A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

changed,' he rumbled. 'You are to remain here, sir, to guard my destrier. Also, to inform the Shield Anvil of my disposition once he awakens.'
    'Your disposition, sir?'
    'You will know it soon, recruit.' The Mortal Sword faced his troops once more. They stood in ranks, waiting, silent. Four hundred Grey Swords, perhaps the last left alive. 'Sirs,' Brukhalian asked them, 'are you in full readiness?'
    A veteran officer grated, -Ready to try, Mortal Sword.'
    'Your meaning?' the commander asked.
    'We are to cross half the city, sir. We shall not make it.'
    'You assume our path to the Thrall will be contested, Nilbanas. Yes?'
    The old soldier frowned, said nothing.
    Brukhalian reached for his shield, which had waited at his side in the hands of an aide. 'I shall lead us,' he said. 'Do you follow?'
    Every soldier nodded, and the Mortal Sword saw in those half-visored faces the emergence of an awareness, a knowledge to which he had already arrived. There would be no return from the journey to come. Some currents, he knew, could not be fought.
    Readying the large bronze-plated shield on his left arm, adjusting his grip on his holy sword, Brukhalian strode forward. His Grey Swords fell in behind him. He chose the most direct route, not slowing even as he set across open, corpse-strewn squares.
    The murmuring rumble of humanity was on all sides. Isolated sounds of battle, the collapse of burning buildings and the roar of unchecked fires, streets knee-deep in bodies – scenes of Hood's infernal pit rolled past them as they marched, as of two unfurling tapestries woven by a mad, soul-tortured artisan.
    Yet their journey was uncontested.
    As they neared the aura-sheathed Thrall, the veteran increased his pace to come alongside Brukhalian. 'I heard the messenger's words, sir—'
    'Of that I am aware, Nilbanas.'
    'It cannot be really from Rath'Fener—'
    'But it is, sir.'
    'Then the priest betrays us!'
    'Yes, old friend, he betrays us.'
    'He has desecrated Fener's most secret Reve! By the Tusks, sir—'
    'The words of the Reve are greater than he is, Nilbanas. They are Fener's own.'
    'Yet he has twisted them malign, sir! We should not abide!'
    'Rath'Fener's crime shall be answered, but not by us.'
    'At the cost of our lives?'
    'Without our deaths, sir, there would be no crime. Thus, no punishment to match.'
    'Mortal Sword—'
    'We are done, my friend. Now, in this manner, we choose the meaning of our deaths.'
    'But... but what does he gain? Betraying his own god—'
    'No doubt,' Brukhalian said with a private, grim smile, 'his own life. For a time. Should the Thrall's protective sorcery be sundered, should the Council of Masks be taken, he will be spared the horrors that await his fellow priests. He judges this a worthwhile exchange.'
    The veteran was shaking his head. 'And so Fener allows his own words to assume the weight of betrayal. How noble his Bestial Mien when he finally corners Rath'Fener?'
    'Our god shall not be the one to deliver the punishment, Nilbanas. You are right, he could not do so in fullest conscience, for this is a betrayal that wounds him deeply, leaves him weakened and vulnerable to fatal consequence, sir.'
    'Then,' the man almost sobbed, 'then who shall be our vengeful hand, Brukhalian?'
    If anything, the Mortal Sword's smile grew grimmer. 'Even now, the Shield Anvil no doubt regains consciousness. And is moments from hearing the messenger's report. Moments from true comprehension. Nilbanas, our vengeful hand shall be Itkovian's. What is your countenance now, old friend?'
    The soldier was silent for another half-dozen paces. Before them was the open concourse before the gate to the Thrall. 'I am calmed, sir,' he said, his voice deep and satisfied. 'I am calmed.'
    Brukhalian cracked his sword against his shield. Black fire lit the blade, sizzled and crackled. 'They surround the concourse before us. Shall we enter?'
    'Aye, sir, with great joy.'
    The Mortal Sword and his four hundred followers strode into the clearing, not hesitating as the streets and alley mouths on all sides swiftly filled with Septarch Kulpath's crack troops, his Urdomen, Seerdomin and Betaklites, including the avenue they had just quitted. Archers appeared on the rooftops, and the hundreds of Seerdomin lying before the Thrall's gate, feigning death, now rose, readying weapons.
    At Brukhalian's side, Nilbanas snorted. 'Pathetic.'
    The Mortal Sword grunted a laugh that was heard by all. 'The Septarch deems himself clever, sir.'
    'And us