The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (832 page)

Once, long ago now, Tool had stood before his friend, and his friend had not known him, and for the Imass – mortal once more, after thousands upon thousands of years – this had been the source of wry amusement, in the manner of a trickster's game where the final pleasure but awaited revelation of the truth.

Tool, in his unhuman patience, had waited a long time to unveil that revelation. Too long, now. His friend had died, unknowing. The trickster's game had delivered a wound from which, she suspected, her husband might never recover.

And so, she now knew in her heart, there might be other losses on this tragic day. A wife losing her husband. Two daughters losing their adopted father, and one son his true father.

She walked to where Kilava Onass had stationed herself to watch the battle, and it was no small mercy that she had elected not to veer into her Soletaken form, that, indeed, she had left the clans of the White Face Barghast the freedom to do what they did best: kill in a frenzy of explosive savagery.

Hetan saw that Kilava stood near where a lone rider had fallen – killed by the weapons of the K'Chain Che'Malle, she noted. A typically vicious slaying, stirring in her memories of the time when she herself had stood before such terrible creatures, a memory punctuated with the sharp pang of grief for a brother who had fallen that day.

Kilava was ignoring the legless, one-armed body lying ten paces to her left. Hetan's gaze settled upon it in sudden curiosity.

‘Sister,' she said to Kilava – deliberate in her usage of the one title that Kilava most disliked – ‘see how this one wears a mask. Was not the war leader of the Awl so masked?'

‘I imagine so,' Kilava said, ‘since he was named Redmask.'

‘Well,' Hetan said, walking to the corpse, ‘this one is wearing the garb of an Awl.'

‘But he was slain by the K'Chain Che'Malle.'

‘Yes, I see that. Even so…' She crouched down, studied that peculiar mask, the strange, minute scales beneath the spatters of mud. ‘This mask, Kilava, it is the hide of a K'Chain, I would swear it, although the scales are rather tiny—'

‘Matron's throat,' Kilava replied.

Hetan glanced over. ‘Truly?' Then she reached down and tugged the mask away from the man's face. A long look down into those pale features.

Hetan rose, tossing the mask to one side. ‘You were right, it's not Redmask.'

Kilava asked, ‘How do you know that?'

‘Well, Awl garb or not, this man was Letherii.'

 

Hood, High King of Death, Collector of the Fallen, the undemanding master of more souls than he could count – even had he been so inclined, which he was not – stood over the body, waiting.

Such particular attention was, thankfully, a rare occurrence. But some deaths arrived, every now and then, bearing certain…eccentricities. And the one lying below was one such arrival.

Not least because the Wolves wanted his soul, yet would not get it, but also because this mortal had evaded Hood's grasp again and again, even though any would see and understand well the sweet gift the Lord of Death had been offering.

Singular lives, yes, could be most…singular.

Witness that of the one who had arrived a short time earlier. There were no gifts in possessing a simple mind. There was no haze of calming incomprehension to salve the terrible wounds of a life that had been ordained to remain, until the very end, profoundly innocent.

Hood had not begrudged the blood on Beak's hands. He had, however, most succinctly begrudged the heartless actions of Beak's mother and father.

Few mortal priests understood the necessity for redress, although they often spouted the notion in their sermons of guilt, with their implicit extortions that did little more than swell the temple coffers.

Redress, then, was a demand that even a god could not deny. And so it had been with the one named Beak.

And so it was, now, with the one named Toc the Younger.

‘Awaken,' Hood said. ‘Arise.'

And Toc the Younger, with a long sigh, did as Hood commanded.

Standing, tottering, squinting now at the gate awaiting them both. ‘Damn,' Toc muttered, ‘but that's a poor excuse for a gate.'

‘The dead see as they see, Toc the Younger. Not long ago, it shone white with purity.'

‘My heart goes out to that poor, misguided soul.'

‘Of course it does. Come. Walk with me.'

They set out towards that gate.

‘You do this for every soul?'

‘I do not.'

‘Oh.' And then Toc halted – or tried to, but his feet dragged onward – ‘Hold on, my soul was sworn to the Wolves—'

‘Too late. Your soul, Toc the Younger, was sworn to me. Long ago.'

‘Really? Who was the fool who did that?'

‘Your father,' Hood replied. ‘Who, unlike Dassem Ultor, remained loyal.'

‘Which you rewarded by killing him? You bastard piece of pigsh—'

‘You will await him, Toc the Younger.'

‘He lives still?'

‘Death never lies.'

Toc the Younger tried to halt again. ‘Hood, a question – please.'

The god stopped, looked down at the mortal.

‘Hood, why do I still have only one eye?'

The God of Death, Reaper of Souls, made no reply. He had been wondering that himself.

Damned wolves.

Once, long ago, Onrack the broken committed a crime. He had professed his love for a woman in fashioning her likeness on the wall of a cave. There had been such talent in his hands, in his eyes, he had bound two souls into that stone. His own…that was his right, his choice. But the other soul, oh, the selfishness of that act, the cruelty of that theft…

He stood, now, before another wall of stone, within another cave, looking upon the array of paintings, the beasts with every line of muscle, every hint of motion, celebrating their veracity, the accuracy of genius. And in the midst of these great creatures of the world beyond, awkward stick figures, representing the Imass, cavorted in a poor mime of dance. Lifeless as the law demanded. He stood, then, still Broken, still the stealer of a woman's life.

In the darkness of his captivity, long ago, someone had come to him, with gentle hands and yielding flesh. He so wanted to believe that it had been she, the one whose soul he had stolen. But such knowledge was now lost to him; so confused had the memory become, so infused with all that his heart wished to believe.

And, even if it had indeed been she, well, perhaps she had no choice. Imprisoned by his crime, helpless to defy his desire. In his own breaking, he had destroyed her as well.

He reached out, settled fingertips lightly upon one of the images. Ranag, pursued by an ay. In the torch's wavering light both beasts seemed in motion, muscles rippling. In celebrating the world, which held no regrets, the Imass would gather shoulder to shoulder in this cavern, and with their voices they would beat out the rhythm of breaths, the
huffing
of the beasts; while others, positioned in selected concavities, pounded their hands on drums of hollowed-out wood and skin, until the echoes of hoofbeats thundered from all sides.

We are the witnesses. We are the eyes trapped for ever on the outside. We have been severed from the world. And this is at the heart of the law, the prohibition. We create ourselves as lifeless, awkward, apart. Once, we were as the beasts, and there was no inside, no outside. There was only the one, the one world, of which we were its flesh, its bone, flesh little different from grasses, lichens and trees. Bones little different from wood and stone. We were its blood, in which coursed rivers down to the lakes and seas.

We give voice to our sorrow, to our loss.

In discovering what it is to die, we have been cast out from the world.

In discovering beauty, we were made ugly.

We do not suffer in the manner that beasts suffer – for they surely do. We suffer with the memory of how it was before suffering came, and this deepens the wound, this tears open the pain. There is no beast that can match our anguish.

So sing, brothers. Sing, sisters. And in the torch's light, floating free from the walls of our minds – of the caves within us – see all the faces of sorrow. See those who have died and left us. And sing your grief until the very beasts flee.

Onrack the Broken felt the tears on his cheeks, and cursed himself for a sentimental fool.

Behind him, Trull Sengar stood in silence. In humouring a foolish Imass, he was without impatience. Onrack knew he would simply wait, and wait. Until such time as Onrack might stir from his grim memories, recalling once more the gifts of the present. He would—

‘There was great skill in the painting of these beasts.'

The Imass, still facing the stone wall, still with his back to the Tiste Edur, found himself smiling.
So, even here and now, I indulge silly fantasies that are, even if comforting, without much meaning.
‘Yes, Trull Sengar. True talent. Such skill is passed down in the blood, and with each generation there is the potential for…burgeoning. Into such as we see here.'

‘Is the artist among the clans here? Or were these painted long ago, by someone else?'

‘The artist,' Onrack said, ‘is Ulshun Pral.'

‘And is it this talent that has earned him the right to rule?'

No. Never that.
‘This talent,' the Imass replied, ‘is his weakness.'

‘Better than you, Onrack?'

He turned about, his smile now wry. ‘I see some flaws. I see hints of impatience. Of emotion free and savage as the beasts he paints. I see also, perhaps, signs of a talent he had lost and has not yet rediscovered.'

‘How does one lose talent like that?'

‘By dying, only to return.'

‘Onrack,' and there was a new tone to Trull's voice, a gravity that unnerved Onrack, ‘I have spoken with these Imass here. Many of them. With Ulshun himself. And I do not think they ever died. I do not think they were once T'lan, only to have forgotten in the countless generations of existence here.'

‘Yes, they say they are among those who did not join the Ritual. But this cannot be true, Trull Sengar. They must be ghosts, willed into flesh, held here by the timelessness of the Gate at the end of this cave. My friend, they do not know themselves.' And then he paused.
Can this be true?

‘Ulshun Pral says he remembers his mother. He says she is still alive. Although not here right now.'

‘Ulshun Pral is a hundred thousand years old, Trull Sengar. Or more. What he remembers is false, a delusion.'

‘I do not believe that, not any more. I think the mystery here is deeper than any of us realize.'

‘Let us go on,' Onrack said. ‘I would see this Gate.'

They left the chamber of the beasts.

 

Trull was filled with unease. Something had been awakened in his friend – by the paintings – and its taste was bitter. He had seen, in the lines of Onrack's back, his shoulders, a kind of slow collapse. The return of some ancient burden. And, seeing this, Trull had forced himself to speak, to break the silence before Onrack could destroy himself.

Yes. The paintings. The crime. Will you not smile again, Onrack? Not the smile you gave me when you turned to face me just now – too broken, too filled with sorrow – but the smile I have grown to treasure since coming to this realm.

‘Onrack.'

‘Yes?'

‘Do we still know what we are waiting for? Yes, threats approach. Will they come through the Gate? Or from across the hills beyond the camp? Do we know in truth if these Imass are indeed threatened?'

‘Prepare yourself, Trull Sengar. Danger draws close…on all sides.'

‘Perhaps then we should return to Ulshun Pral.'

‘Rud Elalle is with them. There is time yet…to see this Gate.'

Moments later, they came to the edge of the vast, seemingly limitless cavern, and both halted.

Not one Gate.
Many gates.

And all were seething with silent, wild fire.

‘Onrack,' Trull said, unslinging his spear. ‘Best return to Rud Elalle and let him know – this is not what he described.'

Onrack pointed towards a central heap of stones. ‘She has failed. This realm, Trull Sengar, is dying. And when it dies…'

Neither spoke for a moment.

Then Onrack said, ‘I will return quickly, my friend, so that you do not stand alone – against what may come through.'

‘I look forward to your company,' Trull replied. ‘So…hurry.'

 

Forty-odd paces beyond the camp rose a modest hill, stretched out as if it had once been an atoll, assuming the plains had once been under water and that, Hedge told himself as he kicked his way through a ribbon of sand studded with broken shells, was a fair assumption. Reaching the elongated summit, he set down his oversized crossbow near an outcrop of sun-bleached limestone, then walked over to where Quick Ben sat cross-legged, facing the hills two thousand paces to the south.

‘You're not meditating or something, are you?'

‘If I had been,' the wizard snapped, ‘you'd have just ruined it and possibly killed us all.'

‘It's all the posturing, Quick,' Hedge said, flopping down onto the gravel beside him. ‘You turn picking your nose into a Hood-damned ritual, so it gets I just give up on knowing when to talk to you or not.'

‘If that's the case, then don't ever talk to me and we'll both be happy.'

‘Miserable snake.'

‘Hairless rodent.'

The two sat in companionable silence for a time, then Hedge reached out and picked up a shard of dark brown flint. He peered at one serrated edge.

‘What are you doing?' Quick Ben demanded.

‘Contemplating.'

‘Contemplating,' Quick Ben mimed, head wagging from side to side in time with each syllable.

‘I could cut your throat with this. One swipe.'

‘We never did get along, did we? Gods, I can't believe how we hugged and slapped each other on the back, down at that river—'

‘Stream.'

‘Watering hole.'

‘Spring.'

‘Will you please cut my throat now, Hedge?'

The sapper tossed the flint away and dusted his hands with brisk slaps. ‘What makes you so sure the baddies are coming up from the south?'

‘Who says I'm sure of anything?'

‘So we could be sitting in the wrong place. Facing the wrong direction. Maybe everybody's getting butchered right now even as I speak.'

‘Well, Hedge, if you hadn't of interrupted my meditating, maybe I'd have figured out where we should be right now!'

‘Oh, nice one, wizard.'

‘They're coming from the south because it's the best approach.'

‘As what, rabbits?'

‘No, as dragons, Hedge.'

The sapper squinted at the wizard. ‘There always was a smell of Soletaken about you, Quick. We finally gonna see what scrawny beastie you got hiding in there?'

‘That's a rather appalling way of putting it, Hedge. And the answer is: no.'

‘You still feeling shaky?'

The wizard glanced over, his eyes bright and half mad – his normal look, in other words. ‘No. In fact, the very opposite.'

‘How so?'

‘I stretched myself, way more than I'd ever done before. It's made me…nastier.'

‘Really.'

‘Don't sound so impressed, Hedge.'

‘All I know is,' the sapper said, grunting to his feet, ‘when they roll over you, there's just me and an endless supply of cussers. And that suits me just fine.'

‘Don't blast my body to pieces, Hedge.'

‘Even if you're already dead?'

‘Especially then, because I won't be, will I? You'll just think it, because thinking it is convenient, because then you can go wild with your damned cussers until you're standing in a Hood-damned crater
a Hood-damned league across
!'

This last bit had been more or less a shriek.

Hedge continued his squinting. ‘No reason to get all testy,' he said in a hurt tone, then turned and walked back to his crossbow, his beloved lobber. And said under his breath, ‘Oh, this is going to be so much fun, I can't wait!'

‘Hedge!'

‘What?'

‘Someone's coming.'

‘From where?' the sapper demanded, readying a cusser in the cradle of the crossbow.

‘Ha ha. From the south, you bloated bladder of piss.'

‘I knew it,' Hedge said, coming to the wizard's side.

 

She had chosen to remain as she was, rather than veer into her Soletaken form. That would come later. And so she walked across the plain, through the high grasses of the basin. On a ridge directly ahead stood two figures. One was a ghost, but maybe something more than just a ghost. The other was a mage, and without question more than just a mage.

A sliver of disquiet stirred Menandore's thoughts. Quickly swept away. If Rud Elalle had selected these two as allies, then she would accept that. Just as he had recruited the Tiste Edur and the one known as Onrack the Broken. All…complications, but she would not be alone in dealing with them, would she?

The two men watched as she ascended the gentle slope. One was cradling a bizarre crossbow of some kind. The other was playing with a handful of small polished stones, as if trying to choose one as his favourite.

They're fools. Idiots.

And soon, they will both be dust.

She fixed on them her hardest glare as she drew up to the edge of the crest. ‘You two are pathetic. Why stand here – do you know who approaches? Do you know they will come from the south? Meaning that you two will be the first they see. And so, the first they kill.'

The taller, darker-skinned one turned slightly, then said, ‘Here comes your son, Menandore. With Ulshun Pral.' He then frowned. ‘That's a familiar walk…Wonder why I never noticed that before.'

Walk? Familiar walk? He is truly mad.

‘I have summoned them,' she said, crossing her arms. ‘We must prepare for the battle.'

The shorter one grunted, then said, ‘We don't want any company. So pick somewhere else to do your fighting.'

‘I am tempted to crush your skull between my hands,' Menandore said.

‘Doesn't work,' the wizard muttered. ‘Everything just pops back out.'