The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1284 page)

There was a look in her eyes that made him wonder if she'd seen right through to his thoughts, if she knew how close she was to being murdered, and simply did not care enough to feel fear. ‘Fist, I was advised when in Aren to leave you in command of the city garrison. Indeed, there was talk of promoting you to the city's Fist, and had that occurred it is possible that you would then be touted to become High Fist, overseeing all of South Seven Cities. I understand that what I have just described would have suited you perfectly. At least until the next uprising.'

Blistig's voice was a rasp, ‘What is the point of this, Adjunct?'

‘However, your proponents – the officers and functionaries in Aren – couldn't see a span beyond their city's walls. They could not imagine that Jhistal Mallick Rel would not rot away the rest of his days in a gaol cell, or lose his head to a pike above the main gate. In other words, they had no comprehension of the extent of the man's influence, how it had already corrupted the Claw, or that his agents were even then positioned within reach of Laseen's throne.

‘Furthermore,' she continued, still studying him, ‘that his hatred for you and your…betrayal at Aren, following Coltaine's fall, pretty much assured your eventual assassination. You may indeed be unaware that between the Fall and my arrival in the city three attempts were made on your life. All of them successfully intercepted, at the cost of four valuable agents.

‘Your transfer to under my command was in fact the only means of keeping you alive, Fist Blistig. The fourth time your life was saved was at Malaz City; had we failed in extricating ourselves you would have been arrested and executed. Now, you may choose to believe that I undertook such efforts because I value you as a commander, and be sure that to this day I remain impressed and admiring of your quick wit and decisiveness when refusing to yield Aren to the rebels. But that was not my primary reason for saving your life. Mallick Rel, High Fist Korbolo Dom and their interests would seek to revise the events at Aren – the outlawing and castigation of the Wickans was but the beginning.

‘Fist Blistig, there are few who know the truth of those events. I saved your life to keep that truth alive.'

He was silent following this speech. A part of him wanted to disbelieve every word, wanted to call her a damned liar, and a self-serving one at that. But…how could any of this be self-serving? She was placing him in command of the centre – probably facing heavy infantry – among Malazan soldiers who despised him. She'd saved his life only to throw it away now, and how did that make sense, any sense at all? ‘Adjunct, are you expecting me to thank you?'

‘The only expectation of any importance, Fist, concerns commanding the centre to the best of your abilities.'

‘They won't follow me.'

‘They will.'

‘Why should they?'

‘Because they will have no one else.'

No one…
‘Where will you be, Adjunct?'

‘I will be facing the Forkrul Assail and their sorcery. I will be fighting the power of their will. I will be preventing it from reaching my soldiers.'

‘But you gave up your damned sword, woman!'

‘There are residual effects to bearing such a weapon, Fist. In any case, none of that is your concern.'

‘Except when you fail. When you fall.'

‘Even then, Fist.'

His eyes narrowed on her. ‘That only works if you take them down with you. Is that the plan, Adjunct? One final sacrifice to defend an army that doesn't even like you? That doesn't want to be here? That doesn't even know what it's supposed to be fighting for? And then you expect me and the other Fists to hold them together? With you dead and gone?'

She cocked her head. ‘You are contradicting yourself.'

He waved a dismissive hand, the gesture chopping the air.

Tavore seemed to flinch slightly at that, but the tone of her next words belied the impression. ‘Maintain your line with the flanks, Fist.'

‘We're going to get cut to pieces.'

Turning away, she reached for her leather gloves. ‘If so, Fist, just make sure you take a long time dying.'

He left without bothering to salute, walked with his helm dangling from one hand.

Three foiled attempts on my life? A corrupted Claw?

Then who did the foiling?

 

Banaschar stood twenty paces away from her tent, motionless while figures moved in measured haste around him, wanting to be a heavy stone in the stream, a place to set a foot and find an instant or two of rest. But his was a lifeless island, until Lostara Yil found him, taking his arm in hers and pulling him round – Henar Vygulf grinning off to one side.

‘What is this?' Banaschar demanded, only vaguely resisting as she led him away – he'd just seen Blistig exit Tavore's tent, his stride echoing that of a lifeless T'lan Imass, and he'd been considering going to the Adjunct again, to see what he could glean of what had taken place between her and the Fist. Instead, he was being pulled away.

And there, ahead, stood a small group of officers. Skanarow. Ruthan Gudd, Raband and Faradan Sort.

Banaschar sought to disengage his arm. ‘You keep forgetting, I'm not actually in this army.'

‘Our last palaver,' said Lostara. ‘Make it mocking, make it solemn, however you like it, Priest. But it will happen, and you will be in attendance.'

‘Why?'

They'd reached the others, and Banaschar saw the expectation in their faces and wanted to hide under a shield.

Ruthan Gudd, fingers combing his beard, was the first to speak. ‘Priest. We've all been given our orders. Will you be at the Adjunct's side through all of this?'

All of what? The dying?
‘I don't know. I doubt it.'

‘Why?' asked Faradan Sort, the word sharp, accusing.

He shrugged. ‘I expect she will be fighting. Eventually.'

Lostara Yil cleared her throat in the silence that followed, and then said, ‘She has ordered me, Henar and Ruthan Gudd to attend to her at all times.'

‘That makes sense,' Banaschar said.

‘It's the Forkrul Assail, isn't it?'

To Lostara's question Banaschar simply shrugged again.

‘She has surrendered her sword, somewhere,' said Faradan Sort. ‘How does she expect to defend herself against the sorcery of the Assail?'

‘I don't know.'

Raband voiced a raw curse and looked ready to leave, but Skanarow shook her head at him and he subsided, scowling.

Lostara caught Banaschar's eye – he could see fear in hers. ‘Priest, I do not think I will again Shadow Dance. Not the way I did before. If she is expecting such a thing from me – perhaps against the Forkrul Assail—'

‘Captain, I don't know what she is expecting,' said Banaschar quietly. ‘You and Ruthan Gudd, you have both shown exceptional abilities. Is that why she wants you close? I imagine that it is, and at the moment of greatest need, will she look to you two? Why wouldn't she?'

‘I can't do it again!'

Banaschar glanced over at Ruthan Gudd. ‘And what of you, Captain? Besieged by the same uncertainties, are you? Or will the gift of the Stormriders reawaken to protect you?'

‘The Adjunct clearly believes that it will,' he replied.

‘Have you told her otherwise, Captain?'

‘It's complicated.'

‘Is it not why you're here?' Banaschar asked. ‘Was this not the reason for their gift?'

The others were studying Ruthan Gudd now, and the man looked decidedly unhappy. ‘It depends. Nobody's ever as forthcoming on these things as one might like. Did they know what was hidden in Kolanse? Probably. Are they interested in…liberation?'

‘Hardly,' growled Faradan Sort, one hand now on the sword belted at her side.

Ruthan Gudd's eyes flicked down to that weapon and his smile was wry when he lifted his gaze to Faradan's. ‘I suspected you had a sound reason for forswearing the Wall.'

‘I fought three links from Greymane.'

Ruthan Gudd nodded but said nothing more.

Breath hissed from Lostara Yil. ‘This isn't fair. Ruthan – do you fear using what the Stormriders gave you?'

‘The Stormriders are not a people given to compromise,' Banaschar said, when it was clear that Ruthan Gudd had no intention of replying. ‘The captain senses the ambivalence in what is to come. And the risk of failure. He anticipates that the power of the Stormriders will, if unleashed, conclude that said risk is too great – with too much to lose should the Adjunct's plan fail.'

Lostara said, ‘Ruthan – do you not
control
that power?'

Finally, the man scowled and said, ‘Ask that of yourself and the Shadow Dance, Lostara Yil.'

‘But that is the will of a god!'

‘And whom do the Stormriders serve? Does anyone even know? You, Faradan? Are they mindless, senseless creatures? You have stood the Wall. Tell her – tell her what you have seen with your own eyes.'

‘They have purpose,' she said slowly. ‘They are driven. More than that, I cannot say.'

‘This is getting us nowhere,' said Raband. ‘The fact is this: you and me, Skanarow, we're in command of our companies. Is there anything more that you and I need know? Then I suggest we head back to our troops and leave the rest of their discussion to our superiors.'

Banaschar watched him dragging Skanarow away by one arm – she threw a look back at Ruthan Gudd but he either did not notice or chose not to, and so did not see the crushing grief take her face.

Sighing, Faradan Sort drew her gauntlets from her belt. ‘Fare you well, captains.'

The priest looked up at the morning sky, squinted at the Jade Strangers.
Never been closer. We only have a day or two. Not more, surely.

‘Cotillion swore to me that he would never again take possession,' said Lostara Yil.

Banaschar shot her a searching look. ‘Too tempting, I imagine?'

‘What's given and what's taken away, Priest.'

He nodded, understanding her meaning.

‘I was expecting to survive all of this,' said Ruthan Gudd. ‘Now I am not so sure.'

‘So you know how the rest of us feel,' snapped Lostara Yil.

But the man simply turned to Banaschar. ‘If you will not be with her, Priest, then where will you be? What is your reason for being here?'

‘There is a question that has been haunting me,' he replied over the sound of the first horns announcing column formation. ‘How does a mortal win over a god? Has it ever happened before, even? Has the old order been overturned? Or is this just…special circumstance? A moment unique in all of history?'

‘You have won the Worm of Autumn to her cause, Priest?'

At Lostara's question, Banaschar frowned. He studied her for a moment, and then glanced at Ruthan Gudd. ‘You look shocked,' he said to him. ‘Is it that I somehow possessed that power? Or is it the very idea that what we do in this mortal world – with our lives, with our will – could make a god kneel before us?' Then he shook his head. ‘But you both misunderstood me. I was not speaking of myself at all. I cannot win over a god, even when I am the last priest in that god's House. Don't you understand? It's her.
She did it
. Not me.'

‘She spoke to your god?'

Banaschar grunted. ‘No, Lostara. She rarely speaks at all – you of all people should know that by now. No. Instead, she simply refused to waver from her path, and by that alone she has humbled the gods. Do you understand me?
Humbled
them.'

Ruthan Gudd shook his head. ‘The gods are too arrogant to ever be humbled.'

‘A year ago, lying drunk on my cot, I would have agreed with you, Captain. So tell me now, will you fight for her?'

His eyes were thinned as he studied Banaschar, and then he said, ‘With all my heart.'

The gasp that came from Lostara was almost a sob.

 

The Bonehunters formed up into column. Alone by express order, the Adjunct mounted her horse and remained motionless on it until the last of the wagons they were taking trundled past, and then she took up her reins and swung the animal to face west.

She could see the worn path taken by the marines and the heavies, angling slightly northward but still on a westerly track. They were already out of sight, vanishing into the deceptive folds of the plain. Her hand brushed the empty scabbard at her side, and then away again. She adjusted the strap of her helm, and looked down to examine her worn, oft-mended Malazan uniform. The burgundy was faded, the grey worn to white in places. The leather of her gloves was cracked, sweat- and salt-stained. The armour bands protecting her thighs had rubbed through the underpadding here and there.

She had clasped her cloak to the fittings situated on the harness over her breastbone, and the black wool hung heavy, drawing her shoulders back. Adjusting its weight until it was even, she straightened and ran a hand across the fittings she could reach, tightening them where needed. Reached up and pushed stray wisps of thin hair from her cheeks.

Guiding her horse round, she nudged the animal into a slow trot.

As she passed her soldiers on her left, the Adjunct held her gaze straight ahead.

Faces turned to watch her.

No one called out. Not a word of encouragement, not a single jest, not a question rising up above the thump of boots and the rustle of gear to which she might respond with a word or two.

She held herself straight, moving slowly, making her way towards the head of the column. And of all the journeys she had undertaken, since the very beginning, this one – from the back of the column to its head – was the longest one she had ever travelled. And, as ever, she travelled it alone.

 

Riding bone-white Jhag horses, the three Forkrul Assail reined in a third of a league ahead of their armies. In their minds, they could hear distant clamour, and they knew that the assault against the Great Spire had begun. But Akhrast Korvalain was trembling with blows from foreign magics, both ancient and new, and so details evaded their questing. The unease drifting between them was, alas, palpable.