The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1276 page)

‘I wish you success, Mortal Sword. Tell the K'Chain Che'Malle, we are honoured to have fought at their side this day.'

Onos T'oolan reached out to his followers, and as one they fell to dust.

 

Sister Reverence could hear the grinding ascent of the ice against the Spire off to her left, while before her she saw the K'Chain Che'Malle carve their way ever closer to the base of the stairs. The T'lan Imass had vanished, but she knew where they were going –
and High Watered Festian will have to face them. He will have to find a way to encircle them, to win past and strike the K'Chain Che'Malle.

Then she looked skyward, where enormous dark clouds were building almost directly overhead, forming huge, towering columns bruised blue and green. She saw flashes of lightning flaring from their depths – and the blinding light was slow to fade. Two remained, burning luridly, and instead of diminishing, it seemed that those actinic glares were growing stronger, deepening in hue.

All at once, she realized what she was seeing.

There is a god among us. A god has been summoned!

The eyes blazed with demonic fire, and the clouds, ever massing, found form, a shape so vast, so overwhelming, that Sister Reverence cried out.

The argent gleam of tusks, the clouds curling into swirls of dark fur. Towering, seething, building into a thing of muscle and terrible rage, the eyes baleful as twin desert suns. Dominating the entire sky above the Spire, Fener, the Boar of Summer, manifested.

This is no sending. He is here. The god Fener is here!

 

With dawn paling the grey sky overhead and water running in streams along the gutters, Karsa Orlong looked down at the peaceful face of the old man cradled in his lap. He slipped a hand under that head and lifted it slightly, and then moved away, settling it once more on the hard cobbles of the street.

It was time.

He rose, taking hold of his sword. Fixing his eyes on the temple opposite, he walked towards the barred door.

The city was awakening. Early risers out on the street paused upon seeing him crossing their path. And those who could see his face backed away.

He reached for the heavy brass latch, grasped hold of it, and tore it away from the wooden door. Then he kicked, shattering the door's planks like kindling, the sound of the impact like thunder, its echoes tumbling down the passageway within. Voices shouted.

Karsa entered the temple of Fener.

Down a once-opulent corridor, past the flanking braziers – two priests appearing with the intent of blocking his passage, but when they saw him they shrank from his path.

Into the altar chamber. Thick smoke sweetly redolent with incense, a heat rising from the very stones underfoot, and to either side the paint of the murals was crackling, bubbling, and then it began to blacken, curling away from the walls, devouring the images.

Priests were wailing in terror and grief, but the Toblakai ignored them all. His eyes were on the altar, a block of rough-hewn stone on which rested a jewel-studded boar tusk.

Closing on the altar, Karsa raised his stone sword.

‘Upon his heart.'

When the blade descended, it smashed through the tusk and then continued on, cracking the altar stone with the sound of thunder, shattering the block in half.

Onos T'oolan could hear weeping, but this was the sound of something unseen, something long hidden in the souls of the T'lan Imass. He had never expected it to awaken, had never expected to feel it again. In his mind he saw a child, clothed in mortal flesh, lifting a face to the heavens, and that face was his own – so long ago now. There had been dreams, but even as they faded the child boy wept with shuddering convulsions.

Things die. Dreams fall to dust. Innocence bleeds out to soak the ground. Love settles in cold ashes. We had so much. But we surrendered it all. It was…unforgivable.

He rose again, on a broad, level stretch of land where a village had once stood. It had been made mostly of wood and that wood had been taken away to build engines of war. Now only the foundation stones remained. The raised road that ran into it sloped until it was level with the cobbled street at the village's edge.

His kin rose around him and they moved out to present a broad front facing on to that road, there to await the army they could now see to the west. The sound of thousands of marching boots on cobbles was a solid roar underfoot.

We shall fight here. Because the fighting and the killing goes on for ever. And the child will shed his tears until the end of time. I remember so many loves, so many things lost. I remember being broken. Again and again. There need be no end to it – there is no law to say that one cannot break one more time.

When he raised his weapon, his kin followed suit. Seven thousand four hundred and fifty-nine T'lan Imass.
Another battle, the same war. The war we never lost, yet never knew how to win.

The concussion that clove through the heaving clouds behind them staggered the T'lan Imass, a thunder so loud it shivered through their bones. Wheeling round, Onos T'oolan stared up to see a stone sword – an
Imass
sword – descending as if held in the hand of the Jade Strangers, impossibly huge, slicing down through a vague bestial shape – that then
staggered.

Twin embers of crimson –
eyes
– suddenly blossomed as if filling with blood.

A roar sounded, filling the air with such fury and pain that it pounded the entire army of T'lan Imass back a step, and then another.

The death cry of a god.

And the heavens erupted.

Onos T'oolan watched the waves of blood descending, falling earthward. He watched the crimson sheets rolling across the land, watched them roll ever closer – and then with yet another roar, the rain slammed down upon the T'lan Imass, driving them to their knees.

Head bowed beneath the deluge, Onos T'oolan gasped. One breath. Another. And his eyes, fixed now upon the hands on his knees, slowly widened.

As the withered skin softened, thickened. As muscles expanded.

Another terrible gasp of breath, deep into aching lungs.

From his kin, sudden cries. Of shock. Of wonder.

We are remade. By the blood of a slain god, we are reborn.

Then he lifted his gaze, to look upon the Kolansii ranks, fast closing on their position.

This…this was ill-timed.

 

The blood of a slain god rained from the sky. In torrents, cascading down from the ruptured, now shapeless clouds. The air filled with the terrible roar of those thick drops, falling heavy as molten lead. The armies fighting near the highest level of the isthmus were staggered by the downpour. The vast shelf of ice, ever rising towards the pinnacle of the Spire, now streamed crimson in growing torrents.

Bowed beneath the onslaught, Sister Reverence staggered towards the altar stone. Through the carmine haze she could see the Crippled God's heart – no longer a withered, knotted thing of stone – now pulsing, now surging with life.

But the sorcerous chains still held it bound to the altar.

This – this changes nothing. My soldiers shall hold. I still have their souls in my hands. I have the chains of their fallen comrades, their slain souls – all feeding my power. At the foot of the stairs, they shall make a human wall. And I will take this unexpected power and make of it a gift. I will feed this blood into the soul of Akhrast Korvalain.

She drew up against the altar stone, slowly straightened, and held her face to the sky, to feel that hot blood streaming down. And then, laughing, she opened her mouth.

Make me young again. Banish this bent body. Make all that is outside as beautiful as that which was ever inside. Make me whole and make me perfect. The blood of a god! See me drink deep!

 

It was as if the heavens had been struck a mortal wound. Kalyth cried out, in shock, in dread horror, as the deluge descended upon the land – to all sides, devouring every vista, as if swallowing up the entire world. The blood – on her face, on her hands – felt like fire, but did not burn. She saw the heavy drops pounding into the lifeless earth, saw the soil blacken, watched as streams of thick mud slumped down the hillsides.

She could barely draw breath. ‘Gunth Mach! What – what will come of this?'

‘Destriant, I cannot give answer. Immortal rituals unravel. Ancient power melts…dissolves. But what do these things mean? What is resolved? No one can say. A god has died, Destriant, and that death tastes bitter and it fills me with sorrow.'

Kalyth saw how the K'Chain Che'Malle, momentarily stunned, now resumed their assault upon the highest defences of the Kolansii. She saw the defenders rise to meet the Ve'Gath.

A god dies. And the fighting simply goes on, and we add to the rain with blood of our own. I am seeing the history of the world – here, before me. I am seeing it all, age upon age. All so…useless.

There was low laughter behind her, cutting through the dull roar, and Kalyth turned.

Sinn had stripped naked, and now she was painted in blood. ‘The Pure has made a shining fist,' she said. ‘To block the ascent. The lizards cannot break it – their oils are fouled with exhaustion.' Her eyes lifted to Kalyth. ‘Tell them to disengage. Order them to retreat.'

She walked past.

 

The Imass reeled back. The Kolansii heavy infantry pushed forward, over Imass corpses. With shields and armour they weathered blows from stone weapons. With iron sword, axe and spear, they tore apart unprotected flesh, and on all sides the rain of blood – cooled now, lifeless – hammered down.

Driven past the remains of the village, the Imass forces contracted, unable to hold the enemy back. Pincers swept out to either side, seeking to encircle the increasingly crowded, disorganized warriors. Onos Toolan sought to hold the centre in the front line – he alone remembered what it was to defend his own body – now so vulnerable, so frail. His kin had…forgotten. They attacked unmindful of protecting themselves, and so they died.

Reborn, only to live but moments. The anguish of this threatened to tear the First Sword apart. But he was only one man, as mortal as his brothers and sisters now, and it was only a matter of time before—

He saw the Kolansii line opposite him flinch back suddenly, saw them hesitate, and Onos Toolan did not understand.

Low, deep laughter sounded from somewhere on his right, and even as he turned, a voice spoke.

‘Imass, we greet you.'

Now, pushing through to stand in the foremost line –
Jaghut.

Armoured, helmed, bristling with weapons, all of it dripping blood.

The Jaghut beside Onos Toolan then said in a loud voice, ‘Suvalas! Are you as beautiful as I remembered?'

A female shouted in answer, ‘You only remember what I told you, Haut! And it was all lies!'

Amid Jaghut laughter, the one named Haut tilted his head to regard Onos Toolan. ‘To draw breath was unexpected. We thought to fight with you – two lifeless but eternally stubborn peoples. A day of slaughter, hah!'

The Jaghut beyond Haut then said, ‘And slaughter it shall be! Alas, the wrong way round! And there are but fourteen of us. Aimanan – you are good with numbers! Does fourteen dead Jaghut constitute a slaughter?'

‘With five thousand Imass, I would think so, Gedoran!'

‘Then our disappointment is averted and I am once more at ease!'

The Jaghut drew weapons. Beside Onos Toolan, Haut said, ‘Join us, First Sword. If we must die, must it be on the back step? I think not.' His eyes flashed from the shadows of his helm. ‘First Sword – do you see? Forkrul Assail, K'Chain Che'Malle, Imass and now Jaghut! What a fell party this is!'

Gedoran grunted and said, ‘All we now need are a few Thel Akai, Haut, and we can swap old lies all night long!'

And then, with bull roars, the Jaghut charged the Kolansii.

Onos Toolan leapt forward to join them, and behind him, the Imass followed.

 

Gillimada, who had been chosen to lead because she was the most beautiful, looked back on the way they'd come. She could barely make out the Barghast. ‘They are slow!'

‘If only you were taller, Gilli,' bellowed her brother, Gand, ‘you could look the other way and see the fighting!'

Scowling, Gillimada faced forward again. ‘I was about to – impatient runt, Gand! Everyone, enough resting – we shall run some more. Do you all see?'

‘Of course we do,' shouted one of her brother's mouthy friends, ‘we're all taller than you, Gilli!'

‘But who's the most beautiful? Exactly!'

‘Gilli – there are Jaghut with those Imass!'

Gillimada squinted, but the truth of it was, she
was
the shortest one here. ‘Are they killing each other?'