The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (290 page)

‘You do not understand! He is Itkovian! Shield Anvil! He wishes my soul! Please, kill me!’

Dujek and Caladan Brood had arrived from the allied lines, as well as Kallor and Artanthos. They sat on their horses, watchful, silent.

‘Perhaps we will,’ the Lord of Moon’s Spawn replied after a moment. ‘In time. For now, we will take you with us to Capustan—’

‘No! Please! Kill me now!’

‘I see no absolution in your particular madness, child,’ Anomander Rake said. ‘No cause for mercy. Not yet. Perhaps, upon meeting the one – Itkovian? – who so terrifies you, we will judge otherwise, and so grant you a swift end. As you are our prisoner, that is our right. You might be spared your nemesis after all.’ He faced Brood and the others. ‘Acceptable?’

‘Aye,’ Dujek growled, eyes on Whiskeyjack.

‘Agreed,’ Brood said.

Anaster made a desperate attempt to snatch a dagger from a Tiste Andii warrior beside him, which was effortlessly denied. The youth collapsed, then, weeping, down onto his knees, his thin frame racked by heaves.

‘Best take him away,’ Anomander Rake said, studying the broken figure. ‘This is no act.’

That much was plain to everyone present.

Whiskeyjack nudged his horse to come alongside Dujek.

The old man nodded in greeting, then muttered, ‘That was damned unfortunate.’

‘It was.’

‘From the distance, it looked—’

‘It looked bad, High Fist, because it was.’

‘Understand, Whiskeyjack, I comprehend your … your mercy. Rake’s sword – but, dammit, could you not have waited?’

Explanations, sound justifications crowded Whiskeyjack’s mind, but all he said was, ‘No.’

‘Executions demand procedures—’

‘Then strip me of my rank, sir.’

Dujek winced, looked away. He sighed roughly. ‘That’s not what I meant, Whiskeyjack. I know well enough the significance of such procedures – the real reason for their existing in the first place. A sharing of necessary but brutal acts—’

‘Diminishes the personal cost, aye,’ Whiskeyjack answered in low tones. ‘No doubt Anomander Rake could have easily managed those few souls added to his legendary list. But I took them instead. I
diminished his personal cost.
A paltry effort, granted, and one he asked me not to do. But it is done now. The issue is ended.’

‘The issue is anything but,’ Dujek grated. ‘I am your friend—’

‘No.’
We’re not at risk of crossing blades, so there won’t be any sharing of this one.
‘No,’ he repeated.
Not this time.

He could almost hear Dujek’s teeth grinding.

Korlat joined them. ‘A strange young man, the one known as Anaster.’

The two Malazans turned at her words.

‘Does that surprise you?’ Dujek asked.

She shrugged. ‘There was much hidden within the darkness of his soul, High Fist. More than just a soldier’s face. He could not bear leading his army. Could not bear to see the starvation, the loss and desperation. And so was resolved to send it to its death, to absolute annihilation. As an act of mercy, no less. To relieve the suffering.

‘For himself, he committed crimes that could only be answered with death. Execution at the hands of those survivors among his victims. But not a simple death – he seeks something more. He seeks damnation as his sentence. An eternity of damnation. I cannot fathom such self-loathing.’

I can, for I feel as if I am tottering on the very edge of that steep slope myself. One more misstep
 … Whiskeyjack looked away, towards the Malazan legions massed on the distant ridge. The sun flashing from armour and weapons was blinding, making his eyes water.

Dujek moved his horse away, rejoining Artanthos, Brood and Kallor.

Leaving Whiskeyjack alone with Korlat.

She reached up, touched his gauntleted hand.

He could not meet her gaze, continued studying the motionless lines of his soldiers.

‘My love,’ she murmured. ‘Those women – they were not defenceless. The power they drew on came from the Warren of Chaos itself. My Lord’s initial attack was intended to destroy them; instead, it but left them momentarily stunned. They were
recovering.
And, in their awakened power, they would have unleashed devastation. Madness and death, for your army. This entire day could have been lost.’

He grimaced. ‘I do not rail at necessity,’ he said.

‘It seems … you do.’

‘War has its necessities, Korlat, and I have always understood that. Always known the cost. But, this day, by my own hand, I have realized something else. War is not a natural state. It is an imposition, and a damned unhealthy one. With its rules, we willingly yield our humanity. Speak not of just causes, worthy goals. We are takers of life. Servants of Hood, one and all.’

‘The Women of the Dead Seed would have killed hundreds, perhaps thousands, Whiskeyjack—’

‘And I have commanded the same, in my time, Korlat. What difference is there between us?’

‘You are not afraid of the questions that follow such acts,’ she said. ‘Those that you willingly ask of yourself. Perhaps you see that as self-destructive ruthlessness, but I see it as courage – a courage that is extraordinary. A man less brave would have left my Lord to his unseemly task.’

These are pointless words, Korlat. The army standing over there has witnessed its commander committing murder—’

Korlat’s hissing retort shocked him. ‘Do not dare underestimate them!’

‘Underest—’

‘I have come to know many of your soldiers, Whiskeyjack. They are not fools. Perhaps many of them – if not most – are unable to articulate their fullest understanding, but they understand none the less. Do you not think that they – each in his or her own way – have faced the choice you faced this morning? The knifepoint turn of their lives? And every one of them still feels the scar within them.’

‘I see little—’

‘Whiskeyjack, listen to me. They witnessed. They
saw,
in fullest knowing. Damn you, I know this for I felt the same. They hurt for you. With every brutal blow, they felt the old wounds within them resonate in sympathy. Commander, your shame is an insult. Discard it, or you will deliver unto your soldiers the deepest wound of all.’

He stared down at her. ‘We’re a short-lived people,’ he said after a long moment. ‘We lack such complexity in our lives.’

‘Bastard. Remind me to never again apologize to you.’

He looked back once more at the Malazan legions. ‘I still fear to face them at close range,’ he muttered.

‘The distance between you and them has already closed, Whiskeyjack. Your army will follow you into the Abyss, should you so command.’

‘The most frightening thought uttered thus far today.’

She made no reply to that.

Aye, war’s imposition – of extremities. Harsh, yet simple. It is no place for humanity, no place at all.
‘Dujek was displeased,’ he said.

‘Dujek wants to keep his army alive.’

His head snapped round.

Her eyes regarded him, cool and gauging.

‘I have no interest in usurping his authority—’

‘You just did, Whiskeyjack. Laseen’s fear of you be damned, the natural order has reasserted itself. She could handle Dujek. That’s why she demoted you and put him in charge. Gods, you can be dense at times!’

He scowled. ‘If I am such a threat to her, why didn’t she—’ He stopped, closed his mouth.
Oh, Hood. Pale. Darujhistan. It wasn’t the Bridgeburners she wanted destroyed. It was me.

‘Guard your trust, my love,’ Korlat said. ‘It may be that your belief in honour is being used against you.’

He felt himself go cold inside.

Oh, Hood.

Hood’s marble balls on an anvil …

*   *   *

Coll made his way down the gentle slope towards the Mhybe’s wagon. Thirty paces to the right were the last of the Trygalle Trade Guild’s carriages, a group of shareholders throwing bones on a tarp nearby. Messengers rode in the distance, coming from or returning to the main army’s position a league to the southwest.

Murillio sat with his back to one of the Rhivi wagon’s solid wood wheels, eyes closed.

They opened upon the councillor’s arrival.

‘How does she fare?’ Coll asked, crouching down beside him.

‘It is exhausting,’ Murillio replied. ‘To see her suffer those nightmares – they are endless. Tell me the news.’

‘Well, Kruppe and Silverfox haven’t been seen since yesterday; nor have those two marines Whiskeyjack had guarding the Mhybe’s daughter. As for the battle…’ Coll looked away, squinting south-westward. ‘It was short-lived. Anomander Rake assumed his Sole-taken form. A single pass dispersed the Tenescowri. Anaster was captured, and, uh, the mages in his service were … executed.’

‘Sounds unpleasant,’ Murillio commented.

‘By all reports it was. In any case, the peasants are fleeing back to Capustan, where I doubt they will be much welcome. It’s a sad fate indeed for those poor bastards.’

‘She’s been forgotten, hasn’t she?’

Coll did not need to ask for elaboration. ‘A hard thing to swallow, but aye, it does seem that way.’

‘Outlived her usefulness, and so discarded.’

‘I cling to a faith that this is a tale not yet done, Murillio.’

‘We are the witnesses. Here to oversee the descent. Naught else, Coll. Kruppe’s assurances are nothing but wind. And you and I, we are prisoners of this unwelcome circumstance – as much as she is, as much as that addled Rhivi woman who comes by to comb her hair.’

Coll slowly swung to study his old friend. ‘What do you suggest we do?’ he asked.

Shrugging, Murillio growled, ‘What do most prisoners do sooner or later?’

‘They try to escape.’

‘Aye.’

Coll said nothing for a long moment, then he sighed. ‘And how do you propose we do that? Would you just leave her? Alone, untended—’

‘Of course not. No, we take her with us.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know! Anywhere! So long as it’s away.’

‘And how far will she need to go to escape those nightmares?’

‘We need only find someone willing to help her, Coll. Someone who does not judge a life by expedience and potential usefulness.’

‘This is an empty plain, Murillio.’

‘I know.’

‘Whereas, in Capustan…’

The younger man’s eyes narrowed. ‘By all accounts, it’s little more than rubble.’

‘There are survivors. Including priests.’

‘Priests!’ he snorted. ‘Self-serving confidence artists, swindlers of the gullible, deceivers of—’

‘Murillio, there are exceptions to that—’

‘I’ve yet to see one.’

‘Perhaps this time. My point is, if we’re to escape this – with her – we’ve a better chance of finding help in Capustan than out here in this wasteland.’

‘Saltoan—’

‘Is a week or more away, longer with this wagon. Besides, the city is Hood’s crusted navel incarnate. I wouldn’t take Rallick Norn’s axe-wielding mother to Saltoan.’

Murillio sighed. ‘Rallick Nom.’

‘What of him?’

‘I wish he were here.’

‘Why?’

‘So he could kill someone. Anyone. The man’s a wonder at simplifying matters.’

Coll grunted a laugh. ‘“Simplifying matters.” Wait until I tell him that one. Hey, Rallick, you’re not an assassin, you know, you’re just a man who simplifies.’

‘Well, it’s a moot point in any case, since he disappeared.’

‘He’s not dead.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just know. So, Murillio, do we wait until Capustan?’

‘Agreed. And once there, we follow the example of Kruppe and Silverfox. We slip away. Vanish. Hood knows, I doubt anyone will notice, much less care.’

Coll hesitated, then said, ‘Murillio, if we find someone – someone who can do something for the Mhybe – well, it’s likely to be expensive.’

The man shrugged. ‘I’ve been in debt before.’

‘As have I. So long as it’s understood that this will likely mean our financial ruin, and all that might be achieved is a kinder end to her life.’

‘A worthwhile exchange, then.’

Coll did not ask for another affirmation of his friend’s resolve. He knew Murillio too well for that.
Aye, it’s naught but coin, isn’t it? No matter the amount, a fair exchange to ease an old woman’s suffering. One way or the other. For at least we will have cared – even if she never again awakens and thus knows nothing of what we do. Indeed, it is perhaps better that way. Cleaner. Simpler …

*   *   *

The howl echoed as if from a vast cavern. Echoed, folded in on itself until the mourning call became a chorus. Bestial voices in countless numbers, voices that stripped away the sense of time itself, that made eternity into a single now.

The voices of winter.

Yet they came from the south, from the place where the tundra could go no further; where the trees were no longer ankle-high, but rose, still ragged, wind-torn and spindly, over her head, so that she could pass unseen – no longer towering above the landscape.

Kin answered that howl. The pursuing beasts, still on her trail, yet losing her now, as she slipped among the black spruce, the boggy ground sucking hungrily at her bare feet, the black-stained water swirling thick and turgid as she waded chill pools. Huge mosquitoes swarmed her, each easily twice the size of those she knew on the Rhivi Plain. Blackflies crawled in her hair, bit her scalp. Round leeches like black spots covered her limbs.

In her half-blind flight she had stumbled into a spatulate antler, jammed in the crotch of two trees at eye-level. The gouge a tine had made under her right cheek still trickled blood.

It is my death that approaches. That gives me strength. I draw from that final moment, and now they cannot catch me.

They cannot catch me.

The cavern lay directly ahead. She could not yet see it, and there was nothing in the landscape to suggest a geology natural to caves, but the echoing howl was closer.

The beast calls to me. A promise of death, I think, for it gives me this strength. It is my siren call—

Darkness drew down around her, and she knew she had arrived. The cavern was a shaping of a soul, a soul lost within itself.