A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

him lying on the flagstones.
    Paran began speaking. 'Shield Anvil, hear me. Please. Fener is gone – he strides the mortal realm. Thus, he cannot bless you. With what you take upon yourself ... there is nowhere for it to go, no way to ease the burden.'
    'I am equally aware of what you say, sir.' Itkovian still stared down at Rath'Fener, who was stirring to consciousness once more. 'Such knowledge is worthless.'
    'There's another way, Shield Anvil.'
    He turned at that, eyes narrowing.
    Paran went on, 'A choice has been ... fashioned. In this I am but a messenger—'
    Rath'Trake stepped up to Itkovian. 'We shall welcome you, sir. You and your followers. The Tiger of Summer has need for you, a Shield Anvil, and so offers his embrace—'
    'No.'
    The eyes within the mask narrowed.
    'Itkovian,' Paran said, 'this was foreseen . . . the path prepared for ... by Elder powers, once more awake and active in this world. I am here to tell you what they would have you do—'
    'No. I am sworn to Fener. If need be, I shall share his fate.'
    'This is an offer of salvation – not a betrayal!' Rath'Trake cried.
    'Isn't it? No more words, sirs.' On the ground below, Rath'Fener had regained awareness. Itkovian studied the man. 'I am not yet done,' he whispered.
    Rath'Fener's body jerked, a throat-tearing scream erupting from him, his arms snapping as if yanked by invisible, unhuman hands. Dark tattoos appeared on the man's skin, but not those belonging to Fener – for the god had not been the one to claim Rath'Fener's severed hands. Writhing, alien script swarmed his flesh as the unknown claimant made its mark, claimed possession of the man's mortal soul. Words that darkened like burns.
    Blisters rose, then broke, spurting thick, yellow liquid.
    Screams of unbearable, unimaginable pain filled the plaza, the body on the flagstones spasming as muscle and fat dissolved beneath the skin, then boiled, breaking through.
    Yet the man did not die.
    Itkovian sheathed his sword.
    The Malazan was the first to comprehend. His hand snapped forward, closed on the Shield Anvil's arm. 'By the Abyss, do not—'
    'Captain Norul.'
    Face white beneath the rim of her helm, the woman settled a hand on the grip of her sword. 'Captain Paran,' she said in a taut, brittle voice, 'withdraw your touch.'
    He swung on her. 'Aye, even you recoil at what he plans—'
    'Nevertheless, sir. Release him or I will kill you.'
    The Malazan's eyes glittered strangely at that threat, but Itkovian could spare no thought for the young captain. He had a responsibility. Rath'Fener had been punished enough. His pain must end.
    And who shall save me?
    Paran relinquished his grip.
    Itkovian bent down to the writhing, barely recognizable shape on the flagstones. 'Rath'Fener, hear me. Yes, I come. Will you accept my embrace?'
    For all the envy and malice within the tortured priest, all that led to the betrayal, not just of Brukhalian – the Mortal Sword – but of Fener himself, some small measure of mercy remained in the man's soul. Mercy, and comprehension. His body jerked away, limbs skidding as he sought to crawl from Itkovian's shadow.
    The Shield Anvil nodded, then gathered the suppurating figure into his arms and rose.
    I see you recoil, and know it for your final gesture. One that is atonement. To this, I cannot but answer in kind, Rath'Fener. Thus. I assume your pain, sir. No, do not fight this gift. I free your soul to Hood, to death's solace —
    Paran and the others saw naught but the Shield Anvil standing motionless, Rath'Fener in his arms. The rendered, blood-streaked priest continued to struggle for a moment longer, then he seemed to collapse inward, his screams falling into silence.
    The man's life unfolded in Itkovian's mind. Before him, the priest's path to betrayal. He saw a young acolyte, pure of heart, cruelly schooled not in piety and faith, but in the cynical lessons of secular power struggles. Rule and administration was a viper's nest, a ceaseless contest among small and petty minds with illusory rewards. A life within the cold halls of the Thrall that had hollowed out the priest's soul. The self filled the new cavern of lost faith, beset by fears and jealousies, to which malevolent acts were the only answer. The need for preservation made every virtue a commodity, to be traded away.
    Itkovian understood him, could see each step taken that led, inevitably, to the betrayal, the trading of lives as agreed between the priest and the agents of the Pannion Domin.