The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (77 page)

He wiped at his eyes, trying to calm his heart.
It’s over. Queen of Dreams, I’m done. I can rest now. Finally rest
. He straightened slowly, taking a deep breath, adjusted his sword belt and glanced around. Captain Stillis was nowhere in sight, and the chamber was almost empty except for a knot of servants outside the kitchen entrance. Lady Simtal was still missing, and confusion now seeped into the void of her absence.

Circle Breaker looked one last time at the guests in the garden, then he made his way to the doors. As he passed a long table on which sat the remnants of pastries and puddings, he heard faint snoring. Another step forward brought him to the table’s end and into view the small round man seated in a plush antique chair. The smeared cherub mask hid the man’s face, but Circle Breaker could see the closed eyes, and the nasal drone that matched the rise and fall of his chest was loud and steady.

The guardsman hesitated. Then, shaking his head, he moved on. Beyond the gates now within sight waited the streets of Darujhistan, and freedom. Now that he’d begun his first steps on that path, he would let nothing deter him.

I’ve done my part. Just another nameless stranger who couldn’t run from the face of tyranny. Dear Hood, take the man’s shriveled soul—his dreams are over, ended by an assassin’s whim. As for my own soul, well, you shall have to wait a while longer
.

He passed through the gates, welcoming at last the smile that came unbidden to his mouth.

Ravens! Great Ravens!

Your damning cawls deride

histories sweeping beneath

your blackened wings—

Shatter the day

O flags of night,

rend with shadows

this innocent light

Ravens! Great Ravens!

Your drumming clouds arrive

swoop’d sudden sheer,

hissing travails

from no place

t’ the other—

Shatter the day,

O flags of night,

rend with shadows

this innocent light

Ravens! Great Ravens!

Your beaks clatter open

disgorging the sweat

of straining dismay

the clack of bones

promised this day—

I’ve seen the sheen

of your eyes the laughter

that rimes the living

your passing but an illusion—

we stop, we stare

we curse your cold winds

in knowing your flight’s path

wheeling you round us

again, oh, forever again!

R
AVENS

C
OLLITT (B
.978)

Raest had driven two of the black dragons from the battle. The remaining two now circled high overhead while Silanah Redwings sped down and out of sight beyond the hill. She was hurting, the Jaghut Tyrant knew, the power of her immense lifeforce bleeding away.

“And now,” he said, through tattered lips, “she will die.” Raest’s flesh had been torn away, ravaged by the virulent power of the dragons, power that burst from their jaws like breath of fire. His brittle, yellowed bones were splintered, crushed, and shattered. All that kept him upright and moving was his Omtose Phellack Warren.

Once the Finnest was in his hands, he would make his body anew, filling it with the vigor of health. And he was near his goal. One last ridge of hills and the city’s walls would be visible, its fortifications all that stood between Raest and his greater powers.

The battle had laid waste to the hills, incinerating everything in the deadly clash of Warrens. And Raest had driven back the dragons. He’d listened to their cries of pain. Laughing, he’d flung dense clouds of earth and stone skyward to blind them. He ignited the air in the path of their flight. He filled clouds with fire. It was, he felt, good to be alive again.

As he walked, he continued to devastate the land around him. A single jerk of his head had shattered a stone bridge spanning a wide, shallow river. There had been a guardhouse there, and soldiers with iron weapons—odd creatures, taller than Imass, yet he sensed that they could be easily enslaved. These particular men, however, he destroyed lest they distract him in his battle with the dragons. He’d met another man, similarly clad and riding a horse. He killed both man and beast, irritated at their intrusion.

Wreathed in the crackling fire of his sorcery, Raest ascended the side of the hill behind which Silanah had disappeared minutes earlier. Anticipating another ambush, the Jaghut Tyrant gathered his power, fists clenching. Yet he reached the crest unmolested. Had she fled? He craned skyward. No, the two black dragons remained, and between them a Great Raven.

Raest crossed the hill’s summit and stopped when the valley beyond came into view. Silanah waited there, her red pebbled skin streaked with black, wet burns across her heaving chest. Wings folded, she watched him from her position at the base of the valley, where a stream wound a tortured cut through the earth, its jagged path choked with bramble.

The Jaghut Tyrant laughed harshly. Here she would die. The far side of the valley was a low ridge, and beyond, glowing in the darkness, was the city that held his Finnest. Raest paused at seeing it. Even the great Jaghut cities of the
early times were dwarfed by comparison. And what of its strange blue and green light, fighting the darkness with such steady, unfaltering determination?

There were mysteries here. He was eager to discover them. “Silanah!” he cried. “
Eleint!
I give you your life! Flee now, Silanah. I show mercy but once. Hear me,
eleint
!”

The red dragon regarded him steadily, her multi-faceted eyes glowing like beacons. She did not move, nor did she reply.

Raest strode toward her, surprised to find her Warren gone. Was this surrender, then? He laughed a second time.

As he neared, the sky above him changed, filling with a sourceless mercurial glow. The city beyond vanished, replaced by wind-whipped mudflats. The distant jagged line of mountains loomed massive, uncarved by rivers of ice, bright and savage with youth. Raest’s steps slowed.
This is an Elder vision, a vision before even the Jaghut. Who has lured me here?

“Oh, my, oh, my . . .”

The Tyrant’s gaze snapped down to find a mortal standing before him. Raest cocked a withered brow at the man’s peculiar clothing, the coat tattered and faded red with large, food-stained cuffs, the baggy shimmering pantaloons dyed an astonishing pink, and the broad black leather boots covering his small feet. The man withdrew a cloth and patted the sweat from his brow. “Dear sir,” he wheezed, “you’ve not aged well at all!”

“There is Imass within you,” Raest rasped. “Even the language you speak echoes their guttural throats. Have you come forth to grovel at my feet? Are you my first acolyte, then, eager for my rewards?”

“Alas,” the man replied, “you are mistaken, sir. Kruppe—this humble, weak mortal who stands before you—bows to no man, be he Jaghut or god. Such are the nuances of this new age that you are felled by indifference, made insignificant in your mighty struggles by lowly Kruppe into whose dream you have ignobly stumbled. Kruppe stands before you so that you may gaze upon his benign countenance in the last moments before your demise. Magnanimous of Kruppe, all things considered.”

Raest laughed. “I have walked in the dreams of mortals before. You believe you are the master here, but you are mistaken.” The Tyrant’s hand shot out, virulent power erupting from it. The sorcery engulfed Kruppe, blazing darkly, then faded, leaving not even a remnant of the man.

A voice spoke to Raest’s left: “Rude, Kruppe proclaims. Disappointing, this precipitateness.”

The Jaghut swung around, eyes narrowing. “What game is this?”

The man smiled. “Why, Kruppe’s game, of course.”

A sound behind Raest alerted him, but too late. He spun—even as a massive flint sword crunched through his left shoulder, tearing a path that snapped ribs, sliced through sternum and spine. The blow dragged the Tyrant down and to one side. Raest sprawled, pieces of his body striking the ground around him. He stared up at the T’lan Imass.

Kruppe’s shadow moved over Raest’s face and the Tyrant met the mortal man’s watery eyes.

“He is Clanless, of course. Unbound and beyond binding, yet the ancient call commands him still—to his dismay. Imagine his surprise at being found out. Onos T’oolan, Sword of the First Empire, is once more called upon by the blood that once warmed his limbs, his heart, his life of so very long ago.”

The T’lan Imass spoke. “You have strange dreams, mortal.”

“Kruppe possesses many surprises, even unto himself.”

“I sense,” Onos T’oolan continued, “a Bonecaster’s hand in this summoning.”

“Indeed. Pran Chole of Kig Aven’s clan of the Kron T’lan Imass, I believe he called himself.”

Raest raised himself from the ground, drawing his sorcery around his body to hold its shattered parts in place. “No T’lan Imass can withstand me,” he hissed.

“A dubious claim,” Kruppe said. “Even so, he is joined in this endeavor.”

The Jaghut Tyrant straightened to see a tall, black-shrouded figure emerge from the streambed. He cocked his head as the apparition approached. “You remind me of Hood. Is the Death Wanderer still alive?” He scowled. “But, no. I sense nothing from you. You do not exist.”

“Perhaps,” the figure replied, in a deep, soft tone that hinted of regret. “If so,” he continued, “then neither do you. We are both of the past, Jaghut.” The figure halted fifteen feet away from Raest and swung his hooded head in the dragon’s direction. “Her master awaits your arrival, Jaghut, but he waits in vain and for this you should thank us. He would deliver a kind of death from which there is no escape, even by such a creature as you.” The head turned, and the darkness within the hood once again regarded the Tyrant. “Here, within a mortal’s dream, we bring an end to your existence.”

Raest grunted. “In this age there are none who can defeat me.”

The figure laughed, a low rumble. “You are a fool, Raest. In this age even a mortal can kill you. The tide of enslavement has reversed itself. It is now we gods who are the slaves, and the mortals our masters—though they know it not.”

“You are a god, then?” Raest’s scowl deepened. “You are a child to me if so.”

“I was once a god,” the figure replied. “Worshipped as K’rul, and my aspect was the Obilisk. I am the Maker of Paths—do you find significance in that ancient title?”

Raest took a step back, raising his desiccated hands. “Impossible,” he breathed. “You passed into the Realms of Chaos—returned to the place of your birth—you are among us no more—”

“As I said, things have changed,” K’rul said quietly. “You have a choice, Raest. Onos T’oolan can destroy you. You have no understanding of what his title of Sword signifies—he is without equal in this world. You can fall ignobly beneath the blade of an Imass, or you can accompany me—for in one thing we are the same, you and I. Our time has passed, and the Gates of Chaos await us. What choice do you make?”

“I make neither, Eldering One.” With a soft, hollow laugh, Raest’s battered, withered body collapsed.

K’rul cocked his head. “He’s found another body.”

Kruppe pulled out his handkerchief. “Oh, my,” he said.

Kalam gestured sharply and Paran ducked down. The captain’s mouth was dry. There was something very wrong with this garden. He wondered if it was simply the exhaustion he felt. The garden’s air itself rubbed his senses raw. He thought he could see the darkness pulse, and the smell of decay had thickened to a stench.

Kalam reached for his knives. Paran tensed, unable to see anything beyond the assassin. Too many trees, not enough light. Somewhere ahead flickered gas-lamps, and people were gathered on the terrace. But civilization seemed a thousand leagues away. Here, the captain felt as if he was within a primordial presence, breathing slowly and heavily on all sides.

Kalam gestured that Paran remain where he was, then slipped into the shadows to their right. Crouching low, the captain edged forward to where the assassin had been standing moments earlier. There looked to be a glade, or clearing, just ahead. He couldn’t be certain, however, nor could he see anything amiss. Yet his feeling of wrongness now ached in his skull. He took another step. Something occupied the glade’s center, blockish, like a dressed stone, or an altar, and before it stood a small woman, almost wraithlike in the darkness. Her back was to Paran.

One moment she stood alone, the next Kalam rose behind her, knives glimmering in his hands. He drew back his arms.

The woman moved in a blur, one elbow driving backward into the assassin’s stomach. She twisted round and drove her knee into the man’s crotch. A shout burst from Kalam as he reeled back a step, then fell to the ground with a heavy thump.

Paran’s sword was in his hand. He dashed into the clearing.

The woman saw him and voiced a surprised, frightened yelp. “No!” she cried. “Please!”

The captain stopped at that girlish voice. Kalam sat up. He groaned, then said, “Dammit, Sorry. Wasn’t expecting you. We figured you were dead, girl.”

The woman eyed Paran warily as he approached cautiously. “I should know you, shouldn’t I?” she asked Kalam. Then, as Paran came closer, she raised a frightened hand between them and stepped back. “I—I killed you!” With a soft moan she fell to her knees. “Your blood was on my hands. I remember it!”

A fire of rage flared in Paran. He raised his sword and moved to stand over her.

“Wait!” Kalam hissed. “Wait, Captain. Something’s not right here.”

With great difficulty, the assassin climbed to his feet, then prepared to sit down on the stone block.

“Don’t!” the girl gasped. “Can’t you feel it?”

“I can,” Paran growled. He lowered his weapon. “Don’t touch that thing, Corporal.”

Kalam stepped away. “Thought it was just me,” he muttered.

“It’s not stone at all,” the woman said, her face free of the anguish that had twisted it a moment before. “It’s wood.” She rose and faced Kalam. “And it’s growing.”

A suspicion came to Paran. “Girl, do you remember me? Do you know who I am?”