A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

that land before. Here, in my dreams . . . there were footprints . . .
    The dragon banked suddenly, crooked its wings, and began a swift spiral earthward.
    She found herself wailing – was shocked to realize that it was not terror she was feeling, but exhilaration. Spirits above, this is what it is to fly! Ah, now I know envy in truth!
    The land rushed up to meet her. Moments before what would have been a fatal impact, the dragon's wings snapped wide, caught the air, then, the leg directly above curling upward to join its twin, the creature glided silently an arm's length above the loamy ground. Forward momentum abated. The leg lowered, the talons releasing her.
    She landed with barely a thump, rolled onto her back, then sat up to watch the enormous dragon rising once more, wings thundering.
    The Mhybe looked down and saw a youthful body – her own. She cried out at the cruelty of this dream. Cried out again, curling tight on the cool, damp earth.
    Oh, why did you save me! Why? Only to awaken – spirits below – to awaken—
    'She was passing through.' A soft voice – a stranger's voice, in the language of the Rhivi – spoke in her mind.
    The Mhybe's head snapped up. She looked around. 'Who speaks? Where are you?'
    'We're here. When you are ready to see us, you shall. Your daughter has a will to match yours, it seems. To have so commanded the greatest of the Bonecasters – true, she comes in answer to the child's summons. The Gathering. Making the detour a minor one. None the less ... we are impressed.'
    'My daughter?'
    'She still stings from harsh words – we can feel that. Indeed, it is how we have come to dwell here. That small, round man hides obsidian edges beneath his surfeit of flesh. Who would have thought? "She has given to you all she has, Silverfox. The time has come for you to gift in answer, lass. Kruppe is not alone in refusing to abandon her to her fate." Ah, he opened her eyes, then, swept away her obsessing with her selves, and she only a child at the time, but she heeded his words – though in truth he spoke only within her dreams at that time. Heeded. Yes indeed.
    'So,' the voice continued, 'will you see us now?' She stared down at her smooth hands, her young arms, and screamed. 'Stop torturing me with this dream! Stop! Oh, stop—'
    Her eyes opened to the musty darkness of her tent. Aches and twinges prodded her thinned bones, her shrunken muscles. Weeping, the Mhybe pulled her ancient body into a tight ball. 'Gods,' she whispered, 'how I hate you. How I hate you!'

BOOK THREE

CAPUSTAN

The Last Mortal Sword of Fener's Reve was Fanald of Cawn Vor, who was killed in the Chaining. The last Boar-cloaked Destriant was Ipshank of Korelri, who vanished during the Last Flight of Manask on the Stratem Icefields. Another waited to claim that title, but was cast out from the temple before it came to him, and that man's name has been stricken from all records. It is known, however, that he was from Unta; that he had begun his days as a cutpurse living on its foul streets, and that his casting out from the temple was marked by the singular punishment of Fener's Reve . . .
    Temple Lives
Birrin Thund

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    If you can, dear friends, do not live through a siege.
    Ubilast (the Legless)
     
    The inn commanding the southeast corner of old Daru Street held no more than half a dozen patrons, most of them visitors to the city who, like Gruntle, were now trapped. The Pannion armies surrounding Capustan's walls had done nothing for five days and counting. There had been clouds of dust from beyond the ridgeline to the north, the caravan captain had heard, signalling ... something. But that had been days ago and nothing had come of it.
    What Septarch Kulpath was waiting for, no-one knew, though there was plenty of speculation. More barges carrying Tenescowri had been seen crossing the river, until it seemed that half the empire's population had joined the peasant army. 'With numbers like that,' someone had said a bell earlier, 'there'll be barely a mouthful of Capan citizen each.' Gruntle had been virtually alone in appreciating the jest.
    He sat at a table near the entrance, his back to the rough-plastered, double-beamed door-frame, the door itself on his right, the low-ceilinged main room before him. A mouse was working its way along the earthen floor beneath the tables, scampering from shadow to shadow, slipping between the shoes or boots of whatever patron its path intersected. Gruntle watched