The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1196 page)

‘She turned me away.'

Abrastal snorted. ‘You feel slighted? Is that where all this has come from?'

‘Highness.' Krughava's tone hardened. ‘From the very beginning, I saw myself as the reflection of her faith. I would be her one unshakeable ally – sworn to her and her alone, no matter where she would lead us. And I knew that we understood each other. And that as much as I needed her – and what she held inside – she in turn needed
me.
Do you grasp any of this? I was the source of her strength. When her faith faltered, she needed only to look at me.' Krughava held her palms against her face, covering her eyes, and slowly leaned forward. Muffled, she said, ‘She turned me away.'

Spax looked over at Abrastal and met the queen's steady gaze. The Gilk Warchief slowly nodded.

‘You leave me in a difficult position,' Abrastal said. ‘Krughava. If I understand you correctly, it is now your thought that in denying you, the Adjunct has in effect lost her faith. Yet was this not a matter of disposition? Two objectives, not one, and so we are to be divided in strength. And given the nature of the Glass Desert—'

But Krughava was shaking her head behind her hands. ‘Do you truly imagine that she believes she can cross it? With her army?'

Spax loosed a stream of Barghast curses, and then said, ‘What would be the point of that? If she intends suicide – no, her ego cannot be so diabolically monstrous that she'd take all her soldiers with her!'

‘You are yet, I think,' and Krughava's hands fell away as she looked up at him, ‘to acquaint yourself with the third voice in this eternal argument.'

‘What do you speak of?'

‘I speak of despair, sir. Yes, she would will herself and her army across the Glass Desert, but she does so without faith. It is gone, driven away—'

Abrastal said, ‘Sincerely as you may have seen yourself as the true and unshakeable reflection of Tavore's faith, I believe your conviction that Tavore saw you the same way – in those precise terms – is itself an article of faith. This place of despair where you now find yourself is entirely of your own making.'

Krughava shook her head. ‘I have watched it weaken. I have watched its light fade from the world. And I have seen her desperation. We are too few. We are failing. That shining thing, there in her hand, is dying.'

‘Tell me its name,' Abrastal whispered. ‘This argument of yours. You name one side
faith
and another
despair.
Speak to me of what she holds. This failing, dying thing.'

Spax turned to Abrastal in surprise. ‘Why, Firehair, you do not yet know? That which fades from the world? Its name is
compassion.
This is what she holds for the Fallen God. What she holds for us all.'

‘And it is not enough,' Krughava whispered. ‘
Gods below, it is not enough
.'

THE RAMPS HAD BEEN LAID OUT, THE CREWS SINGING AS THEY HEAVED
on the ropes. Columns of black marble, rising in a ring around the glittering mound. The dust in Spindle's mouth tasted like hope, the ache in his shoulders and lower back felt like the promise of salvation.

He had seen her this day and she had been…better. Still a child, really, a sorely used one, and only a bastard would say it had all been for the good. That the finding of faith could only come from terrible suffering. That wisdom was borne on scars. Just a child, dammit, scoured clean of foul addictions, but that look remained, there in her ancient eyes. Knowledge of deadly flavours, a recognition of the self, lying trapped in chains of weakness and desire.

She was the Redeemer's High Priestess. He had taken her in his embrace, and she was the last ever to have known that gift.

The digging around the mound had scurried up offerings by the bucketload. T'lan Imass, mostly. Bits of polished bone, shells and amber beads had a way of wandering down the sides of the barrow. The great plaster friezes they were working on in Coral now held those quaint, curious gifts, there in the elaborate borders surrounding the Nine Sacred Scenes.

Spindle leaned against the water wagon, awaiting his turn with a battered tin cup in one cracked, calloused hand.

He'd been a marine once. A Bridgeburner. He'd trained in military engineering, as much as any Malazan marine had. And now, three months since his return from Darujhistan (and what a mess that had been!) he'd been made a pit captain, but as in his soldiering days he wasn't one to sit back and let everyone else do all the hard work. No, all of this felt…good. Honest.

He'd not had a murderous thought in weeks. Well, days then.

The sun was bright, blistering down on the flood plain. On the west road huge wagons were wending up and down from the quarries. And as for the city to the south…he turned, squinted. Glorious light. Kurald Galain was gone. Black Coral was black no longer.

Gone. The Tiste Andii had vanished, that red dragon with them, leaving everything else behind. Books, treasures, everything. Not a word to anyone, not a single hint. Damned mysterious, but then what was odd about that? They weren't human. They didn't think like humans. In fact—

‘Gods below!'

From the high palace, from the towers, a sudden conflagration, swirling darkness that spread out in roiling clouds, and then broke into pieces.

Shouts from the crews. Fear, alarm. Dread.

Distant cries…raining down.

Spindle was on his knees, the tin cup rolling away from trembling hands. The last time…gods! The last time he'd seen—

Great Ravens filled the sky. Thousands, spinning, climbing, a raucous roar. The sun momentarily vanished behind their vast cloud.

Shivering, his peace shattered, he could feel old tears rising from some deep well inside. He'd thought it sealed. Forgotten. But no. ‘My friends,' he whispered. ‘The tunnels…oh, my heart, my heart…'

Great Ravens, pouring out from the high places of the city, winging ever higher, massing, drifting out over the bay.

‘Leaving. They're leaving.'

And as they swarmed above the city, as they boiled out over the sea to the east, a hundred horrid, crushing memories wheeled into Spindle, and there took roost.

Only a bastard would say it had all been for the good. That the finding of faith could only come from terrible suffering. That wisdom was borne on scars. Only a bastard.

He knelt.

And as only a soldier could, he wept.

 

Something had drawn Banaschar to the small crowd of soldiers. It might have been curiosity; at least, that was how it must have looked, but the truth was that his every motion now, from one place to next, was his way of fleeing.
Fleeing the itch. The itch of temple cellars, of all that had been within my reach. If I could have known. Could have guessed.

The Glass Desert defied him. That perfect luxury that was a drunk's paradise, all that endless wine that cost him not a single coin, was gone.
I am damned now. As I swore to Blistig, as I said to them all, sobriety has come to pass for poor old Banaschar. Not a drop in his veins, not a hint upon his fevered breath. Nothing of the man he was.

Except for the itch.

The soldiers – regulars, he thought – were gathered about an overturned boulder. They'd been rolling it to pin down a corner of the kitchen tent. There'd been something hiding under it.

Banaschar edged in for a look.

A worm, coiled in sleep, though it had begun to stir, lifting a blind head. Long as an eel from Malaz Harbour, but there the similarity ended. This one had mouths all over it.

‘Can't say I like the look of that thing,' one of the soldiers was saying.

‘Looks slow,' observed another.

‘You just woke it up. It crawls by day, is my guess. All those hungry mouths… Hood's breath, we better turn all the rocks in camp. The thought of lying down to sleep with them out hunting whatever…'

Someone glanced up and noticed Banaschar. ‘Look, that useless priest of D'rek's here. What, come for a look at your baby?'

‘Myriad are the forms of the Autumn Worm—'

‘What's that? A myrid worm, y'say?'

‘I've seen the like,' Banaschar said, silencing them all.
In my dreams. When the itch turns to something that bites. That chews and gnaws and I can't see it, can't find it. When I scream in the night.
‘That was good advice,' he added. ‘Scour the camp – spread the word. Find them. Kill them all.'

A boot heel slammed down.

The worm writhed, and then uncoiled and lifted its head as would a spitting serpent.

Soldiers backed away, swearing.

Banaschar was jostled to one side. Iron flashed, a sword blade descending, slicing the worm in two. He looked up to see Faradan Sort. She glowered at the ring of soldiers. ‘Stop wasting time,' she snapped. ‘The day grows hotter, soldiers. Get this done and then find some shade.'

The two sections of the worm had squirmed until contacting one another, at which point they constricted in mortal battle.

Someone threw a coin down, puffing dust. ‘The shorter myrid.'

‘I'll see you on that.' A second coin landed near the first one.

Faradan Sort's sword lashed down, again and again, until bits of worm lay scattered glistening in the white dust. ‘Now,' she said, ‘the next bet I hear placed – on anything – will see the fool hauling water from here to the Eastern Ocean. Am I understood? Good. Now get to work, all of you.'

As they hurried off, the Fist turned to Banaschar, studied him critically. ‘You look worse than usual, Priest. Find some shade—'

‘Oh, the sun is my friend, Fist.'

‘Only a man with no friends would say that,' she replied, eyes narrowed. ‘You're scorched. There will be pain – I suggest you seek out a healer.'

‘I appreciate your advice, Fist. Do I anticipate pain today? I do. In fact, I think I welcome it.'

He saw a flash of disgust. ‘Gods below, you're better than that.'

‘Am I? Nice of you to say so.'

Faradan Sort hesitated, as if about to say something more, but then she turned away.

He watched her making her way deeper into the camp of the regulars, where soldiers now hurried about, dislodging rocks with knives and short swords in hand. Blades flashed and curses sounded.

The exhaustion of this place left him appalled. Shards of crystal born in screams of pressure, somewhere far below, perhaps, and then driven upward, slicing through the skin of the earth. Looking round, he imagined the pain of all that, the unyielding will behind such forces. He lifted his gaze, stared into the east where the sun edged open like a lizard's eye. ‘Something,' he whispered, ‘died here. Someone…' The shock had torn through this land. And the power unleashed, in that wild death, had delivered such a wound upon the Sleeping Goddess that she must have cried out in her sleep.
They killed her flesh. We walk upon her dead flesh. Crystals like cancer growing on all sides.

He resumed his wandering, the itch biting at his heels.

 

Fist Blistig pushed his way past the crowd and entered the tent.
Gods below.
‘Everyone out. Except for the quartermaster.' The mob besieging Pores, where he sat behind a folding table, quickly departed, with more than one venomous look cast at the clean-shaven man now leaning back on his stool. Brows lifting, he regarded Blistig.

The Fist turned and dropped the tent flap. He faced Pores. ‘Lieutenant. Master-Sergeant. Quartermaster. Just how many ranks and titles do you need?'

‘Why, Fist Blistig, I go where necessity finds me. Now, what can I do for you, sir?'

‘How much water did we go through last night?'

‘Too much, sir. The oxen and horses alone—'

‘By your reckoning, how many days can we go without resupply?'

‘Well now, Fist, that depends.'

Blistig scowled. ‘All the soldiers who were in here, Pores – what were they doing?'

‘Petitioning, sir. Needless to say, I have had to refuse them all. It is quickly becoming apparent that water is acquiring a value that beggars gold and diamonds. It has, in short, become the currency of survival. And on that matter, I am glad you're here, Fist Blistig. I foresee a time – not far off – when begging turns to anger, and anger to violence. I would like to request more guards on the water wagons—'

‘Are you rationing?'

‘Of course, sir. But it's difficult, since we don't seem to have any reliable information on how many days it will take to cross this desert. Or, rather, nights.' Pores hesitated, and then he leaned forward. ‘Sir, if you were to approach the Adjunct. The rumour is, she has a map. She knows how wide this damned desert is, and she's not telling. Why is she not telling? Because—'

‘Because it's too far,' Blistig growled.

Lifting his hands in a just-so gesture, Pores leaned back. ‘My carefree days are over, sir. This is now in deadly earnest.'

‘You have the right of that.'

‘Did the Adjunct send you, Fist? Have you been requested to make a report on our provisions? If so, I have a tally here—'

‘How many days before we're out of water?' Blistig demanded.

‘At fullest rationing, and allowing for the beasts of burden, about five.'

‘And without the animals?'

‘Without the oxen at least, we'd end up having to pull the wagons ourselves – hard work, thirsty work. I cannot be certain, but I suspect any gains would be offset by the increased consumption among the pull-crews—'

‘But that would diminish over time, would it not? As the barrels emptied.'

‘True. Fist, is this the Adjunct's command? Do we slaughter the oxen? The horses?'

‘When that order comes, soldier, it will not be going through you. I am prepared to strengthen the guard around the wagons, Pores.'

‘Excellent—'

‘Reliable guards,' Blistig cut in, fixing Pores with his eyes.

‘Of course, sir. How soon—'

‘You are to set aside a company's supply of water, Quartermaster. Initial the barrels with my sigil. They are to be breached only upon my personal command, and the portions will be allotted to the names on the list you will be given. No deviation.'

Pores's gaze had narrowed. ‘A company's allotment, Fist?'

‘Yes.'

‘And should I assume, sir, that your extra guards will be taking extra care in guarding those barrels?'

‘Are my instructions clear, Quartermaster?'

‘Aye, Fist. Perfectly clear. Now, as to disposition. How many extra guards will you be assigning?'

‘Ten should do, I think.'

‘Ten? In a single shift of rounds they'd be hard pressed to keep an eye on five wagons, sir, much less the scores and scores—'