A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

edge
of Empire's fury,
and so in stepping down
but not away
he remained the remembrance
before her eyes, the curse
of conscience she would not stand.
A price was placed before him
that he glanced over in first passing
unknowing and so unprepared
in stepping down among women
and men, he found what
he'd surrendered and damned
its reawakening ...
    The Bridgeburners
Toc the Younger
    A quarter-hour before dawn the sky held the colour of iron shot through with
    streaks of rust. Sergeant Whiskeyjack squatted on a dome of bedrock up from
    the pebble beach, gazing out over the misty calm surface of Lake Azur. Far
    to the south, on the lake's opposite shore, rose the faint glow of Darujhistan.
    The mountain crossing of the night just past had been hell, the Quorl tossed about in the midst of three warring thunder-heads. It was a miracle no one had been lost. The rain had since stopped, leaving the air cool and clammy.
    He heard the sound of boots accompanied by a clicking noise behind him. Whiskeyjack turned and straightened. Kalam and a Black Moranth approached, picking their way through the mossy tumble of rocks at the base of the slope. Behind them rose the shadowed redwood forest, the patched trunks standing like bearded sentinels against the mountainside. The sergeant drew a deep breath of the chill morning air.
    'Everything's fine,' Kalam said. 'The Green Moranth delivered as ordered, and more. Fiddler and Hedge are two happy sappers.'
    Whiskeyjack raised an eyebrow. He turned to the Black Moranth. 'I thought your munitions were getting scarce.'
    The creature's face remained in shadow beneath the hinged helmet. The words that came from it seemed born from a cavern, hollow and faintly echoing. 'Selectively, Bird That Steals. You are well known to us, Bridgeburner. You tread the enemy's shadow. From the Moranth, assistance will never be scarce.'
    Surprised, Whiskeyjack looked away, the skin tightening around his eyes.
    The Moranth continued. 'You asked of the fate of one of our kind. A warrior with but one arm, who fought at your side in the streets of Nathilog many years ago. He lives still.'
    The sergeant took a deep breath of the sweet forest air. 'Thank you,' he said.
    'We wish that the blood you next find on your hands is your enemy's, Bird That Steals.'
    He frowned, then gave a brusque nod and turned his attention back to Kalam.
    'What else?'
    The assassin's face became expressionless. 'Quick Ben's ready,' he said.
    'Good. Gather the others. I'll be laying out my plan.'
    'Your plan, Sergeant?'
    'Mine,' Whiskeyjack said firmly. 'The one devised by the Empress and her tacticians is being rejected, as of now. We're doing it my way. Get going, Corporal.'
    Kalam saluted then left.
    Whiskeyjack stepped down from the rock, his boots sinking into the moss. 'Tell me, Moranth, might a squadron of your Black be patrolling this area two weeks from now?'
    The Moranth's head swivelled audibly towards the lake. 'Such unscheduled patrols are common. I expect to command one myself in two weeks' time.'
    Whiskeyjack gazed steadily at the black-armoured warrior standing beside him. 'I'm not quite sure how to take that,' he said eventually.
    The warrior faced him. 'We are not so unalike,' he said. 'In our eyes deeds have measure. We judge. We act upon our judgements. As in Pale, we match spirit with spirit.'
    The sergeant frowned. 'What do you mean?'
    'Eighteen thousand seven hundred and thirty-nine souls departed in the purge of Pale. One for each Moranth confirmed as a victim of Pale's history of enmity towards us. Spirit with spirit, Bird That Steals.'
    Whiskeyjack found he had no response. The Moranth's next words shook him deeply.
    'There are worms within your empire's flesh. But such degradation is natural in all bodies. Your people's infection is not yet fatal. It can be scoured clean. The Moranth are skilled at such efforts.'
    'How exactly,' Whiskeyjack paused, choosing his words carefully, 'do you intend this scouring?' He recalled the wagons piled with corpses winding out of Pale, and struggled against the ice tingling along his spine.
    'Spirit with spirit,' the Moranth answered, returning his attention to the city on the south shore. 'We depart for now. You will find us here in two weeks' time, Bird That Steals.'
    Whiskeyjack watched the Black Moranth walk away, pushing through the thicket surrounding the clearing where his riders waited. A moment later he heard the rapid thud of wings, then the Quorl rose above the trees.