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December 3, 2024 - October 9, 2025
Brood growled, ‘Do you still have that beak-strap, Hurlochel?’ ‘I do, sir.’ The Great Raven hissed, ducking her head and half raising her vast wings. ‘Don’t you dare, ox! Repeat that affront at your peril!’
Loyalty never survives a pinched stomach.
You must dismantle your sources, Toc the Younger, lest you do nothing but ape the prejudices of others.’
None better, Kruppe says,
Soldiers are issued armour for their flesh and bones, but they must fashion their own for their souls. Piece by piece.’
Kruppe removed a mottled silk handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his brow. ‘Warrens suddenly abound, licking the air with invisible flames, aaii! Kruppe withers beneath such scrutiny – mercy, Kruppe begs you, malicious mage!’
‘Kruppe denies the existence of elusive complexity regarding self, worrisome wizard. Simplicity is Kruppe’s mistress – in joyful conspiracy with his dear wife, Truth, of course. Long and loyal in allegiance, this happy threesome—’
‘Can you speed things up?’ ‘Sure.’ The healer slapped the wizard. Quick Ben’s eyes snapped open. ‘Ow. You bastard, Mallet.’
Teach him what? How to live beneath the burden of command? That’s something I can’t manage myself. I need only look into Whiskeyjack’s face to understand that no-one can – no-one who has a heart, anyway. We learn to achieve but one thing: the ability to hide our thoughts, to mask our feelings, to bury our humanity deep in our souls. And that can’t be taught, only shown.
He wanted to be there with them. In the front line. Taking life after life. One Seerdomin was not enough. A thousand would not be enough. Not now.
The man sighed. ‘But no longer. I’ve aged, paid the price for my younger days—’ ‘Nights, you mean.’
‘But, Whiskeyjack … Kruppe?’
Arms waving expansively, Kruppe, Eel of Darujhistan, occasional fence and thief, Defier of Caladan Brood the Warlord, ambled his way down the main avenue of tents towards the supply wagons.
And do you lasses now believe he made a mistake?’ The women shrugged in unison. ‘Don’t matter, now,’ one said. ‘We’re here and here’s here and that’s that.’
‘Hello, Capustan. The Bridgeburners have arrived.’
‘Anyone but him, to be honest. The man’s a cynical bastard, prone to drunkenness. Oh, he’s smart, as far as men go. But now, when I look at him …’
‘I’m a caravan guard captain, and damned good at it. When I’m sober, that is.’
Silverfox swung to face him. ‘Please,’ she grated. ‘No advice. This is my Gathering, Kruppe. Leave me to it.’ ‘Of course, my dear. Humblest apologies. Please do resume your hesitation.’ She made a sour face. ‘Impudent bastard.’
‘Summoner, we beg you to release us.’ With those words, she too settled onto the ground. The scene twisted a knife in Kruppe’s very soul. Unable to speak, barely able to breathe, he simply stared out at the broken multitude in growing horror. And when Silverfox gave answer, the Daru’s heart threatened to burst. ‘No.’
War is not a natural state. It is an imposition, and a damned unhealthy one. With its rules, we willingly yield our humanity.
‘Kind sirs!’ Kruppe cried. ‘By chance would you be riding to our fair armies? If so, we would accompany you, delighted and relieved to return to said martial bosom. Delighted indeed, with the formidable company of yourselves. Relieved, as Kruppe has said, by the welcoming destination so closely pending. Impatient, it must be admitted, for the resumption of the journey. Incorrigibly optimistic—’ ‘That will do, Kruppe,’ Silverfox growled.
‘The very paradigm of explication, dear friends. Cogent, clear, if somewhat quaintly couched. Precision is a precise art. Poignancy is pre-eminent and precludes prevarication. Truths are no trivial thing, after all—’ Itkovian swung towards Whiskeyjack and Korlat and set off. Paran called out, ‘Itkovian?’ ‘I was reminded of that Gredfallan ale,’ he replied over a shoulder. ‘It has been years, yet I find the need suddenly overwhelming, sir.’ ‘I concur. Wait up.’ ‘Wait, indeed, you three! What of Kruppe’s own prodigious thirst?’
First in, last out. MOTTO OF THE BRIDGEBURNERS
‘Pair?’ Straw’s tangled brows rose. ‘There’s twenty-three of ‘em. Not one of ‘em shorter than me. And smart – some of ‘em, anyway. Can’t read, of course, but can count past ten and that’s something, isn’t it? Anyway, I got to go. Tell everyone about the trees down south. Goodbye.’
Mother Dark, but these mortals live!
We’re going into Coral. From the night sky, straight down into the damned streets. ‘Understood, High Fist. And the Bridgeburners are the first in, sir?’ ‘First in …’ Dujek slowly nodded. And last out.
‘Aye, Captain. So, who do you figure will die first, you or us?’ ‘That’s too close to call.’ She grinned. ‘Half my back pay, Captain, we’ll be a step behind you. Pay up at Hood’s Gate.’
As Kallor’s huge sword punched into his chest. Slid between ribs. Ripped through heart and lungs in a diagonal, inward-slicing thrust.
Whiskeyjack died on that blade – life dropping back from the eyes that met Korlat’s, back, away, then gone.
But death has already ridden across this hilltop. Knowing nothing of reason. My love. He is yours, now, Hood … do you smile? My love is … yours …
‘Ah, my friend,’ the figure replied in a rasp. ‘It is I, Onos T’oolan, once of the Tarad Clan, of the Logros T’lan Imass, but now kin to Aral Fayle, to Toc the Younger.’ Kin. Withered arms gathered him up. ‘We are leaving now, young brother.’ Leaving?
‘Oh!’ a woman’s voice cried. ‘You are not Pannions!’
All were terribly wounded – the Barghast in particular, whose armour was nothing more than fragments and whose body was a mass of cuts and gaping holes. Even as she watched, he staggered, sank to his knees, teeth bared in a smeared grin. And died.
And she could hold back no longer. Whiskeyjack. My love. Moments later, her own tears joined the salt-laden water running down her face.
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.
‘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?’
Pallid, wrinkled faces, eyes closed, streaming with tears. ‘What’s wrong with them?’ he demanded. ‘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!’
‘Who are you?’ she asked. The captain shrugged. Her gaze dismissed him, lifted past him. ‘Morn,’ she said.
Toc looked around.
The soldiers lowered themselves to one knee, heads bowing. The woman smiled. ‘Your company welcomes you, Mortal Sword of Togg and Fanderay.’ Mortal Sword. Then, I shall run once more …
‘No indeed. Yet you are worthy company.’ She met his eyes at that, wondering.
Perhaps he understood. ‘Then I would walk with my allies, Lieutenant, one more time.’ ‘We would be honoured, sir.’
With a rough sigh, Dujek straightened. ‘I have lost a friend,’ he said.
Gruntle turned away, blinking rapidly.
The Son of Darkness then faced the others. ‘High Fist Dujek. High Mage Tayschrenn. Moon’s. Spawn is dying, and so has been abandoned by my people. It shall be sent eastward, over the ocean – the power within it is failing, and so it will soon settle beneath the waves. I ask that these three fallen Malazans – slain by a betrayer delivered here by myself and Caladan Brood – these three Malazans, be interred in Moon’s Spawn. It is, I believe, a worthy sarcophagus.’ No-one spoke. Rake then looked at Picker. ‘And I ask that the dead among the Bridgeburners be interred there, as well.’ ‘Is there
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‘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.’
‘For the gift this mortal has given us, we shall each offer one in turn. Together, they shall become his barrow, and it shall be unassailable. If you refuse us this, we will defy you.’ The Destriant shook her head. ‘No, sir,’ she whispered. ‘There will be no refusal.’
The solemn procession of modest gifts – at times nothing more than a polished stone, carefully set down on the growing pile covering the body – continued through the night, the stars completing their great wheel in the sky until fading at last to dawn’s light. When the Malazan soldier added Itkovian’s helmet to the barrow, a second wave began, as soldier after soldier ascended the slope to leave the man a gift. Sigils, diadems, rings, daggers.
