A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

were being driven into Coral, their beds cleared for the coming burden of bodies. Dusk was less than a bell away – the night ahead would be a long one.
    A troop of Malazan officers, led by Dujek, had reached the base of the hill. Among them, a Seerdomin representing the now surrendered forces of the Domin.
    Gruntle moved closer to where Brood and the Barghast waited.
    The High Fist had heard the news – Gruntle could see it in his slumped shoulders, the way he repeatedly drew his lone hand down the length of his aged face, the spirit of the man so plainly, unutterably broken.
    A warren opened to Brood's right. Emerging from it were a half-dozen Malazans, led by Artanthos. Bright, unsullied uniforms beneath grave expressions.
    'Mortal Sword?'
    Gruntle turned at the voice. One of the older women in his legion stood before him. 'Yes?'
    'We would raise the Child's Standard, Mortal Sword.'
    'Not here.'
    'Sir?'
    Gruntle pointed down to the killing field. 'There, among our fallen.'
    'Sir, that is within the darkness.'
    He nodded. 'So it is. Raise it there.'
    'Aye, sir.'
    'And no more of the titles or honorifics. The name's Gruntle. I'm a caravan guard, temporarily unemployed.'
    'Sir, you are the Mortal Sword of Trake.'
    His eyes narrowed on her.
    Her gaze flicked away, down to the killing field. 'A title purchased in blood, sir.'
    Gruntle winced, looked away, and was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. 'All right. But I'm not a soldier. I hate war. I hate killing.' And I never want to see another battlefield ever again.
    To that, she simply shrugged and set off to rejoin her meagre squad.
    Gruntle returned his attention to the gathering of dignitaries.
    Artanthos – Tayschrenn – was making introductions. Ambassador Aragan – a tall, battle-scarred man who seemed to be suffering from a headache – here to speak on behalf of Empress Laseen, regarding the governance of Black Coral. A handful of hangers-on.
    Brood replied that the formal negotiations would have to await the arrival of Anomander Rake, who was expected shortly.
    Gruntle's gaze returned to Dujek, who had just arrived with his officers. The High Fist's eyes were fixed on Korlat at the far end, and on the three covered bodies lying in the grasses. The rain still falling, the stench of burning heavy in the air, a shroud descending.
    Aye, this day ends in ashes and rain.
    In ashes and rain.
     
    Running, memory's echo of glory and joy. He rode the sensation, the flight from pain, from prisons of bone, from massive arms damp and scaled, from a place without wind, without light, without warmth.
     
    From chilled meat. Pale, boiled. Black, charred. From numbed, misshapen fingers pushing the morsels into a mouth that, as he chewed, filled with his own blood. From hard, cold stone with its patina of human grease.
     
    Flesh fouled, the stench of smeared excrement —
    Running —
    An explosion of pain, swallowed in a sudden rush. Blood in veins. Breath drawn ragged – yet deep, deep into healthy lungs.
    He opened his lone eye.
    Toc looked around. He sat on a broad-backed horse. Grey-clad soldiers surrounded him, studying him from beneath war-worn helms.
    I – I am . . . whole.
    Hale.
    I —
    An armoured woman stepped forward. 'Would you leave your god, now, sir?'
    My god? Dead flesh clothing, hard ]aghut soul – no, not a god. The Seer. Fear-clutched. Betrayal-scarred.
    My god?
    Running. Freed. The beast.
    The wolf.
    Togg.
    My namesake . . .
    'He has delivered you, sir, yet would make no demands. We know that your soul has run with the wolf-gods. But you are once more in the mortal realm. The body you now find yourself in was blessed. It is now yours. Still, sir, you must choose. Would you leave your gods?'
    Toc studied his own arms, the muscles of his thighs. Long-fingered hands. He reached up, probed his face. A fresh scar, taking the same eye. No matter. He'd grown used to that. A young body – younger than he had been.
    He looked down at the woman, then at the ring of soldiers. 'No,' he said.
    The soldiers lowered themselves to one knee, heads bowing. The woman smiled. 'Your company welcomes you, Mortal Sword of Togg and Fanderay.'
    Mortal Sword.
    Then, I shall run once more . . .
     
    In the Warren of Tellann, Lanas Tog led Silverfox to the edge of a broad valley. Filling it, the gathered clans of the T'lan Imass. Standing, motionless—
    Yet different.
    Unburdened?
    Pain and regret filled her. I have failed you all . . . in so many ways . . .
    Pran