The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1176 page)

The apparition rose into the sky, enormous wings of inky smoke thundering the air.

Ublala stared after it. His mace was in his hands for some reason, and the skystone head steamed as if dipped in a forge.

He watched the huge thing fly away, northward. Not a dragon. Winged darkness.
Just that. Winged darkness.

He licked his lips. ‘Draconus?'

 

The brow ridges lifted clear of the shattered bedrock. Eyes blazed like emerald beacons. A second hand had thrust free, thirty paces to the west. Faint stood as if rooted to the shaking ground, as trapped as the rattling tree. Her thoughts had fled. A pressure was building inside her skull. She could hear voices, thousands, tens of thousands of voices, all speaking in a language she could not understand. They were rising in alarm, in fear, in panic. She clapped her hands to her ears, but it was no use.

They want out.

They asked. But no answers came. They begged. Pleaded. The world gave them silence. How do I know this? Their hearts – the beating – I can feel them. Feel them breaking.

Anguish tore at her soul. She could not survive this. It was too much, the pain too vast.

Icy air swept over her from behind. An enormous shadow swirled across the earth to her left. Something enshrouded in darkness, borne on vast ethereal wings, descended to where the jade head was emerging.

Faint saw the flash of something long and black, a gleaming edge, and as the darkness slammed like a tidal wave against the brow of the giant that splinter was driven forward, piercing the centre of the forehead.

Thunder cracked. Faint was thrown from her feet by the concussion. The impossible chorus of voices cried out – in pain, in shock, and something else. Beneath her the earth seemed to moan. Staggering upright once more, Faint coughed out the blood filling her mouth.

Those cries? Relief? At last. At last, an answer.

The forearm directly in front of her and the hand off to the west were suddenly motionless, the jade luminescence fading as if sheathed in dust. The tree, tilted precariously to one side, slowed its manic shivering, its branches now burdened with leaves of jade and the huge globes of fruit.

Up on the hill, the darkness coalesced, like a slowly indrawn breath, and in its place stood a tall, broad-shouldered man. His hands were clasped about the grip of a two-handed sword bleeding black streams that spun lazily in the air. She saw him struggle to pull the weapon from the jade forehead that reared like a stone wall in front of him.

He grunted when he finally succeeded. The sword slid into the scabbard slung under his left arm. He turned round, walked towards Faint. Pale skin, chiselled features, black hair, depthless eyes. As he neared her, he spoke in Daru. ‘Where he came from, every god is a Shield Anvil. Woman, have you lost your mind?'

She opened her mouth for a denial, a rush of protest, but then he was walking past her. She turned, stared after him.
South? What's down there? Where are you going? No, never mind, Faint.

Gods below, what have I just witnessed?

Her gaze returned to the sundered forehead surmounting the hill. The wound in its centre was visible even from this distance. It had nearly split the giant skull in half.

She slowly sank to her knees.
A god. That was a god. Were they both gods? Did one just murder the other?
She realized that she had wet herself. One more reek to clash with all the others. Drawing a shaky breath, she lowered her head. ‘Sweetest Sufferance, I'm sorry. She warned me against it. I'm sorry, Sweetie. Please forgive me.'

She would, in a while, set out to find Amby and Precious Thimble.

But not yet.
Not quite yet.

Ublala watched her tying up her bedroll. ‘Where are you going? We should wait. He said to wait.'

She bared her teeth but did not look at him. ‘He is a demon. When he runs out of things to hunt, he'll kill and eat us.'

‘No he won't. He's nice. Draconus is nice, my love—'

‘Don't call me that.'

‘But—'

‘Be quiet. Give me back my knife.'

‘I can't. You might stab me.'

‘I won't. I'm leaving you both. I'm going home.'

‘Home? Where is that? Can I come?'

‘Only if you can swim,' she said. ‘Now, at least the knife. And if you love me the way you say you do, you'll give me the rest of my weapons too.'

‘I'm not supposed to.'

Venom blazed in her eyes. ‘You're awake. You're holding that club. I can't hurt you. Unless you're a coward, Ublala. I can't love cowards – they disgust me.'

He hunched down. ‘Just because I'm scared of you don't mean I'm a coward. I once fought five Teblor gods.'

‘Of course you did. Cowards always lie.'

‘And I fought against the Fangs of Death and all those tusked warriors liked me – no, that wasn't me. At least, I don't think it was.' He stared at the mace. ‘But I killed Dalk. I killed a dragon. It was easy – no, it wasn't. It was hard, I think. I can't remember.'

‘No end to all the lies.'

‘You're right,' he said, suddenly glum. ‘No end to them.'

‘Give me my weapons.'

‘If I do you'll die.'

‘What?'

‘You'll leave us, and there's no food out here unless Draconus gets it for us. You'll starve. I can't.'

‘Am I your prisoner? Is that how you like it, Ublala? You want a slave?'

He looked up at her. ‘Can I sex you any time if you're my slave?'

‘That's not love,' she said.

‘It's been so long,' he replied, ‘I suppose I'll take sex instead of love. See what's happened to me?'

‘Fine. I'll lie with you, if you give me my weapons afterwards.'

Ublala clutched his head. ‘Oh, you're confusing me!'

She advanced on him. ‘Agree to my offer, Ublala, and I'm yours—' She stopped abruptly, turned away.

He stared after her. ‘What's wrong? I agree! I agree!'

‘Too late,' she said. ‘Your friend's back.'

Ublala twisted round to see Draconus approaching. ‘He's no friend of mine,' he muttered. ‘Not any more.'

 

‘Too crowded, these Wastelands,' she said.

‘Then leave us,' Torrent replied. ‘We won't miss you.'

In answer, Olar Ethil picked up Absi once more, by the scruff of his neck. ‘We have rested enough,' she said.

‘Stop carrying him like that,' said Torrent. ‘He can ride with me.'

Her neck creaked as she turned to regard him. ‘Attempt to flee and I will catch you, pup.'

Torrent glanced across at the twins, who huddled together near the ring of stones where they had tried making a fire the night before. ‘I won't do that,' he said.

‘Sentimentality will see the death of you,' said the Bonecaster. ‘Come here. Take the child.'

He strode over. When he reached for the boy, Olar Ethil's skeletal hand snapped out. Torrent was dragged close, pulled up until his eyes were less than a hand's breadth from her broken face.

‘
Call upon no gods in this place
,' she hissed. ‘Everything's too close to the surface. Do you understand me? Even the ghost of Toc Younger cannot withstand a summons – and he will not arrive alone.' She pushed him back. ‘You have been warned – my only warning. I catch you whispering a prayer, Torrent of the Awl, and I will kill you.'

He stepped back, scowling. ‘That threat's getting as old as you, hag.' He took Absi's hand and led him slowly to where his horse waited. ‘And we need food – remember what that is, Olar Ethil? And water.'

He looked round but could see no sign of Telorast and Curdle – when had he last seen them? He could not recall. Sighing, he beckoned to the twins. Stavi and Storii leapt to their feet and joined him. ‘Can you walk for a time?' he asked them. ‘Later, you can ride, a little longer than you did yesterday. I don't mind walking.'

‘Did you hear that thunder?' Stavi asked.

‘Just thunder.'

‘Is our father still alive?' Storii asked. ‘Is he really?'

‘I won't lie,' Torrent said. ‘If his spirit walks the land again, he is the same as Olar Ethil. A T'lan Imass. I fear there will be little that you will recognize—'

‘Except what's inside him,' said Storii. ‘That won't have changed.'

Torrent glanced away. ‘I hope you're right, for all our sakes.' He hesitated, and then said, ‘After all, if anyone can stand up to this Bonecaster, it will be your father.'

‘He'll take us back,' said Stavi. ‘All three of us. You'll see.'

He nodded. ‘Ready, then?'

No, he wouldn't lie to them, not about their father. But some suspicions he would keep to himself. He did not expect Olar Ethil to take them to Onos T'oolan. Absi, and perhaps even the twins, had become her currency when forcing the First Sword's hand, and she would not permit a situation where he could directly challenge her over possession of them. No, these coins of flesh she would keep well hidden.

Torrent collected up Absi, his heart clenching as the boy's arms went round his neck. The young were quick to adapt, he knew, but even then there were hurts that slipped through awareness leaving not a ripple, and they sank deep. And many years later, why, they'd shaped an entire life.
Abandon the child and all the man's tethers will be weak. Take away the child's love and the woman will be a leaf on every stream. So the older ones said. Always full of warnings, telling us all that life was a treacherous journey. That a path once begun could not easily be evaded, or twisted anew by wish or will.

With a grinning Absi settled on the saddle, his small hands gripping the horn, Torrent collected the reins. The twins falling in beside him, he set off after Olar Ethil.

The thunder had stopped as quickly as it had begun, and the cloudless sky was unchanged. Terrible forces were in play in these Wastelands, enough to shake even the deathless witch striding so purposefully ahead of them.
‘Call upon no gods in this place.'
A curious warning. Had someone prayed? He snorted.
When did praying achieve anything but silence? Anything but the pathetic absence filling the air, building like a bubble of nothingness in the soul? Since when didn't a prayer leave only empty yearning, where wishes burned and longing was a knife twisting in the chest?

Call upon no gods in this place. Summon not Toc Anaster, my one-eyed guardian who can ride through the veil, who can speak with the voice of death itself. Why do you so fear him, Olar Ethil? What can he do to you?

But I know the answer to that, don't I?

Ahead, the Bonecaster hesitated, turning to stare at Torrent.

When he smiled, she faced forward again and resumed her walk.

Yes, Olar Ethil. These Wastelands are very crowded indeed. Step lightly, hag, as if that will do any good.

Absi made a strange grunting sound, and then sang, ‘Tollallallallalla! Tollallallalla!'

Every word from a child is itself a prayer. A blessing. Dare we answer? Beware little Absi, Olar Ethil. There are hurts that slip through. You killed his dog.

You killed his dog.

 

The fabric between the warrens was shredded. Gaping holes yawned on all sides. As befitted his veered form, Gruntle moved in the shadows, a creature of stealth, muscles rolling beneath his barbed hide, eyes flaring like embers in the night. But purchase under his padded paws was uncertain. Vistas shifted wildly before his fixed gaze. Only desperation – and perhaps madness – had taken him on these paths.

One moment flowing down a bitter cold scree of moss-backed boulders, the next moving like a ghost through a cathedral forest cloaked in fetid gloom. In yet another, the air was foul with poisons, and he found himself forced to swim a river, the waters thick and crusted with brown foam. Up on to the bank and into a village of cut stone crowded with carriages, passing through a graveyard, a fox pitching an eerie cry upon catching his scent.

He stumbled upon two figures – their sudden appearance so startling him that alarm unleashed his instincts – a snarl, sudden rush, claws and then fangs. Screams tore the night air. His jaws crunched down through the bones of a human neck. A lash of one clawed paw ripped one side from a dog, flinging the dying beast into the brush. And then through, away from that world and into a sodden jungle lit by flashes of lightning – the reek of sulphur heavy in the air.

Down a bank of mud, into a charnel pit of rotting corpses, the bloated bodies of men and horses, someone singing plaintively in the distance.

A burning forest.

The corridor of a palace or temple – dozens of robed people fleeing with shrieks – and once more he tore through them. Human blood filling his mouth, the taste appallingly sweet. Dragging bodies down from behind, crunching through skulls – weak fists thumping into his flanks—