A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

I, and thus the trueness is made known and plain. The realization did little to diminish the bleakness of his resolution. Consider it but one more burden, Shield Anvil, one for which you were made as you were for all the others.
    They drew rein before the Barghast elders.
    No-one spoke for a long moment, then one old woman cackled and gestured. 'Come, then.'
    Itkovian dismounted, his companions following suit. Children appeared to take the reins of the three horses and the beasts were led away.
    The elders, led by the spokeswoman, set off down the camp's main path, to a large yurt at the far end. The entrance was flanked by two Barghast warriors. The old woman hissed at them and both men retreated.
    Itkovian, the recruit and the captain followed the elders into the yurt's interior.
    'Rare is the man who comes to this place,' the spokeswoman said as she hobbled to the other side of the central hearth and lowered herself onto a bundle of furs.
    'I am honoured—'
    'Don't be!' she replied with a cackle. 'You would have to beat a warrior senseless and drag him, and even then it's likely his brothers and friends would attack you before you reached the entrance. You, a young man, are among old women, and there is nothing in the world more perilous!'
    'But look at him!' another woman cried. 'He has no fear!'
    'The hearth of his soul is nothing but ashes,' a third sniffed.
    'Even so,' the first woman retorted, 'with what he now seeks, he would promise a firestorm to a frozen forest. Togctha and Farand, the lovers lost to each other for eternity, the winter hearts that howl in the deep fastnesses of Laederon and beyond – we have all heard those mournful cries, in our dreams. Have we not? They come closer – only not from the north, oh no, not the north. And now, this man.' She leaned forward, lined face indistinct behind the hearth's smoke. 'This man ...'
    The last words were a sigh.
    Itkovian drew a deep breath, then gestured to the recruit. 'The Mortal Sword—'
    'No,' the old woman growled.
    The Shield Anvil faltered. 'But—'
    'No,' she repeated. 'He has been found. He exists. It is already done. Look at her hands, Wolf. There is too much caring in them. She shall be the Destriant.'
    'Are you – are you certain of this?'
    The old woman nodded towards the captain. 'And this one,' she continued, ignoring Itkovian's question, 'she is to be what you were. She will accept the burden – you, Wolf, have shown her all she must know. The truth of that is in her eyes, and in the love she holds for you. She would be its answer, in kind, in blood. She shall be the Shield Anvil.'
    The other elders were nodding agreement, their eyes glittering in the gloom above beaked noses – as if a murder of crows now faced Itkovian.
    He slowly turned to Captain Norul. The veteran looked stricken.
    She faced him. 'Sir, what—'
    'For the Grey Swords,' Itkovian said, struggling to contain his own welling of pain and anguish. 'It must be done, sir,' he rasped. 'Togg, Lord of Winter, a god of war long forgotten, recalled among the Barghast as the wolf-spirit, Togctha. And his lost mate, the she-wolf, Fanderay. Farand in the Barghast tongue. Among our company, now, more women than men. A Reve must be proclaimed, kneeling before the wolf god and the wolf goddess. You are to be the Shield Anvil, sir. And you,' he said to the recruit – whose eyes were wide – 'are to be the Destriant. The Grey Swords are remade, sirs. The sanction is here, now, among these wise women.'
    The captain stepped back, armour clanking. 'Sir, you are the Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords—'
    'No. I am the Shield Anvil of Fener, and Fener, sir, is... gone.'
    'The company is virtually destroyed, sir,' the veteran pointed out. 'Our recovery is unlikely. The matter of quality—'
    'You will require fanatics, Captain. That cast of mind, of breeding and culture, is vital. You must search, sir, you must needs find such people. People with nothing left to their lives, with their faith dismantled. People who have been made ... lost.'
    Norul was shaking her head, but he could see growing comprehension in her grey eyes.
    'Captain,' Itkovian continued inexorably, 'the Grey Swords shall march with the two foreign armies. South, to see the end of the Pannion Domin. And, at a time deemed propitious, you will recruit. You will find the people you seek, sir, among the Tenescowri.'
    Fear not, I shall not abandon you yet, my friend. There is much you must learn.
    And, it seems, no end to my