A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

place near where the youth had landed when thrown by Anomander Rake.
    Whiskeyjack saw tears in his lover's eyes, and the sight of them triggered a painful wrench in his gut. He forced himself to look away. Although he needed her now, and perhaps she in turn needed him to share all that she clearly comprehended, it would have to wait. He resolved to take his lead from Anomander Rake, for whom control was both armour and, if demanded by circumstance, a weapon.
    Riders were approaching from the Malazan position, as well as from Brood's. There would be witnesses to what followed – and that I now curse such truths is true revelation of how far I have fallen. When, before, did I ever fear witnesses to what I did or said? Queen of Dreams, forgive me. I have found myself in a living nightmare, and the monster that stalks me is none other than myself.
    Reining his horse to a halt before the gathered Tiste Andii, Whiskeyjack was able to examine Anaster closely for the first time.
    Disarmed, bruised and blood-smeared, his face turned away, he looked pitiful, weak and small.
    But that is always the way with leaders who have been broken. Whether kings or commanders, defeat withers them —
    And then he saw the youth's face. Something had gouged out one of his eyes, leaving a welter of deep red blood. The remaining eye lifted, fixed on Whiskeyjack. Intent, yet horrifyingly lifeless, a stare both cold and casual, curious yet vastly – fundamentally – indifferent. 'The slayer of my mother,' Anaster said in a lilting voice, cocking his head as he continued to study the Malazan.
    Whiskeyjack's voice was hoarse. 'I am sorry for that, First Child.'
    'I am not. She was insane. A prisoner of herself, possessed by her own demons. Not alone in that curse, we must presume.'
    'Not any more,' Whiskeyjack answered.
    'It is as a plague, is it not? Ever spreading. Devouring lives. That is why you will, ultimately, fail. All of you. You become what you destroy.'
    The tone of Anomander Rake's response was shockingly vulgar. 'No more appropriate words could come from a cannibal. What, Anaster, do you think we should do with you? Be honest, now.'
    The young man swung his singular gaze to the Lord of Moon's Spawn. Whatever self-possession he contained seemed to falter suddenly with that contact, for he reached up a tentative hand to hover before the bloodied eye-socket, and his pale face grew paler. 'Kill me,' he whispered.
    Rake frowned. 'Korlat?'
    'Aye, he lost control, then. His fear has a face. One that I have not seen before—'
    Anaster turned on her. 'Shut up! You saw nothing!'
    'There is darkness within you,' she replied in calm tones. 'Virulent cousin to Kurald Galain. A darkness of the soul. When you falter, child, we see what hides within it.'
    'Liar!' he hissed.
    'A soldier's face,' Anomander Rake said. He slowly faced westward. 'From the city. From Capustan.' He turned back to Anaster. 'He is still there, isn't he? It seems, mortal, that you have acquired a nemesis – one who promises something other than death, something far more terrible. Interesting.'
    'You do not understand! He is Itkovian! Shield Anvil! He wishes my soul! Please, kill me!'
    Dujek and Caladan Brood had arrived from the allied lines, as well as Kallor and Artanthos. They sat on their horses, watchful, silent.
    'Perhaps we will,' the Lord of Moon's Spawn replied after a moment. 'In time. For now, we will take you with us to Capustan—'
    ' No! Please! Kill me now! '
    'I see no absolution in your particular madness, child,' Anomander Rake said. 'No cause for mercy. Not yet. Perhaps, upon meeting the one – Itkovian? – who so terrifies you, we will judge otherwise, and so grant you a swift end. As you are our prisoner, that is our right. You might be spared your nemesis after all.' He faced Brood and the others. 'Acceptable?'
    'Aye,' Dujek growled, eyes on Whiskeyjack.
    'Agreed,' Brood said.
    Anaster made a desperate attempt to snatch a dagger from a Tiste Andii warrior beside him, which was effortlessly denied. The youth collapsed, then, weeping, down onto his knees, his thin frame racked by heaves.
    'Best take him away,' Anomander Rake said, studying the broken figure. 'This is no act.'
    That much was plain to everyone present.
    Whiskeyjack nudged his horse to come alongside Dujek.
    The old man nodded in greeting, then muttered, 'That was damned unfortunate.'
    'It was.'
    'From the distance, it looked—'
    'It looked bad, High Fist, because it