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‘Will you not walk with us? Your gift to her—’ ‘Go.’ My gift to her. My gift to you. They are all as one. Grand failures, defeats born from the flaws within me. I will not stand witness to my own shame – I cannot. I have not the courage for that. I’m sorry. She walked away. Brief flower. Seed to stalk to deadly blossom, all in the span of a single day. Bright-burning poison, destroying all who came too close. An abomination.
But he had not comprehended the vast capacity within him, within a mortal soul, to take within itself the suffering of tens of thousands, the multitudes who had lived with loss and pain for almost three hundred thousand years.
We humans do not understand compassion. In each moment of our lives, we betray it. Aye, we know of its worth, yet in knowing we then attach to it a value, we guard the giving of it, believing it must be earned. T’lan Imass. Compassion is priceless in the truest sense of the word. It must be given freely. In abundance.
Because. I was the Shield Anvil. But now … I am done. And beneath the Moon’s torrential rain, he died.
—and released them of the Ritual. An effort demanding so little of herself, she was left feeling appalled. So easy, then, to release. To make free once more. She opened her eyes. The undead wolves were gone. Not into oblivion, however. Their souls had been reunited, she knew, with flesh and bone. Extinct no longer. Not here, within this realm and its wolf gods. She was a Bonecaster, after all. Such gifts were hers to give. No, they are not gifts. They are what I was fashioned to do, after all. My purpose. My sole purpose.
Silverfox frowned. ‘What are we waiting for, then?’ He was motionless a moment longer, then he reached up and slowly drew his flint sword. ‘For me,’ he rasped, raising the sword— —then releasing it, to fall to the ground at his feet. She frowned down at the weapon, wondering at the significance of the gesture – from the warrior who was called the First Sword. Slowly, as comprehension filled her, her eyes widened. What, after all, I was fashioned to do
‘This is not a burial,’ K’rul said to him. ‘The Mhybe now sleeps, and will sleep for ever more. She sleeps, to dream. And within her dream, Murillio, lives an entire world.’ ‘Like Burn?’ Coll asked. The Elder God smiled in answer. ‘Wait a moment!’ Murillio snapped. ‘Just how many sleeping old women are there?’
‘Their gods have finally found each other, Coll. Within the Mhybe’s realm, home now to the Beast Thrones. You do not witness sorrow, but joy.’ After a moment, Coll grunted. ‘Let’s get to work, Murillio. Then we can go home.’ ‘I still want to know about these old women dreaming up worlds like this!’
It crouched six paces away, tail thrashing, coal-lit eyes fixed on his own. It bared its fangs in a silent snarl. From somewhere within the captain emerged an answering growl. Deeper than a human throat could manage. A brutal strength flowed into him, stealing from him all awareness of his own body – except that now, he realized, he was – somehow – on eye-level with the gigantic panther.
He felt the rent like a physical blow against his heart. A welt in the air, almost within reach of the ragged roof of an abandoned tower. A wound, bleeding pain – such pain … an eternity – gods below, there is a soul within it. A child. Trapped. Sealing the wound. I remember that child – the child of my dreams … Quick
‘This path to redemption, Bonecaster. Know that I cannot forgive you. Not yet.’ ‘Nor I you.’ He nodded. ‘We both have learning ahead of us.’ With that, he turned once more. Back straightening, he strode to his sister. She knew her own kind, and had not yet been shorn of her love, her need, for kin. And, before Pannion began lifting his hands towards her, she opened her arms to him.
‘Chilly enough for you, witch?’ She cackled again. ‘I knew you were no fool, Desert Snake.’ ‘Truth to tell, I’ll have to thank Picker for giving me the idea. The night I crossed paths with the Crippled God. That, and your hints about the cold.’ The witch twisted to glare at Kilava. ‘Bonecaster,’ she snapped. ‘Heed my words well – this warren is not to be assailed by you or your kin. You are to tell no-one of this, the final manifestation of Omtose Phellack.’ ‘I understand you, Witch. I begin, here, my own path to redemption, it seems.
‘No, better the Master of the Deck lead us out – that way, there’ll be no trail.’ Paran blinked. ‘Me?’ ‘Fashion a card, Captain. In your mind.’ ‘A card? Of what?’ The wizard shrugged. ‘Think of something.’
The High Fist had heard the news – Gruntle could see it in his slumped shoulders, the way he repeatedly drew his lone hand down the length of his aged face, the spirit of the man so plainly, unutterably broken.
My god? Running. Freed. The beast. The wolf. Togg. My namesake … ‘He has delivered you, sir, yet would make no demands. We know that your soul has run with the wolf-gods. But you are once more in the mortal realm. The body you now find yourself in was blessed. It is now yours. Still, sir, you must choose. Would you leave your gods?’
Toc studied his own arms, the muscles of his thighs. Long-fingered hands. He reached up, probed his face. A fresh scar, taking the same eye. No matter. He’d grown used to that. A young body – younger than he had been. He looked down at the woman, then at the ring of soldiers. ‘No,’ he said.
Pran Chole was long in replying. ‘Cast your eyes about you, Summoner. At the life now in this realm. Reach out and sense the power, here in the earth.’ She frowned. ‘I do not understand. This realm is now home to the Beast Thrones. There are Rhivi spirits here … two wolf-gods …’ Pran Chole nodded. ‘And more. You have, perhaps unwitting, created a realm where the Vow of Tellann unravels. T’lan Ay … now mortal once more – that gesture was easier than you had expected, was it not? Summoner, Itkovian freed our souls and found, in this realm you created, a place. For us.’ ‘You have been …
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do you know of the Master of the Deck?’ Rake’s brows rose. ‘Ganoes Paran? The mortal who walked within Dragnipur? The one who sent the two Hounds of Shadow into Kurlad Galain’s gate?’
Anomander Rake was at Korlat’s side. He said nothing for a long time, then he turned away. ‘Korlat, how will you answer this?’ She replied tonelessly, ‘Orfantal makes ready, Lord. We will hunt Kallor down, my brother and I.’ Rake nodded. ‘When you do, leave him alive. He has earned Dragnipur.
‘Well, maybe that’s the wrong name for them. Warlocks might be better. Swamp-snuffling warlocks. With bits of bark in their hair. Get them into a forest and you won’t find them unless they want you to. Those Bole brothers, they’re the worst of the lot, though I’ve heard that there’s a lone sister among them who you wouldn’t want to meet, ever.’ Paran shook his head.
Thus. The child had lost her brother. Had found an uncle instead. But not a kindly one. The Seer carries his own wounds, after all … And now Burn’s realm had found new denizens. Was now home to an ancient warren. ‘Memories,’ Quick Ben had said, ‘of ice. There is heat within this chaotic poison – heat enough to destroy these servants. I needed to find a way to slow the infection, to weaken the poison. ‘I’d warned the Crippled God, you know. Told him I was stepping into his path.
The disposition of the fallen within the massive, floating edifice was left to the Tiste Andii, to Anomander Rake himself.
As Moon’s Spawn drew its shadow after it, there was revealed, on the ridge on the other side of the trader road, a small gathering of soldiers, positioned in a half-circle around a modest bier and a pile of stones. It was a moment before Gruntle understood what he was seeing. He reached out and drew Stonny closer to him. ‘Come on,’ he whispered.
She did not protest as he led her from the hill, down the slope, through silent, ghostly ranks that parted to let them pass. Over the road, across the shallow ditch, then onto the slope leading to the ridge. Where the remaining hundred or so Grey Swords stood to honour the man who had once been Fener’s Shield Anvil. Someone was following at a distance-behind Gruntle and Stonny, but neither turned to see who it was. They reached the small gathering.
‘We mark the death of this man, whose spirit travels to no god. He has walked through Hood’s Gate, and that is all. Through. To stand alone. He will not relinquish his burden, for he remains in death as he was in life. Itkovian, Shield Anvil of Fener’s Reve. Remember him.’
With the last soldiers leaving the hill, Gruntle stirred. He stared at the massive, glittering barrow, seeing the faint emanation of Tellann sorcery that would keep it intact – every object in its place, immovable – then reached up with his left hand. A soft click, and the torcs fell free. Sorry, Treach. Learn to live with the loss. We do.
Right. Now how do I do that? Study the card, Paran – no, that alone will land us on its damned surface, a short but no doubt thoroughly fatal fall to the waves below. A chamber, Picker said. Rake’s throne room. Think darkness. Kurald Galain, a place unlit, silent, a place with cloth-wrapped corpses … Eyes closed, Paran stepped forward, dragging Quick Ben with him. His boot landed on stone.
Whiskeyjack, for all that you have taught me, I thank you. Bridgeburners, I wish I could have done better by you. Especially at the end. At the very least, I could have died with you. All right, it’s probably far too late. But I bless you, one and all.
But a new glow had come to the chamber. Faint, seeming to dance with the black web on the sarcophagi. A dance of mystery.
you’ve one more mission, and it takes you to Darujhistan. The Trygalle has delivered someone. He’s presently in the care of the High Alchemist Baruk. The man’s not well – he needs you, I think. Malazans. Soldiers. Do what you can for him when you’re there, and when you decide that you can’t do anything more, then walk away.’
‘Thank you, High Fist. I don’t think I was ever cut out to be a soldier.’ ‘Not another word of that, Captain. Think what you like about yourself, but we will continue seeing you as you are – a noble man.’ ‘Noble—’ ‘Not that kind of noble, Ganoes. This is the kind that’s earned, the only kind that means anything.
If anything, he looked, from his faded, tattered leathers and furs, to be Barghast. Covered in scars – more scars of battle than Toc had ever seen on a single person before. Despite this, there was a comfort, there in his face – a gentleman’s face, no more than twenty years of age, the features pronounced, heavy-boned, framed in long black hair devoid of any fetishes or braids. His eyes were a soft brown as he looked up at Toc. Toc had never met this man before. ‘Hello. Is there something you wish?’ he asked, impatient to be away. The man shook his head. ‘I only sought to look upon you, to see
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Now, I have decided to escort the three of you home. Isn’t that generous of me?’ Mok regarded her, the silence stretching. Lady Envy offered him a sweet smile.
Picker could not pull her eyes from the man. He sat hunched over, on a chair that had yet to find a table, still clutching in his hands the small rag of tattered cloth on which something had been written.
‘Sure,’ Spindle snapped, ‘a story to break our hearts all over again! What’s the value in that?’ A rough, broken voice replied, ‘There is value.’ Everyone
