The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (73 page)

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Raest emerged into rich afternoon sunlight. Yellow-grassed hills rose in weathered humps in every direction but the one he faced. To the east behind a thinning curtain of drifting dust stretched an empty plain.

The Jaghut Tyrant grunted. Not so different after all. He raised his arms, feeling wind slide along his cabled muscles. He drew a breath, tasting the life-rich air. He quested lightly with his power and exulted in the waves of fear that answered it—answers that came from the mindless life beneath his feet or hiding in the grasses around him. But of higher life, higher concentrations of power, he sensed nothing. Raest drove his senses down into the ground, seeking what dwelt there. Earth and bedrock, the sluggish molten darkness beneath, down, down to find the sleeping goddess—young as far as the Jaghut Tyrant was concerned. “Shall I wake you?” he whispered. “Not yet. But I shall make you bleed.” His right hand closed into a fist.

He speared the goddess with pain, driving a fissure through the bedrock, feeling the gush of her blood, enough to make her stir but not awaken.

The line of hills to the north lifted skyward. Magma sprayed into the air amid a rising pillar of smoke, rock, and ash. The earth shuddered even as the sound of the eruption swept over Raest in a fierce, hot wind. The Jaghut Tyrant smiled.

He studied the shattered ridge and breathed the heavy, sulfurous air, then turned about and strode west toward the highest hill in that direction. His Finnest lay beyond it, perhaps three days’ walk. He considered opening his Warren, then decided to wait until he reached the hill’s summit. From that vantage point, he could better judge the Finnest’s location.

Halfway up the slope he heard distant laughter. Raest stiffened just as the day darkened suddenly around him. On the sward before him he saw five enormous shadows sweeping up the slope, then beyond the hill’s summit. The sunlight returned. The Jaghut Tyrant looked into the sky above him.

Five dragons banked in perfect formation, their heads dipping to watch him as they glided back in his direction.
“Estideein eleint,”
he whispered, in his Jaghut tongue. Four were black, barbed in silver along the wings and flying two to either side of the fifth dragon, this one red and twice as large as the others. “Silanah red-wings,” Raest muttered, eyes narrowing. “Elder-born and trueblooded Tiam, you lead Soletaken, whose blood is alien to this world. I feel you all!” He raised fists to the sky. “Colder than the ice born of Jaghut hands, as dark as blindness—I feel you!”

He lowered his arms. “Harass me not,
eleint
. I cannot enslave you, but I will destroy you. Know that. I will drive you to the ground, each and all, and with my own hands I shall tear your hearts from your chests.” His eyes narrowed on the four black dragons. “Soletaken. You would challenge me at the command of another. You would battle with me for no reason of your own. Ah, but if I were to command you I would not throw your lives away so carelessly. I would cherish you, Soletaken, I would give you causes worth believing in, show you the true rewards of power.” Raest scowled, as their derision swept through his mind. “So be it.”

The dragons passed low overhead in silence, banking once again and disappearing
behind the hills to the south. Raest spread his arms wide and unleashed his Warren. His flesh split as power flowed into him. His arms shed skin like ash. He both felt and heard hills crack all around him, the snapping of stone, the sundering of crags. To all sides the horizons blurred as dust curtained skyward. He faced south.
“This is my power! Come to me!”

A long minute passed. He frowned at the hills before him, then cried out and whirled to his right just as Silanah and the four black dragons, all less than ten feet above the ground, plunged over the summit of the hill he’d been climbing.

Raest screamed at the whirlwind of power battering him, his shrunken eyes locked on Silanah’s blank, empty, deadly gaze—eyes as large as the Jaghut’s head—as it bore down upon him with the speed of a springing viper. The red dragon’s jaws opened wide and Raest found himself staring down the beast’s throat.

He screamed a second time and released his power all at once.

The air detonated as the Warrens collided. Jagged shards of rock ripped in all directions. Starvald Demelain and Kurald Galain warred with Omtose Phellack in a savage maelstrom of will. Grasses, earth, and rock withered to fine ash on all sides, and within the vortex stood Raest, his power roaring from him. Lashes of sorcery from the dragons lanced into his body, boring through his withered flesh.

The Jaghut Tyrant flayed his power like a scythe. Blood spattered the ground, sprayed in gouts. The dragons shrieked.

A wave of incandescent fire struck Raest from the right, solid as a battering fist. Howling, he was thrown through the air, landing in a bank of powdery ash. Silanah’s fire raced over him, blackening what was left of his flesh. The Tyrant clambered upright, his body jerking uncontrollably as sorcery gouted from his right hand.

The ground shook as Raest’s power hammered Silanah down, driving the dragon skidding and tumbling across the slope. The Tyrant’s exultant roar was cut short as talons the length of a forearm crunched into him from behind. A second clawed foot joined the first, snapping through the bones of Raest’s chest as if they were twigs. More talons flexed around him as a second dragon sought grip.

The Tyrant twisted helplessly as the claws lifted him into the air and started ripping his body apart. He dislocated his own shoulder in reaching round to dig his fingers into a sleek scaled shin. At the contact, Omtose Phellack surged into the dragon’s leg, shattering bone, boiling blood. Raest laughed as the claws spasmed loose and he was flung away. More bones snapped as he struck the ground, but it did not matter. His power was absolute, the vessel that carried it had little relevance. If need be, the Tyrant would find other bodies, bodies in the thousands.

He climbed once more to his feet. “Now,” he whispered, “I deliver death.”

The flowering of light from darkness

brought into my sight there on the field

a host of dragons caught

like a crest of wind before the eternal flame.

I saw the ages in their eyes

a worldly map inscribed

in each whirled scale on their hides.

Their sorcery bled from them

like the breathing of stars

and I knew then

that dragons had come among us . . .

A
NOMANDARIS
F
ISHER
(
B
.?)

Shadows crowded the garden’s undergrowth. Adjunct Lorn rose from her crouch and brushed the dirt from her hands. “Find an acorn.” She smiled to herself. “Plant it.”

Somewhere beyond the heavily wooded garden, servants shouted at each other as they scrambled about making last-minute arrangements. She hitched her cloak’s tail into her belt and quietly slipped among the boles of vine-wrapped trees. A moment later the back wall came into view.

An alley lay beyond, narrow and choked with the leaves and fallen branches from the gardens rising above the walls on its either side. Her route in—and now out—was a thing of ease. She scaled the rough-stoned wall, grasping vines when necessary, then slid over the top.

She landed with a soft crunch of twigs and dry leaves, within shadows as deep as those in the garden. She adjusted her cloak, then walked to one end of the alley where she leaned against a corner, crossed her arms, and smiled at the crowds passing to and fro on the street before her.

Two tasks left to perform, then she would leave this city. One of those tasks, however, might prove impossible. She sensed nothing of Sorry’s presence. Perhaps the woman was indeed dead. Under the circumstances it was the only explanation.

She watched the sea of people, its tide of faces swirling past. The latent madness there made her uneasy, especially with the city’s guards maintaining an aloof distance. She wondered at the taint of terror in that multitude of faces, and how almost every face seemed familiar.

Darujhistan blurred in her mind, becoming a hundred other cities, each rising out of her past as if on parade. Joy and fear, agony and laughter—the expressions merged into one, the sounds coming to her no different from each other. She could distinguish nothing, the faces becoming expressionless, the sounds a roar of history without meaning.

Lorn passed a hand over her eyes, then staggered back a step and reeled into the alley’s shadows behind her. She slid down one wall into a sagging crouch.
A celebration of insignificance. Is that all we are in the end? Listen to them!
In a few hours the city’s intersections would explode. Hundreds would die instantly, thousands to follow. Amid the rubble of shattered cobbles and toppled buildings would be these faces, locked in expressions somewhere between joy and terror. And from the dying would come sounds, hopeless cries that dwindled in the passing of pain.

She’d seen them all before, those faces. She knew them all, knew the sound of their voices, sounds mired in human emotions, sounds clear and pure with thought, and sounds wavering in that chasm between the two. Is this, she wondered,
my legacy?
And one day I’ll be just one more of those faces, frozen in death and wonder
.

Lorn shook her head, but it was a wan effort. She realized, with sudden comprehension, that she was breaking down. The Adjunct was cracking, its armor crumbling and the luster gone from its marbled grandeur. A title as meaningless as the woman bearing it. The Empress—just another face she’d seen somewhere before, a mask behind which someone hid from mortality.

“No use hiding,” she whispered, frowning down at the dead leaves and branches around her. “No use.”

A few minutes later she pushed herself upright once again. She brushed the dirt meticulously from her cloak. One task remained within her abilities. Find the Coin Bearer. Kill him, and take Oponn’s Coin. Make the god pay for its intrusion in Empire affairs—the Empress and Tayschrenn would see to that.

The task demanded concentration, fixing her senses upon one particular signature. It would be her last act, she knew. But she would succeed. Death at the hands of failure was unthinkable. Lorn turned to the street. Dusk crept from the ground and engulfed the crowds. Far off to the east thunder sounded, yet the air was dry, with no hint of rain. She checked her weapons. “The Adjunct’s mission,” she said quietly, “is almost done.”

She entered the street and disappeared into the mob.

Kruppe rose from his table at the Phoenix Inn and attempted to fasten the last button on his waistcoat. Failing, he let his stomach relax once again and let loose a weary sigh. Well, at least the coat had been cleaned. He adjusted the cuffs of his new shirt, then walked out of the mostly empty bar.

He’d spent the last hour seated at his table, to all outward appearances musing on nothing of great importance, though in his head a pattern formed, born of his Talent, and it disturbed him greatly. Meese and Irilta losing Crokus and the girl brought everything into focus—as with most unwitting servants of the gods, once the game was done so was the servant’s life. The Coin might be gambled in a single contest, but to have it floating around indefinitely was far too dangerous. No, Crokus would find his luck abandoning him when he needed it most, and it would cost the lad his life.

“No, no,” Kruppe had murmured over his tankard. “Kruppe can’t permit that.” Yet the pattern of success remained elusive. He felt certain he had covered all the potential threats regarding the lad or, rather, someone was doing a good job of protecting Crokus—that much the pattern showed him. He experienced a nagging suspicion that the “someone” wasn’t himself, or any of his agents. And he’d just have to trust in its integrity.

Circle Breaker had come through yet again, and Kruppe was still confident that Turban Orr’s hunt for the man would prove fruitless. The Eel knew how to protect his own. In fact, Circle Breaker was due for retirement—for the man’s own safety—and Kruppe intended to deliver the good news this very night, at Lady Simtal’s Fête. Circle Breaker deserved no less after all these years.

The pattern also told him something he already knew: his cover was blown. The spell he had cast on Murillio wouldn’t last much longer, nor was it required to. Kruppe had wanted his freedom unimpeded this day. After that, well, things would fall as they would fall—and the same applied for his meeting with Baruk.

If anything gave Kruppe pause, it was the pattern’s abrupt ending. Beyond tonight, the future was blank. Clearly, a crux had been reached, and it would turn, he knew, at Lady Simtal’s Fête.

Kruppe now entered the Higher Estates District, with a generous nod at the lone guard stationed near the ramp. The man scowled, but otherwise made no comment. The Fête was set to begin in thirty minutes, and Kruppe planned on being one of the first to arrive. His mouth watered at the thought of all those pastries, fresh and dripping with warm, sweet liquids. He removed his mask from inside his coat and smiled at it. Perhaps, among all those attending, High Alchemist Baruk alone would appreciate the irony of this molded visage. Ah, well, he sighed. One is more than enough, given who that one is. After all, is Kruppe greedy?

His stomach rumbled in answer.

Crokus strained his eyes toward the darkening east. Something like lightning flashed every now and then beyond the hills, each one closer than the last. But the thunder’s rumble, which had begun early that afternoon and still continued, sounded somehow wrong, its timbre unlike the normal bass that rolled through the earth. It seemed almost brittle. The clouds that had appeared over the hill earlier had been an eerie ocher color, sickly, and those clouds now approached the city.

“When are we leaving?” Apsalar asked, leaning on the wall beside him.

Crokus shook himself. “Now. It’s dark enough.”

“Crokus? What will you do if Challice D’Arle betrays you a second time?”

He could barely see her face in the gloom. Had she meant that to cut? It was hard to tell from her voice. “She won’t,” he said, telling himself that he believed it. “Trust me,” and he turned toward the stairwell.