Reaper's Gale

  Fire everywhere, fire right through Beak’s body.

  His legs were failing. His arms were failing. And as they failed his brother choked. Pee ran down to burn against Beak’s wrists and his face. The air was suddenly thick with worse smells and his brother never did things like this – all this mess, the terrible mistake with the rope.

  Beak could not hold on, and this was the problem with being a younger brother, with being as he was. And the kicking finally stilled, the muscles of his brother’s legs becoming soft, loose. Two fingertips from one of his brother’s hands lightly brushed Beak’s hair, but they only moved when Beak himself moved, so those fingers were as still as the legs.

  It was good that his brother wasn’t fighting any more. He must have loosened the rope from round his neck and was now just resting. And that was good because Beak was now on his knees, arms wrapped tight about his brother’s feet.

  And there he stayed.

  Until, three bells after dusk, one of the stable hands from the search party came into the barn with a lantern.

  By then, the sun’s heat earlier that afternoon had ruined all his villagers, had drawn down their faces into expressions of grief, and Beak did not come back to collect them up, did not reshape them into nicer faces. Those lumps remained on the border stone that meant nothing any more, sinking down in the day after day sun.

  After that last day with his brother, there was trouble aplenty in the household. But it did not last long, not long at all.

  He did not know why he was thinking about his brother now, as he set ablaze every candle within him to make the world bright and to save all his friends. And before long he no longer sensed anyone else, barring the faint smudges they had become. The captain, the Fist, all the soldiers who were his friends, he let his light unfold to embrace them all, to keep them safe from that frightening, dark magic so eager to rush down upon them.

  It had grown too powerful for those seven mages to contain. They had created something that would now destroy them, but Beak would not let it hurt his friends. And so he made his light burn yet brighter. He made of it a solid thing. Would it be enough? He did not know, but it had to be, for without friends there was nothing, no-one.

  Brighter, hotter, so hot the wax of the candles burst into clouds of droplets, flaring bright as the sun, one after another. And, when every coloured candle was lit, why, there was white.

  And yet more, for as each joined the torrent emanating from him, he felt in himself a cleansing, a scouring away, what priests called purification only they really knew nothing about purification because it had nothing to do with offerings of blood or coin and nothing to do with starving yourself and whipping your own back or endlessly chanting until the brain goes numb. Nothing like any of that. Purification, Beak now understood, was final.

  Everything glowed, as if lit from fires within. The onceblack stubble of crops blazed back into fierce life. Stones shone like precious gems. Incandescence raged on all sides. Fiddler saw his soldiers and he could see through, in pulsing flashes, to their very bones, the organs huddled within their cages. He saw, along one entire side of Koryk, old fractures on the ribs, the left arm, the shoulder blade, the hip. He saw three knuckle-sized dents on Cuttle’s skull beneath the now translucent helm – a rap he had taken when still a babe, soft-boned and vulnerable. He saw the damage between Smiles’s legs from all the times she savaged herself. He saw in Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas the coursing blood that held in it the power to destroy every cancer that struck him, and he was a man under siege from that disease, but it would never kill. Would not even sicken him.

  He saw in Bottle coruscating waves of raw power, a refulgence devoid of all control – but that would come. It will come.

  Corporal Tarr crouched down in the hole he’d dug, and the light emanating from him looked solid as iron.

  Among the others he saw more than any mortal would want to see, yet he could not close his eyes, could not look away.

  Gesler and Stormy were lit in gold fire. Even Stormy’s beard and hair – all spun gold now – a brutal beauty cascading round his face, and the damned fool was laughing.

  The world beyond had vanished behind an opaque, curved wall of silver fire. Vague shapes on the other side – yes, he’d seen the Tiste Edur approaching, seeking some kind of shelter.

  Fiddler found he was standing, facing that wall, and now he was walking forward. Because some things matter more than others. Stepping into that silver fire, feeling it lance through his entire body, neither hot nor cold, neither pain nor joy.

  He staggered suddenly, blinking, and not fifteen paces from him crouched hundreds of Tiste Edur. Waiting to die.

  * * *

  Hanradi knelt with his gaze fixed on the sky, half of which had vanished behind a blackened wall of writhing madness. The crest had begun its toppling advance.

  Sudden motion drew his eyes down.

  To see a Malazan – now transformed into an apparition of white – beard, hair – the dangling finger bones were now polished, luminous, as was his armour, his weapons. Scoured, polished, even the leather of his harness looked new, supple.

  The Malazan met his gaze with silver eyes, then he lifted one perfect hand, and waved them all forward.

  Hanradi rose, flinging his sword aside.

  His warriors saw. His warriors did the same, and as they all moved forward, the dome of silver fire all at once rushed towards them.

  A piercing shriek and Hanradi turned to see his last K’risnan burst into flames – a single blinding instant, then the hapless warlock was simply ash, settling onto the ground—

  Beak was happy to save them. He had understood that old sergeant. The twisted mage, alas, could not embrace such purification. Too much of his soul had been surrendered. The others – oh, they were wounded, filled with bitterness that he needed to sweep away, and so he did.

  Nothing was difficult any more. Nothing—

  At that moment, the wave of Letherii magic descended.

  The Letherii commander could not see the killing field, could indeed see nothing but that swirling, burgeoning wall of eager sorcery. Its cruel hunger poured down in hissing clouds.

  When it heaved forward, all illusion of control vanished.

  The commander, with Sirryn Kanar cowering beside him, saw all seven of his mages plucked from the ground, dragged up into the air, into the wake of that charging wall. Screaming, flailing, then streaks of whipping blood as they were torn apart moments before vanishing into the dark storm.

  The sorcery lurched, then plunged down upon the killing field.

  Detonation.

  Soldiers were thrown from their feet. Horses were flung onto their sides, riders tumbling or pinned as the terrified beasts rolled onto their backs. The entire ridge seemed to ripple, then buckle, and sudden slumping pulled soldiers from the edge, burying them in slides racing for the field below. Mouths were open, screams unleashed in seeming silence, the horror in so many eyes—

  The collapsing wave blew apart—

  Beak was driven down by the immense weight, the horrible hunger. Yet he would not retreat. Instead, he let the fire within him lash out, devouring every candle, igniting everything.

  His friends, yes, the only ones he had ever known.

  Survival, he realized, could only be found through purity. Of his love for them all – how so many of them had smiled at him, laughed with him. How hands clapped him on the shoulder and even, now and then, tousled his hair.

  He would have liked to see the captain one last time, and maybe even kiss her. On the cheek, although of course he would have liked something far more . . . brave. But he was Beak, after all, and he could hold on to but one thing at a time.

  Arms wrapped tight, even as the fire began to burn the muscles of his arms. His shoulders and neck. His legs.

  He could hold on, now, until they found him.

  Those fires were so hot, now, burning – but there was no pain. Pain had been scoured away, cleansed away. Oh, the weight
was vast, getting heavier still, but he would not let go. Not of his brothers and his sisters, the ones he so loved.

  My friends.

  * * *

  The Letherii sorcery broke, bursting into clouds of white fire that corkscrewed skyward before vanishing. Fragments crashed down to either side of the incandescent dome, ripped deep into the earth in black spewing clouds. And, everywhere, it died.

  The commander struggled back onto his feet, stared uncomprehending at the scene on the killing field.

  To either side his soldiers were stumbling upright once again. Runners appeared, one nearly colliding with him as he careened off a still-kneeling Sirryn Kanar, the woman trying to tell him something. Pointing southward.

  ‘—landing! Another Malazan army, sir! Thousands more! From the river!’

  The veteran commander frowned at the woman, whose face was smeared with dirt and whose eyes were brittle with panic.

  He looked back down at the killing field. The dome was flickering, dying. But it had held. Long enough, it had held. ‘Inform my officers,’ he said to the runner. ‘Prepare to wheel and fast march to the river – how far? Have they managed a beach-head?’

  ‘If we march straight to the river, sir, we will meet them. And yes, as I was saying, they have landed. There are great warships in the river – scores of them! And—’

  ‘Go, damn you! To my officers!’

  Sirryn was now on his feet. He rounded on the commander. ‘But sir – these ones below!’

  ‘Leave them to the damned Edur, Sirryn! You wanted them mauled, then you shall have your wish! We must meet the larger force, and we must do so immediately!’

  Sword and shield, at last, a battle in which a soldier could die with honour.

  Captain Faradan Sort had, like so many other soldiers relatively close to where Beak had sat, been driven to the ground by the ferocity of his magic. She was slow to recover, and even as the silver glow pulsed in fitful death, she saw . . . white.

  Gleaming armour and weapons. Hair white as snow, faces devoid of all scars. Figures, picking themselves up in a half-daze, rising like perfect conjurations from the brilliant green shoots of some kind of grass that now snarled everything and seemed to be growing before her eyes.

  And, turning, she looked upon Beak.

  To burn, fire needed fuel.

  To save them all, Beak had used all the fuel within him.

  In horror, Faradan Sort found herself staring at a collapsed jumble of ashes and scorched bone. But no, there was pattern within that, a configuration, if she could but focus through her tears. Oh. The bones of the arms seemed to be hugging the knees, the crumpled skull settled on them.

  Like a child hiding in a closet, a child seeking to make himself small, so small . . .

  Beak. Gods below . . . Beak.

  ‘Plan on returning to your weapons?’ Fiddler asked the Edur war leader. ‘If you’re wanting to start again, that is, we’re willing.’

  But the elderly warrior shook his head. ‘We are done with empire.’ Then he added, ‘If you would permit us to leave.’

  ‘I can think of quite a few of us who’d be more inclined to kill you all, right now.’

  A nod.

  ‘But,’ Fiddler then said, as his soldiers gathered behind him, all staring at the Tiste Edur – who were staring back – ‘we’re not here to conduct genocide. You would leave your Emperor defenceless?’

  The war leader pointed northward. ‘Our villages lie far away. Few remain there, and they suffer for our absence. I would lead my warriors home, Malazan. To rebuild. To await the return of our families.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  The Tiste Edur elder bowed. Then said, ‘Would that we could . . . take back . . . all that we have done.’

  ‘Tell me this. Your Emperor – can he be killed?’

  ‘No.’

  Nothing more was said. Fiddler watched as the Edur set off.

  Behind him a grunt from Koryk, who then said, ‘I was damned sure we’d get a fight today.’

  ‘Fiddler. The Letherii army’s marched off,’ Gesler said.

  ‘The Adjunct,’ Fiddler said, nodding. ‘She’ll hammer them into the ground.’

  ‘My point is,’ Gesler continued, ‘our way to Letheras . . . it’s an open road. Are we going to let the Adjunct and all those salty soldiers of hers beat us there?’

  ‘Good question,’ Fiddler said, turning at last. ‘Let’s go ask the Fist, shall we?’

  ‘Aye, and maybe we can find out why we’re all still alive, too.’

  ‘Aye, and white, too.’

  Gesler tugged off his helm and grinned at Fiddler. ‘Speak for yourself, Fid.’

  Hair of spun gold. ‘Hood take me,’ Fiddler muttered, ‘that’s about as obnoxious a thing as I’ve ever seen.’

  Another helping hand, lifting Beak to his feet. He looked round. Nothing much to see. White sand, a gate of white marble ahead, within which swirled silver light.

  The hand gripping his arm was skeletal, the skin a strange hue of green. The figure, very tall, was hooded and wearing black rags. It seemed to be studying the gate.

  ‘Is that where I’m supposed to go, now?’ Beak asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right. Are you coming with me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right. Well, will you let go of my arm, then?’

  The hand fell away. ‘It is not common,’ the figure then said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I attend to . . . arrivals. In person.’

  ‘My name is Beak.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s through there?’

  ‘Your brother waits for you, Beak. He has been waiting a long time.’

  Beak smiled and stepped forward, all at once in a great hurry – the silver light within that gate was beautiful, reminding him of something.

  The stranger’s voice brought him round: ‘Beak.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your brother. He will not know you. Yet. Do you understand?’

  Beak nodded. ‘Why aren’t you coming with me?’

  ‘I choose to wait . . . for another.’

  ‘My brother,’ Beak said, his smile broadening. ‘I’m taller now. Stronger. I can save him, can’t I?’

  A long pause, and then the figure said, ‘Yes, Beak, you can save him.’

  Yes, that made sense. He set out again. With sure strides. To the gate, into that silver glow, to emerge on the other side in a glade beside a trickling stream. And kneeling near the bank, his brother. The same as he remembered. On the ground on all sides there were hundreds of small wax figures. Smiling faces, an entire village, maybe even a whole town.

  Beak walked up to his brother.

  Who said, too shy to look up, ‘I made all of these, for him.’

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ Beak said, and he found tears running down his face, which embarrassed him so he wiped them away. Then asked, ‘Can I play with you?’

  His brother hesitated, scanning all the figures, then he nodded. ‘All right.’

  And so Beak knelt down beside his brother.

  While, upon the other side of the gate, the god Hood stood, motionless.

  Waiting.

  A third army rose from the seabed to conquer the others. An army of mud, against whom no shield could defend, through whom no sword could cut to the quick. The precious islands of canvas were now twisted jumbles, fouling the foot, wrapping tight about legs, or pushed down entirely beneath thick silts. Grey-smeared soldier struggled against grey-smeared warrior, locked together in desperation, rage and terror.

  The seething mass had become an entity, a chaotic beast writhing and foundering in the mud, and from it rose the deafening clangour of clashing metal and voices erupting in pain and dying.

  Soldiers and warriors fell, were then pushed down amidst grey and red, where they soon merged with the ground. Shield walls could not hold, advances were devoured; the battle had become that of individuals sunk to their knees, thra
shing in the press.

  The beast heaved back and forth, consuming itself in its madness, and upon either side those who commanded sent yet more into the maelstrom.

  The wedge of Letherii heavy infantry should have swept the Awl aside, but the weight of their armour became a curse – the soldiers could not move fast enough to exploit breaches, were sluggish in shoring up their own. Fighters became mired, finding themselves suddenly separated from their comrades, and the Awl would then close in, surrounding the soldier, cutting and stabbing until the Letherii went down. Wherever the Letherii could concentrate in greater numbers – from three to thirty – they delivered mayhem, killing scores of their less disciplined enemy. But always, before long, the mud reached up, pulled the units apart.

  Along the western edge, for a time, the K’Chain Che’Malle appeared, racing along the flank, unleashing dreadful slaughter.

  Bivatt sent archers and spear-wielding skirmishers and, with heavy losses, they drove the two demons away – studded with arrows, the female limping from a deeply driven spear in her left thigh. The Atri-Preda would have then despatched her Bluerose cavalry to pursue the creatures, but she had lost them somewhere to the northeast – where they still pursued the few surviving Awl cavalry – and in any case, the Kechra remained on the seabed, spraying mud with every elongated stride, circling round towards the eastern side of the locked armies.

  And, should they attack there, the Atri-Preda had few soldiers left to give answer: only two hundred skirmishers who, without the protection of archers, could do little more than provide a modest wall of spears guarding barely a quarter of the Letherii flank.

  Seated atop her restless horse on the rise of the old shoreline, Bivatt cursed in the name of every god she could think of – those damned Kechra! Were they truly unkillable? No, see the wounded one! Heavy spears can hurt them – Errant take me, do I have a choice?

  She beckoned to one of her few remaining runners. ‘Finadd Treval is to lead his skirmishers down to the east flank,’ she said. ‘Defensive line in case the demons return.’

  The messenger raced off.

  Bivatt settled her gaze once more upon the battle before her. At least there’s no dust to obscure things. And the evidence was plain to see. The Letherii were driving the Awl back, slowly advancing wings, at last, to form encircling horns. The fighting had lost none of its ferocity – indeed, the Awl on the outside edges seemed to be redoubling their desperate efforts, recognizing what was happening. Recognizing . . . the beginning of the end.