The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (425 page)

‘The bastard Koryk knocked down is about to be surprised, Fid.'

Fiddler fixed his gaze on the figure just now sitting up.

‘Left a smoking sharper in his lap,' Cuttle added.

Both sappers halted to watch.

‘Four…'

The warrior made his horrific discovery and plunged to one side.

‘Three…'

Then rolled back directly onto the sharper.

‘Two…'

Thumping a helm down over it.

‘One.'

The detonation lifted the hapless man into the air on a man-high column of fire.

Yet he had managed to hold on to the helm, even as it lifted him still higher, up and over. Feet scything wildly in the air, he plummeted back down, landing to kick up a cloud of dust and smoke.

‘Now that—'

But Cuttle got no further, and both sappers simply stared in disbelief as the warrior scrambled upright, looked around, collected a discarded lance, then raced off back up the slope.

 

Gamet drove heels into his horse's flanks. The mount pounded down into the basin from the west side, opposite where the Khundryl had come from.

Three knots of desert warriors had managed to weather the cross-bow fire and munitions to assault one of the strong-points. They had driven the two hidden squads back onto the barrow as well, and the Fist saw his marines dragging wounded comrades into the trenchworks. Fewer than ten soldiers among the three squads were still fighting, desperately holding back the screaming raiders.

Gamet pulled his sword free as he urged his horse directly towards the beleaguered position. As he approached, he saw two marines go down before an onrush from one of the attacking groups—and the barrow was suddenly overrun.

The fugue gripping his senses seemed to redouble, and he began sawing the reins, confused, bewildered by the roar of sounds surrounding him.

‘Fist!'

He lifted his sword, as his horse cantered, as if of its own will, towards the barrow.

‘Fist Gamet! Pull out of there!'

Too many voices. Screams of the dying. The flames—they're falling away. Darkness closing in. My soldiers are dying. Everywhere. It's failed—the whole plan has failed—

A dozen raiders were rushing at him—and more movement, there, to his right—another squad of marines, fast closing, as if they'd been on their way to relieve the overrun strong-point, but now they were sprinting in his direction.

I don't understand. Not here—the other way. Go there, go to my soldiers—

He saw something large fly from one of the marines' hands, down into the midst of the warriors attacking him.

‘Fist!'

Two lances whipped out, seeking him.

Then the night exploded.

He felt his horse lifted beneath him, pushing him down over the back of the saddle. The animal's head snapped upward, impossibly so, as it continued arching back—to thump down between Gamet's thighs a moment before he tumbled, boots leaving the stirrups, over the horse's rump.

Down into a mist of blood and grit.

He blinked his eyes open, found himself lying in sodden mud, amidst bodies and parts of bodies, at the base of a crater. His helmet was gone. No sword in his hand.

I was…I was on a horse…

Someone slid down to slam against his side. He attempted to clamber away, but was dragged back down.

‘Fist Gamet, sir! I'm Sergeant Gesler—Captain Keneb's 9th Company—can you hear me?'

‘Y-yes—I thought you were—'

‘Aye, Fist. But we dropped 'em, and now the rest of my squad and Borduke's are relieving 3rd Company's marines. We need to get you to a healer, sir.'

‘No, that's all right.' He struggled to sit up, but something was wrong with his legs—they were indifferent to his commands. ‘Tend to those on the barrow, Sergeant—'

‘We are, sir. Pella! Down here, help me with the Fist.'

Another marine arrived, this one much younger—
oh, no, too young for this. I will ask the Adjunct to send him home. To his mother and father, yes. He should not have to die
—‘You should not have to die.'

‘Sir?'

‘Only his horse between him and a cusser blast,' Gesler said. ‘He's addled, Pella. Now, take his arms…'

Addled? No, my mind is clear. Perfectly clear, now. Finally. They're all too young for this. It's Laseen's war—let her fight it. Tavore—she was a child, once. But then the Empress murdered that child. Murdered her. I must tell the Adjunct…

Fiddler settled wearily beside the now dead hearth. He set his crossbow down and wiped the sweat and grime from his eyes. Cuttle eased down beside him. ‘Koryk's head still aches,' the sapper muttered, ‘but it don't look like anything's broken that wasn't already broken.'

‘Except his helm,' Fiddler replied.

‘Aye, except that. The only real scrap of the night for our squad, barring a few dozen quarrels loosed. And we didn't even kill the bastard.'

‘You got too cute, Cuttle.'

The man sighed. ‘Aye, I did. Must be getting old.'

‘That's what I concluded. Next time, just stab a pig-sticker in the bastard.'

‘Amazed he survived it in any case.'

The pursuit by the Khundryl had taken the Burned Tears far beyond the ridge, and what had begun as a raid against a Malazan army was now a tribal war. Two bells remained before dawn. Infantry had moved out into the basin to collect wounded, retrieve quarrels, and strip down the Malazan corpses—leaving nothing for the enemy to use. The grim, ugly conclusion to every battle, the only mercy the cover of darkness.

Sergeant Gesler appeared out of the gloom and joined them at the lifeless hearth. He drew off his gauntlets and dropped them into the dust, then rubbed at his face.

Cuttle spoke. ‘Heard a position was overrun.'

‘Aye. We'd had it in hand, at least to start. Closing in fast. Most of the poor bastards could have walked away from that barrow. As it is, only four did.'

Fiddler looked up. ‘Out of three squads?'

Gesler nodded, then spat into the ashes.

Silence.

Then Cuttle grunted. ‘Something always goes wrong.'

Gesler sighed, collected his gauntlets and rose. ‘Could have been worse.'

Fiddler and Cuttle watched the man wander off.

‘What happened, do you think?'

Fiddler shrugged. ‘I suppose we'll find out soon enough. Now, find Corporal Tarr and get him to gather the rest. I need to explain all the things we did wrong tonight.'

‘Starting with you leading us up the slope?'

Fiddler grimaced. ‘Starting with that, aye.'

‘Mind you, if you hadn't,' Cuttle mused, ‘more of those raiders could have followed down to the overrun barrow through the breach. Your lobbed cusser did its work—distracted them. Long enough for the Khundryl to arrive and keep them busy.'

‘Even so,' the sergeant conceded. ‘But if we'd been alongside Gesler, maybe we could have saved a few more marines.'

‘Or messed it up worse, Fid. You know better than to think like that.'

‘I guess you're right. Now, gather them up.'

‘Aye.'

Gamet looked up as the Adjunct entered the cutters' tent. She was pale—from lack of sleep, no doubt—and had removed her helm, revealing her short-cropped, mouse-coloured hair.

‘I will not complain,' Gamet said, as the healer finally moved away.

‘Regarding what?' the Adjunct asked, head turning to scan the other cots on which wounded soldiers lay.

‘The removal of my command,' he replied.

Her gaze fixed on him once more. ‘You were careless, Fist, in placing yourself at such risk. Hardly cause to strip you of your rank.'

‘My presence diverted marines rushing to the aid of their comrades, Adjunct. My presence resulted in lives lost.'

She said nothing for a moment, then stepped closer. ‘Every engagement takes lives, Gamet. This is the burden of command. Did you think this war would be won without the spilling of blood?'

He looked away, grimacing against the waves of dull pain that came from forced healing. The cutters had removed a dozen shards of clay from his legs. Muscles had been shredded. Even so, he knew that the Lady's luck had been with him this night. The same could not be said for his hapless horse. ‘I was a soldier once, Adjunct,' he rasped. ‘I am one no longer. This is what I discovered tonight. As for being a Fist, well, commanding house guards was a fair representation of my level of competence. An entire legion? No. I am sorry, Adjunct…'

She studied him, then nodded. ‘It will be some time before you are fully recovered from your wounds. Which of your captains would you recommend for a temporary field promotion?'

Yes, the way it should be done. Good.
‘Captain Keneb, Adjunct.'

‘I concur. And now I must leave you. The Khundryl are returning.'

‘With trophies, I hope.'

She nodded.

Gamet managed a smile. ‘That is well.'

 

The sun was climbing near zenith when Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas reined in his lathered horse alongside Leoman. Other warriors were straggling in all the time, but it might be days before the scattered elements of the company were finally reassembled. In light armour, the Khundryl had been able to maintain persistent contact with the Raraku horse warriors, and had proved themselves fierce and capable fighters.

The ambush had been reversed, the message delivered with succinct precision. They had underestimated the Adjunct.

‘Your first suspicions were right,' Corabb growled as he settled down in his saddle, the horse trembling beneath him. ‘The Empress chose wisely.'

Leoman's right cheek had been grazed by a crossbow quarrel, leaving a crusted brown line that glistened in places through the layer of dust. At Corabb's observation he grimaced, leaned to one side and spat.

‘Hood curse those damned marines,' Corabb continued. ‘If not for their grenados and those assault crossbows, we would have taken them all down. Would that I had found one of those crossbows—the loading mechanism must be—'

‘Be quiet, Corabb,' Leoman muttered. ‘I have orders for you. Select a worthy messenger and have him take three spare horses and ride back to Sha'ik as fast as he can. He is to tell her I will be continuing with my raids, seeking the pattern to this Adjunct's responses, and will rejoin the Chosen One three days before the Malazan army arrives. Also, that I no longer hold any faith in Korbolo Dom's strategy for the day of battle, nor his tactics—aye, Corabb, she will not listen to such words, but they must be said before witnesses. Do you understand?'

‘I do, Leoman of the Flails, and I shall choose the finest rider among us.'

‘Go, then.'

The rope had visited the edur ships, corpses lay everywhere, already rotting on the deck beneath squabbling, shrieking gulls and crows. Cutter stood near the prow and watched in silence as Apsalar walked among the bodies, pausing every now and then to examine some detail or other, her measured calm leaving the Daru chilled.

They had drawn the sleek runner up alongside, and Cutter could hear its steady bumping against the hull as the morning breeze continued to freshen. Despite the enlivening weather, lassitude gripped them both. They were to sail away, but precisely where had not been specified by the patron god of assassins. Another servant of Shadow awaited them…somewhere.

He tested his left arm once more, lifting it out to the side. The shoulder throbbed, but not as badly as yesterday. Fighting with knives was all very well, until one had to face an armoured sword-wielder, then the drawbacks to short-bladed, close-in stickers became all too apparent.

He needed, he concluded, to learn the use of the bow. And then, once he'd acquired some competence, perhaps a long-knife—a Seven Cities weapon that combined the advantages of a knife with the reach of a three-quarter-length longsword. For some reason, the thought of using a true longsword did not appeal to him. Perhaps because it was a soldier's weapon, best used in conjunction with a shield or buckler. A waste of his left hand, given his skills. Sighing, Cutter looked down at the deck and, fighting revulsion, scanned the corpses beneath the jostling birds.

And saw a bow. Its string had been cut through, and the arrows lay scattered out from a quiver still strapped to an Edur's hip. Cutter stepped over and crouched down. The bow was heavier than it looked, sharply recurved and braced with horn. Its length was somewhere between a longbow and a horse warrior's bow—probably a simple short bow for these Edur. Unstrung, it stood at a height matching Cutter's shoulders.

He began collecting the arrows, then, waving to drive back the gulls and
crows, he dragged the archer's corpse clear and removed the belted quiver. He found a small leather pouch tied near it containing a half-dozen waxed strings, spare fletching, a few nuggets of hard pine sap, a thin iron blade and three spare barbed arrowheads.

Selecting one of the strings, Cutter straightened. He slipped one of the cord-bound ends into the notch at the bow's base end, then anchored the weapon against the outside of his right foot and pushed down on the upper rib.

Harder than he'd expected. The bow shook as he struggled to slip the loop into the notch. Finally succeeding, Cutter lifted the bow for a more gauging regard, then drew it back. The breath hissed between his teeth as he sought to hold the weapon taut. This would, he realized as he finally relaxed the string, prove something of a challenge.

Sensing eyes on him, he turned.

Apsalar stood near the main mast. Flecks and globules of dried blood covered her forearms.

‘What have you been doing?' he asked.

She shrugged. ‘Looking around.'

Inside someone's chest?
‘We should go.'

‘Have you decided where yet?'

‘I'm sure that will be answered soon enough,' he said, bending down to collect the arrows and the belt holding the quiver and kit pouch.

‘The sorcery here is…strange.'

His head snapped up. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I am not sure. My familiarity with warrens is somewhat vicarious.'

I know.

‘But,' she continued, ‘if this is Kurald Emurlahn, then it is tainted in some way. Necromantically. Life and death magicks, carved directly into the wood of this ship. As if warlocks and shoulder-women had done the consecrating.'

Cutter frowned. ‘Consecrating. You make it sound as if this ship was a temple.'

‘It was. Is. The spilling of blood has done nothing to desecrate it, which is precisely my point. Perhaps even warrens can sink into barbarity.'

‘Meaning the wielders of a warren can affect its nature. My late uncle would have found the notion fascinating. Not desecration, then, but
denigration
.'

She slowly glanced around. ‘Rashan. Meanas. Thyr.'

He comprehended the thought. ‘You think all warrens accessible to humans are in fact denigrations of Elder Warrens.'

She raised her hands then. ‘Even blood decays.'

Cutter's frown deepened. He was not sure what she meant by that, and found himself disinclined to ask. Easier, safer, to simply grunt and make his way to the gunnel. ‘We should make use of this breeze. Assuming you're done here.'

In answer she walked to the ship's side and clambered over the rail.

Cutter watched her climb down to the runner, taking her place at the tiller. He paused for a final look around. And stiffened.

On the distant strand of Drift Avalii, there stood a lone figure, leaning on a two-handed sword.

Traveller.

And Cutter now saw that there were others, squatting or seated around him. A half-dozen Malazan soldiers. In the trees behind them stood Tiste Andii, silver-haired and ghostly. The image seemed to burn in his mind, as of a touch so cold as to feel like fire. He shivered, pulling his gaze away with an effort, and quickly joined Apsalar in the runner, taking the mooring line with him.

He set the oars in their locks and pushed the craft away from the ship's black hull.

‘I believe they intend to commandeer this Edur dromon,' Apsalar said.

‘What about protecting the Throne?'

‘There are demons from Shadow on the island now. Your patron god has clearly decided to take a more active role in defending the secret.'

‘Your patron god.' Thank you for that, Apsalar. And who was it who held your soul cupped in his two hands? A killer's hands.
‘Why not just take it back to the Shadow Realm?'

‘No doubt if he could, he would,' she replied. ‘But when Anomander Rake placed his kin here to guard it, he also wrought sorcery around the Throne. It will not be moved.'

Cutter shipped the oars and began preparing the sail. ‘Then Shadowthrone need only come here and plant his scrawny arse on it, right?'

He disliked her answering smile. ‘Thus ensuring that no-one else could claim its power, or the position of King of High House Shadow. Unless, of course, they killed Shadowthrone first. A god of courage and unassailable power might well plant his scrawny arse on that throne to end the argument once and for all. But Shadowthrone did just that, once before, as Emperor Kellanved.'

‘He did?'

‘He claimed the First Throne. The throne of the T'lan Imass.'

Oh.

‘Fortunately,' Apsalar continued, ‘as Shadowthrone, he has shown little interest in making use of his role as Emperor of the T'lan Imass.'

‘Well, why bother? This way, he negates the chance of anyone else finding and taking that throne, while his avoidance of using it himself ensures that no-one takes notice he has it in the first place—gods, I'm starting to sound like Kruppe! In any case, that seems clever, not cowardly.'

She studied him for a long moment. ‘I had not thought of that. You are right, of course. Unveiling power invites convergence, after all. It seems Shadowthrone has absorbed well his early residence in the Deadhouse. More so, perhaps, than Cotillion has.'

‘Aye, it's an Azath tactic, isn't it? Negation serves to
disarm
. Given the chance, he'd probably plant himself in every throne in sight, then, with all the power accrued to him, he would do nothing with it. Nothing at all.'

Her eyes slowly widened.

He frowned at her expression. Then his heart started pounding hard.
No. I was only kidding. That's not just ambitious, it's insane. He could never pull it off…but what if he did?
‘All the games of the gods…'

‘Would be seriously…curtailed. Crokus, have you stumbled onto the truth? Have you just articulated Shadowthrone's vast scheme? His prodigious gambit to achieve absolute domination?'

‘Only if he is truly mad, Apsalar,' the Daru replied, shaking his head. ‘It's impossible. He would never succeed. He would not even get close.'

Apsalar settled back on the tiller as the sails filled and the runner leapt forward. ‘For two years,' she said, ‘Dancer and the Emperor vanished. Left the empire for Surly to rule. My stolen memories are vague of that time, but I do know that both men were changed, irrevocably, by all that happened to them during those two years. Not just the play for the Shadow Realm, which no doubt was central to their desires. Other things occurred…truths revealed, mysteries uncovered. One thing I know for certain, Crokus, is that, for most of those two years, Dancer and Kellanved were
not in this realm
.'

‘Then where in Hood's name were they?'

She shook her head. ‘I cannot answer that question. But I sense that they were following a trail, one that wound through all the warrens, and to realms where even the known warrens do not reach.'

‘What kind of trail? Whose?'

‘Suspicions…the trail had something to do with, well, with the Houses of the Azath.'

Mysteries uncovered indeed. The Azath—the deepest mystery of them all
.

‘You should know, Crokus,' Apsalar continued, ‘that they knew that Surly was waiting for them. They knew what she had planned. Yet they returned none the less.'

‘But that makes no sense.'

‘Unless she proceeded to do precisely what they wanted her to do. After all, we both know that the assassinations failed—failed in killing either of them. The question then becomes: what did that entire mess achieve?'

‘A rhetorical question?'

She cocked her head. ‘No.' Surprised.

Cutter rubbed at the bristle on his jaw, then shrugged. ‘All right. It left Surly on the Malazan throne. Empress Laseen was born. It stripped from Kellanved his secular seat of power. Hmm. Let's ask it another way. What if Kellanved and Dancer had returned and successfully reclaimed the imperial throne? But, at the same time, they had taken over the Shadow Realm. Thus, there would be an empire spanning two warrens, an empire of Shadow.' He paused, then slowly nodded. ‘They wouldn't have stood for that—the gods, that is. Ascendants of all kinds would have converged on the Malazan Empire. They would have pounded the empire and the two men ruling it into dust.'

‘Probably. And neither Kellanved nor Dancer was in any position to mount a successful resistance to such a protracted assault. They'd yet to consolidate their claim on the Shadow Realm.'

‘Right, so they orchestrated their own deaths, and kept their identity as the new rulers of Shadow a secret for as long as they could, whilst laying out the groundwork for a resumption of their grand schemes. Well, that's all very cosy, if
more than a little diabolical. But does it help us answer the question of what they're up to right now? If anything, I'm more confused than ever.'

‘Why should you be? Cotillion recruited you to see to the true Throne of Shadow on Drift Avalii, the outcome of which could not have proved more advantageous to him and Shadowthrone. Darist dead, the sword Vengeance removed and in the hands of a darkly fated wanderer. The Edur expedition wiped out, the secret thus resurrected and likely to remain unviolated for some time to come. True, it ended up demanding Cotillion's direct, most personal intervention, which he would have liked to have avoided, no doubt.'

‘Well, I doubt he would have bothered had not the Hound balked.'

‘What?'

‘I called upon Blind—you were already down. And one of the Edur mages made the Hound cower with a single word.'

‘Ah. Then Cotillion has learned yet another vital fact—he cannot rely upon the Hounds when dealing with the Tiste Edur, for the Hounds remember their original masters.'

‘I suppose so. No wonder he was disgusted with Blind.'

They would have continued, Cutter taking full advantage of Apsalar's lapse in taciturnity, had not the sky suddenly darkened, shadows rising on all sides, closing and swallowing them—

A thunderous crash—

 

The huge tortoise was the only object to break the flat plain, lumbering with the infinite patience of the truly mindless across the ancient seabed. Twin shadows grew to flank it.

‘Too bad there's not two of them,' Trull Sengar said, ‘then we could ride in style.'

‘I would think,' Onrack replied, as they slowed their pace to match that of the tortoise, ‘that it feels the same.'

‘Hence this grand journey…indeed, a noble quest, in which I find a certain sympathy.'

‘You miss your kin, then, do you, Trull Sengar?'

‘Too general a statement.'

‘Ah, the needs of procreation.'

‘Hardly. My needs have nothing to do with engendering whelps with my hairline, nor, gods forbid, my ears.' He reached down and tapped the tortoise's dusty shell. ‘Like this fellow here, there's no time to think of eggs it won't even lay. Singular intent, disconnected from time—from those messy consequences that inevitably follow, if only to afflict whatever lass tortoise our dogged friend here happens to pounce upon.'

‘They are not wont to pounce, Trull Sengar. Indeed, the act is a far more clumsy endeavour—'

‘Aren't they all?'

‘My own memories—'

‘Enough of that, Onrack. Do you think I want to hear of your supple prowess? I will have you know that I have yet to lie with a woman. Thus, I am left with naught but my sparsely seeded imagination. Inflict no luscious details upon me, I beg you.'

The T'lan Imass slowly turned its head. ‘It is your people's custom to withhold such activities until marriage?'

‘It is. It wasn't among the Imass?'

‘Well, yes, it was. But the custom was flouted at every opportunity. In any case, as I explained earlier, I had a mate.'

‘Whom you gave up because you fell in love with another woman.'