The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1151 page)

Gesler’s charge down the pocket had pierced the bastards like a boar-sticker,
forcing them into the narrow spaces between the frenzied K’ell and the shield-locked Ve’Gath. They fought with appalling ferocity, and died in chilling silence.

His mount was wounded. His mount was probably dying—who could tell? All these lizards fought until their last breath. But its defences had slowed, weakened. There was blood everywhere and he could feel its chest heaving with shuddering cadence.

A short-snouted maw lunged at his face.

Cursing, he pitched back to avoid the snapping dagger teeth, struggled to draw close his short-handled axe—but the damned Nah’ruk surged still closer, clawing its way up the Ve’Gath’s shoulder. His mount staggered—

He chopped with his axe, but the range was too tight, and though the edge bit into the side of the lizard’s head the wound it delivered was not enough to sway the creature. The jaws opened wide. The head snapped forward—

Something snarling struck the Nah’ruk, a knotted mass of mottled, scar-seamed hide and muscle, savage canines sinking deep into the lizard’s neck.

Disbelieving, Stormy kicked his boots free of the stirrups to roll further back—

A fucking dog?

Bent?

That you?

Oh, but it surely was.

Greenish blood spilled from the Nah’ruk’s mouth. The eyes dulled, and a heartbeat later dog and lizard pitched down from the Ve’Gath.

At that moment, Stormy saw the burning sky keeps.

And the storm was gone, the thunder vanished, the world filling with sounds of iron, flesh and bone. The song of ten thousand battles, made eerily surreal by there being not a single scream, not a single cry of agony or shriek begging mercy.

The Nah’ruk were falling.

Battle halted. Slaughter commenced.

No song lives upon a single note.

But to a soldier, who had faced death for an eternity since the dawn, this grisly music was the sweetest music of all.

Slaughter! For my brave Ve’Gath! Slaughter! For Gesler and his K’ell! Slaughter, for the Bonehunters—my friends—SLAUGHTER!

As if some fulcrum had been irrevocably destroyed, Ampelas Uprooted slowly rolled upside down. The entire edifice was burning now, spilling sheets of flaming oil that splashed bright upon rubble, corpses and wounded drones directly below.

Gesler knew it was now dead, a lifeless hulk slowly tumbling in the sky.

Two sky keeps still raged in death-throes behind it, leaning like drunks, moments from colliding with one another. The smoke column from a third was shredding apart to high winds, but of the keep itself there was no sign. The rest were but ashes on the black wind.

Before them rose a mountain of gnarled rock, enclosing the wreckage that had once been Kalse Uprooted, holding it up as if it was a gem, or a giant shattered eye. Something about the stone was familiar, but for the moment, he could not place it. The manifestation reached stunningly high, piercing through the dust and smoke.

Stormy’s hunt for the last fleeing Nah’ruk had taken him and a thousand or so Ve’Gath beyond the hills to the southeast.

Exhausted, numbed beyond all reason, Gesler leaned back in the strange saddle. Some damned dog was yapping at his mount’s ankles.

He saw Kalyth, Sag’Churok, Gunth Mach and the J’an Sentinel, and beyond them, approaching at a careless walk, two children.

Grub. Sinn.

Gesler leaned forward and glared down at the yapping dog. ‘Gods below, Roach,’ he said in a hoarse voice, ‘you returning the favour?’ He drew a shuddering breath. ‘Listen, rat, cos I’m only going to say this once—I guarantee it. But right now, your voice is the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard.’

The miserable thing snarled up at him.

It had never learned how to smile.

Slipping down from the Ve’Gath, Gesler sagged on aching legs. Kalyth was kneeling, facing the direction from which Sinn and Grub were approaching. ‘Get up, Destriant,’ he said, finding himself leaning against the Ve’Gath’s hip. ‘Those two got heads so swelled it’s a wonder a mortal woman pushed ’em out.’

She looked over and he saw the muddy streaks of tears on her cheeks. ‘She had . . . faith. In us humans.’ The woman shook her head. ‘I did not.’

The two children walked up.

Gesler scowled. ‘Stop looking so smug, Sinn. You two are in a lot of trouble.’

‘Bent and Roach found us,’ said Grub, scratching in the wild thatch of hair on his head. It looked as though neither of them had bathed in months. ‘We were safe, Sergeant Gesler.’

‘Happy for you,’ he said in a growl. ‘But they needed you—both of you. The Bonehunters were in the Nah’ruk’s path—what do you think happened to them?’

Grub’s eyes widened.

Sinn walked up to the Ve’Gath and set a hand on its flank. ‘I want one for myself,’ she said.

‘Didn’t you hear me, Sinn? Your brother—’

‘Is probably dead. We were in the warrens—the new warrens. We were on the path, we could taste the blood—so fresh, so strong.’ She looked up at Gesler with bleak eyes. ‘The Azath has sealed the wound.’

‘The Azath?’

She shrugged, facing the tree of rock, its lone knot gripping Kalse Uprooted. She bared her teeth in something that might have been a smile.

‘Who is in there, Sinn?’

‘He’s gone.’

‘Dead stone can’t seal a gate—not for long—even an Azath needs a life force, a living soul—’

She shot him a quick look. ‘That’s true.’

‘So what seals it—if he’s gone—’

‘An eye.’

‘A what?’

Kalyth spoke in the trader tongue. ‘Mortal Sword, the One Daughter is now the Matron of Mach Nest. Bre’nigan stands as her J’an Sentinel. Sag’Churok is the bearer of the seed. She will speak to you now.’

He turned to face the K’Chain Che’Malle.

‘Mortal Sword. The Shield Anvil returns. Shall we await him?’

Don’t bother, Matron, it’s not like he’s smart or anything.

‘I can, even from this distance, breach the defences he has raised.’

Do that. He deserves the headache.

‘Mortal Sword. Shield Anvil. Destriant. You three stand, you three are the mortal truths of my mother’s faith. New beliefs are born. What is an eternity spent in sleep? What is this morning of our first awakening? We honour the blood of our kin spilled this day. We honour too the fallen Nah’ruk and pray that one day they will know the gift of forgiveness.’

You must have seen it for yourself, Matron,
Gesler said,
that those Nah’ruk are bred down, past any hope of independent thought. Those sky keeps were old. They can repair, but they cannot make anything new. They are the walking dead, Matron. You can see it in their eyes.

Kalyth said, ‘I believed I saw the same in your eyes, Mortal Sword.’

He grunted and then sighed.
Too tired for this. I have grieving to do.
‘You might have been right, Destriant. But we shed things like that like snake skin. You wear what you need to get through, that’s all.’

‘Then perhaps we can hope for the Nah’ruk.’

‘Hope all you like. Sinn—can they burn another gate through?’

‘Not for a long time,’ she replied, reaching down to collect up Roach. She cradled the foul thing in her arms, scratching it behind the ears.

The ugly rat’s pink tongue slid in and out as it panted. Its eyes were demonic with witless malice.

Gesler shivered.

The Matron spoke:
‘We are without a Nest. But the need must wait. Wounds must heal, flesh must be harvested. Mortal Sword, we now pledge ourselves to you. We now serve. Among your friends, there will be survivors. We shall find them.’

Gesler shook his head. ‘We led your army, Matron. We had our battle, but it’s over now. You don’t owe us anything. And whatever your mother believed, she never asked us, did she? Me and Stormy, we’re not priests. We’re soldiers and nothing more. Those titles you gave us—well, we’re shedding that skin too.’

Stormy’s voice rumbled through his mind,
‘Same for me, Matron. We can find our friends on our own—you need a city to build, or maybe some other Rooted
you can find. Besides, we got Grub and Sinn, and Bent here—gods, he’s almost wagging that stub of a tail and I ain’t never seen that before. Must be all the gore on his face.’

Kalyth laughed, even as tears streamed down her lined cheeks. ‘You two—you cannot shed your titles. They are branded upon your souls—will you just leave me here?’

‘You’re welcome to come with us,’ said Gesler.

‘Where?’

‘East, I think.’

The woman flinched.

‘You’re from there, aren’t you? Kalyth?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Elan. But the Elan are no more. I am the last. Mortal Sword, you must not choose that direction. You will die—all of you.’ She pointed at Grub and Sinn. ‘Even them.’

The Matron said,
‘Then we see the path before us. We shall guard you all. Ve’Gath. K’ell. J’an. Gu’Rull who still lives, still serves. We shall be your guardians. It is the new way our mother foresaw. The path of our rebirth.

‘Humans, welcome us. The K’Chain Che’Malle have returned to the world.’

Sulkit heard her words and something stirred within her. She had been a J’an Sentinel in the time of her master’s need, but her master was gone, and now she was a Matron in her own right.

The time had not yet come when she would make herself known. Old seeds grew within her: the first born would be weak, but that could not be helped. In time, vigour would return.

Her master was gone. The throne was empty, barring a lone eye, embedded in the headrest. She was alone within Kalse.

Life was bleeding into the Rooted’s stone. Strange, alien life. Its flesh and bone was rock. Its mind and soul was the singular imposition of belief.
But then, what else are any of us?
She would think on this matter.

He was gone. She was alone. But all was well.

‘I have lost him. Again. We were so close, but now . . . gone.’

With these words the trek staggered to a halt, as if in Mappo’s private loss all other desires had withered, blown away.

The twins had closed on the undead wolf. Faint had a fear that death had somehow addicted them to its hoary promise. They spoke of Toc. They closed small fingers tight in the ratty fur of Baaljagg. The boy slept in Gruntle’s arms—now who could have predicted that bond? No matter, there was something in that huge man that made her think he should have been a father a hundred times by now—to the world’s regret, since he was not anything of the sort.

No, Gruntle had broken loves behind him. Hardly unique, of course, but in that man the loss belonged to everyone.

Ah, I think I just yearn for his shadow. Me and half the lasses here. Oh well. Silly Faint.

Setoc, who had been conversing with Cartographer, now walked over.

‘The storm to the south’s not getting any closer—we have that, at least.’

Faint rubbed the back of her neck and winced at the pressure. ‘Could have done with the rain.’

‘If there was rain.’

She glanced at the girl. ‘Saw you meet Gruntle’s eyes a while back. A look passed between you when we were talking about that storm. So, out with it.’

‘It was a battle, not a storm. Sorcery, and worse. But now it’s over.’

‘Who was fighting, Setoc?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s far away. We don’t have to go there.’

‘Seems like we’re not going anywhere right now.’

‘We will. For now, let’s leave him be,’ she said, eyes on Mappo, who stood a short distance away, motionless as a statue—as he had been for some time.

Amby had been walking alongside the horse-drawn travois carrying his brother—Jula was still close to death. Precious Thimble’s healing was a paltry thing. The Wastelands could not feed her magic, she said. There was still the chance that Jula would die. Amby knelt, shading his brother’s face with one hand. He suddenly looked very young.

Setoc walked back to the horse.

Sighing, Faint looked around.

And saw a rider approaching. ‘Company,’ she said, loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. All but Mappo reacted, turning or rising and following her gaze.

From Setoc: ‘I know him! That’s Torrent!’

More lost souls to this pathetic party. Welcome.

A single flickering fire marked the camp, and occasionally a figure passed in front of it. The wind carried no sound from those gathered there. Among the travellers, sorrow and joy, grief and the soft warmth of newborn love. So few mortals, and yet all of life was there, ringing the fire.

Faint jade light limned the broken ground, as if darkness itself could be painted into a mockery of life. The rider who sat upon a motionless, unbreathing horse, was silent, feeling like a creature too vast to approach any shore—he could look on with one dead eye or the other dead eye. He could remember what it was like to be a living thing among other living things.

The heat, the promise, the uncertainties and all the hopes to sweeten the bitterest seas.

But that shore was for ever beyond him now.

They could feel the warmth of that fire. He could not. And never again.

The figure that rose from the dust beside him said nothing for a time, and when she spoke it was in the spirit language—her voice beyond the ears of the living. ‘We all do as we must, Herald.’

‘What
you
have done, Olar Ethil . . .’

‘It is too easy to forget.’

‘Forget what?’

‘The truth of the T’lan Imass. Did you know, a fool once wept for them?’

‘I was there. I saw the man’s barrow—the gifts . . .’

‘The most horrid of creatures—human and otherwise—are so easily, so carelessly recast. Mad murderers become heroes. The insane wear the crown of geniuses. Fools flower in endless fields, Herald, where history once walked.’

‘What is your point, bonecaster?’

‘The T’lan Imass. Slayers of Children from the very beginning. Too easy to forget. Even the Imass themselves, the First Sword himself, needed reminding. You all needed reminding.’

‘To what end?’