A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

departure, so they could descend into the basin and pick at the leavings.
    Strings paused at a faint singing, low and mournful and jarring, that seemed to emanate from a depression just this side of the ridge. He'd heard it other nights, always beyond the encampment, but had not been inclined to investigate. There was nothing inviting to that thin, atonal music.
    But now it called to him. With familiar voices. Heart suddenly aching, he walked closer.
    The depression was thick with yellowed grasses, but a circle had been flattened in the centre. The two Wickan children, Nil and Nether, were seated there, facing one another, with the space between them occupied by a broad, bronze bowl.
    Whatever filled it was drawing butterflies, a score at present, but more were gathering.
    Strings hesitated, then made to leave.
    'Come closer,' Nil called out in his reedy voice. 'Quickly, the sun rises!'
    Frowning, the sergeant approached. As he reached the edge of the depression, he halted in sudden alarm. Butterflies swarmed around him, a pale yellow frenzy filling his eyes – brushing air against his skin like a thousand breaths. He spun in place, but could see nothing beyond the mass of fluttering wings.
    'Closer! He wants you here!' Nether's high, piping voice.
    But Strings could not take another step. He was enveloped, and within that yellow shroud, there was a ... presence.
    And it spoke. 'Bridgeburner. Raraku waits for you. Do not turn back now.'
    'Who are you?' Strings demanded. 'Who speaks?'
    ' I am of this land, now. What I was before does not matter. I am awakened. We are awakened. Go to join your kin. In Raraku – where he will find you. Together, you must slay the goddess. You must free Raraku of the stain that lies upon it.'
    'My kin? Who will I find there?'
    'The song wanders, Bridgeburner. It seeks a home. Do not turn back.'
    All at once the presence vanished. The butterflies rose skyward, spinning and swirling into the sunlight. Higher, ever higher ...
    Small hands clutched at him, and he looked down. Nether stared up at him, her face filled with panic. Two paces behind her stood Nil, his arms wrapped about himself, his eyes filling with tears.
    Nether was screaming. 'Why you? We have called and called! Why you!?'
    Shaking his head, Strings pushed her away. 'I – I don't know!'
    'What did he say? Tell us! He had a message for us, yes? What did he say?'
    'For you? Nothing, lass – why, who in Hood's name do you think that was?'
    'Sormo E'nath!'
    'The warlock? But he—' Strings staggered another step back. 'Stop that damned singing!'
    The Wickans stared.
    And Strings realized that neither was singing – neither could have been – for it continued, filling his head.
    Nether asked, 'What singing, soldier?'
    He shook his head again, then turned and made his way back towards camp. Sormo had no words for them. Nor did he. Nor did he want to see their faces – their helpless desperation, their yearning for a ghost that was gone – gone for ever. That was not Sormo E'nath. That was something else – Hood knows what. 'We are awakened.' What does that mean? And who's waiting for me in Raraku? My kin – I've none, barring the Bridgeburners – gods below! Quick Ben? Kalam? One, or both? He wanted to scream, if only to silence the song that whispered through his head, the dreadful, painfully incomplete music that gnawed at his sanity.
    Raraku, it seemed, was not yet done with him. Strings silently railed. Damn all of this!
    To the north, through the smoky wreaths of the encampment, the mantled hills of Vathar seemed to unfurl the sun's golden light. On the ridge behind him, the wolves began howling.
     
    Gamet settled back in the saddle as his horse began the descent towards the river. It had not been long enough for the land to entirely swallow the victims of the slaughter
that had occurred here. Bleached bones gleamed in the sandy mud of the shoreline. Fragments of cloth, pieces of leather and iron. And the ford itself was barely recognizable. Remnants of a floating bridge were heaped on it on the upstream side, and on this barrier more detritus had piled. Sunken, waterlogged wagons, trees, grasses and reeds, now anchored by silts, a hulking, bowed mass that had formed a kind of bridge. To the Fist's eye, it seemed the whole thing was moments from breaking loose.
    Scouts had crossed it on foot. Gamet could see a score of mud-smeared Seti on the opposite side, making their way up the steep slope.
    The forests on both