The complete malazan boo.., p.810
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 810
He ducked upon hearing the heavy flap of feathered wings overhead, and glared upward, but saw nothing but a thick, impenetrable layer of smoke. He twitched as he waited, muttering under his breath.
The door creaked open.
‘Master Baruk! I am glad it’s you and not one of your damned servants – getting past them is impossible. Listen, we have a hurt man – bad hurt – who needs healing. We’ll pay—’
‘Sergeant—’
‘Just Antsy these days, sir.’
‘Antsy, I am so sorry, but I must refuse you—’
At that, Barathol came round the cart and marched up, his hands curling into fists for a moment, before loosening as he reached towards the huge axe slung across his back. But these gestures were instinctive – he was not even aware of them, and when he spoke it was in a tone of despairing fury. ‘His skull is fractured! He’ll die without healing – and I will not accept that!’
Baruk held up both hands. ‘I was about to leave – I cannot delay any longer. Certain matters demand my immediate attention—’
‘He needs—’
‘I am sorry, Barathol.’
And the alchemist was backing through the gate once more. The panel clicked shut.
Antsy snatched and tugged at his moustache in agitation, and then reached out to restrain Barathol, who seemed about to kick down that door. ‘Hold on, hold on – I got another idea. It’s desperate, but I can’t think of anything else. Come on, it’s not far.’
Barathol was too distraught to say anything – he would grasp any hope, no matter how forlorn. Face ashen, he went back to the ox, and when Antsy set out, he and the ox and the cart bearing the body of Chaur followed.
In the stricken man’s mind, few sparks remained. The black tide was very nearly done. Those flickers that knew themselves as Chaur had each lost touch with the others, and so wandered lost. But then, some of them had known only solitary existences throughout their lives – crucial sparks indeed – for ever blind to pathways that might have awakened countless possibilities.
Until one, drifting untethered, so strangely freed, now edged forward along a darkened path it had never before explored, and the track it burned remained vibrant in its wake. And then, in a sudden flaring, that spark found another of its kind.
Something stirred then, there in the midst of an inner world fast dying.
Awareness.
Recognition.
A tumbling complexity of thoughts, connections, relationships, meanings.
Flashing, stunned with its own existence, even as the blackness closed in on all sides.
Cutting down an alley away from Baruk’s estate, Antsy, ten paces in the lead, stumbled suddenly on something. Swearing, he glanced back at the small object lying on the cobbles, and then bent down to collect it, stuffing the limp thing into his cloak.
He swore again, something about a stink, but what’s a dead nose gonna know or care? And then he resumed walking.
They arrived at an estate that Barathol recognized. Coll’s. And Antsy returned to help lead the suddenly uneasy ox down the side track, to that primordial thicket behind the garden wall. Beneath the branches the gloom was thick with flying moths, their wings a chorus of dry whispering. Fog crawled between the boles of twisted trees. The air was rich with a steamy, earthy smell.
Tears ran down Barathol’s cheeks, soaked his beard. ‘I told him to stay on the ship,’ he said in a tight, distraught voice. ‘He usually listens to me. He’s not one to disobey, not Chaur. Was it Spite? Did she force him out?’
‘What was he doing at the gaol?’ Antsy asked, just to keep his friend talking for reasons even he could not explain. ‘How did he even find it, unless someone led him there? It’s all a damned mystery.’
‘He saved my life,’ said Barathol. ‘He was coming to break me out – he had my axe. Chaur, you fool, why didn’t you just leave it all alone?’
‘He couldn’t do that,’ said Antsy.
‘I know.’
They arrived at the edge of the clearing, halting just beyond a low, uneven stone wall almost buried beneath vines. The gateway was an arch of rough stone veined with black roots. The house beyond showed a blackened face.
‘Let’s do this, then,’ said Antsy in a growl, coming round to the back of the cart. ‘Before the ox bolts—’
‘What are we doing?’
‘We’re carrying him up the path. Listen, Barathol, we got to stay on that path, you understand? Not one step off it, not one. Understand?’
‘No—’
‘This is the Finnest House, Barathol. It’s an Azath.’
The ex-sergeant seemed to be standing within a cloud of rotting meat. Moths swarmed in a frenzy.
Confused, frightened, Barathol helped Antsy lift Chaur’s body from the cart bed, and with the Falari in the lead and walking backwards – one tender step at a time – they made their way up the flagstone path.
‘You know,’ Antsy said between gasps – for Chaur was a big man, and, limp as he was, it was no easy thing carrying him – ‘I was thinking. If the damned moon can just break apart like that, who’s to say that can’t happen to our own world? We could just be—’
‘Be quiet,’ snapped Barathol. ‘I don’t give a shit about the moon – it’s been trying to kill me for some time. Careful, you’re almost there.’
‘Right, set him down then, easy, on the stones…aye, that’ll do.’
Antsy stepped up to the door, reached for the knife at his belt and then swore. ‘I lost my knife, too. I can’t believe this!’ He made a fist and pounded against the wood.
The sound that made was reminiscent of punching a wall of meat. No reverberation, no echoes.
‘Ow, that hurt.’
They waited.
Sighing, Antsy prepared to knock a second time, but then something clunked on the other side of the barrier, and a moment later the door swung back with a loud squeal.
The tall, undead monstrosity filled the doorway. Empty, shadow-drowned eye sockets regarded them – or not; it was impossible to tell.
Antsy shifted from one foot to the other. ‘You busy, Raest? We need to make use of the hallway floor behind you—’
‘Oh yes, I am very busy.’
The Falari blinked. ‘Really?’
‘Dust breeds. Cobwebs thicken. Candle wax stains precious surfaces. What do you want?’
Antsy glanced back at Barathol. ‘Oh, a corpse with a sense of humour, what do you know? And surprise, it’s so droll.’ He faced the Jaghut again and smiled. ‘In case you ain’t noticed, the whole city has gone insane – that’s why I figured you might be suffering some—’
‘I am sorry,’ cut in Raest, ‘is something happening?’
Antsy’s eyes bulged slightly. ‘The Hounds of Shadow are loose!’
Raest leaned forward as if to scan the vicinity, and then settled back once more. ‘Not in my yard.’
Antsy clawed through his hair. ‘Trust me, then, it’s a bad night – now, if you’d just step back—’
‘Although, come to think of it, I did have a visitor earlier this evening.’
‘What? Oh, well, I’m happy for you, but—’
Raest lifted one desiccated hand and pointed.
Antsy and Barathol turned. And there, in the yard, there was a fresh mound of raw earth, steaming. Vines were visibly snaking over it. ‘Gods below,’ the Falari whispered, making a warding gesture with one hand.
‘A T’lan Imass with odd legs,’ said Raest. ‘It seemed to harbour some dislike towards me.’ The Jaghut paused. ‘I can’t imagine why.’
Antsy grunted. ‘It should’ve stayed on the path.’
‘What do T’lan Imass know of footpaths?’ Raest asked. ‘In any case, it’s still too angry for a conversation.’ Another pause. ‘But there’s time. Soldier, you have been remiss. I am therefore disinclined to yield the floor, as it were.’
‘Like Hood I have!’ And Antsy reached beneath his tunic and tugged out a bedraggled, half-rotted shape. ‘I found you your damned white cat!’
‘Oh, so you have. How sweet. In that case,’ Raest edged back, ‘do come in.’
Barathol hesitated. ‘What will this achieve, Antsy?’
‘He won’t die,’ the ex-sergeant replied. ‘It’s like time doesn’t exist in there. Trust me. We can find us a proper healer tomorrow, or a month from now – it don’t matter. S’long as he’s breathing when we carry him across the threshold. So, come on, help me.’ He then realized he was still clutching the dead cat, and so he went up to the Jaghut and thrust the ghastly thing into most welcoming arms.
‘I shall call it Tufty,’ said Raest.
The black tide ceased its seemingly inexorable crawl. A slow, shallow breath held half drawn. A struggling heart hovered in mid-beat. And yet that spark of awareness, suddenly emboldened, set out on a journey of exploration and discovery. So many long-dark pathways…
Dragnipur has drunk deep, so deep.
Dragnipur, sword of the father and slayer of the same. Sword of Chains, Gate of Darkness, wheeled burden of life and life ever flees dissolution and so it must! Weapon of edges, caring naught who wields it. Cut indifferent, cut blind, cut when to do so is its very purpose, its perfect function.
Dragnipur.
Dread sisterly feuds dwindled in significance – something was proffered, something was almost within reach. Matters of final possession could be worked out later, at leisure in some wrought-iron, oversized bath-tub filled to the brim with hot blood.
Temporary pact. Expedience personified, Spite quelled, Envy in abeyance.
In their wake a crater slowly sagged, edges toppling inward, heat fast dissipating. The melted faces of buildings turned glassy in rainbow hues. For now the brilliance of these colours was but hinted at in this moon-glow. But that reflected light had begun a thousand new games, hinting at something far deadlier. Still to come, still to come.
Everywhere in the city, fires ebbed.
The pressure of Dragnipur Unsheathed starves the flames of destruction. Darkness is anathema to such forces, after all.
Yes, salvation found, in a weapon let loose.
The sisters were mad, but not so mad as to fail to grasp the pleasing irony of such things.
Quell the violence.
Invite murder.
He was in no condition to resist them – not both of them – extraordinary that such an alliance had not occurred long before this night. But sibling wounds are the festering kind, and natures at war are normally blind to every pacifying gesture. What was needed was the proper incentive.
Alas, it did not occur to either twin that their father understood all too well the potential danger of his daughters forged together in alliance. And in shaping them – as carefully, as perfectly as he shaped Dragnipur itself – he had done what he could to mitigate the risk.
And so, as they walked side by side up the street, in Spite’s mind she had already begun scheming her fateful stab into her sister’s back. While Envy amused herself with virtually identical thoughts, roles reversed, naturally.
First things first, however.
They would kill Anomander Rake.
For Dragnipur has drunk deep, so very deep…
‘Karsa, please.’
Ashes drifted in the air, amidst foul smoke. Distant screams announced tragic scenes. The last night of the Gedderone Fête was sinking into misery and suffering.
‘There is nothing to be done, Samar Dev. But we will do this – we will witness. We will withstand the cost of that, if we can.’
She had not expected such uncertainty in the Toblakai. Always a stranger to humility, or so he seemed to her. He had not even drawn his flint sword.
They were twenty-five paces behind Traveller. They could see an angled gate arching over the broad street as it sloped upward, a hundred paces ahead. But the warrior they tracked had slowed his steps. There was something – someone – in the centre of the street in front of Traveller. And silent crowds on both sides – crowds that flinched back as the Hounds lumbered into view; flinched, but did not flee.
Something held them in place, something stronger than fear.
Samar Dev sensed the pressure sliding past, like a wind sweeping round her, drawing inward once more – straight into that huddled figure, who now, at last, stirred.
Traveller stood, six or so paces away from the stranger, and watched in silence as the man slowly straightened.
Tiste Andii.
Silver-haired. In his hands, a sword trailing ghostly chains…oh…spirits below, oh, no—
Traveller spoke. ‘He said you would stand in my way.’ That voice carried, strong as waves surging against a dark shore.
Samar Dev’s heart stuttered.
When Anomander Rake replied, his words were cold, solid and unyielding, ‘What else did he tell you?’
Traveller shook his head. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded. ‘I can feel – he’s close. Where is he?’
Not Cotillion. A different ‘he’ this time. The one Traveller seeks. The one he has ever sought.
‘Yes,’ said Rake. ‘Close.’
Thick, flapping sounds, drifting in from the smoky night sky. She looked up in alarm and saw Great Ravens. Landing upon roof ledges. Scores, hundreds, silent but for the beat of air beneath crooked wings. Gathering, gathering, along the arched gate and the sections of wall to either side. Landing everywhere, so long as it’s a place from which they can see.
‘Then stand aside,’ commanded Traveller.
‘I cannot.’
‘Dammit, Rake, you are not my enemy.’
The Son of Darkness tilted his head, as if receiving a compliment, an unexpected gift.
‘Rake. You have never been my enemy. You know that. Even when the Empire…’
‘I know, Dassem. I know.’
‘He said this would happen.’ There was dismay in that statement, and resignation.
Rake made no reply.
‘He said,’ continued Dassem, ‘that you would not yield.’
‘No, I will not yield.’
‘Please help me, Rake, help me to understand…why?’
‘I am not here to help you, Dassem Ultor.’ And Samar Dev heard genuine regret in that admission. The Son of Darkness closed both hands about the long grip of Dragnipur and, angling the pommel upward and to his right, slowly widened his stance. ‘If you so want Hood,’ he said, ‘come and get him.’
Dassem Ultor – the First Sword of the Malazan Empire – who was supposed to be dead. As if Hood would even want this one – Dassem Ultor, the one they had known as Traveller, unsheathed his sword, the water-etched blade flashing as if lapped by molten silver. Samar Dev’s sense of a rising wave now burgeoned in her mind. Two forces. Sea and stone, sea and stone.
Among the onlookers to either side, a deep, soft chant had begun.
Samar Dev stared at those arrayed faces, the shining eyes, the mouths moving in unison. Gods below, the cult of Dessembrae. These are cultists – and they stand facing their god.
And that chant, yes, it was a murmuring, it was the cadence of deep water rising. Cold and hungry.
Samar Dev saw Anomander Rake’s gaze settle briefly on Dassem’s sword, and it seemed a sad smile showed itself, in the instant before Dassem attacked.
To all who witnessed – the cultists, Samar Dev, Karsa Orlong, even unto the five Hounds of Shadow and the Great Ravens hunched on every ledge – that first clash of weapons was too fast to register. Sparks slanted, the night air rang with savage parries, counterblows, the biting crunch of edges against cross-hilts. Even their bodies were but a blur.
And then both warriors staggered back, opening up the distance between them once more.
‘Faces in the Rock,’ hissed Karsa Orlong.
‘Karsa—’
‘No. Only a fool would step between these two.’
And the Toblakai sounded…shaken.
Dassem launched himself forward again. There were no war cries, no bellowed curses, not even the grunts bursting free as ferocious swings hammered forged iron. But the swords had begun singing, a dreadful, mournful pair of voices rising in eerie syncopation. Thrusts, slashes, low-edged ripostes, the whistle of a blade cutting through air where a head had been an instant earlier, bodies writhing to evade counterstrokes, and sparks rained, poured, from the two combatants, bounced like shattered stars across the cobbles.
They did not break apart this time. The frenzied flurry did not abate, but went on, impossibly on. Two forces, neither yielding, neither prepared to draw a single step back.
And yet, for all the blinding speed, the glowing shower spraying out like the blood of iron, Samar Dev saw the death blow. She saw it clear. She saw its undeniable truth – and somehow, somehow, it was all wrong.
Rake wide-legged, angling the pommel high before his face with Dragnipur’s point downward – as if to echo his opening stance – and higher still, and Dassem, his free hand joining the other upon his sword’s grip, throwing his entire weight into a crossways slash – the warrior bodily lifting as if about to take to the air and close upon Rake with an embrace. And his swing met the edge of Dragnipur at a full right angle – a single moment shaping a perfect cruciform fashioned by the two weapons’ colliding, and then the power of Dassem’s blow slammed Dragnipur back—
Driving its inside edge into Anomander Rake’s forehead, and then down through his face.
His gauntleted hands sprang away from the handle, yet Dragnipur remained jammed, seeming to erupt from his head, as he toppled backward, blood streaming down to flare from the tip as the Son of Darkness crashed down on his back.
Even this impact did not dislodge Dragnipur. The sword shivered, and now there was but one song, querulous and fading in the sudden stillness.
Blood boiled, turned black. The body lying on the cobbles did not move. Anomander Rake was dead.
Dassem Ultor slowly lowered his weapon, his chest heaving.
And then he cried out, in a voice so filled with anguish that it seemed to tear a jagged hole in the night air. This unhuman scream was joined by a chorus of shrieks as the Great Ravens exploded into flight, lifting like a massive feathered veil that whirled above the street, and then began a spinning descent. Cultists flinched away and crouched against building walls, their wordless chant drowned beneath the caterwauling cacophony of this black, glistening shroud that swept down like a curtain.
