His eyes strayed to his mace, lying on the ground close to hand. He had managed to strike the Che’Malle one solid blow, enough to rock it back a step. It had felt as if his mace had collided with an iron obelisk. His shoulders still ached. The eye looks past the target, to where the weapon is intended to reach. When it fails, shock thunders through the body. Every muscle, every bone. I can’t even remember the last time it so utterly failed.
‘Who are these strangers?’ Faint asked.
Mappo sighed. ‘I am not sure. There is an undead ay with them.’
‘A what?’
‘An ancient wolf, from the age of the Imass. Their bloodline was harvested in the shaping of the Hounds of Shadow . . . but not the Hounds of Darkness. For those, it was the bloodline of a breed of plains bear. Ty’nath okral, in the language of the Bentract Imass.’
‘An undead wolf?’
‘Pardon? Oh, yes, called an ay when alive. Now? Perhaps a maeth ay, one of rot or decay. Or one could say an oth ay, referring to its skeletal state. For myself, I think I prefer T’ay—a broken ay, if you will—’
‘Mappo, I really don’t care what you call it. It’s an undead wolf, something to keep Cartographer company—he’s back, right? I’m sure I heard him—’
‘Yes. He guided these others to us and now interprets.’
‘They don’t speak Daru? Barbarians.’
‘Yet two of them—those twin girls—they possess Daru blood. I am almost certain of it. The boy now clinging to Gruntle, there is Imass in him. More than half, I would judge. Therefore, either his mother or father was probably Barghast. The leader among them—she is named Setoc and proclaimed by Gruntle to be the Destriant of the Wolves—reminds me of a Kanese, though she is not. Some scenes painted on the oldest of tombs on the north coast of Seven Cities display people much like her in appearance, from the time before the tribes came out of the desert, one presumes.’
‘You’re trying to keep me awake, aren’t you?’
‘You landed on your head, Faint. For a time there, you spoke in tongues.’
‘I did what?’
‘Well, it was a mix of languages, sixteen that I could identify, and some others I could not. An extraordinary display, Faint. There is a scholar who states that we possess every language, deep within our minds, and that the potential exists for perhaps ten thousand languages in all. She would have delighted in witnessing your feat. Then there is a dystigier, a dissector of human corpses, living in Ehrlitan, who claims that the brain is nothing more than a clumped mass of snarled chains. Most links are fused, but some are not. Some can be prised open and fitted anew. Any major head injury, he says, can result in a link breaking. This is usually permanent, but on rare occasions a new link is forged. Chains, Faint, packed inside our skull.’
‘Only they don’t look like chains, do they?’
‘No, alas, they don’t. It is the curse of theory disconnected from physical observation. Of course, Icarium would argue that one should not always test theory solely on the basis of pragmatic observation. Sometimes, he would say, theory needs to be interpreted more poetically, as metaphor, perhaps.’
‘I have a metaphor for you, Mappo.’
‘Oh?’
‘A woman lies on the ground, brain addled, listening to a hairy Trell with tusks discussing possible interpretations of theory. What does this mean?’
‘I don’t know, but whatever it may be, I doubt it would qualify as a metaphor.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, since I don’t even know what a metaphor is, truth be told. Try this, then. The woman listens to all that, but she knows her brain is addled. So, just how addled is it? Is it so addled that she actually believes she’s listening to a hairy Trell spouting philosophy?’
‘Ah, perhaps a tautology, then. Or some other manner of unprovable proof. Then again, it might well be something else entirely. Though I am occasionally philosophical, I do not claim to be a philosopher. The distinction is important, I’m sure.’
‘If you really want to keep me awake, Mappo, find a new subject.’
‘Do you truly believe Precious Thimble is capable of taking you back to Darujhistan?’
‘If she isn’t we’re stuck and it’s time to start learning the local tongue from Setoc. But she can’t be from here anyway, can she? This land is blasted. Quell says it’s used up. Exhausted. No one can live here.’
‘The cut of Setoc’s clothing is Barghast,’ said Mappo. He scratched the bristle on his jaw. ‘And since that boy has, I think, Barghast blood . . .’ He raised his voice and, in Barghast, called over to Setoc, ‘Do we share this language between us, Destriant Setoc?’
At the question all four newcomers looked over. And Setoc said, ‘It seems we do.’
‘Nice guess,’ said Faint.
‘Observation and theory,’ Mappo replied. ‘Now, you can rest for a short time. I mean to get the story of these strangers. I will be back to wake you anon.’
‘Can’t wait,’ Faint muttered.
‘If no solution serves,’ ventured Shield Anvil Tanakalian, ‘then what remains to us? We must proceed on the path we have always known, until some other alternative presents itself.’ He held his gaze on the entourage of Queen Abrastal as it slowly drew closer, the dozen or so horses gently cantering across the uneven ground, the pennons above the riders flapping like impaled birds.
Beside him, Mortal Sword Krughava shifted heavily on her saddle. Leather creaked, iron scraped. ‘The absence haunts,’ she said. ‘It gapes at our side, sir.’
‘Then choose one, Mortal Sword. Be done with it.’
Her expression darkened beneath the rim of her helm. ‘You truly advise this, Shield Anvil? Am I to be so desperate as to be careless? Must I swallow my dissatisfaction? I have done this once already, sir, and I begin to find regret in that.’
Once already? You miserable witch. I took that sour face of yours to be the one you always wear. Now you tell me I was a choice made without confidence. Did that old man talk you into it, then? But between you and me, woman, only I was witness to his bitter dissatisfaction at the very end. So, in your mind he still argues in my favour. Well enough. ‘It grieves me, Mortal Sword, to hear you say this. I do not know how I have failed you, nor do I know what reparation remains available to me.’
‘My indecision, sir, stings you into impatience. You urge action without contemplation, but if the selection of a new Destriant does not demand contemplation, what possibly can? In your mind, it would seem, these are but titles. Responsibilities one grows into, as it were. But the truth of it is, the title awaits only those who have already grown into a person worthy of the responsibility. From you, I receive all the irritation of a young man convinced of his own rightness, as young men generally are, said conviction leading you into rash impulses and ill-considered advice. Now I ask that you be silent. The Queen arrives.’
Tanakalian struggled against his fury, endeavouring to hold flat his expression in the face of the Bolkando riders. You strike me in the moment before this parley, to test my self-control. I know all your tactics, Mortal Sword. You shall not best me.
Queen Abrastal wasted little time. ‘We have met with the Saphii emissary, and I am pleased to inform you that resupply is forthcoming—at a reasonable price, I might add. Generous of them, all things considered.’
‘Indeed, Highness,’ said Krughava.
‘Furthermore,’ Abrastal continued, ‘the Malazan columns have been sighted by the Saphii, almost due north of the Saphii Mountains, approaching the very edge of the Wastelands. They have made good time. Curiously, your allies are with escort—none other than Prince Brys Beddict, in command of a Letherii army.’
‘I see,’ said Krughava. ‘And this Letherii army now marches well beyond Lether’s borders, suggesting their role as escort was not precautionary.’
The Queen’s eyes sharpened. ‘As I said, most curious, Mortal Sword.’ She paused, and then said, ‘It has become obvious to me that, of all the luminaries involved in this esc
apade, I alone remain ignorant.’
‘Highness?’
‘Well, you are all marching somewhere, yes? Into the Wastelands, no less. And through them, in fact, into Kolanse. My warnings to you of the grim—no, horrifying—situation in that distant land appear to have gone unheeded.’
‘On the contrary, Queen Abrastal,’ said Krughava, ‘we heed them most assiduously, and hold your concern in the highest regard.’
‘Then answer me, do you march to win yourselves an empire? Kolanse, weakened so by internal strife, drought and starvation, must present to you an easy conquest. Surely, you cannot imagine such a beleaguered people to be your deadliest enemy? You’ve never even been there. If,’ she added, ‘you were wondering why I am still with you and the Khundryl, so far from my own realm and still weeks to go before our grand parley with the Adjunct, perhaps now you can surmise my reasons.’
‘Curiosity?’ Krughava asked, brows lifting.
A flash of irritation lit Abrastal’s features.
Yes, Queen, I know how you feel.
‘A more apt description would be unease. As co-ruler of Bolkando, it is my responsibility to hold tight the reins of my people. I am well aware of the human tendency towards chaos and cruelty. The very purpose of rule, as I hold it, is to enforce civility. To achieve this, I must begin with a personal adherence to the same. Does it distress me that I am perhaps aiding a horde of rabid conquerors? Does it sit well with my conscience that I am assisting in the invasion of a distant kingdom?’
‘At the earning of vast profits from us,’ Krughava said. ‘One would conclude that much civility can be purchased for yourself, Highness, and for your people. At no direct cost or burden to you, I might add.’
She was genuinely angry now, Tanakalian could see, this hard, clear-eyed Queen sitting astride her horse in the insignia of a soldier. A true ruler of her people. A true servant of the same.
‘Mortal Sword, I am speaking of conscience.’
‘It was my understanding, Highness, that coin in sufficient quantities could salve anything. Is this not the belief dominating Lether and Saphinand, and indeed Bolkando?’
‘Then you do in truth seek to descend upon the poor people of Kolanse?’
‘If it is so, Highness, should you not be relieved? After all, even without the Malazans, we were at the very walls of your capital. To win ourselves a kingdom . . . well, yours was entirely within our reach. Without need for further marching and all the hardships that entails. As for the Malazans, why, they have just completed a successful conquest of the Empire of Lether. A most opulent nest, were they inclined to settle in it.’
‘This is precisely my point!’ Abrastal snapped, tugging her helm to loose a cascade of fiery, sweat-strung hair. ‘Why Kolanse? What in the Errant’s name do you want with Kolanse?’
‘Highness,’ said Krughava, unperturbed by the Queen’s uncharacteristic outburst, ‘an answer to that question would find you in a difficult situation.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you speak to me of conscience. By withholding explanation of our purpose, Highness, we leave to you the comfort of the solitary consideration of your own people. You are their Queen, after all, and therein lies the crucial difference between us. We Perish begin and end with responsibility only to ourselves, and to the purpose of our existence. The same is true for Warleader Gall and the Burned Tears. And finally and most importantly, an identical circumstance obtains among the Bonehunters.’ She cocked her head a fraction. ‘Prince Brys, however, may soon find himself facing a difficult decision—to return to Lether or to continue accompanying the Adjunct and her allies.’
‘And so,’ retorted Abrastal, ‘in serving only yourselves, you are prepared to deliver misery and suffering upon a broken people?’
‘While this is not our desire, Highness, it may well come to that.’
In the shocked silence that followed, Tanakalian saw the Queen’s eyes flatten, and then a frown slowly knot her brow. The skittering clouds of uncertainty edged into her expression. When she spoke it was a whisper. ‘You will not explain yourself to me, will you, Mortal Sword?’
‘You have the truth of that, Highness.’
‘You say you serve none but yourselves. The assertion rings false.’
‘I am sorry you think so,’ Krughava replied.
‘In fact,’ Abrastal went on, ‘I now begin to suspect the very opposite.’
The Mortal Sword said nothing.
You have the truth of it, Tanakalian silently answered, mocking Krughava’s own words. What we do is not in service to ourselves, but to all of you.
Can anything be more glorious? And if we must fall, if we must fail, as I believe we will, is no end sweeter than that? The grandest failure this world has ever seen.
Yes, we all know the tale of Coltaine’s Fall outside Aren. But what we shall find at the end of our days will beggar that tale. We seek to save the world, and the world will do all it can to stop us. Watch us lose. Watch us squeeze the blood from your stony heart!
But no. There shall be none to witness. If existence itself can be said to be poetic, we stand in that silence, unyielding servants to anonymity. None to see, none to even know. Not a single grave, nor stone lifted to cast shade upon our scattered bones. Neither hill nor tomb. We shall rest in emptiness, not forgotten—for forgetting follows remembrance, and there shall be no remembrance.
His heart thundered with the delicious beauty of it—all of it. The perfect hero is one whose heroism none sees. The most precious glory is the glory lost on senseless winds. The highest virtue is the one that remains for ever hidden within oneself. Do you understand that, Mortal Sword? No, you do not.
He watched, flushed with satisfaction, as Queen Abrastal gathered her reins and pitched her horse about with a vicious twist. The entire entourage hastened to follow. The gentle canter was gone, awkward jostling knotting the troop like a hand twisting cloth, stretching out confused behind their departing Queen.
‘Gift me with your wisdom, Shield Anvil.’
Her dry request made him start. The flush of heat in his face suddenly fed darker feelings. ‘They will leave us, Mortal Sword. The Bolkando are done with us.’
She snorted. ‘How long must I wait?’
‘For what, Mortal Sword?’
‘For wisdom in my Shield Anvil.’
They were as good as alone, the Perish camp settled behind them. ‘It seems I can say nothing that pleases you, Mortal Sword.’
‘Queen Abrastal needs to understand what we intend. She cannot let it go. Now, she will maintain her resolve, in the hope that the Adjunct Tavore will provide her with satisfaction.’
‘And will she?’
‘What do you think, Shield Anvil?’
‘I think Queen Abrastal will be a very frustrated woman.’
‘Finally. Yes.’
‘The Adjunct is selfish,’ said Tanakalian.
Krughava’s head snapped round. ‘Excuse me?’
‘She could invite others to share in this glory—this Evertine Legion of the Queen’s, it looks to be a formidable army. Well-trained, capable of marching in step with us—unlike the Conquestor Avalt’s soldiers. Were they to stand at our side in Kolanse—’
‘Sir,’ cut in the Mortal Sword, ‘if the Adjunct is selfish—for what you clearly imagine to be a glorious achievement—then it may serve you better to consider that selfishness as one of unprecedented mercy.’
‘I am aware of the likely outcome of this venture, Mortal Sword. Perhaps more than even you. I know the souls awaiting me—I see their mortal faces every day. I see the hope they settle upon me. Nor am I regretful that what we seek shall be unwitnessed, for with our brothers and sisters, I am their witness. When I spoke of the Adjunct’s selfishness, I did not mean it as a criticism; rather, I was indicating the privilege I feel in her permitting the Grey Helms to share her fate.’
Krughava’s bright blue eyes were fixed on him, calculating, thoughtful. ‘I understand, sir. You await the
death of the Grey Helms. While you look upon them and see naught but their souls soon to be gifted to you, what do they see in the eyes of their Shield Anvil?’
‘I shall honour them all,’ Tanakalian replied.
‘Will you?’
‘Of course. I am Shield Anvil—’
‘Will you embrace the soul of every brother and sister? Free of judgement? Unsullied in your love for each and every one of them? And what of our enemies, sir? Will you take them into your arms as well? Will you accept that suffering defies boundaries and that pain carves no line in the sand?’
He was silent. How could he answer her? She would see the lie. Tanakalian looked away. ‘I am Shield Anvil to the Perish Grey Helms. I serve the Wolves of Winter. I am the mortal flesh of war, not the sword in its hand.’ He glanced back at her. ‘Do I crowd your throne, Mortal Sword? Is that what all this is about?’
Her eyes widened. ‘You have given me much to consider, Shield Anvil. Leave me now.’
As he walked back into the camp, he drew a deep breath and shakily let it out. She was dangerous, but then he’d always known that. She actually thinks we can win. Well, I suppose that is the role of the Mortal Sword. She is welcome to the delusion—no doubt it will serve well our brothers and sisters when the Wolves howl. As for me, I cannot be so blind, so wilfully defiant of the truth.
We can manage this between us, Mortal Sword. I will follow your will in not choosing a Destriant. Why share the glory? Why muddle things at all?
A difficult, searing conversation, but he’d survived it yet. Yes, now we understand each other.
It is well.
After the Shield Anvil was gone, the Mortal Sword stood for a time, eyes on the gloom rising skyward in the east. Then she turned and gestured with one gauntleted hand. A runner quickly joined her.
‘Send word to Warleader Gall, I will visit him this evening, one bell after supper.’
The soldier bowed and departed.
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