. ‘Aye, Ganoes Paran.’

‘The Houses take souls…’

‘And bind them in place. Beyond the grasp of Chaos.’

‘So it shouldn’t matter, then, if Darkness succumbs.’

‘Don’t be a fool. Losses and gains accumulate, shift the tide, but not always in ways that redress the balance. We are in an
imbalance,
Ganoes Paran, that approaches a threshold. This war, which has seemed eternal to us trapped within it, may come to an end. What awaits us all, should that happen … well, mortal, you have felt its breath, there in our wake.’

‘I need to speak with Rake.’

‘Then find him. Assuming, of course, he still carries the sword.’

Easier said than done, it seems
—‘Hold on – what do you mean by that? About still carrying the sword?’

‘Just that, Ganoes Paran.’

But why wouldn’t he be? What in Hood’s name are you hinting at, Draconus? This is Anomander Rake we’re talking about, damn it! If we were living in one of those bad fables with some dimwitted farm-boy stumbling on a magical sword, well, then losing the weapon might be possible. But … Anomander Rake? Son of Darkness? Lord of Moon’s Spawn?

A grunt from Draconus drew his attention. Directly in their path, tangled in chains gone slack, lay a huge, demonic figure. ‘Byrys. I myself killed him, so long ago. I did not think…’ He came up to the black-skinned creature, reached down and – to Paran’s astonishment – heaved it over a shoulder. ‘To the wagon,’ Draconus said, ‘my old nemesis…’