The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (989 page)

Will he rise again?

Can he answer this final challenge?

What sort of man is this? This white-maned Tiste Andii whose hands remain stained with a brother's blood, a people's vast loss?

Ah, but look closely. The core burns still, hot and pure, and it gathers unto itself, bound by indomitable will. He will take the wounds of the heart, for Anomander Rake is the sort of man who sees no other choice, who accepts no other choice.

Still. For now, grant him a few more moments of peace.

The round man rides out into Darujhistan.

There are temptations, and to some they can prove, ah, overwhelming. If need be, the round man can prove a most blunt barrier.

Just ask the man with the hammer.

 

As a warrior walked alone – in his wake a Toblakai and a witch, on the flanks three, now four Hounds of Shadow – an ox and cart drew to a halt outside an estate. The two men leading it separated, one heading to the back of the cart to set a trembling hand upon a chest – terrified that he might find it still, silent – and a moment later a faint sob broke free, but it was one of relief. The other man hurried up to the postern gate and tugged on a braided cord.

He ducked upon hearing the heavy flap of feathered wings overhead, and glared upward, but saw nothing but a thick, impenetrable layer of smoke. He twitched as he waited, muttering under his breath.

The door creaked open.

‘Master Baruk! I am glad it's you and not one of your damned servants – getting past them is impossible. Listen, we have a hurt man – bad hurt – who needs healing. We'll pay—'

‘Sergeant—'

‘Just Antsy these days, sir.'

‘Antsy, I am so sorry, but I must refuse you—'

At that, Barathol came round the cart and marched up, his hands curling into fists for a moment, before loosening as he reached towards the huge axe slung across his back. But these gestures were instinctive – he was not even aware of them, and when he spoke it was in a tone of despairing fury. ‘His skull is fractured! He'll die without healing –
and I will not accept that!
'

Baruk held up both hands. ‘I was about to leave – I cannot delay any longer. Certain matters demand my immediate attention—'

‘He needs—'

‘I am sorry, Barathol.'

And the alchemist was backing through the gate once more. The panel clicked shut.

Antsy snatched and tugged at his moustache in agitation, and then reached out to restrain Barathol, who seemed about to kick down that door. ‘Hold on, hold on – I got another idea. It's desperate, but I can't think of anything else. Come on, it's not far.'

Barathol was too distraught to say anything – he would grasp any hope, no matter how forlorn. Face ashen, he went back to the ox, and when Antsy set out, he and the ox and the cart bearing the body of Chaur followed.

 

In the stricken man's mind, few sparks remained. The black tide was very nearly done. Those flickers that knew themselves as Chaur had each lost touch with the others, and so wandered lost. But then, some of them had known only solitary existences throughout their lives – crucial sparks indeed – for ever blind to pathways that might have awakened countless possibilities.

Until one, drifting untethered, so strangely freed, now edged forward along a darkened path it had never before explored, and the track it burned remained vibrant in its wake. And then, in a sudden flaring, that spark found another of its kind.

Something stirred then, there in the midst of an inner world fast dying.

Awareness.

Recognition.

A tumbling complexity of thoughts, connections, relationships, meanings.

Flashing, stunned with its own existence, even as the blackness closed in on all sides.

 

Cutting down an alley away from Baruk's estate, Antsy, ten paces in the lead, stumbled suddenly on something. Swearing, he glanced back at the small object lying on the cobbles, and then bent down to collect it, stuffing the limp thing into his cloak.

He swore again, something about a
stink, but what's a dead nose gonna know or care?
And then he resumed walking.

They arrived at an estate that Barathol recognized. Coll's. And Antsy returned to help lead the suddenly uneasy ox down the side track, to that primordial thicket behind the garden wall. Beneath the branches the gloom was thick with flying moths, their wings a chorus of dry whispering. Fog crawled between the boles of twisted trees. The air was rich with a steamy, earthy smell.

Tears ran down Barathol's cheeks, soaked his beard. ‘I told him to stay on the ship,' he said in a tight, distraught voice. ‘He usually listens to me. He's not one to disobey, not Chaur. Was it Spite? Did she force him out?'

‘What was he doing at the gaol?' Antsy asked, just to keep his friend talking for reasons even he could not explain. ‘How did he even find it, unless someone led him there? It's all a damned mystery.'

‘He saved my life,' said Barathol. ‘He was coming to break me out – he had my axe. Chaur, you fool, why didn't you just leave it all alone?'

‘He couldn't do that,' said Antsy.

‘I know.'

They arrived at the edge of the clearing, halting just beyond a low, uneven stone wall almost buried beneath vines. The gateway was an arch of rough stone veined with black roots. The house beyond showed a blackened face.

‘Let's do this, then,' said Antsy in a growl, coming round to the back of the cart. ‘Before the ox bolts—'

‘What are we doing?'

‘We're carrying him up the path. Listen, Barathol, we got to stay on that path, you understand? Not one step off it, not one. Understand?'

‘No—'

‘This is the Finnest House, Barathol. It's an Azath.'

The ex-sergeant seemed to be standing within a cloud of rotting meat. Moths swarmed in a frenzy.

Confused, frightened, Barathol helped Antsy lift Chaur's body from the cart bed, and with the Falari in the lead and walking backwards – one tender step at a time – they made their way up the flagstone path.

‘You know,' Antsy said between gasps – for Chaur was a big man, and, limp as he was, it was no easy thing carrying him – ‘I was thinking. If the damned moon can just break apart like that, who's to say that can't happen to our own world? We could just be—'

‘Be quiet,' snapped Barathol. ‘I don't give a shit about the moon – it's been trying to kill me for some time. Careful, you're almost there.'

‘Right, set him down then, easy, on the stones…aye, that'll do.'

Antsy stepped up to the door, reached for the knife at his belt and then swore. ‘I lost my knife, too. I can't believe this!' He made a fist and pounded against the wood.

The sound that made was reminiscent of punching a wall of meat. No reverberation, no echoes.

‘Ow, that hurt.'

They waited.

Sighing, Antsy prepared to knock a second time, but then something clunked on the other side of the barrier, and a moment later the door swung back with a loud squeal.

The tall, undead monstrosity filled the doorway. Empty, shadow-drowned eye sockets regarded them – or not; it was impossible to tell.

Antsy shifted from one foot to the other. ‘You busy, Raest? We need to make use of the hallway floor behind you—'

‘Oh yes, I am very busy.'

The Falari blinked. ‘Really?'

‘Dust breeds. Cobwebs thicken. Candle wax stains precious surfaces. What do you want?'

Antsy glanced back at Barathol. ‘Oh, a corpse with a sense of humour, what do you know? And surprise, it's so
droll.
' He faced the Jaghut again and smiled. ‘In case you ain't noticed, the whole city has gone insane – that's why I figured you might be suffering some—'

‘I am sorry,' cut in Raest, ‘is something happening?'

Antsy's eyes bulged slightly. ‘The Hounds of Shadow are loose!'

Raest leaned forward as if to scan the vicinity, and then settled back once more. ‘Not in my yard.'

Antsy clawed through his hair. ‘Trust me, then, it's a bad night – now, if you'd just step back—'

‘Although, come to think of it, I did have a visitor earlier this evening.'

‘What? Oh, well, I'm happy for you, but—'

Raest lifted one desiccated hand and pointed.

Antsy and Barathol turned. And there, in the yard, there was a fresh mound of raw earth, steaming. Vines were visibly snaking over it. ‘Gods below,' the Falari whispered, making a warding gesture with one hand.

‘A T'lan Imass with odd legs,' said Raest. ‘It seemed to harbour some dislike towards me.' The Jaghut paused. ‘I can't imagine why.'

Antsy grunted. ‘It should've stayed on the path.'

‘What do T'lan Imass know of footpaths?' Raest asked. ‘In any case, it's still too angry for a conversation.' Another pause. ‘But there's time. Soldier, you have been remiss. I am therefore disinclined to yield the floor, as it were.'

‘Like Hood I have!' And Antsy reached beneath his tunic and tugged out a bedraggled, half-rotted shape. ‘I found you your damned white cat!'

‘Oh, so you have. How sweet. In that case,' Raest edged back, ‘do come in.'

Barathol hesitated. ‘What will this achieve, Antsy?'

‘He won't die,' the ex-sergeant replied. ‘It's like time doesn't exist in there. Trust me. We can find us a proper healer tomorrow, or a month from now – it don't matter. S'long as he's breathing when we carry him across the threshold. So, come on, help me.' He then realized he was still clutching the dead cat, and so he went up to the Jaghut and thrust the ghastly thing into most welcoming arms.

‘I shall call it Tufty,' said Raest.

 

The black tide ceased its seemingly inexorable crawl. A slow, shallow breath held half drawn. A struggling heart hovered in mid-beat. And yet that spark of awareness, suddenly emboldened, set out on a journey of exploration and discovery. So many long-dark pathways…

 

Dragnipur has drunk deep, so deep.

Dragnipur, sword of the father and slayer of the same. Sword of Chains, Gate of Darkness, wheeled burden of life and life ever flees dissolution and so it must! Weapon of edges, caring naught who wields it. Cut indifferent, cut blind, cut when to do so is its very purpose, its perfect function.

Dragnipur.

Dread sisterly feuds dwindled in significance – something was proffered, something was almost within reach. Matters of final possession could be worked out later, at leisure in some wrought-iron, oversized bath-tub filled to the brim with hot blood.

Temporary pact. Expedience personified, Spite quelled, Envy in abeyance.

In their wake a crater slowly sagged, edges toppling inward, heat fast dissipating. The melted faces of buildings turned glassy in rainbow hues. For now the brilliance of these colours was but hinted at in this moon-glow. But that reflected light had begun a thousand new games, hinting at something far deadlier. Still to come, still to come.

Everywhere in the city, fires ebbed.

The pressure of Dragnipur Unsheathed starves the flames of destruction. Darkness is anathema to such forces, after all.

Yes, salvation found, in a weapon let loose.

The sisters were mad, but not so mad as to fail to grasp the pleasing irony of such things.

Quell the violence.

Invite murder.

He was in no condition to resist them – not both of them – extraordinary that such an alliance had not occurred long before this night. But sibling wounds are the festering kind, and natures at war are normally blind to every pacifying gesture. What was needed was the proper incentive.

Alas, it did not occur to either twin that their father understood all too well the potential danger of his daughters forged together in alliance. And in shaping them – as carefully, as perfectly as he shaped Dragnipur itself – he had done what he could to mitigate the risk.

And so, as they walked side by side up the street, in Spite's mind she had already begun scheming her fateful stab into her sister's back. While Envy amused herself with virtually identical thoughts, roles reversed, naturally.

First things first, however.

They would kill Anomander Rake.

For Dragnipur has drunk deep, so very deep…

 

‘Karsa,
please
.'

Ashes drifted in the air, amidst foul smoke. Distant screams announced tragic scenes. The last night of the Gedderone Fête was sinking into misery and suffering.

‘There is nothing to be done, Samar Dev. But we will do this – we will
witness.
We will withstand the cost of that, if we can.'

She had not expected such uncertainty in the Toblakai. Always a stranger to humility, or so he seemed to her. He had not even drawn his flint sword.

They were twenty-five paces behind Traveller. They could see an angled gate arching over the broad street as it sloped upward, a hundred paces ahead. But the warrior they tracked had slowed his steps. There was something – someone – in the centre of the street in front of Traveller. And silent crowds on both sides – crowds that flinched back as the Hounds lumbered into view; flinched, but did not flee.

Something held them in place, something stronger than fear.

Samar Dev sensed the pressure sliding past, like a wind sweeping round her, drawing inward once more – straight into that huddled figure, who now, at last, stirred.

Traveller stood, six or so paces away from the stranger, and watched in silence as the man slowly straightened.

Tiste Andii.

Silver-haired. In his hands, a sword trailing ghostly chains…
oh…spirits below, oh, no—

Traveller spoke. ‘He said you would stand in my way.' That voice carried, strong as waves surging against a dark shore.