The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1299 page)

‘But I—' Fiddler turned to Hedge, saw the man's blank look. ‘Oh, never mind,' he sighed, facing his soldiers again. ‘All of you, go down – take Sweetlard and Rumjugs with you. I'll…I'll be down shortly.'

He watched them walk away. He knew their thoughts – the emptiness now overtaking them. Which would in the days and nights ahead slowly fill with grief, until they were all drowning. Fiddler looked back up at the sky. The Jade Strangers looked farther away. He knew that was impossible. Too soon for that. Still…

A faint wind swept across the summit, cool and dry.

‘Now,' said Hedge.

Fiddler thought he heard horses, drawing up, and then three figures were climbing into view. Ghostly, barely visible to his eyes – he could see through them all.

Whiskeyjack. Trotts. Mallet.

‘Aw, shit,' said Kalam, kicking at a discarded helm. It spun, rolled down the hillside.

Whiskeyjack regarded him. ‘Got something to say, Assassin?'

And the man suddenly grinned. ‘It stinks, sir, from here to the throne.'

The ghost nodded, and then squinted westward for a moment before turning to Hedge. ‘Well done, soldier. It was a long way back. You ready for us now?'

Fiddler felt something crumble inside him.

Hedge drew off his tattered leather cap, scratched at the few hairs left on his mottled scalp. ‘That depends, sir.'

‘On what?' Whiskeyjack demanded, eyes fixing hard on the sapper.

Hedge glanced over at Fiddler. ‘On him, sir.'

And Fiddler knew what he had to say. ‘I let you go long ago, Hedge.'

‘Aye. But that was then and this isn't. You want me to stay? A few more years, maybe? Till it's your time, I mean?'

If he spoke at all, Fiddler knew that he would lose control. So he simply nodded.

Hedge faced Whiskeyjack. ‘Not yet, sir. Besides, I was talking with my sergeants just the other day. About buying us a bar, back in Malaz City. Maybe even Smiley's.'

Fiddler shot the man a glare. ‘But no one can find it, Hedge. Kellanved went and hid it.'

‘Kitty-corner to the Deadhouse, that's where it is. Everyone knows, Fid.'

‘But they can't find it, Hedge!'

The man shrugged. ‘I will.'

‘Fiddler,' Whiskeyjack said. ‘Pay attention now. Our time is almost done here – sun's soon to rise, and when it does, we will have left this world for the last time.' He gestured and Mallet stepped forward, carrying a satchel. He crouched down and removed the straps, and then drew out a fiddle. Its body was carved in swirling Barghast patterns. Seeing that, Fiddler looked up at Trotts. The warrior grinned, showing his filed teeth.

‘I did that, Fid. And that mistake there, up near the neck, that was Hedge's fault. He tugged my braid. Blame him. I do.'

Mallet carefully set the instrument down, placing the bow beside it. The healer glanced up, almost shyly. ‘We all had a hand in its making, Fid. Us Bridgeburners.'

‘Take it,' ordered Whiskeyjack. ‘Fiddler, you were the best of us all. You still are.'

Fiddler looked over at Quick Ben and Kalam, saw their nods, and then at Hedge, who hesitated, as if to object, and then simply shrugged. Fiddler met Whiskeyjack's ethereal eyes. ‘Thank you, sir.'

The ghost then surprised him by stepping forward, reaching down and touching the fiddle. Straightening, he walked past them, to stand facing the lowland to the west.

Fiddler stared after him, frowning.

Sighing, Hedge spoke low at his side. ‘She's out there, sembled now – they're keeping their distance. They're not sure what's happened here. By the time she comes, it'll be too late.'

‘Who? By the time who comes?'

‘The woman he loves, Fid. Korlat. A Tiste Andii.'

Tiste Andii. Oh…no.

Hedge's grunt was strained with emotion. ‘Aye, the sergeant's luck ain't never been good. He's got a long wait.'

But wait he will.

Then he caught a blur of motion from a nearby jumble of boulders. A woman, watching them.

Fiddler hugged himself, looked over once more at Mallet and Trotts. ‘Take care of him,' he whispered.

They nodded.

And then Whiskeyjack was marching past. ‘Time to leave, you two.'

Mallet reached down and touched the fiddle before turning away. Trotts stepped past him, squatted and did the same.

Then they were down over the edge of the hill.

Moments later, Fiddler heard horses – but in the gloom he could not see his friends riding away.

A voice spoke beside Cotillion. ‘Well done.'

The patron god of assassins looked down at the knives still in his hands. ‘I don't like failure. Never did, Shadowthrone.'

‘Then,' and the ethereal form at his side giggled, ‘we're not quite finished, are we?'

‘Ah. You knew, then.'

‘Of course. And this may well shock you, but I approve.'

Cotillion turned to him in surprise. ‘I knew you had a heart in there somewhere.'

‘Don't be an idiot. I just appreciate…symmetry.'

Together they turned back to face the barrow once again, but now the ghosts were gone.

Shadowthrone thumped his cane on the ground. ‘Among all the gods,' he said, ‘who do you think now hates us the most?'

‘The ones still alive, I should imagine.'

‘We're not done with them either.'

Cotillion nodded towards the barrow. ‘They were something, weren't they?'

‘With them we won an empire.'

‘I sometimes wonder if we should ever have given it up.'

‘Bloody idealist. We needed to walk away. Sooner or later, no matter how much you put into what you've made, you have to turn and walk away.'

‘Shall we, then?'

And the two gods set out, fading shadows as the dawn began to awaken.

 

Toc Younger had waited astride his horse, halfway between the motionless ranks of the Guardians and Whiskeyjack and his two soldiers. He had watched the distant figures gathering on the barrow's gnarled summit. And now the three ghostly riders were returning the way they had come.

When they reached him, Whiskeyjack waved Mallet and Trotts on and then reined in.

He drew his mount round, to face the barrow one last time.

Toc spoke. ‘That was some squad you had yourself there, sir.'

‘My life was blessed with fortune. It's time,' he said, drawing his horse round. He glanced across at Toc. ‘Ready, Bridgeburner?'

They set out side by side.

And then Toc shot Whiskeyjack a startled look. ‘But I'm not a—'

‘You say something, soldier?'

Mute, Toc shook his head.

Gods below, I made it.

In the luminescent sky high above the plain, Gu'Rull sailed on the currents, wings almost motionless. The Shi'gal Assassin studied the world far below. Scores of dragon carcasses were strewn round the barrow, and there, leading off into the west as far as Gu'Rull's eyes could see, a road of devastation almost a league wide, upon which were littered the bodies of Eleint. Hundreds upon hundreds.

The Shi'gal struggled to comprehend the Otataral Dragon's ordeal. The flavours that rose within him threatened to overwhelm him.

I still taste the echoes of her pain.

What is it in a life that can prove so defiant, so resilient in the face of such wilful rage? Korabas, do you crouch now in your cave – gift of a god wounded near unto death – closing about your wounds, your sorrow, as if in the folding of wings you could make the world beyond vanish? And with it all the hate and venom, and all that so assailed you in your so-few moments of freedom?

Are you alone once more, Korabas?

If to draw close to you would not kill me – if I could have helped you in those blood-filled skies, upon that death-strewn road – I would join you now. To bring to an end your loneliness.

But all I can do is circle these skies. Above the ones who summoned you, who fought to free a god, and to save your own life.

Those ones, too, I do not understand.

These humans have much to teach the K'Chain Che'Malle.

I, Gu'Rull, Shi'gal Assassin of Gunth'an Wandering, am humbled by all that I have witnessed. And this feeling, so strange, so new, now comes to me in the sweetest flavours imaginable.

I did not know.

 

Settling the last stone down on the elongated pile, Icarium brushed dust from his hands and slowly straightened.

Ublala – with Ralata sitting nearby – watched the warrior walk to the edge of the hill, watched as Icarium dislodged a small rock and sent it rolling down the slope. And then he looked back at the barrow, and then at Ublala. The morning was bright but there were clouds building to the east and the wind carried the promise of rain.

‘It is as you said, friend?'

Ublala nodded.

Icarium wiped at the tears still streaming down his face from when he'd wept over the grave. But the look on his face wasn't filled with grief any more. Just empty now. Lost. ‘Ublala, is this all there is of me?' He gestured vaguely. ‘Is this all there is to
any
of us?'

The Toblakai shrugged. ‘I am Ublala Pung and that is all I ever am, or was. I don't know if there's more. I never do.'

Icarium studied the grave again. ‘He died defending me.'

‘Yes.'

‘But I don't know who he was!'

Ublala shrugged again. There was no shame in weeping for the death of a stranger. Ublala had done it many times. He reached down, picked up a potsherd, examined the sky-blue glaze. ‘Pretty,' he said under his breath, tucking it behind his belt.

Icarium collected up his weapons, and then faced north. ‘I feel close this time, Ublala.'

Ublala thought to ask close to what, but already he was confused, and so he put the question away. He didn't think he'd ever go back to find it. It was where all the other troubling things went, never to be gone back to, ever.

‘I am glad you found a woman to love, friend,' Icarium said.

The giant warrior smiled over at Ralata and received a stony stare in return, reminding him how she'd said she liked it better when it was just the two of them. But she was a woman and once he sexed her again, everything would be all right. That's how it worked.

When Icarium set out, Ublala collected up the useful sack he'd found, shouldered it, and went to join the warrior.

Ralata caught up a short time later, just before Icarium happened to glance at the pottery fragment Ublala had taken out to admire again, and then halted to face one last time the low hill they'd left behind. Icarium frowned and was silent.

Ublala was ready to turn away when Icarium said, ‘Friend, I have remembered something.'

THIS HAD, IN THE END, BEEN A WAR OF LIBERATION. KOLANSII CITIZENS
had emerged from the city, and after five days of hard labour the vast trenches, revetments and redoubts had been transformed into long barrows. Three such barrows now stood to mark the Battle of Blessed Gift, where the Letherii, Bolkando, Gilk and Teblor had fought the army of Brother Diligence; and at the foot of the fissured ruin of the Spire, three large barrows of raw earth rose to commemorate the fallen Imass, Jaghut, K'Chain Che'Malle and Kolansii, with one smaller mound holding the remains of two Malazans. And it was at this last place that figures now gathered.

Remaining at a respectful distance, close to the now-abandoned work camps of the diggers, Lord Nimander stood with Korlat and his uncle, Silchas Ruin. Along with Skintick and Desra, and Apsal'ara, they had accompanied the troops commanded by Captain Fiddler on this long, tedious journey to the coast.

It was not hard to mourn the death of brave men and women. Nor even reptilian soldiers bred for war. There was no shame in the tears that ran from Nimander's face when he came to learn of the slaughter of the Imass in the moment of their rebirth. The survivors had departed some days ago now, into the north – seeking their leader, he had been told, whose fate after the battle remained unknown.

And the brother of his father, standing now at his side, had grieved over the destruction of an old friend, Tulas Shorn, in the draconic War of Awakening. The sword strapped to Silchas Ruin's hip still held bound to its blade the souls of three surviving Eleint from Kurald Emurlahn. The details of this binding were still unclear to Nimander, and his uncle seemed to be a man of few words.

More rain threatened from the east, and Nimander watched the dark grey wall of clouds drawing ever closer. He glanced over at Korlat. Something had awakened her own grief, and it had struck deep in the Sister of Cold Nights. And as the distant figures now closed about the small barrow, he saw her take a half-step forward and then halt.

‘Korlat,' said Nimander.

She caught herself, turned to him wretched eyes. ‘Lord?'

‘It is not our place to intrude upon them at this time.'

‘I understand.'

‘But I believe it is nevertheless fitting that we convey our respect and honour in some fashion. I wonder, could I ask you, Sister of Cold Nights, to represent us by attending their ceremonies on our behalf?'

Something was released from her face, suddenly softening it, awakening once more her extraordinary beauty. She bowed to him. ‘Lord, I shall go at once.'

Nimander watched her make her way towards the ceremony.

Beside him, Silchas Ruin said, ‘She was ever favoured by your father, Lord.'

‘Silchas, she gave her heart to a human, a Malazan, who died in the conquest of Black Coral.'

The white-skinned man was silent for a moment, and then said, ‘He must have been…formidable.'

‘I imagine so.'

‘My experience with these Malazans has thus far been brief – I recognize the uniforms from my…attempt on Letheras. To say that they have earned my respect is something of an understatement. I would not willingly cross them again.'

Nimander looked at his uncle, wondering.

 

Tentative, weakened by a sudden feeling of temerity, Korlat's steps slowed when she was still forty or more paces away from the gathering of dignitaries. Off to her left, assembled in formation, stood the ranks of Malazans – the army known by the name of Bonehunters. Beyond them, arrayed on a higher vantage point, were the far more numerous ranks of the second Malazan army, the Host.

To her right, where the K'Chain Che'Malle had encamped, the Ve'Gath and K'ell Hunters had formed up in a facing line, the Matron foremost among them. A human woman was walking out from that formation, on a route that would intersect Korlat's own.

Perhaps she would find strength in that company. Failing that, she doubted she would manage to get much closer. Her heart felt laid bare – she had believed her days of deepest grief were past. But seeing those Malazan marines – seeing Hedge, Quick Ben and Kalam – had cut her open all over again. When they had seen her – when at last Nimander had judged it time to approach that fated barrow – they had but nodded in greeting, and she could admit now that the distance they had maintained since had hurt her in some way.

Perhaps they thought that she had been intent on stealing their sergeant away from them. Perhaps, even, they blamed her for his death. She did not know, and now she had been commanded to join them once more, at this place where two Malazan marines were interred.

She had selected a polished jet stone from her modest collection – knowing how the humans would smile at that, these small leather bags the Tiste Andii always carried, with a stone to mark each gift of the owner's heart. She possessed but a few. One for Anomander Rake, one for her fallen brother, Orfantal; one for Spinnock Durav – who cared nothing for her low birth – and one for Whiskeyjack. Soon, she had begun to suspect, she would set out to find two more. For Queen Yan Tovis. For Lord Nimander.

These stones were not to be surrendered.

To give one up was to set down a love, to walk away from it for evermore.

But it had been foolish, finding a stone for a man whose love she had known for so brief a time. He had never felt the way she had – he could not have – she had gone too far, had given up too much. They'd not possessed the time to forge something eternal.

Then he had died, and it was as if he had been the one doing the walking away, leaving his own stone behind – the dull, lifeless thing that was her heart.

‘The dead forget us.' So said Gallan. ‘The dead forget us, and this is why we fear death.'

She had thought…there on that distant barrow now called the Awakening…a whisper of something, a presence arriving old and achingly familiar. As if he had looked upon her – as if she had felt his eyes –
no, you foolish woman. It was his soldiers gathered on that hill. If he was there at all, it was for them.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the woman from the K'Chain Che'Malle ranks. Korlat had come to a halt with her memories, and now she looked on this stranger, offering a rueful half-smile. ‘My courage fails,' she said.

The human woman, plain, past her youth, studied her for a moment. ‘What is that,' she asked, ‘in your hand?'

Korlat thought to hide it away again, but then sighed and showed the black stone. ‘I thought…a gift. For the barrow. I have seen such practices before…'

‘Did you know them?'

After a moment, Korlat turned to retrace her steps. ‘No. I am sorry. I did not.'

But the woman took her arm. ‘Walk with me, then, and I will tell you about Mortal Sword Gesler and Shield Anvil Stormy.'

‘I was presumptuous—'

‘I doubt it,' the woman replied. ‘But you can hold on to your tale, if you like. I am Kalyth.'

Korlat gave her own name.

‘They won free the heart of the Crippled God,' said Kalyth as they drew closer. ‘But that is not how I remember them. They were stubborn. They snapped at each other like…like dogs. They mocked their own titles, told each other lies. They told me lies, too. Wild stories of their adventures. Ships on seas of fire. Dragons and headless Tiste Andii – whatever they are…'

Korlat turned at that, thought to speak, then decided to remain silent.

‘In the time I knew them,' Kalyth went on, not noticing her companion's reaction, ‘they pretty much argued without surcease. Even in the middle of terrible battle they bickered back and forth. And all the while, these two Malazans, they did all that needed to be done. Each and every time.' She nodded towards the Spire.

‘Up there,' she said, ‘they climbed through walls of fire, and at that moment I realized that all those wild tales they told me – they were probably all true.

‘Stormy died on the stairs, keeping a wild witch away from the heart. Those flames he could not in the end defeat. Gesler – we are told – died saving the life of a dog.' She pointed. ‘That one, Korlat, the one guarding the barrow's entrance. See how they await me now? It is because I am the only one the dog will let pass into the chamber. I dragged Gesler's body in there myself.'

When the woman at her side stopped talking then, Korlat looked down and saw how her face had crumpled – with her own words, as if their meaning only now struck true. She very nearly collapsed – would have done so if not for Korlat's arm, now flexing to take the woman's weight.

Kalyth righted herself. ‘I – I am sorry. I did not mean – oh, look at me…'

‘I have you,' Korlat said.

They went on.

This side of the small round barrow, the group of humans parted before them, as many eyes on Korlat as on Kalyth. She saw Hedge there, along with Quick Ben and Kalam, and the grey-bearded man she now knew to be Fiddler, Whiskeyjack's closest friend. Their expressions were flat, and she weathered their regards with as much dignity as she could muster. Near them stood a mother and daughter, the latter, though little more than a child, pulling hard on a stick of rustleaf – and on this one's other side stood an older woman doing the same with her own, beside a handsome young man. She saw a White Face Barghast chieftain grinning openly at herself – his desires made plain in the amused glint in his eyes.