A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

what if Quick Ben is reunited with that damned assassin? What then?'
    The Napan shrugged. 'We didn't kill Whiskeyjack. Their minds will be filled with vengeance for the slayer among Brood's entourage. Do not fear what will never come to pass, old friend.'
    Sha'ik's voice rang startlingly through the room. 'Everyone out but Heboric! Now!'
    Blank looks, then the others rose.
    Felisin Younger hesitated. 'Mother?'
    'You as well, child. Out.'
    L'oric said, 'There is the matter of the new House and all it signifies, Chosen—'
    'Tomorrow night. We will resume the discussion then. Out!'
    A short while later Heboric sat alone with Sha'ik. She stared down at him in silence for some time, then rose suddenly and stepped down from the dais. She fell to her
knees in front of Heboric, sufficiently close for him to focus on her face. It was wet with tears.
    'My brother lives!' she sobbed.
    And suddenly she was in his arms, face pressed against his shoulders as shudders heaved through her small, fragile frame.
    Stunned, Heboric remained silent.
    She wept for a long, long time, and he held her tight, unmoving, as solid as he could manage. And each time the vision of his fallen god rose before his mind's eye, he ruthlessly drove it back down. The child in his arms – for child she was, once more – cried in nothing other than the throes of salvation. She was no longer alone, no longer alone with only her hated sister to taint the family's blood.
    For that – for the need his presence answered – his own grief would wait.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Among the untried recruits of the Fourteenth Army, fully
half originated from the continent of Quon Tali, the very
centre of the empire. Young and idealistic, they stepped onto
blood-soaked ground, in the wake of the sacrifices made by
their fathers and mothers, their grandfathers and grandmothers. It is the horror of war that, with each newly arrived generation, the nightmare is reprised by innocents.
    The Sha'ik Rebellion, Illusions of Victory
Imrygyn Tallobant
     
    Adjunct Tavore stood alone in front of four thousand milling, jostling soldiers, while officers bellowed and screamed through the press, their voices hoarse with desperation. Pikes wavered and flashed blinding glares through the dusty air of the parade ground like startled birds of steel. The sun was a raging fire overhead.
    Fist Gamet stood twenty paces behind her, tears in his eyes as he stared at Tavore. A pernicious wind was sweeping the dust cloud directly towards the Adjunct. In moments she was engulfed. Yet she made no move, her back straight, her gloved hands at her sides.
    No commander could be more alone than she was now. Alone, and helpless.
    And worse. This is my legion. The 8th. The first to assemble, Bern fend us all.
    But she had ordered that he remain where he was, if only
to spare him the humiliation of trying to impose some kind of order on his troops. She had, instead, taken that humiliation upon herself. And Gamet wept for her, unable to hide his shame and grief.
    Aren's parade ground was a vast expanse of hard-packed, almost white earth. Six thousand fully armoured soldiers could stand arrayed in ranks with sufficient avenues between the companies for officers to conduct their review. The Fourteenth Army was to assemble before the scrutiny of Adjunct Tavore in three phases, a legion at a time. Gamet's 8th had arrived in a ragged, dissolving mob over two bells past, every lesson from every drill sergeant lost, the few veteran officers and non-coms locked in a titanic struggle with a four-thousand-headed beast that had forgotten what it was.
    Gamet saw Captain Keneb, whom Blistig had graciously given him to command the 9th Company, battering at soldiers with the flat of his blade, forcing them into a line that broke up in his wake as other soldiers pressed forward from behind. There were some old soldiers in that front row, trying to dig in their heels – sergeants and corporals, red-faced with sweat streaming from beneath their helms.
    Fifteen paces behind Gamet waited the other two Fists, as well as the Wickan scouts under the command of Temul. Nil and Nether were there as well, although, mercifully, Admiral Nok was not – for the fleet had sailed.
    Impulses at war within him, Gamet trembled, wanting to be elsewhere – anywhere – and wanting to drag the Adjunct with him. Failing that, wanting to step forward, defying her direct order, to take position at her side.
    Someone came alongside him. A heavy