The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (645 page)

On a bridling, skittish horse, Paran watched the conflagration of agony, and wondered, of a sudden, whether he had made a mistake.

He looked down at the mortal woman, curled up on the floor. Then at her fragmented shadow, slashed through by…nothing.
Well, I knew that much. Time's nearly up.

 

A different throne, this one so faint as to be nothing more than the hint of slivered shadows, sketched across planes of dirty ice – oddly changed, Quick Ben decided, from the last time he had seen it.

As was the thin, ghostly god reclining on that throne. Oh, the hood was the same, ever hiding the face, and the gnarled black hand still perched on the knotted top of the bent walking stick – the perch of a scavenger, like a one-legged vulture – and emanating from the apparition that was Shadowthrone, like some oversweet incense reaching out to brush the wizard's senses, a cloying, infuriating…smugness. Nothing unusual in all of that. Even so, there was…something…

‘Delat,' the god murmured, as if tasting every letter of the name with sweet satisfaction.

‘We're not enemies,' Quick Ben said, ‘not any longer, Shadowthrone. You cannot be blind to that.'

‘Ah but you wish me blind, Delat! Yes yes yes, you do. Blind to the past – to every betrayal, every lie, every vicious insult you have delivered foul as spit at my feet!'

‘Circumstances change.'

‘Indeed they do!'

The wizard could feel sweat trickling beneath his clothes. Something here was…what?

Was very wrong.

‘Do you know,' Quick Ben asked, ‘why I am here?'

‘She has earned no mercy, wizard. Not even from you.'

‘I am her brother.'

‘There are rituals to sever such ties,' Shadowthrone said, ‘and your sister has done them all!'

‘Done them all? No,
tried
them all. There are threads that such rituals cannot touch. I made certain of that. I would not be here otherwise.'

A snort. ‘Threads. Such as those you take greatest pleasure in spinning, Adaephon Delat? Of course. It is your finest talent, the weaving of impossible skeins.' The hooded head seemed to wag from side to side as Shadowthrone chanted, ‘Nets and snares and traps, lines and hooks and bait, nets and snares and—' Then he leaned forward. ‘Tell me, why should your sister be spared? And how – truly, how – do you imagine that I have the power to save her? She is not mine, is she? She's not here in Shadow Keep, is she?' He cocked his head. ‘Oh my. Even now she draws her last few breaths…as the mortal lover of the Grey Goddess – what, pray tell, do you expect
me
to do?'

Quick Ben stared. The Grey Goddess? Poliel?
Oh, Torahaval
…‘Wait,' he said, ‘Bottle confirmed it – more than instinct – you are involved. Right now, wherever they are,
it has something to do with you!
'

A spasmodic cackle from Shadowthrone, enough to make the god's thin, insubstantial limbs convulse momentarily. ‘You owe me, Adaephon Delat! Acknowledge this and I will send you to her! This instant! Accept the debt!'

Dammit. First Kalam and now me. You bastard, Shadowthrone
– ‘All right! I owe you! I accept the debt!'

The Shadow God gestured, a lazy wave of one hand.

And Quick Ben vanished.

Alone once again, Shadowthrone settled back in his throne. ‘So fraught,' he whispered. ‘So…careless, unmindful of this vast, echoing, mostly empty hall. Poor man. Poor, poor man. Ah, what's this I find in my hand?' He looked over to see a short-handled scythe now gripped and poised before him. The god narrowed his gaze, looked about in the gloomy air, then said, ‘Well, look at these! Threads! Worse than cobwebs, these! Getting everywhere – grossly indicative of sloppy…housekeeping. No, they won't do, won't do at all.' He swept the scythe's blade through the sorcerous tendrils, watched as they spun away into nothingness. ‘There now,' he said, smiling, ‘I feel more hygienic already.'

Throttled awake by gloved hands at his throat, he flailed about, then was dragged to his knees. Kalam's face thrust close to his own, and in that face, Bottle saw pure terror.

‘The threads!' the assassin snarled.

Bottle pushed the man's hands away, scanned the sandy tableau, then grunted. ‘Cut clean, I'd say.'

Standing nearby, Fiddler said, ‘Go get him, Bottle! Find him – bring him back!'

The young soldier stared at the two men. ‘What? How am I supposed to do that? He should never have gone in the first place!' Bottle crawled over to stare at the wizard's blank visage. ‘Gone,' he confirmed. ‘Straight into Shadowthrone's lair – what was he thinking?'

‘Bottle!'

‘Oh,' the soldier added, something else catching his gaze, ‘look at that – what's she up to, I wonder?'

Kalam pushed Bottle aside and fell to his hands and knees, glaring down at the dolls. Then he shot upright. ‘
Apsalar!
Where is she?'

Fiddler groaned. ‘No, not again.'

The assassin had both of his long-knives in his hands. ‘Hood take her – where is that bitch?'

Bottle, bemused, simply shrugged as the two men chose directions at random and headed off.
Idiots. This is what they get, though, isn't it? For telling nobody nothing! About anything!
He looked back down at the dolls.
Oh my, this is going to be interesting, isn't it…?

 

‘The fool's gone and killed himself,' Captain Sweetcreek said. ‘And he took our best healer with him – right through Hood's damned gate!'

Hurlochel stood with crossed arms. ‘I don't think—'

‘Listen to me,' Sweetcreek snapped, her corporal Futhgar at her side nodding emphatically as she continued. ‘I'm now in command, and there's not a single damned thing in this whole damned world that's going to change—'

She never finished that sentence, as a shriek rang out from the north side of the camp, then the air split with thunderous howls – so close, so loud that Hurlochel felt as if his skull was cracking open. Ducking, he spun round to see, cartwheeling above tent-roofs, a soldier, his weapon whipping away – and now the sudden snap of guy-ropes, the earth trembling underfoot—

And a monstrous, black, blurred shape appeared, racing like lightning over the ground – straight for them.

A wave of charged air struck the three like a battering ram a moment before the beast reached them. Hurlochel, all breath driven from his lungs, flew through the air, landing hard on one shoulder, then rolling – caught a glimpse of Captain Sweetcreek tossed to one side, limp as a rag doll, and Futhgar seeming to vanish into the dirt as the midnight creature simply ran right over the hapless man—

The Hound's eyes
—

Other beasts, bursting through the camp – horses screaming, soldiers shrieking in terror, wagons flung aside before waves of power – and Hurlochel saw one creature –
no, impossible
—

The world darkened alarmingly as he lay in a heap, paralysed, desperate to draw a breath. The spasm clutching his chest loosed suddenly and sheer joy followed the sweet dusty air down into his lungs.

Nearby, the captain was coughing, on her hands and knees, spitting blood.

From Futhgar, a single piteous groan.

Pushing himself upright, Hurlochel turned – saw the Hounds reach the wall of G'danisban – and stared, eyes wide, as a huge section of that massive barrier
exploded
, stone and brick facing shooting skyward above a billowing cloud of dust – then the concussion rolled over them—

A horse galloped past, eyes white with terror—

‘Not us!' Sweetcreek gasped, crawling over. ‘Thank the gods – just passing through – just—' She began coughing again.

On watery legs, Hurlochel sank down onto his knees. ‘It made no sense,' he whispered, shaking his head, as buildings in the city beyond rocked and blew apart—

‘What?'

He looked across at Sweetcreek.
You don't understand – I looked into that black beast's eyes, woman!
‘I saw…I saw—'

‘
What?
'

I saw pure terror—

The earth rumbled anew. A resurgence of screams – and he turned, even as five huge shapes appeared, tearing wide, relentless paths through the encamped army – big, bigger than –
oh, gods below
—

 

‘He said to wait—' Noto Boil began, then wailed as his horse flinched so hard he would later swear he heard bones breaking, then the beast wheeled from the temple entrance and bolted, peeling the cutter from its back like a wood shaving.

He landed awkwardly, felt and heard ribs crack, the pain vanishing before a more pressing distress, that being the fish spine lodged halfway down his throat.

Choking, sky darkening, eyes bulging—

Then the girl hovering over him. Frowning for a lifetime.

Stupid stupid stupid—

Before she reached into his gaping mouth, then gently withdrew the spine.

Whimpering behind that first delicious breath, Noto Boil closed his eyes, becoming aware once again that those indrawn breaths in fact delivered stabbing agony across his entire chest. He opened tear-filled eyes.

The girl still loomed over him, but her attention was, it seemed, elsewhere. Not even towards the temple entrance – but down the main avenue.

Where someone was pounding infernal drums, the thunder making the cobbles shiver and jump beneath him – causing yet more pain –

And this day started so well…

‘Not Soletaken,' Paran was saying to the goddess writhing on her throne, the pierced hand and its otataral spike pinning her here, to this realm, to this dreadful extremity, ‘not Soletaken at all, although it might at first seem so. Alas, Poliel, more complicated than that. My outrider's comment earlier, regarding my eyes – well, that was sufficient, and from those howls we just heard, it turns out the timing is about right.'

The captain glanced down once more at the woman on the tiles. Unconscious, perhaps dead. He didn't think the Hounds would bother with her. Gathering the reins, he straightened in his saddle. ‘I can't stay, I'm afraid. But let me leave you with this: you made a terrible mistake. Fortunately, you won't have long to regret it.'

Concussions in the city, coming ever closer.

‘Mess with mortals, Poliel,' he said, wheeling his horse round, ‘and you pay.'

 

The man named Brokeface – who had once possessed another name, another life – cowered to one side of the altar chamber's entranceway. The three priests had fled back down the hallway. He was, for the moment, alone.
So very alone. All over again.
A poor soldier of the rebellion, young and so proud back then – shattered in one single moment.

A Gral horse, a breath thick with the reek of wet grass, teeth like chisels driving down through flesh, through bone, taking everything away. He had become an unwelcome mirror to ugliness, for every face turning upon his own had twisted in revulsion, or worse, morbid fascination. And new fears had sunk deep, hungry roots into his soul, flinching terrors that ever drove him forward, seeking to witness pain and suffering in others, seeking to make of his misery a legion, soldiers to a new cause, each as broken as he.

Poliel had arrived, like a gift – and now that bastard had killed her, was killing her even now – taking everything away. Again.

Horse hoofs skidded on tiles and he shrank back further as the rider and his mount passed through the doorway, the beast lifting from trot to canter down the wide corridor.

Brokeface stared after them with hatred in his eyes.

Lost. All lost.

He looked into the altar chamber—

 

Quick Ben landed cat-like; then, in the cascade of virulent agony sloughing from the imprisoned goddess not three paces to his right, he collapsed onto his stomach, hands over his head.
Oh, very funny, Shadowthrone
. He turned his head and saw Torahaval, lying motionless an arm's reach to his left.