Steven Erikson - The Crippled God

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.’