A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

just quested in his direction – my Denul warren recoiled, Commander.'
    Whiskeyjack only now noted the pallid cast of the healer's round face. 'Recoiled?'
    'Aye. That's never happened before. The captain's sick .'
    'Tumours? Cancers? Be specific, damn it!'
    'Nothing like that, sir. Not yet, but they'll come. He's eaten a hole in his own gut. All that he's holding in, I guess. But there's more – we need Quick Ben. Paran's got sorceries running through him like fireweed roots.'
    'Oponn—'
    'No, the Twin Jesters are long gone. Paran's journey to Darujhistan – something happened to him on the way. No, not something. Lots of things. Anyway, he's fighting those sorceries, and that's what's killing him. I could be wrong in that, sir. We need Quick Ben—'
    'I hear you. Get him on it when we get to Pale. But make sure he's subtle. No point in adding to the captain's unease.'
    Mallet's frown deepened. 'Sir, it's just... Is he in any shape to take command of the Bridgeburners?'
    'You're asking me? If you want to talk to Dujek about your concerns, that's your prerogative, Healer. If you think Paran's unfit for duty – do you, Mallet?'
    After a long moment, the man sighed. 'Not yet, I suppose. He's as stubborn as you are ... sir. Hood, you sure you two aren't related?'
    'Damned sure,' Whiskeyjack growled. 'Your average camp dog has purer blood than what's in my family line. Let it rest for now, then. Talk to Quick and Spindle. See what you can find out about those hidden sorceries – if gods are plucking Paran's strings again, I want to know who, and then we can mull on why.'
    Mallet's eyes thinned as he studied the commander. 'Sir, what are we heading into?'
    'I'm not sure, Healer,' Whiskeyjack admitted with a grimace. Grunting, he shifted weight off his bad leg. 'With Oponn's luck I won't have to pull a sword – commanders usually don't, do they?'
    'If you gave me the time, sir—'
    'Later, Mallet. Right now I've got a parley to think about. Brood and his army's arrived outside Pale.'
    'Aye.'
    'And your captain's probably wondering where in Hood's name you've disappeared to. Get out of here, Mallet. I'll see you again after the parley.'
    'Yes, sir.'

CHAPTER THREE
    Dujek Onearm and his army awaited the arrival of Caladan Brood and his allies: the fell Tiste Andii, Barghast clans from the far north, a half-score mercenary contingents, and the plains-dwelling Rhivi. There, on the still raw killing ground outside the city of Pale, the two forces would meet. Not to wage war, but to carve from bitter history, peace. Neither Dujek nor Brood, nor anyone else among their legendary company, could have anticipated the ensuing clash – not of swords, but of worlds ...
    Confessions of Artanthos
     
    Shallow ridges ribboned the hillsides a league north of Pale, barely healed scars of a time when the city's presumptions reached out to devour the steppes bordering the Rhivi Plain. Since memories began the hills had been sacred to the Rhivi. Pale's farmers had paid for their temerity with blood.
    Yet the land was slow to heal; few of the ancient menhirs, boulder rings and flat-stone crypts remained in place. The stones were now haphazardly piled into meaningless cairns alongside what used to be terraced fields of maize. All that was sacred in these hills was held so only within the minds of the Rhivi.
    As in faith, so we are in truth. The Mhybe drew the antelope hide closer about her thin, bony shoulders. A new array of pains and aches mapped her frame this morning, evidence that the child had drawn more from her in the night just past. The old woman told herself she felt no resentment – such needs could not be circumvented, and there was little in the child that was natural in any case. Vast, cold-hearted spirits and the blind spells of sorcery had conspired to carve into being something new, unique.
    And time was growing short, so very short.
    The Mhybe's dark eyes glittered within their nests of wrinkles as she watched the child scampering over the weathered terraces. A mother's instincts ever abided. It was not right to curse them, to lash out at the bindings of love that came in the division of flesh. For all the flaws raging within her, and for all the twisted demands woven into her daughter, the Mhybe could not – would not – spin webs of hate.
    None the less, the withering of her body weakened the gifts of the heart to which she so desperately clung. Less than a season past, the Mhybe had been a young woman, not yet