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October 7, 2024 - February 1, 2025
‘We are as those beasts.’ The Bonecaster’s eyes shifted to the south horizon, tightened. Cannig Tol continued, ‘We are the clay, and our endless war against the Jaghut is the struggling beast beneath. The surface is shaped by what lies beneath.’ He gestured with one hand. ‘And before us now, in these creatures slowly turning to stone, is the curse of eternity.’ There was still more. Pran Chole said nothing. ‘Ranag and ay,’ Cannig Tol resumed. ‘Almost gone from the mortal realm. Hunter and hunted both.’ ‘To the very bones,’ the Bonecaster whispered.
When pursuing Jaghut, the distinction of hunter and hunted had little meaning.
‘Black,’ the captain said to Reese, ‘was last year’s shade in Darujhistan.’ ‘Black is Bauchelain’s eternal shade, sir.’
‘What’s happened to the Adjunct? Where are we?’ ‘Lost.’ ‘Which question is that an answer to, Tool?’ ‘Both.’ Toc gritted his teeth, resisting the temptation to kick the T’lan Imass. ‘Can you be more specific?’ ‘Perhaps.’ ‘Well?’ ‘Adjunct Lorn died in Darujhistan two months ago. We are in the ancient place called Morn, two hundred leagues to the south. It is just past midday.’ ‘Just past midday, you said. Thank you for the enlightenment.’
god i love these two together.
‘After all,’ he whispered, ‘gods are not known for forgiving natures …’
The Barghast thumped his chest, the sound reverberating like a drumbeat. ‘I am the Tale, and soon it shall be told. You will see, Malazan. You all will.’
It was difficult for the Mhybe to understand – a people plagued by indifference, an apathy that made even the efforts of civil discourse too much to contemplate. There were secret tragedies in the long, tortured past of the Tiste Andii. Wounds that would never heal. Even suffering, the Rhivi had come to realize, was capable of becoming a way of life. To then extend such an existence from decades into centuries, then into millennia, still brought home to the Mhybe a dull shock of horror.
Among the dead beneath me, how many adult voices cried out for their mothers? Death and dying makes us into children once again, in truth, one last time, there in our final wailing cries. More than one philosopher has claimed that we ever remain children, far beneath the indurated layers that make up the armour of adulthood. Armour encumbers, restricts the body and soul within it. But it also protects. Blows are blunted. Feelings lose their edge, leaving us to suffer naught but a plague of bruises, and, after a time, bruises fade.
You must dismantle your sources, Toc the Younger, lest you do nothing but ape the prejudices of others.’
i've said in other notes in this series, but fuck if some of these lines from Erikson don't seem all too relevant in our modern day
We burned with rage … we burned with the knowledge of betrayal.
There is no burying the history of our lives. Yellow nails and fingers of bone claw up from the ground at our feet, and hold us fast.
There have been other Nightchills … long before the Malazan Empire. The First Age of the Nathilog Wars. The Liberation of Karakarang on Seven Cities, nine centuries back. The Seti and their expulsion from Fenn, on Quon Tali, almost two thousand years ago. A woman, a sorceress, named Nightchill, again and again. If she’s the same one …
The Crippled God’s declared war on the gods, on the warrens, on the whole damned thing and every one of us in it. Fine, O Fallen One, but that means you’ll have to outwit me. Forget the gods and their clumsy games, I’ll have you crawling in circles before long …
Quick Ben is such a boss
Anomander Rake was an ascendant as unlike Caladan Brood as to make them seem the opposite ends of power’s vast spectrum. Rake was an atmosphere, a heart-thudding, terror-threaded presence no-one could ignore, much less escape. Violence, antiquity, sombre pathos, and darkest horror – the Son of Darkness was a gelid eddy in immortality’s current, and the Mhybe could feel, crawling beneath her very skin, every Rhivi spirit awakened in desperation. The sword, yet more than the sword. Dragnipur in the hands of cold justice, cold and unhuman.
‘You are the Master of the Deck. Such things cannot be undone.’ ‘The what? Hood’s breath, the Azath had better find a way of undoing that choice, Jaghut,’ Paran growled. ‘It cannot be undone, as I’ve already told you. A Master is needed, so here you are.’ ‘I don’t want it!’ ‘I weep a river of tears for your plight, mortal.
😂
‘Children of the Dead Seed.’ One man spoke up, leaning forward. ‘It is true? Is it even possible? That women should descend onto battlefields and soldiers whose corpses are not yet cold …’ Keruli’s nod was sombre. ‘Among the Tenescowri’s youngest generation of followers … aye, there are the Children of the Dead Seed. Singular proof of what is possible.’
this whole idea gives me the heebie jeebs
You’re not obsessed with the tragic deaths of your family, you’re obsessed with yourself, Buke. Your guilt’s an endlessly rising tide, and that ego of yours is a levee and all you do is keep slapping fresh bricks on it. The wall gets higher and higher, and you’re looking down on the world from a lofty height – with a Hood-damned sneer.’
cut that dude to the core
The soldier’s moment, now, before the battle begins – who would choose such a life? You stand with others, all facing the same threat, all feeling so very alone. In the cold embrace of fear, that sense that all that you are might end in moments. Gods, I’ve no envy for a soldier’s life—
Where resides the comforting knowledge of history’s vast, cyclical sweep, the ebb and flow of wars and of peace? Peace is the time of waiting for war. A time of preparation, or a time of wilful ignorance, blind, blinkered and prattling behind secure walls.
‘Against undead,’ the corpse said, ‘arises an army in kind.’
‘Recruit, I trust you have not deluded yourself into believing that witnessing the destruction of more K’Chain Che’Malle will silence the cries within you. Soldiers are issued armour for their flesh and bones, but they must fashion their own for their souls. Piece by piece.’ She looked down at the blood spattered across her uniform. ‘It has begun.’
The tiger is humbled by memories of prey.
None among my House of Chains shall be whole, in flesh or in spirit. Look upon me, look upon this broken, shattered figure – my House reflects what you see before you. Now cast your gaze upon the world beyond, the nightmare of pain and failure that is the mortal realm. Very soon, Gethol, my followers shall be legion.
His dark eyes reached past Whiskeyjack. ‘Commander, your soldiers …’ ‘What of them?’ ‘They are more … and less. No longer what they once were. Raraku, sir, has burned the bridges of their pasts, one and all – it’s all gone.’ He met Whiskeyjack’s eyes in wonder. ‘And they are yours. Heart and soul. They are yours.’ ‘More than you realize,’ Whiskeyjack said.
going back and reading this quote after finishing the book hurts my soul
‘It’s always the way, isn’t it? A civilization flowers, then a horde of grunting savages with close-set eyes show up and step on it. Malazan Empire take note.’
‘A pointless, senseless death.’ ‘They’re all pointless and senseless, friend. Until the living carve meaning out of them.
woah
‘Our lords of war will find themselves in its fierce midst. The Boar. The Tiger. An ascendant in peril, and a spirit about to awaken to true godhood. Do you not wonder, gentlemen, whose war this truly is? Who is it who would dare cross blades with our Lords? But there is something that is even more curious in all this – whose hidden face lies behind this fated ascension of Trake? What, indeed, would be the value of two gods of war? Two Lords of Summer?’
This is the Crippled God’s assault, a war against the warrens themselves. Sorcery was the sword that struck him down. Now he seeks to destroy that weapon, and so leave his enemies unarmed. Helpless.
He reached out and laid a hand against Quick Ben’s brow, then grunted. ‘He’s on his way back. It’s protective sorcery that’s keeping him asleep.’ ‘Can you speed things up?’ ‘Sure.’ The healer slapped the wizard.
😂😂
And perhaps that is the final, most devastating truth. The gods care nothing for ascetic impositions on mortal behaviour. Care nothing for rules of conduct, for the twisted morals of temple priests and monks. Perhaps indeed they laugh at the chains we wrap around ourselves – our endless, insatiable need to find flaws within the demands of life. Or perhaps they do not laugh, but rage at us. Perhaps our denial of life’s celebration is our greatest insult to those whom we worship and serve.
We are all drawing close. You to your besieged city, and I to the destiny to which I was born. Convergence, the plague of this world.
She studied him. ‘Whiskeyjack. You’ve truly no idea of how rare a man you are, do you?’ ‘Rare?’ His grin broadened. ‘Of course I know. There’s only one of me, thank Hood.’
The Mortal Sword was a hard man. The fate of his friends was a knowledge bereft of emotion. It was as it had to be.
‘The First Child—’ Itkovian faced her. ‘We will meet him again. I am his only salvation, sir, and I shall not fail him.’ ‘You are the Shield Anvil,’ she intoned. ‘I am the Shield Anvil.’ I am Fener’s grief. I am the world’s grief. And I will hold. I will hold it all, for we are not yet done.
The hand of vengeance stayed cold only so long. Any soul possessing a shred of humanity could not help but see the reality behind cruel deliverance, no matter how justified it might have at first seemed. Faces blank in death. Bodies twisted in postures no-one unbroken could achieve. Destroyed lives. Vengeance yielded a mirror to every atrocity, where notions of right and wrong blurred and lost all relevance.
‘The House of Chains must be denied!’ The wizard blinked, knocked sideways by Hood’s statement. ‘The House of Chains? It’s the poison we’re trying to excise, isn’t it? Burn’s fever – the infected warrens—’ ‘The Master of the Deck must be convinced, mortal. The Crippled God’s House is finding … adherents—’ ‘Wait a moment. Adherents? Among the pantheon?’ ‘Betrayal, aye. Poliel, Mistress of Pestilence, aspires to the role of Consort to the King in Chains. A Herald has been … recruited. An ancient warrior seeks to become Reaver; whilst the House has found, in a distant land, its Mortal Sword.
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‘You will be mine one day, mortal—’ ‘No doubt, Hood. In the meantime, let’s just luxuriate in the anticipation,shall we?’ With these words, the wizard released his grip on the god’s cloak. The presence flinched back.
yet again, QB is the fuckin man
Silverfox turned to face the T’lan Imass. Silence. Kruppe shivered. The air was pungent with undeath, the gelid exhalation of dying ice, filled with something like loss. Despair. Or perhaps, after this seeming eternity, only its ashes. There is, all about us, ancient knowledge – that cannot be denied. Yet Kruppe wonders, are there memories? True Memories? Of enlivened flesh and the wind’s caress, of the laughter of children? Memories of love? When frozen between life and death, in the glacial in-between, what can exist of mortal feeling? Not even an echo. Only memories of ice, of ice and no
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‘Guard your trust, my love,’ Korlat said. ‘It may be that your belief in honour is being used against you.’ He felt himself go cold inside. Oh, Hood. Hood’s marble balls on an anvil …
First in, last out. MOTTO OF THE BRIDGEBURNERS
They strode from the dying embers and were swallowed by darkness. Moments later, no movement was visible, the stars casting their faint silver light down on the camp of the Bridgeburners. The oftpatched tents were colourless in the dull, spectral glow. A scene that was ghostly and strangely timeless. Revealing its own kind of peace.
‘When you’ve burned the bridges behind you, don’t go starting a fire on the one in front of you.
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
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if i'm not mistaken, there's a name drop here for *checks notes* book FIVE of this series. while I'm finishing book 3.
thanks, erikson. surely i'll remember this
Before the Houses, there were Holds. Before Holds, there was wandering.
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?
‘Why are you on Genabackis, Commander?’ ‘The Malazan Empire? We’re here to unify, and through unification, grow rich. We’re not selfish about getting rich, either.’ Humbrall Taur thumped his coin-threaded hauberk. ‘And silver is all that interests you?’ ‘Well, there’s more than one kind of wealth, Warchief.’ ‘Indeed?’ The huge warrior’s eyes had narrowed. Whiskeyjack smiled. ‘Meeting the White Face clans of the Barghast is one such reward. Diversity is worth celebrating, Humbrall Taur, for it is the birthplace of wisdom.’
For all that I seem to grate upon all of you, I have walked this land when the T’lan Imass were but children. I have commanded armies a hundred thousand strong. I have spread the fire of my wrath across entire continents, and sat alone upon tall thrones. Do you grasp the meaning of this?’ ‘Yes. You never learn, Kallor.’
bit of a bitch slap here from Caladan Brood, love to see it
Dust on the wind could rise and sweep high over this wall. Dust could run in streams through the rubble fill beneath the foundation stones. The T’lan Imass could make his arrival unknown. But the Pannion Seer had taken Aral Fayle. Toc the Younger. A mortal man … who had called Tool friend. He strode forward, hide-wrapped feet kicking through scattered bones. The time had come for the First Sword of the T’lan Imass to announce himself.
Tool is an MVP. fuck yes.
—I, Cannig Tol, watched as my hunters hurled their spears. She fell without making a sound, the last of her kind on this continent, and had I a heart, it would have burst, then. There was no justice in this war. We’d left our gods behind, and knelt only before an altar of brutality. Truth.
I am Nightchill, Elder Goddess. I am Bellurdan, Thelomen Skullcrusher. I am Tattersail, who was once mortal. And I am Silverfox, flesh and blood Bonecaster, Summoner of the T’lan. And I have been defeated.
