The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (747 page)

As the Tiste Edur then whirled to advance on the winded Letherii, Seren Pedac stepped into his path. ‘Stop. Please, Fear. Yes, I know he deserved it. But…stop.'

Udinaas had managed to sit up, Kettle crouching down at his side and trying to wipe the smears of mud from his face. He coughed, then said, ‘That will be the last time I compliment you, Fear.'

Seren turned on the ex-slave. ‘That was a rather vicious compliment, Udinaas. And I second your own advice – don't say anything like that again. Ever. Not if you value your life—'

Udinaas spat grit and blood, then said, ‘Ah, but now we've stumbled into a dark room indeed. And, Seren Pedac, you are not welcome there.' He pushed himself upright. ‘You have been warned.' Then he looked up, one hand settling on Kettle's shoulder. His eyes, suddenly bright, avid, scanned Seren, Fear, and then moved up the trail, to where Silchas Ruin and Clip now stood side by side, regarding those downslope. ‘Here's a most telling question – the kind few dare utter, by the way. Which one among us, friends, is
not
haunted by a death wish? Perhaps we ought to discuss mutual suicide…'

No-one spoke for a half-dozen heartbeats. Until Kettle said, ‘I don't want to die!'

Seren saw the ex-slave's bitter smile crumble, a sudden collapse into undeniable grief, before he turned away.

‘Trull was blind to his own truth,' Fear said to her in a quiet voice. ‘I was there, Acquitor. I know what I saw.'

She refused to meet his eyes.
Expedience. How could such a warrior proclaim his love for me? How could he even believe he knew me enough for that?

And why can I see his face as clear in my mind as if he stood here before me? I am haunted indeed. Oh, Udinaas, you were right. Fear is an honourable man, so honourable as to break all our hearts.

But, Fear, there is no value in honouring one who is dead.

‘Trull is dead,' she said, stunning herself with her own brutality as she saw Fear visibly flinch. ‘He is dead.'
And so am I. There is no point in honouring the dead. I have seen too much to believe otherwise. Grieve for lost potential, the end of possibilities, the eternally silent demise of promise. Grieve for that, Fear Sengar, and you will understand, finally, how grief is but a mirror, held close to one's own face.

And every tear springs from the choices we ourselves did not make.

When I grieve, Fear, I cannot even see the bloom of my own breath – what does that tell you?

They resumed walking. Silent.

 

A hundred paces above the group, Clip spun his chain and rings. ‘What was all that about?' he asked.

‘You have lived in your tidy cave for too long,' the white-skinned Tiste Andii said.

‘Oh, I get out often enough. Carousing in Bluerose – the gods know how many bastards have been brewed by my seed. Why—'

‘One day, Mortal Sword,' Silchas Ruin interrupted, ‘you will discover what cuts deeper than any weapon of iron.'

‘Wise words from the one who smells still of barrows and rotting cobwebs.'

‘If the dead could speak, Clip, what would they tell you?'

‘Little, I expect, beyond complaints about this and that.'

‘Perhaps, then, that is all you deserve.'

‘Oh, I lack honour, do I?'

‘I am not sure what you lack,' Silchas Ruin replied, ‘but I am certain I will comprehend before we are done.'

Rings and chain snapped taut. ‘Here they come. Shall we continue onward and upward?'

 

There was so much that Toc the Younger – Anaster, Firstborn of the Dead Seed, the Thrice-blinded, Chosen by the Wolf Gods, the Unlucky – did not wish to remember. His other body for one; the body he had been born into, the first home to his soul. Detonations against Moon's Spawn above the doomed city of Pale, fire and searing, blazing heat –
oh, don't stand there
. Then that damned puppet, Hairlock, delivering oblivion, wherein his soul had found a rider, another force – a wolf, one-eyed and grieving.

How the Pannion Seer had lusted for its death. Toc recalled the cage, that spiritual prison, and the torment as his body was broken, healed, then broken yet again, a procession seemingly without end. But these memories and pain and anguish persisted as little more than abstract notions. Yet, mangled and twisted as that body had been,
at least it was mine
.

Strip away years, course sudden in new blood, feel these strange limbs so vulnerable to cold. To awaken in another's flesh, to start against muscle memories, to struggle with those that were suddenly gone. Toc wondered if any other mortal soul had ever before staggered this tortured path. Stone and fire had marked him, as Tool once told him. To lose an eye delivers the gift of preternatural sight. And what of leaving a used-up body for a younger, healthier one?
Surely a gift – so the wolves desired, or was it Silverfox?

But wait. A closer look at this Anaster – who lost an eye, was given a new one, then lost it yet again. Whose mind – before it was broken and flung away – was twisted with terror, haunted by a mother's terrible love; who had lived the life of a tyrant among cannibals – oh yes, look closely at these limbs, the muscles beneath, and remember – this body has grown with the eating of human flesh. And this mouth, so eager with its words, it has tasted the succulent juices of its kin – remember that?

No, he could not.

But the body can. It knows hunger and desire on the battlefield – walking among the dead and dying, seeing the split flesh, the jutting bones, smelling the reek of spilled blood – ah, how the mouth waters.

Well, everyone had his secrets. And few are worth sharing.
Unless you enjoy losing friends.

He rode apart from the train, ostensibly taking an outrider flank, as he had done as a soldier, long ago. The Awl army of Redmask, fourteen thousand or so warriors, half again as many in the trailing support train – weaponsmiths, healers, horsewives, elders, old women, the lame and the once-born children, and, of course, twenty or so thousand rodara. Along with wagons, travois, and almost three thousand herd dogs and the larger wolf-hunters the Awl called dray. If anything could trigger cold fear in Toc it was these beasts. Too many by far, and rarely fed, they ranged in packs, running down every creature on the plains for leagues around.

But let us not forget the K'Chain Che'Malle.
Living, breathing ones. Tool – or perhaps it was Lady Envy – had told him that they had been extinct for thousands of years – tens, hundreds of thousands, even. Their civilization was dust.
And wounds in the sky that never heal; now there's a detail worth remembering, Toc.

The huge creatures provided Redmask's bodyguard at the head of the vanguard – no risk of assassination, to be sure. The male – Sag'Churok – was a K'ell Hunter, bred to kill, the elite guard of a Matron.
So where is the Matron? Where is his Queen?

Perhaps it was the young female in the K'ell's company. Gunth Mach. Toc had asked Redmask how he had come to know their names, but the war leader had refused him an answer. Reticent bastard.
A leader must have his secrets, perhaps more so than anyone else. But Redmask's secrets are driving me mad. K'Chain Che'Malle, for Hood's sake!

Outcast, the young warrior had journeyed into the eastern wastelands. So went the tale, although after that initial statement it was a tale that in truth went nowhere, since virtually nothing else was known of Redmask's adventures during those decades –
yet at some point, this man donned a red-scaled mask. And found himself flesh and blood K'Chain Che'Malle. Who did not chop him to pieces. Who somehow communicated to him their names. Then swore allegiance. What is it, then, about this story that I really do not like?

How about all of it.

The eastern wastelands. A typical description for a place the name-givers found inhospitable or unconquerable.
We can't claim it so it is worthless, a wasted land, a wasteland. Hah, and you thought us without imaginations!

Haunted by ghosts, or demons, the earth blasted, where every blade of grass clings to a neighbour in abject terror. The sun's light is darker, its warmth colder. Shadows are smudged. Water brackish and quite possibly poisonous. Two-headed babies are common. Every tribe needed such a place. For heroic war leaders to wander into on some fraught quest rife with obscure motivations that could easily be bludgeoned into morality tales.
And, alas, this particular tale is far from done. The hero needs to return, to deliver his people. Or annihilate them.

Toc had his memories, a whole battlefield's worth, and as the last man left standing he held few illusions of grandeur, either as witness or as player.
So this lone eye cannot help but look askance. Is it any wonder I've taken to poetry?

The Grey Swords had been cut to pieces. Slaughtered. Oh, they'd yielded their lives in blood enough to pay the Hound's Toll, as the Gadrobi were wont to say. But what had their deaths meant?
Nothing. A waste.
Yet here he rode, in the company of his betrayers.

Does Redmask offer redemption? He promises the defeat of the Letherii – but they were not our enemies, not until we agreed the contract. So, what is redeemed? The extinction of the Grey Swords? Oh, I need to twist and bend to bind those two together, and how am I doing thus far?

Badly. Not a whisper of righteousness – no crow croaks on my shoulder as we march to war.

Oh, Tool, I could use your friendship right now. A few terse words on futility to cheer me up.

Twenty myrid had been killed, gutted and skinned but not hung to drain their blood. The cavities where their organs had been were stuffed solid with a local tuber that had been sweated on hot stones. The carcasses were then wrapped in hides and loaded into a wagon that was kept apart from all the others in the train.
Redmask's plans for the battle to come. No more peculiar than all the others. The man has spent years thinking on this inevitable war. That makes me nervous.

Hey, Tool, you'd think after all I've been through, I'd have no nerves left. But I'm no Whiskeyjack. Or Kalam. No, for me, it just gets worse.

Marching to war. Again. Seems the world wants me to be a soldier.

Well, the world can go fuck itself.

 

‘A haunted man,' the elder said in his broken growl as he reached up and scratched the savage red scar marring his neck. ‘He should not be with us. Fey in darkness, that one. He dreams of running with wolves.'

Redmask shrugged, wondering yet again what this old man wanted with him. An elder who did not fear the K'Chain Che'Malle, who was so bold as to guide his ancient horse between Redmask and Sag'Churok.

‘You should have killed him.'

‘I do not ask for your advice, Elder,' Redmask said. ‘He is owed respite. We must redeem our people in his eyes.'

‘Pointless,' the old man snapped. ‘Kill him and we need redeem ourselves to no-one. Kill him and we are free.'

‘One cannot flee the past.'

‘Indeed? That belief must taste bitter for one such as you, Redmask. Best discard it.'

Redmask slowly faced the man. ‘Of me, Elder, you know nothing.'

A twisted smile. ‘Alas, I do. You do not recognize me, Redmask. You should.'

‘You are Renfayar – my tribe. You share blood with Masarch.'

‘Yes, but more than that. I am old. Do you understand? I am the oldest among our people, the last one left…who was there, who remembers. Everything.' The smile broadened, revealing rotted teeth, a pointed red – almost purple – tongue. ‘I know your secret, Redmask. I know what she meant to you, and
I know why
.' The eyes glittered, black and red-rimmed. ‘You had best fear me, Redmask. You had best heed my words – my advice. I shall ride your shoulder, yes? From this moment on, until the very day of battle. And I shall speak with the voice of the Awl, my voice the voice of their souls. And know this, Redmask: I shall not countenance their betrayal. Not by you, not by that one-eyed stranger and his bloodthirsty wolves.'

Redmask studied the old man a moment longer, then fixed his gaze ahead once more.

A soft, ragged laugh at his side, then, ‘You dare say nothing. You dare do nothing. I am a dagger hovering over your heart. Do not fear me – there is no need, unless you intend evil. I wish you great glory in this war. I wish the end of the Letherii, for all time. Perhaps such glory shall come by your hand – together, you and I, let us strive for that, yes?'

A long moment of silence.

‘Speak, Redmask,' the elder growled. ‘Lest I suspect defiance.'

‘An end to the Letherii, yes,' Redmask finally said, in a grating voice. ‘Victory for the Awl.'

‘Good,' grunted the old man. ‘Good.'

 

The magic world had ended abruptly, an ending as sudden as the slamming of a trunk lid – a sound that had always shocked her, frozen her in place. Back in the city, that place of reeks and noise, there had been a house steward, a tyrant, who would hunt down slave children who had, in his words, disappointed him. A night spent in the musty confines of the bronze box would teach them a thing or two, wouldn't it?

Stayandi had spent one such night, enclosed in cramped darkness, two months or so before the slaves joined the colonists out on the plain. The solid clunk of the lid had truly seemed, then, the end of the world. Her shrieks had filled the close air of the trunk until something broke in her throat, until every scream was naught but a hiss of air.

Since that time, she had been mute, yet this had proved a gift, for she had been selected to enter the Mistress's domain as a handmaiden in training. No secrets would pass her lips, after all. And she would have been there still, if not for the homesteading.