A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

eternal domain. We fashion gates, raise barrows—'
    'Your enemy is death?' Whiskeyjack glanced away, then met her eyes again. 'This is nonsense, Mhybe. You and I are both too old to fear death.'
    'Face to face with Hood!' she snapped. 'That is how you see it – you fool! He is the mask behind which hides something beyond your ability to comprehend. I have seen it! I know what awaits me!'
    'Then you no longer yearn for it—'
    'I was mistaken, back then. I believed in my tribe's spirit-world. I have sensed the ghosts of my ancestors. But they are but memories made manifest, a sense of self desperately holding itself together by strength of its own will and naught else. Fail in that will, and all is lost. For ever.'
    'Is oblivion so terrible, Mhybe?'
    She leaned forward, gripping the wagon's sides with fingers that clawed, nails that dug into the weathered wood. 'What lies beyond is not oblivion, you ignorant man! No, imagine a place crowded with fragmented memories – memories of pain, of despair – all those emotions that carve deepest upon our souls.' She fell back, weakened, and slowly sighed, her eyes closing. 'Love drifts like ashes, Whiskeyjack. Even identity is gone. Instead, all that is left of you is doomed to an eternity of pain and terror – a succession of fragments from everyone – every thing – that has ever lived. In my dreams ... I stand upon the brink. There is no strength in me – my will has already shown itself weak, wanting. When I die ... I see what awaits me, I see what hungers for me, for my memories, for my pain.' She opened her eyes, met his gaze. 'It is the true Abyss, Whiskeyjack. Beyond all the legends and stories, it is the true Abyss. And it lives unto itself, consumed by rapacious hunger.'
    'Dreams can be naught but an imagination's fashioning of its own fears, Mhybe,' the Malazan said. 'You are projecting a just punishment for what you perceive as your life's failure.'
    Her eyes narrowed on him. 'Get out of my sight,' she growled, turning away, drawing her hood tighter about her head, cutting off the outside world – all that lay beyond the warped, stained planks of the wagon's bed. Begone, Whiskeyjack, with your sword-thrust words, the cold, impervious armour of your ignorance. You cannot answer all that I have seen with a simple, brutal statement. I am not a stone for your rough hands. The knots within me defy your chisel.
    Your sword-thrust words shall not cut to my heart.
    I dare not accept your wisdom. I dare—
    Whiskeyjack. You bastard.
     
    The commander rode at a gentle canter through the dust until he reached the vanguard of the Malazan army. Here, he found Dujek, flanked by Korlat on one side and the Daru, Kruppe, on the other, the latter tottering uneasily on a mule, hands waving about at the swarming midges.
    'A plague on these pernicious gnats! Kruppe despairs!'
    'The wind will pick up soon enough,' Dujek growled. 'We're approaching hills.'
    Korlat drew closer alongside Whiskeyjack. 'How does she fare, Commander?'
    He grimaced. 'No better. Her spirit is as twisted and shrunken as her body. She has fashioned a vision of death that has her fleeing it in terror.'
    'Tat— Silverfox feels abandoned by her mother. This leads to bitterness. She no longer welcomes our company.'
    'Her too? This is turning into a contest of wills, I think. Isolation is the last thing she needs, Korlat.'
    'In that she is like her mother, as you have just intimated.'
    He let out a long sigh, shifted in his saddle. His thoughts began to drift; he was weary, his leg aching and stiff. Sleep had been eluding him. They had heard virtually nothing of the fate of Paran and the Bridgeburners. The warrens had become impassable. Nor were they certain if the siege of Capustan was under way, or of the city's fate. Whiskeyjack had begun to regret sending the Black Moranth away. Dujek and Brood's armies were marching into the unknown; even the Great Raven Crone and her kin had not been seen for over a week.
    It's these damned warrens and the sickness now filling them . . .
    'They're late,' Dujek muttered.
    'And no more than that, Kruppe assures one and all. Recall the last delivery. Almost dusk, it was. Three horses left on the lead wagon, the others killed and cut from the traces. Four shareholders gone, their souls and earnings scattered to the infernal winds. And the merchant herself! Near death, she was. The warning was clear, my friends – the warrens have been compromised. And as we march ever