The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1288 page)

Sinter sat up, and then stood. She studied the sky – and there, to the east. A black cloud, vast and seething, growing. Growing.
Gods below.
‘Everyone!' she shouted. ‘Get under your shields! Take cover! Everyone!'

 

‘Beloved children! Listen to your mother! Hear her words – the words of Crone! We took inside us his flesh! All that we could find! We kept it alive on the blood of sorcery! All for this moment! Rejoice, my sweet children, for the Fallen God is reborn!'

And Crone gave voice to her joy, and on all sides her children, in their tens of thousands, cried out in answer.

The winged K'Chain Che'Malle, clutching its precious prize, was buffeted by the cacophony, and Crone cackled in delight.

Ahead, she could sense the fragments of bone scattered on the knoll – the bones of dozens of people once interred in crypts within the barrow. Would they be enough? There was no choice. The moment had come, and they would take what was available to them. They would make a man. A poor man. A weak man. But a man nonetheless – they would make a home for the god's flesh from these bones, and then fill it with their own blood, and it would have to be enough.

The Great Ravens whirled over the knoll, and then plunged downward.

 

Fiddler threw himself behind the carved stela. The thunder of wings was deafening, crashing down, and the air grew hot and brittle. He felt the stone shuddering against his back.

Something like fists struck the ground, concussive blows coming one after another. He clutched at his head, tried to block his ears, but it was no use. The world had vanished inside a storm of black wings. He was suffocating, and before his eyes small objects were flashing past, converging somewhere close to the sword. Splinters, bleached fragments – bones, pulled into the air, prised loose from tangles of grass and roots. One cut a vicious gouge across the back of his hand and he flinched it under cover.

Who had voiced the warning?

Whoever it had been, it had probably saved their lives.

Except for me – I stayed too close to the sword. I should have gone down lower, with my soldiers. But I held back. I didn't want to see their faces, didn't want to feel this terrible love that takes a commander before battle – love for his soldiers, every one of them, that builds and ever builds, trying to shatter his heart.

My courage failed – and now—

Gu'Rull circled high overhead. He watched as the Great Ravens launched themselves at the knoll, saw the blooms of raw power erupt one after another. The black-winged creatures were sacrificing themselves, one by one, to return their god to living flesh – to make for his soul a mortal house.

One of the birds swung up alongside him and he tracked her with his lower eyes.

‘K'Chain Che'Malle! I am Crone, mother of all these blessed children! You bring a gift!' And she laughed.

Reaching for her mind, Gu'Rull recoiled at the first touch – so alien, so cold in its power.

Crone cackled. ‘Careful! We are anathema in this realm! Heed me well now – your task is not done. Beyond this gift you carry, you will be needed on the morrow. But I tell you this – in your moment of dire need, look again to the skies. Do you understand?

‘I promised a most noble lord. I have sent my sweetest daughter far away, but she will return. You will see – she returns!'

The huge raven banked up closer still. ‘Look below! They are almost all gone. We have waited for this all our lives – do you see what we have made? Do you?'

He did. A figure, sprawled close to the Otataral sword, bound by chains to the earth. But its chest was a gaping hole.

Gu'Rull crooked his wings, plummeted.

Crone followed, cackling madly.

The last of the other ravens plunged into the man's body in a flash of lurid power.

Wings thundering to slow his descent, the Shi'gal landed straddling the man and looked down, appalled at this mockery the Great Ravens had made. Bent bones, twisted muscles, a sickly pallor, the face deformed as if by disease.

The hole in its chest was a pool of black blood, revealing the reflection of Gu'Rull's own elongated face, his glittering eyes.

He took the heart in his hands, slowly crouched, and settled it like a stone in that ragged-edged pit. The blood swallowed it.

Flesh knitted, bones growing like roots.

The K'Chain Che'Malle spread his wings once more, and then lifted skyward.

 

Crone watched from above.
Reborn! Reborn! Look down, all ye souls in the sky – look down upon the one taken from you! He is almost within reach – your lost wandering is soon to end, for his spark of life shall return, his eyes shall open!

Witness, for I am that spark.

He was brought down. He was torn apart. Scattered across the world. He made us to keep him alive – we fed on his corpse, by his will.

Ye souls in the sky – your god did not lose faith. He did not.

As the K'Chain Che'Malle lifted away, Crone swept down, power burgeoning within her. All she had. Eyes fixed on the body below, she loosed one last cry – of triumph – before striking home.

 

One final detonation, of such power as to fling Fiddler away, send him rolling to the very edge of the slope. Gasping, drawing in the suddenly cold night air as the echoes died away, he forced himself on to his hands and knees. Astonished that he still lived.

Silence now swallowed the knoll – but no, as he looked up, he saw marines and heavies stumbling into view, slowly rising to their feet in bludgeoned wonder. The ringing in his ears began to fade, and through the fugue he could now hear their voices.

Pushing himself to his feet, he saw that the half-buried standing stone he had been hiding behind had been pushed almost on to its side by the blast – and all the others ringing the summit were similarly tilted back. On the ground, not a single spear point remained, leaving only scorched earth.

Seeing a figure lying close to the sword, Fiddler staggered forward.

A broken, deformed man.
The Crippled God.

Heavy chains pinned him to the ground.

We'll never break those. Not with that sword. We've done nothing but make him more vulnerable than he has ever been. Now, he can truly be killed.

Perhaps that's a mercy.

Then he saw that the man's eyes were on him.

Fiddler drew closer. ‘I'm sorry,' he said.

But the twisted face softened, and in a frail voice the Crippled God replied, ‘No need. Come near – I am still so…weak. I would tell you something.'

Fiddler walked until he was beside the figure, and then he squatted down. ‘We have water. Food.'

But the god shook his head. ‘In the time when I was nothing but pain, when all that came from me was spite, and the hunger to hurt this world, I saw you Malazans as no better than all the rest. Children of your cruel gods. Their tools, their weapons.' He paused, drew a rattling breath. ‘I should have sensed that you were different – was it not your emperor's champion who defied Hood at the last Chaining? Did he not cry out that what they sought was unjust? Did he not pay terribly for his temerity?'

Fiddler shook his head. ‘I know nothing about any of that, Lord.'

‘When he came to me – your emperor – when he offered me a way out…I was mistrustful. And yet…and yet, what do I see now? Here, standing before me? A Malazan.'

Fiddler said nothing. He could hear conversations from all the slope sides of the barrow, voices raised in wonder, and plenty of cursing.

‘You are not like the others. Why is this? I wish to understand, Malazan. Why is this?'

‘I don't know.'

‘And now you will fight to protect me.'

‘We can't break these chains – she was wrong about that.'

‘No matter, Malazan. If I am to lie here, bound for the rest of days, still – you will fight to defend me.'

Fiddler nodded.

‘I wish I could understand.'

‘So do I,' Fiddler said with a grimace. ‘But, maybe, in the scrap to come, you'll get a… I don't know…a better sense of us.'

‘You are going to die for me, a foreign god.'

‘Gods can live for ever and make real their every desire. We can't. They got powers, to heal, to destroy, even to resurrect themselves. We don't. Lord, to us, all gods are foreign gods.'

The bound man sighed. ‘When you fight, then, I will listen. For this secret of yours. I will listen.'

Suddenly so weary that his legs trembled beneath him, Fiddler shrugged and turned from the chained man. ‘Not long now, Lord,' he said, and walked away.

 

Hedge was waiting, seated on one of the tilted standing stones. ‘Hood take us all,' he said, eyeing Fiddler as he approached. ‘They did it – her allies – they did what she needed them to do.'

‘Aye. And how many people died for that damned heart?'

Cocking his head, Hedge drew off his battered leather cap. ‘Little late to be regretting all that now, Fid.'

‘It was Kellanved – all of this. Him and Dancer. They used Tavore Paran from the very start. They used all of us, Hedge.'

‘That's what gods do, aye. So you don't like it? Fine, but listen to me. Sometimes, what they want – what they need us to do – sometimes it's all right. I mean, it's the right thing to do. Sometimes, it makes us better people.'

‘You really believe that?'

‘And when we're better people, we make better gods.'

Fiddler looked away. ‘It's hopeless, then. We can stuff a god with every virtue we got, it still won't make us any better, will it? Because we're not good with virtues, Hedge.'

‘Most of the time, aye, we're not. But maybe then, at our worst, we might look up, we might see that god we made out of the best in us. Not vicious, not vengeful, not arrogant or spiteful. Not selfish, not greedy. Just clear-eyed, with no time for all our rubbish. The kind of god to give us a slap in the face for being such shits.'

Fiddler sank back down on to the ground. He leaned forward and closed his eyes, hands covering his face. ‘Ever the optimist, you.'

‘When you been dead, everything after that's looking up.'

Fiddler snorted.

‘Listen, Fid. They did it. Now it's our turn. Ours and Tavore's. Who'd have thought we'd even get this far?'

‘Two names come to mind.'

‘Since when didn't their empire demand the best in us, Fid? Since when?'

‘Wrong. It was as corrupt and self-serving as any other. Conquered half the fucking world.'

‘Not quite. World's bigger than that.'

Fiddler sighed, freed one hand to wave it in Hedge's direction. ‘Go get some rest, will you?'

The man rose. ‘Don't want anyone interrupting all that feeling sorry for yourself, huh?'

‘For myself?' Fiddler looked up, shook his head, and his gaze slipped past Hedge, down to where his soldiers were only now settling once again, desperate for sleep.

‘We're not finished yet,' Hedge said. ‘You plan on talking to 'em all? Before it all starts up?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because this is their time, from now to the end. They can do the talking, Hedge. Right now, for me, I'll do the listening. Just like that god back there.'

‘What do you expect to be hearing?'

‘No idea.'

‘It's a good knoll,' Hedge said. ‘Defendable.' And then he departed.

Closing his eyes again, Fiddler listened to the crunch of his boots, until they were gone.
Chains. House of Chains. Us mortals know all about them. It's where we live.

 

Calm could see the rise where she had left him, could see a darker shape low across its summit. The chains of her ancestors still bound him. Distant deaths tracked cold fingers across her skin – Reverence was no more. Diligence was gone. They had lost the heart of the Fallen God.

When a building is so battered and worn that no further repairs are possible, it needs tearing down. As simple as that, now. Their enemies might well stand filled with triumph at this very moment, there on the heights of the Great Spire, with a fresh clean wind coming in from the sea. They might believe that they had won, and that no longer would the Forkrul Assail make hard the fist of implacable justice – to strike at their venal selves, to crush their presumptuous arrogance. They might now imagine that they were free to take the future, to devour this world beast by beast, tree by tree, emptying the oceans and skies of all life.

And if the victory on this day just past tasted of blood, so be it – it was a familiar taste to them, and they were still not weaned from it and perhaps would never be.

But nature had its own weapons of righteousness. Weapons that struck even when none held them. No god, no guiding force or will beyond that of blind destruction was even necessary. All it needed was freedom.