Deadhouse Gates (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #2)

by Steven Erikson

memories in full flood. We are not simple creatures. You dream that with memories will come knowledge, and from knowledge, understanding. But for every answer you find, a thousand new questions arise.

All that we were has led us to where we are, but tells us little of where we’re going. Memories are a weight you can never shrug off.’ A stubborn tone was evident as Icarium

‘Here, Icarium,’ Apsalar said, ‘dry those eyes. Jhag never weep.’

Oh, my friend, you offer help without realizing how quickly that blade can turn. In your ignorance you are so pure, so noble. If Tremorlor knows you better than you know yourself, will it dare accept your offer?

away. What is wrong? I would speak to warn you, my friend. Should Tremorlor take you, the world is freed of a vast threat, but I lose a friend. No, I betray you to eternal imprisonment. The Elders and the Nameless Ones who set upon me this task would command me with certainty. They would care nothing of love. Nor would the young Trell warrior who so freely made his vow hesitate – for he did not know the man he was to follow. Nor did he possess doubts. Not then, so long ago. ‘I beg you, Icarium, let us turn back now. The risk is too great, my friend.’ He felt his eyes water as he stared out across the plain. My friend. At last, dear Elders, I am revealed to you. You chose wrongly. I am a coward.

‘Destroyed . . . by your hand, Icarium. Yours is a blind rage . . . a rage unequalled. It burns fierce, so fierce all your memory of what you do is obliterated. I watch you – I have watched you stirring those cold ashes, ever seeking to discover who you are, yet there I stand, at your side, bound by a vow to prevent you ever committing such an act again. You have destroyed cities, entire peoples. Once you begin killing, you cannot stop, until all before you is . . . lifeless.’

‘You’ve managed to irritate your god, Pust.’

And over it all, the butterflies swarmed, like a million yellow-petalled flowers dancing on swirling winds. Another wave of sorcery erupted, and Duiker’s head turned at the sound. He saw Sormo, out in the centre of the mass, astride his horse. The power that rolled from him tumbled towards the bridge downstream, striking the rebel soldiers with sparks that scythed like barbed wire. Blood sprayed into the air, and above the bridge the butterflies went from yellow to red and the stained clouds fell in a fluttering blanket.

carnage with a vengeance no less terrible. We are all gripped in madness. I have never seen the like nor heard of such a thing – gods, what we have become . . .

‘Nethpara. He could have let you go. Let you cross. Alone. Under the shelter of Korbolo Dom’s glorious mercy. How many have died this day? How many of these soldiers, how many Wickans, have given their lives to protect your hide?’ ‘L-let go of me, you foul slave-spawn!’ A red mist blossomed before Duiker’s eyes. He took the nobleman’s flabby neck in both hands and began squeezing. He watched Nethpara’s eyes bulge.

Then dark’s descent was done.

Kalam sighed. ‘I’m an Imperial veteran, Lieutenant—’ ‘Which army?’ He hesitated, then said, ‘Second. Ninth Squad, Bridgeburners.’

‘Even so. Call it the power of notoriety, then – she’s already had harsh words with the treasurer.’ ‘Why?’ ‘The bastard wants us to surrender, of course.’ They carried the captain to his cot. ‘A transfer of cargo in this blow?’ ‘No, they’ll wait it out.’ ‘Then we got time enough. Here, help me get him undressed.’

and found the man’s eyes on him. The assassin gave a nod and Elan casually turned away, his hands hidden beneath his cloak.

‘You’ve told me there is a man to the south. A man leading a battered remnant of an army and refugees numbering tens of thousands. They do as he bids, their trust is absolute – how has that man managed that?’

‘If you thought the blood had run thick enough over your homeland . . . well, thank the gods we’re heading the other way.’ They

Tavore’s fleet. Horse and troop transports, the usual league-long wake of garbage, sewage and corpses human and animal, the sharks and dhenrabi thrashing the waves. Any long journey by sea delivers an army foul of temper and eager to get to business. No doubt enough tales of atrocities have reached them to scorch mercy from their souls.

Trout Sen’al’Bhok’arala

And then a woman appears, dressed as are these here before us. A priestess. She holds a staff, from which fell power still bleeds. ‘“What have you done?” I ask her. ‘“Only what is necessary,” is her soft reply. I see in her face a great fear as she looks upon me, and I am saddened by it. “Jhag, you must not wander alone.”

‘Possessing these memories enforces a responsibility, Icarium, just as possessing none exculpates.’

‘But you ordered the High Priest to shut up, to protect secrets that Dancer – Cotillion – would want kept that way. So Icarium’s suspicions were natural enough.’

be guilt, for all we know.’ All eyes swung to him. After a long, silent moment, Fiddler shook himself. ‘Come on, then. Into the maze.’

Humans were but one tiny, frail leaf on a tree too massive even to comprehend. The shock of that unmanned him, mocking his audacity with an endless echo of ages and realms trapped within this mad, riotous prison.

The Hound Blind stepped away from Icarium’s side, and the shock of seeing her tail dip jolted through the sapper.

The thin sky-blue potsherds under our feet are First Empire, the thick red ones are from the conquerors. From something delicate to something brutal, a pattern repeated through all of history.

Bidithal, remember that child? The one you used so brutally that first and only night, to scourge from her all pleasures of the flesh. You broke her within her own body, left scars that felt nothing, that were senseless. The child would not be distracted, no children of her own, no man at her side who could wrest loyalty away from the goddess. Bidithal, I have reserved a place for you in the fiery Abyss, as you well know. But for now, you serve me. Kneel. She saw with two visions, one close, the

Madness!’ Fiddler grinned. ‘Who invented them? Why, Kellanved, who else – who Ascended to become your god, Pust. I’d have thought you’d appreciate the irony, High Priest.’

Horror knew no sides, played no favourites. It spread like a stain outward, from tribe to tribe, from one city to the next. And from that revulsion was born fear among the natives of Seven Cities. A Malazan fleet was on its way, commanded by a woman hard as iron. What happened at Vathar Crossing was a whetstone to hone her deadly edge.

Does each of us, soldier or no, reach a point when all that we’ve seen, survived, changes us inside? Irrevocably changes us. What do we become, then? Less human, or more human? Human enough, or too human?’

carrying those comrades too shattered to continue, and made of this forest their eternal home. The souls of the T’lan Imass cannot join Hood, cannot even flee their prisons of bone and withered flesh. One does not bury such things – that sentence of earthen darkness offers no peace. Instead, let those remnants look out from their perches upon one another, upon the rare mortal passages on this trail. . .

Knowledge had beaten him down – as it does us all, when delivered in too great a measure. Yet I hunger still.

And so we move on, day after day, fighting every battle – those inside and those without – with an unyielding ferocity and determination. We are all in that place where Lull now lives, a place stripped of rational thought, trapped in a world without cohesion.

‘Jaghut,’ he said. ‘They lived apart, you know. No villages, no cities, just single, remote dwellings. Like this one.’ ‘Enjoyed their privacy, I take it.’ ‘They feared each other almost as much as they feared the T’lan Imass, sir.’

List nodded. ‘Each siege lasted centuries, the losses among the T’lan Imass staggering. Jaghut were anything but wanderers. When they chose a place . . .’ His voice fell off. He shrugged. ‘Was this a typical war, Corporal?’ The young man hesitated, then shook his head. ‘A strange bond, unique among the Jaghut. When the mother was in peril, the children returned, joined the battle. Then the father. Things . . . escalated.’ Duiker nodded, looked around. ‘She must have been . . . special.’ Tight-lipped and pale, List pulled off his helm, ran a hand through his sweaty hair. ‘Aye,’ he finally whispered. ‘Is she your guide?’

‘Ai!’ Pust shrieked. ‘They plague me!’ Crokus bolted forward, pushing his way between Shan and Gear as if they were no more than a pair of mules. ‘Moby?’

‘Bhok’aral!’ The word came from Iskaral Pust as a curse. ‘A pet? A pet? Madness!’ ‘My uncle’s familiar,’ Crokus said, approaching. The Hounds shrank from his path. Oh, lad, much more than that, it seems. ‘An ally, then,’ Mappo said.

Crokus nodded, though with obvious uncertainty. ‘Hood knows how he found us. How he survived . . .’ ‘Dissembler!’ Pust accused, creeping towards the Daru. ‘A familiar? Shall we ask the opinion of that dead shapeshifter back there? Oh no, we can’t, can we? It’s been torn to pieces!’ Crokus said nothing. ‘Never mind,’ Apsalar said. ‘We’re

to you, was it not?’ ‘Yes. I saved a little girl – kin to the Spiritwalker.’ ‘Which Spiritwalker, Fiddler?’ ‘Kimloc.’ The Trell was silent for half a dozen paces, then a frustrated growl rose from him. ‘A girl, you said. No matter how close a kin, Kimloc’s reward far outweighed your gesture. More, it seemed precisely intended for its use – the sorcery in that song was aspected, Fiddler. Tell me, did Kimloc know you sought Tremorlor?’ ‘I certainly didn’t tell him as much.’ ‘Did he touch you at any time – the brush of a finger against your arm, anything?’ ‘He asked to, as I recall. He wanted my story. I declined. But Hood’s breath, Mappo, I truly cannot recall if there was some chance contact.’

A moment later, it became clear just how untested the Hounds of Shadow had been thus far. He felt the power emanate from the five beasts – so similar was it to that of dragons, it rolled like a breath, a surge of raw sorcery that preceded the Hounds as they sprang forward with blurring speed.

‘The youngest son,’ List said, staring down at the primitive tomb. His face was frightening to look at, for it wore a father’s grief, as raw as if the child’s death was but yesterday – a grief that had, if anything, grown with the tortured, unfathomable passage of two hundred thousand years. He stands guard still, that Jaghut ghost. The statement, a silent utterance that was both simple and obvious, nevertheless took the historian’s breath away. How to comprehend this . . . ‘How old?’ Duiker’s voice was as parched as the Odhan that awaited them. ‘Five. The T’lan Imass chose this place for him. The effort of killing him would have proved too costly, given that the rest of the family still awaited them. So they dragged the child here – shattered his bones, every one, as many times as they could on so small a frame – then pinned him beneath this rock.’

‘It gets worse. It was not just the children that the T’lan Imass pinned – still breathing, still aware – beneath rocks.’ ‘But why?’ The question ripped from Duiker’s throat.

‘Pogroms need no reason, sir, none that can weather challenge, in any case. Difference in kind is the first recognition, the only one needed, in fact. Land, domination, pre-emptive attacks – all just excuses, mundane justifications that do nothing but disguise the simple distinction. They are not us. We are not them.’ ‘Did the Jaghut seek to reason with them, Corporal?’ ‘Many times, among those not thoroughly corrupted by power – the Tyrants – but you see, there was always an arrogance in the Jaghut, and it was a kind that could claw its way up your back when face to face. Each Jaghut’s interest was with him or herself. Almost exclusively. They viewed the T’lan Imass no differently from the way they viewed ants underfoot, herds on the grasslands, or indeed the grass itself. Ubiquitous, a feature of the landscape. A powerful, emergent people, such as the T’lan Imass were, could not but be stung—’ ‘To the point of swearing a deathless vow?’

in their wake. ‘They’ll outlive us all,’ Lull grumbled. ‘Those damned beasts!’

You must understand – soldiers who not long ago were bent on conquering Darujhistan are now locked in a war with the Pannion Domin, a tyranny that would dearly love to swallow the Blue City if it could. Dujek Onearm, once Fist of the Empire and now outlaw to the same, has become an ally. And this, certain personages in Darujhistan know well, and appreciate .

‘Dujek Onearm was the force behind this mission,’ Duiker said. Karpolan nodded. ‘With financial assistance from a certain cabal in Darujhistan, yes. His words were thus: “The Empress cannot lose such leaders as Coltaine of the Crow Clan.”’ The trader grinned. ‘Extraordinary for an outlaw under a death sentence, wouldn’t you say?’ He leaned forward and held out a hand, palm up. Something shimmered into existence on it, a small oblong bottle of smoky grey glass on a silver chain. ‘And, from an alarmingly mysterious mage among the Bridgeburners, this gift was fashioned.’ He held it out to Coltaine. ‘For you. Wear it. At all times, Fist.’ The Wickan scowled and made no move to accept it.

‘And such a man, that creator! A dozen Ascendants would dearly love his head served up on a plate, his eyes pickled, his tongue skewered and roasted with peppers, his ears grilled—’

‘The Khundryl,’ Duiker said. ‘Said to be the most powerful tribe south of Vathar – as we can now acknowledge.’

he reached up and tore the chain from his neck. ‘You wear it, Historian. All that we have done avails the world naught, unless the tale is told. Hood take Dujek Onearm! Hood take the Empress!’ He flung the bottle at Duiker and it struck unerringly the palm of his right hand. Fingers closing around the object, he felt the serpentine slither of chain against calluses. The lance-point kissing his neck had not moved.

seems.’ ‘We have it, Blackwing.’ ‘The Khundryl.’ Surprise flitted on the warrior’s battered face. ‘You honour us, but no. We strove to break the one named Korbolo Dom, but failed. The answer is not the Khundryl.’ ‘Then you do honour to Korbolo Dom?’ The war chief spat at that, growled his disbelief. ‘Spirits below! You cannot be such a fool! The answer this day . . .’ The war chief yanked free his tulwar from its leather sheath, revealing a blade snapped ten inches above the hilt. He raised it over his head and bellowed, ‘The Wickans! The Wickans! The Wickans!’

This path’s a dire thing, the gate it leads to is like a corpse over which ten thousand nightmares bicker their fruitless claims.