A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

compassion. And so we ask again. Why have you done this for us?'
    Sirs, you speak of compassion. I understand something, now, of compassion. Would you hear?
    'Speak on, mortal.'
    We humans do not understand compassion. In each moment of our lives, we betray it. Aye, we know of its worth, yet in knowing we then attach to it a value, we guard the giving of it, believing it must be earned. T'lan Imass. Compassion is price' less in the truest sense of the word. It must be given freely. In abundance.
    'We do not understand, but we will consider long your words.'
    There is always more to do, it seems.
    'You do not answer our question —'
    No.
    'Why?'
    Beneath the rain, as darkness gathered, with every face raised to him, Itkovian closed himself about all that he held within him, closed himself, then fell back.
    Back.
    Because. I was the Shield Anvil. But now . . .
    I am done.
    And beneath the Moon's torrential rain, he died.
     
    On the vast, reborn tundra with its sweet breath of spring, Silverfox looked up.
    Standing before her were two T'lan Imass. One speared through with swords. The other so badly battered that it could barely stand.
    Beyond them, silent, motionless, the T'lan Ay.
    Silverfox made to turn away.
    'No. You shall not.'
    Silverfox glared back at the battered warrior who'd spoken. 'You dare torment me?' she hissed.
    The T'lan Imass seemed to rock in the face of her vehemence, then steadied. 'I am Onos T'oolan, First Sword. You are the Summoner. You shall listen to me.'
    Silverfox said nothing for a long moment, then she nodded. 'Very well. Speak.'
    'Free the T'lan Ay.'
    'They have denied me—'
    'They are here before you, now. They have come. Their spirits await them. They would be mortal once more, in this world that you have created. Mortal, no longer lost within dreams, Summoner. Mortal. Gift them. Now.'
    Gift them . . . 'And this is what they wish?'
    'Yes. Reach to them, and you will know the truth of that.'
    No, no more pain. She raised her arms, drew on the power of Tellann, closed her eyes – for too long have they known chains. For too long have these creatures known the burden of loyalty —
    —and released them of the Ritual. An effort demanding so little of herself, she was left feeling appalled. So easy, then, to release. To make free once more.
    She opened her eyes. The undead wolves were gone.
    Not into oblivion, however. Their souls had been reunited, she knew, with flesh and bone. Extinct no longer. Not here, within this realm and its wolf gods. She was a Bonecaster, after all. Such gifts were hers to give. No, they are not gifts. They are what I was fashioned to do, after all. My purpose. My sole purpose.
    Onos T'oolan's bones creaked as he slowly looked around, scanning the now empty barrens surrounding them. His shoulders seemed to slump. 'Summoner. Thank you. The ancient wrong is righted.'
    Silverfox studied the First Sword. 'What else do you wish of me?'
    'She who stands beside me is Lanas Tog. She will lead you back to the T'lan Imass. Words must be exchanged.'
    'Very well.'
    Onos T'oolan made no move.
    Silverfox frowned. 'What are we waiting for, then?'
    He was motionless a moment longer, then he reached up and slowly drew his flint sword. 'For me,' he rasped, raising the sword—
    — then releasing it, to fall to the ground at his feet.
    She frowned down at the weapon, wondering at the significance of the gesture – from the warrior who was called the First Sword.
    Slowly, as comprehension filled her, her eyes widened.
    What, after all, I was fashioned to do . . .
     
    'The time has come.'
    Coll started. He had been dozing. 'What? What time?'
    Murillio rushed over to the Mhybe.
    The Knight of Death continued, 'She is ready for interment. My Lord has avowed his eternal protection.'
    The Elder God, K'rul, was studying the huge, undead warrior. 'I remain bemused. No – astonished. Since when has Hood become a generous god?'
    The Knight slowly faced K'rul. 'My Lord is ever generous.'
    'She's still alive,' Murillio pronounced, straightening to place himself between the Mhybe and the Knight of Death. 'The time has not come.'
    'This is not a burial,' K'rul said to him. 'The Mhybe now sleeps, and will sleep for ever more. She sleeps, to dream. And within her dream, Murillio, lives an entire world.'
    'Like Burn?' Coll asked.
    The Elder God smiled in answer.
    'Wait a moment!' Murillio snapped. 'Just how many sleeping old women are there?'
    'She must be laid to rest,' the Knight of Death