The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

Korlat had decided to ride alone, taking a route longer than the others – through the city. There was no need for haste, after all, and anticipation had a way of drawing out any stationary wait – better, then, to lengthen the approach at a controlled pace. There was much to think about, after all. If her Lord was well, then she would have to stand before him and formally sever her service – ending a relationship that had existed for fourteen thousand years, or, rather, suspending it for a time. For the remaining years of a mortal man’s life. And if some calamity had befallen Anomander Rake, then Korlat would find herself the ranking commander to the dozen Tiste Andii who, like her, had remained with Brood’s army. She would make that responsibility shortlived, for she had no wish to rule her kin. She would free them to decide their own fates.

Anomander Rake had unified these Tiste Andii by strength of personality – a quality Korlat well knew she did not share. The disparate causes in which he chose to engage himself and his people were, she had always assumed, each a reflection upon a single theme – but that theme and its nature had ever eluded Korlat. There were wars, there were struggles, enemies, allies, victories and losses. A procession through centuries that seemed random not just to her, but to her kin as well. A sudden thought came to her, twisting like a dull knife in her chest. Perhaps Anomander Rake was equally lost. Perhaps this endless succession of causes reflects his own search. I had all along assumed a simple goal – to give us a reason to exist, to take upon ourselves the nobility of others … others for whom the struggle meant something. Was that not the theme underlying all we have done? Why do I now doubt? Why do I now believe that, if a theme does indeed exist, it is something other? Something far less noble … She attempted to shake off such thoughts, before they dragged her towards despair. For despair is the nemesis of the Tiste Andii. How often have I seen my kin fall on the field of battle, and have known – deep in my soul – that my brothers and sisters did not die through an inability to defend themselves? They died, because they had chosen to die. Slain by their own despair. Our gravest threat. Does Anomander Rake lead us away from despair – is that his only purpose, his only goal? Is ...

Itkovian and Stonny rode past the Malazan rearguard. The crackle of sorcery – close. Soldiers lined the ridge before them, an army assembled, facing south – now breaking into disorganized motion. Dismay struck Itkovian with palpable force, a flood of raw pain, of immeasurable loss. He reeled in his saddle, forced himself upright once more. Urgency thundered through him, now, sudden, overwhelming. Stonny was shouting, angling her stumbling horse to the right, leaving the road, approaching a hilltop where stood the Malazan standard, drooped in the windless air. Itkovian followed, but slower, drawing back. His soul was drowning in cold horror. His horse surrendered its gallop, staggered, head thrusting out. Canter to a weaving, loose walk, then halting, slowly drawing square-footed twenty paces from the hill’s base. Then dying. Numbed, Itkovian slipped his boots from the stirrups, drew an aching leg over the beast’s rump, then dropped down to the ground. On the hill to his right, he saw Stonny, stumbling free from her horse – the slope had defeated it – and clambering upward. Gruntle and his troop had arrived, human once again, crowding the hill, yet seemingly doing nothing. Itkovian turned his gaze away, began walking along one side of the road, which had straightened for the final, downhill approach to the killing field, and the city beyond. Cold horror. His god was gone. His god could not deflect it as it had once done, months ago, on a plain west of Capustan. Loss and sor...

Warrens flared on the hilltop. Bellowing, Gruntle ordered his followers to take position on the south slope. He stood, motionless after so long, still trembling from the god’s power. The promise of murder filled him, impassive yet certain, a predator’s intent that he had felt once before, in a city far to the north. His vision was too sharp, every motion tugging at his attention. He realized he had his cutlasses in his hands. He watched Orfantal stride from a warren, Brood appearing behind him. He saw Stonny Menackis, looking down on three corpses. Then the warlord was pushing past her, sparing but a single glance at the bodies on his way to where a fourth body lay – closer to where Gruntle stood. A Tiste Andii woman. Two figures crouched beside her, flesh rent, one whose soul still writhed in the grip of savage, chaotic sorcery. The other … Silverfox, round face streaked with tears. He saw Kruppe, flanked by Hetan and Cafal. The Daru was pale, glassy-eyed, and seemed moments from unconsciousness. Strange, that, for it was not grief that so assailed the Daru. He saw Hetan suddenly reach for him even as he collapsed. But the man Gruntle was looking for was nowhere to be seen. He strode to the south crest to observe the positioning of his legion. They were readying weapons. Assembling below them were the Grey Swords, clearly preparing to advance on the city— —a city shrouded in smoke, lit with the flash of sorcery, of munitions, a city ripping itself apart— Gruntle’s hunting...

He would embrace them. He would take their pain. In this world, where all had been taken from him, where he walked without purpose, burdened with the lives and deaths of tens of thousands of mortal souls – unable to grant them peace, unable – unwilling – to simply cast them off, he was not yet done. He would embrace them. These T’lan Imass, who had twisted all the powers of the Warren of Tellann into a ritual that devoured their souls. A ritual that had left them – in the eyes of all others – as little more than husks, animated by a purpose they had set outside themselves, yet were chained to – for eternity. Husks, yet … anything but. And that was a truth Itkovian had not expected, had no way to prepare for. Insharak Ulan, who was born third to Inal Thoom and Sultha A’rad of the Nashar Clan that would come to be Kron’s own, in the spring of the Year of Blighted Moss, below the Land of Raw Copper, and I remember— I remember— A snow hare, trembling, no more than a dusk-shadow’s length from my reach, my child’s arm and hand stretching. Streaks in the white, the promise of summer. Trembling hand, trembling hare, born together in the snows just past. Reaching out. Lives touching – small-heart-patter, slow-drum-hunger my chest’s answer to the world’s hidden music – I remember— Kalas Agkor – my arms wrapped about little Jala, little sister, hot with fever but the fire grew too hot, and so, in my arms, her flesh cooled to dawn-stone, mother keening – Jala was the ember now lifeles...

The hand held firm. Itkovian began to comprehend. Behind the memories awaited the pain, awaited all that he came to embrace. Beyond the memories, absolution was his answering gift – could he but survive … The hand was leading him. Through a mindscape. Yet he strode across it as would a giant, the land distant below him. Mortal, shed these memories. Free them to soak the earth in the season’s gift. Down to the earth, mortal – through you, they can return life to a dying, desolate land. Please. You must comprehend. Memories belong in the soil, in stone, in wind. They are the land’s unseen meaning, such that touches the souls of all who would look – truly look – upon it. Touches, in faintest whisper, old almost shapeless echoes – to which a mortal life adds its own. Feed this dreamscape, mortal. And know this. We kneel before you. Silenced in our hearts by what you offer to us, by what you offer of yourself. You are Itkovian, and you would embrace the T’lan Imass. Shed these memories – weep for us, mortal—

Memories … gone. In their wake, tens of thousands of souls. Silent. ‘To me, then, I will take your pain, now.’ ‘You are mortal.’ ‘I am mortal.’ ‘You cannot carry our pain.’ ‘I can.’ ‘You cannot deliver it—’ ‘I shall.’ ‘Itkovian—’ ‘Your pain, T’lan Imass. Now.’ It rose before him, a wave of immeasurable height, rose, towering, then plunged towards him. And they saw, one and all. They saw Itkovian’s welcoming smile.

Splinters of bone struck the wall. Tool staggered back, crashing against the stone, sword falling from his hands, ringing on the flagstones. Mok raised both weapons— —and flew to one side, through the air, spinning, weapons sailing from his hands – to collide with a wall, then slide in a heap among shattered wood and metal. Tool raised his head. A huge black panther, lips peeled back in a silent snarl, slowly padded towards the unconscious Seguleh. ‘No, sister.’ The Soletaken hesitated, then glanced back. ‘No. Leave him.’ The panther swung round, sembled. Yet the rage remained in Kilava’s eyes as she strode towards Tool. ‘You were defeated! You! The First Sword!’ Tool slowly lowered himself to collect his notched sword. ‘Aye.’ ‘He is a mortal man!’ ‘Go to the Abyss, Kilava.’ He straightened, back scraping as he continued leaning against the wall. ‘Let me kill him. Now. Then once more you shall have no worthy challenger.’ ‘Oh, sister,’ Tool sighed. ‘Do you not realize? Our time – it has passed. We must relinquish our place in this world. Mok – that man you so casually struck from behind – he is the Third. The Second and the First are his masters with swords. Do you understand me, Kilava? Leave him … leave them all.’ He slowly turned until he could see Toc the Younger. The body, speared through on a shaft of wood, did not move. ‘The ancient wolf-god is free,’ Kilava said, following his gaze. ‘Can you not hear it?’ ‘No. I cannot.’ ‘That howl now fills another realm, the sound...

Benediction. Godless, he could not give it. Not in its truest form. But he had not comprehended the vast capacity within him, within a mortal soul, to take within itself the suffering of tens of thousands, the multitudes who had lived with loss and pain for almost three hundred thousand years. He saw faces, countless faces. Desiccated, eyes nothing more than shadowed pits. Dry, torn skin. He saw bone glimmering from between layers of root-like tendons and muscles. He saw hands, chipped, splintered, empty now – yet the ghost of swords lingered there still. He was on his knees, looking out upon their ranks, and it was raining, a wavering deluge accompanied by reverberating groans, splintering cracks filling the darkness above. He looked upon them, and they were motionless, heads bowed. Yet he could see their faces. Each face. Every face. I have your pain. Heads slowly lifted. He sensed them, sensed the sudden lightness permeating them. I have done all I am able to do. Yes, it was not enough, I know. Yet. I have taken your suffering— ‘You have taken our suffering, mortal.’ Into myself— ‘We do not understand how.’ And so I will now leave you— ‘We do not understand … why.’ For all that my flesh cannot encompass— ‘We cannot answer the gift you have given.’ I will take with me. ‘Please, mortal—’ Somehow. ‘The reason. Please. That you would so bless us—’ I am the … ‘Mortal?’ Your pardon, sirs. You wish to know of me. I am … a mortal, as you say. A man, born three decades ago in th...

‘The time has come.’ Coll started. He had been dozing. ‘What? What time?’ Murillio rushed over to the Mhybe. The Knight of Death continued, ‘She is ready for interment. My Lord has avowed his eternal protection.’ The Elder God, K’rul, was studying the huge, undead warrior. ‘I remain bemused. No – astonished. Since when has Hood become a generous god?’ The Knight slowly faced K’rul. ‘My Lord is ever generous.’ ‘She’s still alive,’ Murillio pronounced, straightening to place himself between the Mhybe and the Knight of Death. ‘The time has not come.’ ‘This is not a burial,’ K’rul said to him. ‘The Mhybe now sleeps, and will sleep for ever more. She sleeps, to dream. And within her dream, Murillio, lives an entire world.’ ‘Like Burn?’ Coll asked. The Elder God smiled in answer. ‘Wait a moment!’ Murillio snapped. ‘Just how many sleeping old women are there?’ ‘She must be laid to rest,’ the Knight of Death pronounced. Coll stepped forward, settled a hand on Murillio’s shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s make sure she’s comfortable down there – furs, blankets…’ Murillio seemed to shiver under Coll’s hand. ‘After all this?’ He wiped at his eyes. ‘We just … leave her? Here, in a tomb?’ ‘Help me with the bedding, my friend,’ Coll said. ‘There is no need,’ the Knight said. ‘She will feel nothing.’ ‘That’s not the point,’ Coll sighed. He was about to say something more, then he saw that Rath’Fanderay and Rath’Togg had both removed their masks. Pallid, wrinkled faces, eyes closed, streaming with...

The healer, Mallet, strode straight to where Whiskeyjack’s body lay. Gruntle saw the healer’s eyes study the wounds, saw the truth strike home. The large man staggered back a step, arms wrapping around himself, and seemed to inwardly collapse. Dujek closed on him in time to take his weight, ease him into a sitting position on the ground. Some wounds never heal, and that man has just taken such a wounding. Would that Dujek had left Whiskeyjack hidden beneath the rain-cape …

When the darkness dissipated, the bodies were gone, those on the hilltop and those on the bed of the wagon that Picker and her soldiers had guided onto the side of the road below. There had been nothing elaborate to the interment. The disposition of the fallen within the massive, floating edifice was left to the Tiste Andii, to Anomander Rake himself. Gruntle turned and looked up to study Moon’s Spawn. Leaning drunkenly, it drifted seaward, blotting the brightening stars that had begun painting the land silver. The night’s natural darkness would soon swallow it whole. As Moon’s Spawn drew its shadow after it, there was revealed, on the ridge on the other side of the trader road, a small gathering of soldiers, positioned in a half-circle around a modest bier and a pile of stones. It was a moment before Gruntle understood what he was seeing. He reached out and drew Stonny closer to him. ‘Come on,’ he whispered. She did not protest as he led her from the hill, down the slope, through silent, ghostly ranks that parted to let them pass. Over the road, across the shallow ditch, then onto the slope leading to the ridge. Where the remaining hundred or so Grey Swords stood to honour the man who had once been Fener’s Shield Anvil. Someone was following at a distance behind Gruntle and Stonny, but neither turned to see who it was. They reached the small gathering. Uniforms had been scrubbed clean, weapons polished. Gruntle saw, in the midst of the mostly Capan women and gaunt Tenesco...