A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

Ghost Hands, I will continue. The figure is slightly above average in height. There is the crimson streak of a scar – or blood perhaps – down one side of the face – a wounding, yes? He – yes, I am certain it's a man, not a woman – he stands on a bridge. Of stone, shot through with cracks. The horizon is filled with flames. It seems he and the bridge are surrounded, as if by followers, or servants—'
    'Or guardians,' L'oric added. 'Your pardon, Chosen One.'
    'Guardians. Yes, a good possibility. They have the look of soldiers, do they not?'
    'On what,' Heboric asked, 'do these guardians stand? Can you see the ground they stand upon?'
    'Bones – there is much fine detail there, Ghost Hands. How did you know?'
    'Describe those bones, please.'
    'Not human. Very large. Part of a skull is visible, long-snouted, terribly fanged. It bears the remnants of a helmet of some sort—'
    'A helmet? On the skull?'
    'Yes.'
    Heboric fell silent. He began rocking yet was only remotely aware of the motion. There was a sourceless keening growing in his head, a cry of grief, of anguish.
    'The Master,' Sha'ik said, her voice trembling, 'he stands strangely. Arms held out, bent at the elbows so that the
hands depend, away from the body – it is the strangest posture—'
    'Are his feet together?'
    'Almost impossibly so.'
    As if forming a point. Dull and remote to his own ears, Heboric asked, 'And what does he wear?'
    'Tight silks, from the way they shimmer. Black.'
    'Anything else?'
    'There is a chain. It cuts across his torso, left shoulder down to right hip. It is a robust chain, black wrought iron. There are wooden discs on his shoulders – like epaulets, but large, a hand's span each—'
    'How many in all?'
    'Four. You know something now, Ghost Hands. Tell me!'
    'Yes,' L'oric murmured, 'you have thoughts on this—'
    'He lies,' Bidithal growled. 'He has been forgotten by everyone – even his god – and he now seeks to invent a new importance.'
    Febryl spoke in a mocking rasp. 'Bidithal, you foolish man. He is a man who touches what we cannot feel, and sees what we are blind to. Speak on, Ghost Hands. Why does this Master stand so?'
    'Because,' Heboric said, 'he is a sword.'
    But not any sword. He is one sword, above all, and it cuts cold. That sword is as this man's own nature. He will cleave his own path. None shall lead him. He stands now in my mind. I see him. I see his face. Oh, Sha'ik ...
    'A Master of the Deck,' L'oric said, then sighed. 'A lode-stone to order ... in opposition to the House of Chains – yet he stands alone, guardians or no, while the servants of the House are many.'
    Heboric smiled. 'Alone? He has always been thus.'
    'Then why is your smile that of a broken man, Ghost Hands?'
    I grieve for humanity. This family, so at war with itself. ' To that, L'oric, I shall not answer.'
    'I shall now speak with Ghost Hands alone,' Sha'ik pronounced.
    But Heboric shook his head. 'I am done speaking, for now, even with you, Chosen One. I will say this and nothing more: have faith in the Master of the Deck. He shall answer the House of Chains. He shall answer it.'
    Feeling ancient beyond his years, Heboric climbed to his feet. There was a stir of motion beside him, then young Felisin's hand settled on his forearm. He let her guide him from the chamber.
    Outside, dusk had arrived, marked by the cries of the goats as they were led into the enclosures. To the south, just beyond the city's outskirts, rumbled the thunder of horse hoofs. Kamist Reloe and Korbolo Dom had absented themselves from the meeting to oversee the exercises of the troops. Training conducted in the Malazan style, which Heboric had to admit was the renegade Fist's only expression of brilliance thus far. For the first time, a Malazan army would meet its match in all things, barring Moranth munitions. Tactics and disposition of forces would be identical, ensuring that numbers alone would decide the day. The threat of the munitions would be answered with sorcery, for the Army of the Whirlwind possessed a full cadre of High Mages, whilst Tavore had – as far as they knew – none. Spies in Aren had noted the presence of the two Wickan children, Nil and Nether, but both, it was claimed, had been thoroughly broken by Coltaine's death.
    Yet why would she need mages? She carries an otataral sword, after all. Even so, its negating influence cannot be extended over her entire army. Dear Sha'ik, you may well defeat your sister after all.
    'Where would you