A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

the dim light sat a shrouded figure, hood disguising its features. A brazier was before it, from which heady fumes drifted. Beside the entrance stood a crystal bottle, some dried fruit and a loaf of dark bread.
    'The bottle holds spring water,' the figure rasped in the Meckros tongue. 'Please, take time to recover from your ordeal.'
    He grunted his thanks and quickly took the bottle.
    Thirst blissfully slackened, he reached for the bread. 'I thank you, stranger,' he rumbled, then shook his head. 'That smoke makes you swim before my eyes.'
    A hacking cough that might have been laughter, then something resembling a shrug. 'Better than drowning. Alas, it eases my pain. I shall not keep you long. You are Withal, the Swordmaker.'
    The man started, then his broad brow knotted. 'Aye, I am Withal, of the Third Meckros city – which is now no more.'
    'A tragic event. You are the lone survivor... through my own efforts, though it much strained my powers to intervene.'
    'What place is this?'
    'Nowhere, in the heart of nowhere. A fragment, prone to wander. I give it what life I can imagine, conjured from
memories of my home. My strength returns, although the agony of my broken body does not abate. Yet listen, I have talked and not coughed. That is something.' A mangled hand appeared from a ragged sleeve and scattered seeds onto the brazier's coals. They spat and popped and the smoke thickened.
    'Who are you?' Withal demanded.
    'A fallen god ... who has need of your skills. I have prepared for your coming, Withal. A place of dwelling, a forge, all the raw materials you will need. Clothes, food, water. And three devoted servants, whom you had already met—'
    'The bhoka'ral?' Withal snorted. 'What can—'
    'Not bhoka'ral, mortal. Although perhaps they once were. These are Nacht. I have named them Rind, Mape and Pule. They are of Jaghut fashioning, capable of learning all that you require of them.'
    Withal made to rise. 'I thank you for the salvation, Fallen One, but I shall take my leave of you. I would return to my own world—'
    'You do not understand, Withal,' the figure hissed. 'You will do as I say here, or you will find yourself begging for death. I now own you, Swordmaker. You are my slave and I am your master. The Meckros own slaves, yes? Hapless souls stolen from island villages and such on your raids. The notion is therefore familiar to you. Do not despair, however, for once you have completed what I ask of you, you shall be free to leave.'
    Withal still held the club, the heavy wood cradled on his lap. He considered.
    A cough, then laughter, then more coughing, during which the god raised a staying hand. When the hacking was done, he said, 'I advise you to attempt nothing untoward, Withal. I have plucked you from the seas for this purpose. Have you lost all honour? Oblige me in this, for you would deeply regret my wrath.'
    'What would you have me do?'
    'Better. What would I have you do, Withal? Why, only what you do best. Make me a sword.'
    Withal grunted. 'That is all?'
    The figure leaned forward. 'Ah well, what I have in mind is a very particular sword ...'
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MIDNIGHT TIDES
    A Tale of the Malazan Book of the Fallen
by Steven Erikson
    'A master of long and forgotten epochs, a weaver of ancient epics'
SALON.COM
    After decades of internecine warfare, the tribes of the Tiste Edur have at
    last united under the Warlock King. There is peace – but it has been
    exacted at a terrible price: a pact made with a hidden power whose motives
    are at best suspect, at worst deadly.
    To the south, the rapacious kingdom of Lether, eager to fulfil its long-prophesied role as an empire reborn, has enslaved its less-civilised neighbours. All, that is, save the Tiste Edur. Destiny has decreed that they too must fall – either beneath the suffocating weight of gold, or by slaughter at the edge of a sword. And yet the impending struggle between these two peoples is but a pale reflection of a far more primal conflict. Ancient forces are gathering, and with them rides the still-raw wound of an old betrayal and a craving for revenge ...
    'Marvellously gripping ... a riveting read, punctuated as ever with pockets of humour and fantastically individual characters'
SFCROWSNEST
    'This series has clearly established itself as the most significant work of epic fantasy since Stephen R. Donaldson's Chronicles of Thomas Covenant'
SF SITE
    9780553813142

MEMORIES OF ICE
    A Tale of the Malazan