The Crippled God Read online

  About the Book

  The Bonehunters are marching to Kolanse, and to an unknown fate. Tormented and exhausted, they are an army on the brink of mutiny. But Adjunct Tavore will not relent. If she can hold her forces together, if the fragile alliances she had forged can survive and if it is within her power, one final act remains. For Tavore Paran means to challenge the gods.

  Ranged against Tavore and her allies are formidable foes. The Fokrul Assail are drawing upon a terrible power; their desire is to cleanse the world – to eradicate every civilization, to annihilate every human – in order to begin anew. The Elder Gods, too, are seeking to return. And to do so, they will shatter the chains that bind a force of utter devastation and release her from her eternal prison. It seems that, once more, there will be dragons in the world.

  And in Kurald Galain, where the once-lost city of Kharkanas has been found, thousands have gathered upon the First Shore. Commanded by Yedan Derryg, they await the coming of the Tiste Liosan. Are they truly ready to die in the name of an empty city and a queen with no subjects?

  In every world there comes a time when choice is no longer an option – a moment when the soul is laid bare and there is nowhere left to turn. And when this last hard truth is faced, when compassion is a virtue on its knees, what is there left to do? Now that time is come – now is the moment to proclaim your defiance and make a stand…

  And so begins the final cataclysmic chapter in Steven Erikson’s extraordinary, genre-defining ‘Malazan Book of the Fallen’.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, archaeologist and anthropologist Steven Erikson recently moved back to the UK from Canada and now lives in Cornwall. His début fantasy novel, Gardens of the Moon, marked the opening chapter in the epic ‘Malazan Book of the Fallen’ sequence, which has been hailed as one of the most significant works of fantasy of this millennium.

  To find out more, visit www.stevenerikson.com and www.malazanempire.com

  Also by Steven Erikson

  GARDENS OF THE MOON

  DEADHOUSE GATES

  MEMORIES OF ICE

  HOUSE OF CHAINS

  MIDNIGHT TIDES

  THE BONEHUNTERS

  REAPER’S GALE

  TOLL THE HOUNDS

  DUST OF DREAMS

  THE FIRST COLLECTED TALES OF

  BAUCHELAIN & KORBAL BROACH

  THE CRIPPLED GOD

  A Tale of the Malazan Book of the Fallen

  Steven Erikson

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781409010845

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  A Random House Group Company

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Bantam Press an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Steven Erikson 2011

  Steven Erikson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBNs 9780593046357 (cased)

  9780593046364 (tpb)

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk

  The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Dramatis Personae

  Book One: ‘He was a soldier’

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Book Two: All the takers of my days

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Book Three: To charge the spear

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Book Four: The fists of the world

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Book Five: A hand upon the fates

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Book Six: To one in chains

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Book Seven: Your private shore

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue I

  Epilogue II

  Appendix

  About the Author

  Many years ago one man took a chance on an unknown writer and his first fantasy novel – a novel that had already gone the rounds of publishers a few times without any luck. Without him, without his faith and, in the years that followed, his unswerving commitment to this vast undertaking, there would be no ‘Malazan Book of the Fallen’. It has been my great privilege to work with a single editor from start to finish, and so I humbly dedicate The Crippled God to my editor and friend, Simon Taylor.

  Acknowledgements

  My deepest gratitude is accorded to the following people. My advance readers for their timely commentary on this manuscript which I foisted on them at short notice and probably inopportune times: A. P. Canavan, William Hunter, Hazel Hunter, Baria Ahmed and Bowen Thomas-Lundin. And the staff of The Norway Inn in Perranarworthal, the Mango Tango and Costa Coffee in Falmouth, all of whom participated in their own way in the writing of this novel.

  Also, a heartfelt thank you to all my readers, who (presumably) have stayed with me through to this, the tenth and final novel of the ‘Malazan Book of the Fallen’. I have enjoyed our long conversation. What’s three and a half million words between friends?

  I could well ask the same question of my publishers. Thank you for your patience and support. The unruly beast is done, and I can hear your relieved sighs.

  Finally, my love and gratitude to my wife, Clare Thomas, who suffered through the ordeal of not just this novel, but all those that preceded it. I think it was your mother who warned you that marrying a writer was a dicey proposition …

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  In addition to those in Dust of Dreams

  THE MALAZANS

  Himble Thrup

  Seageant Gaunt-Eye

  Corporal Rib

  Lap Twirl

  Sad

  Burnt Rope

  THE HOST

  Ganoes Paran, High Fist and Master of the Deck

  High Mage Noto Boil

  Outrider Hurlochel

  Fist Rythe Bude

  Captain Sweetcreek

  Imperial Artist Ormulogun

  Warleader Mathok

/>   Bodyguard T’morol

  Gumble

  THE KHUNDRYL

  Widow Jastara

  THE SNAKE

  Sergeant Cellows

  Corporal Nithe

  Sharl

  THE T’LAN IMASS: THE UNBOUND

  Urugal the Woven

  Thenik the Shattered

  Beroke Soft Voice

  Kahlb the Silent Hunter

  Halad the Giant

  THE TISTE ANDII

  Nimander Golit

  Spinnock Durav

  Korlat

  Skintick

  Desra

  Dathenar Gowl

  Nemanda

  THE JAGHUT: THE FOURTEEN

  Gathras

  Sanad

  Varandas

  Haut

  Suvalas

  Aimanan

  Hood

  THE FORKRUL ASSAIL: THE LAWFUL INQUISITORS

  Reverence

  Serenity

  Equity

  Placid

  Diligence

  Abide

  Aloft

  Calm

  Belie

  Freedom

  Grave

  THE WATERED: THE TIERS OF LESSER ASSAIL

  Amiss

  Exigent

  Hestand

  Festian

  Kessgan

  Trissin

  Melest

  Haggraf

  THE TISTE LIOSAN

  Kadagar Fant

  Aparal Forge

  Iparth Erule

  Gaelar Throe

  Eldat Pressan

  OTHERS

  Absi

  Spultatha

  K’rul

  Kaminsod

  Munug

  Silanah

  Apsal’ara

  Tulas Shorn

  D’rek

  Gallimada

  Korabas

  BOOK ONE

  ‘HE WAS A SOLDIER’

  I am known

  in the religion of rage.

  Worship me as a pool

  of blood in your hands.

  Drink me deep.

  It’s bitter fury

  that boils and burns.

  Your knives were small

  but they were many.

  I am named

  in the religion of rage.

  Worship me with your

  offhand cuts

  long after I am dead.

  It’s a song of dreams

  crumbled to ashes.

  Your wants overflowed

  but now gape empty.

  I am drowned

  in the religion of rage.

  Worship me unto

  death and down

  to a pile of bones.

  The purest book

  is the one never opened.

  No needs left unfulfilled

  on the cold, sacred day.

  I am found

  in the religion of rage.

  Worship me in a

  stream of curses.

  This fool had faith

  and in dreams he wept.

  But we walk a desert

  rocked by accusations,

  where no man starves

  with hate in his bones.

  Poet’s Night i.iv

  The Malazan Book of the Fallen

  Fisher kel Tath

  CHAPTER ONE

  If you never knew

  the worlds in my mind

  your sense of loss

  would be small pity

  and we’ll forget this on the trail.

  Take what you’re given

  and turn away the screwed face.

  I do not deserve it,

  no matter how narrow the strand

  of your private shore.

  If you will do your best

  I’ll meet your eye.

  It’s the clutch of arrows in hand

  that I do not trust

  bent to the smile hitching my way.

  We aren’t meeting in sorrow

  or some other suture

  bridging scars.

  We haven’t danced the same

  thin ice

  and my sympathy for your troubles

  I give freely without thought

  of reciprocity or scales on balance.

  It’s the decent thing, that’s all.

  Even if that thing

  is a stranger to so many.

  But there will be secrets

  you never knew

  and I would not choose any other way.

  All my arrows are buried and

  the sandy reach is broad

  and all that’s private

  cools pinned on the altar.

  Even the drips are gone,

  that child of wants

  with a mind full of worlds

  and his reddened tears.

  The days I feel mortal I so hate.

  The days in my worlds,

  are where I live for ever,

  and should dawn ever arrive

  I will to its light awaken

  as one reborn.

  Poet’s Night iii.iv

  The Malazan Book of the Fallen

  Fisher kel Tath

  COTILLION DREW TWO DAGGERS. HIS GAZE FELL TO THE BLADES. The blackened iron surfaces seemed to swirl, two pewter rivers oozing across pits and gouges, the edges ragged where armour and bone had slowed their thrusts. He studied the sickly sky’s lurid reflections for a moment longer, and then said, ‘I have no intention of explaining a damned thing.’ He looked up, eyes locking. ‘Do you understand me?’

  The figure facing him was incapable of expression. The tatters of rotted sinew and strips of skin were motionless upon the bones of temple, cheek and jaw. The eyes held nothing, nothing at all.

  Better, Cotillion decided, than jaded scepticism. Oh, how he was sick of that. ‘Tell me,’ he resumed, ‘what do you think you’re seeing here? Desperation? Panic? A failing of will, some inevitable decline crumbling to incompetence? Do you believe in failure, Edgewalker?’

  The apparition remained silent for a time, and then spoke in a broken, rasping voice. ‘You cannot be so … audacious.’

  ‘I asked if you believed in failure. Because I don’t.’

  ‘Even should you succeed, Cotillion. Beyond all expectation, beyond, even, all desire. They will still speak of your failure.’

  He sheathed his daggers. ‘And you know what they can do to themselves.’

  The head cocked, strands of hair dangling and drifting. ‘Arrogance?’

  ‘Competence,’ Cotillion snapped in reply. ‘Doubt me at your peril.’

  ‘They will not believe you.’

  ‘I do not care, Edgewalker. This is what it is.’

  When he set out, he was not surprised that the deathless guardian followed. We have done this before. Dust and ashes puffed with each step. The wind moaned as if trapped in a crypt. ‘Almost time, Edgewalker.’

  ‘I know. You cannot win.’

  Cotillion paused, half turned. He smiled a ravaged smile. ‘That doesn’t mean I have to lose, does it?’

  Dust lifted, twisting, in her wake. From her shoulders trailed dozens of ghastly chains: bones bent and folded into irregular links, ancient bones in a thousand shades between white and deep brown. Scores of individuals made up each chain, malformed skulls matted with hair, fused spines, long bones, clacking and clattering. They drifted out behind her like a tyrant’s legacy and left a tangled skein of furrows in the withered earth that stretched for leagues.

  Her pace did not slow, as steady as the sun’s own crawl to the horizon ahead, as inexorable as the darkness overtaking her. She was indifferent to notions of irony, and the bitter taste of irreverent mockery that could so sting the palate. In this there was only necessity, the hungriest of gods. She had known imprisonment. The memories remained fierce, but such recollections were not those of crypt walls and unlit tombs. Darkness, indeed, but also pressure. Terrible, unbearable pressure.

  Madness was a demon an
d it lived in a world of helpless need, a thousand desires unanswered, a world without resolution. Madness, yes, she had known that demon. They had bargained with coins of pain, and those coins came from a vault that never emptied. She’d once known such wealth.

  And still the darkness pursued.

  Walking, a thing of hairless pate, skin the hue of bleached papyrus, elongated limbs that moved with uncanny grace. The landscape surrounding her was empty, flat on all sides but ahead, where a worn-down range of colourless hills ran a wavering claw along the horizon.

  She had brought her ancestors with her and they rattled a chaotic chorus. She had not left a single one behind. Every tomb of her line now gaped empty, as hollowed out as the skulls she’d plundered from their sarcophagi. Silence ever spoke of absence. Silence was the enemy of life and she would have none of it. No, they talked in mutters and grating scrapes, her perfect ancestors, and they were the voices of her private song, keeping the demon at bay. She was done with bargains.

  Long ago, she knew, the worlds – pallid islands in the Abyss – crawled with creatures. Their thoughts were blunt and simple, and beyond those thoughts there was nothing but murk, an abyss of ignorance and fear. When the first glimmers awakened in that confused gloom, they quickly flickered alight, burning like spot fires. But the mind did not awaken to itself on strains of glory. Not beauty, not even love. It did not stir with laughter or triumph. Those fires, snapping to life, all belonged to one thing and one thing only.

  The first word of sentience was justice. A word to feed indignation. A word empowering the will to change the world and all its cruel circumstances, a word to bring righteousness to brutal infamy. Justice, bursting to life in the black soil of indifferent nature. Justice, to bind families, to build cities, to invent and to defend, to fashion laws and prohibitions, to hammer the unruly mettle of gods into religions. All the prescribed beliefs rose out twisting and branching from that single root, losing themselves in the blinding sky.

  But she and her kind had stayed wrapped about the base of that vast tree, forgotten, crushed down; and in their place, beneath stones, bound in roots and dark earth, they were witness to the corruption of justice, to its loss of meaning, to its betrayal.