The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (331 page)

The witch twisted to glare at Kilava. ‘Bonecaster,’ she snapped. ‘Heed my words well – this warren is not to be assailed by you or your kin. You are to tell no-one of this, the final manifestation of Omtose Phellack.’

‘I understand you, Witch. I begin, here, my own path to redemption, it seems. I have defied my own kin enough times to suffer few pangs doing so once more.’ She turned to Quick Ben. ‘And now, Wizard, I would leave. Will you guide us from this place?’

‘No, better the Master of the Deck lead us out – that way, there’ll be no trail.’

Paran blinked. ‘Me?’

‘Fashion a card, Captain. In your mind.’

‘A card? Of what?’

The wizard shrugged. ‘Think of something.’

*   *   *

Soldiers had drawn the three bodies to one side, covered them with standard-issue rain-capes. Gruntle saw Korlat standing near them, her back to him.

The Daru stood near the side closest to the trader road, beyond which, he could see, lay Itkovian. Motionless, forlorn in the distance.

The T’lan Imass were gone.

The surviving Grey Swords were slowly approaching Itkovian, on foot with the exception of one-eyed Anaster, who sat on his dray horse, seemingly unaffected by anything, including the massive floating mountain that loomed over the north ridge, throwing a deep shroud upon the parkland forest.

On the hilltop, facing the dark city, stood Caladan Brood, flanked by Humbrall Taur on his right, Hetan and Cafal on his left.

Gruntle could see, emerging in a ragged line from the north gate, Dujek’s surviving army. There were so few left. Rhivi wagons were being driven into Coral, their beds cleared for the coming burden of bodies. Dusk was less than a bell away – the night ahead would be a long one.

A troop of Malazan officers, led by Dujek, had reached the base of the hill. Among them, a Seerdomin representing the now surrendered forces of the Domin.

Gruntle moved closer to where Brood and the Barghast waited.

The High Fist had heard the news – Gruntle could see it in his slumped shoulders, the way he repeatedly drew his lone hand down the length of his aged face, the spirit of the man so plainly, unutterably broken.

A warren opened to Brood’s right. Emerging from it were a half-dozen Malazans, led by Artanthos. Bright, unsullied uniforms beneath grave expressions.

‘Mortal Sword?’

Gruntle turned at the voice. One of the older women in his legion stood before him. ‘Yes?’

‘We would raise the Child’s Standard, Mortal Sword.’

‘Not here.’

‘Sir?’

Gruntle pointed down to the killing field. ‘There, among our fallen.’

‘Sir, that is within the darkness.’

He nodded. ‘So it is. Raise it there.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘And no more of the titles or honorifics. The name’s Gruntle. I’m a caravan guard, temporarily unemployed.’

‘Sir, you are the Mortal Sword of Trake.’

His eyes narrowed on her.

Her gaze flicked away, down to the killing field. ‘A title purchased in blood, sir.’

Gruntle winced, looked away, and was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. ‘All right. But I’m not a soldier. I hate war. I hate killing.’
And I never want to see another battlefield ever again.

To that, she simply shrugged and set off to rejoin her meagre squad.

Gruntle returned his attention to the gathering of dignitaries.

Artanthos – Tayschrenn – was making introductions. Ambassador Aragan – a tall, battle-scarred man who seemed to be suffering from a headache – here to speak on behalf of Empress Laseen, regarding the governance of Black Coral. A handful of hangers-on.

Brood replied that the formal negotiations would have to await the arrival of Anomander Rake, who was expected shortly.

Gruntle’s gaze returned to Dujek, who had just arrived with his officers. The High Fist’s eyes were fixed on Korlat at the far end, and on the three covered bodies lying in the grasses. The rain still falling, the stench of burning heavy in the air, a shroud descending.

Aye, this day ends in ashes and rain.

In ashes and rain.

*   *   *

Running, memory’s echo of glory and joy. He rode the sensation, the flight from pain, from prisons of bone, from massive arms damp and scaled, from a place without wind, without light, without warmth.

From chilled meat. Pale, boiled Black, charred. From numbed, misshapen fingers pushing the morsels into a mouth that, as he chewed, filled with his own blood. From hard, cold stone with its patina of human grease.

Flesh fouled, the stench of smeared excrement—

Running—

An explosion of pain, swallowed in a sudden rush. Blood in veins. Breath drawn ragged – yet deep, deep into healthy lungs.

He opened his lone eye.

Toc looked around. He sat on a broad-backed horse. Grey-clad soldiers surrounded him, studying him from beneath war-worn helms.

I – I am … whole.

Hale.

I—

An armoured woman stepped forward. ‘Would you leave your god, now, sir?’

My god? Dead flesh clothing, hard Jaghut soul – no, not a god. The Seer. Fear-clutched. Betrayal-scarred.

My god?

Running. Freed. The beast.

The wolf.

Togg.

My namesake …

‘He has delivered you, sir, yet would make no demands. We know that your soul has run with the wolf-gods. But you are once more in the mortal realm. The body you now find yourself in was blessed. It is now yours. Still, sir, you must choose. Would you leave your gods?’

Toc studied his own arms, the muscles of his thighs. Long-fingered hands. He reached up, probed his face. A fresh scar, taking the same eye. No matter. He’d grown used to that. A young body – younger than he had been.

He looked down at the woman, then at the ring of soldiers. ‘No,’ he said.

The soldiers lowered themselves to one knee, heads bowing. The woman smiled. ‘Your company welcomes you, Mortal Sword of Togg and Fanderay.’

Mortal Sword.

Then, I shall run once more …

*   *   *

In the Warren of Tellann, Lanas Tog led Silverfox to the edge of a broad valley. Filling it, the gathered clans of the T’lan Imass. Standing, motionless—

Yet different.

Unburdened?

Pain and regret filled her.
I have failed you all … in so many ways …

Pran Chole strode forward. The undead Bonecaster tilted his head in greeting. ‘Summoner.’

Silverfox realized she was trembling. ‘Can you forgive me, Pran Chole?’

‘Forgive? There is nothing to forgive, Summoner.’

‘I’d never intended to deny your wish for very long – only until, until…’

‘We understand. You need not weep. Not for us, nor for yourself.’

‘I – I will free you now, as I have done the T’lan Ay – I will end your Vow, Pran Chole, to free you … through Hood’s Gate, as you wished.’

‘No, Summoner.’

She stared, shocked silent.

‘We have heard Lanas Tog, the warrior at your side. There are kin, Summoner, who are being destroyed on a continent far to the south. They cannot escape their war. We would travel there. We would save our brothers and sisters.

‘Summoner, once this task is completed, we will return to you. Seeking the oblivion that awaits us.’

‘Pran Chole…’ Her voice broke. ‘You would remain in your torment…’

‘We must save our kin, Summoner, if we are so able. Within the Vow, our power remains. It will be needed.’

She slowly drew herself up, stilled her grief, her trembling. ‘Then I will join you, Pran Chole. We. Nightchill, Tattersail, Bellurdan, and Silverfox.’

The Bonecaster was silent for a long moment, then he said, ‘We are honoured, Summoner.’

Silverfox hesitated, then said, ‘You are … changed. What has Itkovian done?’

A sea of bone-helmed heads bowed at mention of that name, and seeing that stole the breath from her lungs.
By the Abyss, what has that man done?

Pran Chole was long in replying. ‘Cast your eyes about you, Summoner. At the life now in this realm. Reach out and sense the power, here in the earth.’

She frowned. ‘I do not understand. This realm is now home to the Beast Thrones. There are Rhivi spirits here … two wolf-gods…’

Pran Chole nodded. ‘And more. You have, perhaps unwitting, created a realm where the Vow of Tellann unravels. T’lan Ay … now mortal once more – that gesture was easier than you had expected, was it not? Summoner, Itkovian freed our souls and found, in this realm you created, a place. For us.’

‘You have been …
redeemed!
’

‘Redeemed? No, Summoner. Only you are capable of that. The T’lan Imass have been awakened. Our memories – they live once more, in the earth beneath our feet. And they are what we will return to, the day you release us. Bonecaster – we expected nothing but oblivion, upon that release. We could not have imagined that an alternative was possible.’

‘And now?’ she whispered.

Pran Chole cocked his head. ‘It surpasses us … what one mortal man so willingly embraced.’ He swung about to make his way back down to the ranks, then paused and looked back at her. ‘Summoner.’

‘Yes.’

‘One task awaits us … before we begin the long journey…’

*   *   *

Picker sat on a smoke-stained foundation stone, eyes dulled with exhaustion, and watched the Rhivi move through the rubble, seeking still more bodies. There were Pannion soldiers about, unarmed – seemingly the only citizens left in the city were either dead or gnawed down to little more than bones.

The Bridgeburners who had died within the keep had already left on a wagon – Picker and her meagre squad had retrieved most of them on the way out, even as the structure began to come down around them. A handful of other bodies had been found and recovered through sorcery, by the Tiste Andii, some of whom still lingered in the area, as if awaiting something, or someone. The only two no-one had yet found were Quick Ben and Paran, and Picker suspected it was because they weren’t there.

Torches lit the area, feeble in their battling the unnatural darkness that shrouded the city. The air stank of smoke and mortar dust. Distant cries of pain rose every now and then, like haunting memories.

We were brittle. Destroyed months ago, outside Pale, it’s just taken this long for the few of us left to realize it. Hedge, Trotts, Detoran. Corpses who kept saluting—

Blend spoke beside her. ‘I told the Rhivi on our wagon to wait inside the north gate.’

Our wagon. The wagon carrying the dead Bridgeburners.

First in.

Last out.

For the last time.

A flash of light from the keep’s rubble, a warren opening, through which figures emerged. A scarred hound – a cattle-dog, it looked like – followed by Lady Envy, and two Seguleh dragging a third masked warrior between them.

‘Well,’ Blend murmured, ‘that about does it, doesn’t it?’

Picker was unsure what Blend meant, did not pursue it.

Lady Envy had seen them. ‘Lieutenant dear! What a relief to see you well. Could you believe the audacity of that white-haired, sword-stuffed—’

‘Would you be referring to me?’ a deep voice asked.

Through the gloom stepped Anomander Rake. ‘Had I known you were within the keep, Lady Envy, I would have brought Moon’s Spawn all the way down.’

‘Oh, what a thing to say!’

‘What are you doing here?’ the Son of Darkness growled.

‘Oh, this and that, my love. And aren’t you looking very martial this afternoon – it’s still afternoon, isn’t it? Hard to tell here.’

‘Oh,’ Blend whispered, ‘there’s history between those two.’

‘Really,’ Picker quietly drawled, ‘and how could you tell?’
Damned lady – not a scuff on that telaba. Now there’s a different world from mine. Yet there we stood, side by side, in that hallway.

Anomander Rake was eyeing the woman standing before him. ‘What do you want, Envy?’

‘Why, I have travelled half a continent, you ungrateful man, to deliver to you words of most vital import.’

‘Let’s hear them, then.’

Lady Envy blinked, looked around. ‘Here, my love? Wouldn’t you rather somewhere more … private?’

‘No. I have things to do. Out with it.’

She crossed her arms. ‘Then I will, though the gods know why I bother bravely retaining this generous mood of mine—’

‘Envy.’

‘Very well. Hear me, then, Wielder of Dragnipur. My dear father, Draconus, plots to escape the chains within the sword. How do I know? Blood whispers, Anomander.’

The Lord of Moon’s Spawn grunted. ‘I am surprised he’s taken this long. Well, what of it?’

Envy’s eyes went wide. ‘Is this bravado madness? In case you’ve forgotten, we worked damned hard to slay him the
first
time!’

Picker glanced over at Blend, saw the woman standing slack-jawed as she stared at Rake and Envy.

‘I don’t recall you doing much,’ Anomander Rake was saying, ‘at the time. You stood by and watched the battle—’

‘Precisely! And what do you think my father thought of
that?
’

The Lord of Moon’s Spawn shrugged. ‘He knew enough not to ask for your help, Envy. In any case, I heed your warning, but there is scant little I can do about it, at least until Draconus actually manages to free himself.’

The woman’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me, my dear, what – if anything – do you know of the Master of the Deck?’

Rake’s brows rose. ‘Ganoes Paran? The mortal who walked within Dragnipur? The one who sent the two Hounds of Shadow into Kurlad Galain’s gate?’

Envy stamped her foot. ‘You are insufferable!’

The Tiste Andii Lord turned away. ‘We’ve spoken enough, Envy.’

‘They will seek a way to break the sword!’

‘Aye, they might.’

‘Your very life totters on the whim of a mortal man!’

Anomander Rake paused, glanced back at her. ‘I’d best step careful, then, hadn’t I?’ A moment later, he continued on, into the loose crowd of Tiste Andii.