A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

soldier.
    And it had driven him mad. He understood that now. The voices, the paralysing uncertainty, the way he was always cold, shivering, no matter how hot the daytime sun or how highly banked the nightly hearths. And the weakness, stealing through his limbs, thinning the blood in his veins, until it felt as if his heart was pumping muddy water. I have been broken. I failed the Adjunct with my very first test of mettle.
    Keneb would be all right. Keneb was a good choice as the legion's new Fist. He was not too old, and he had a family – people to fight for, to return to, people that mattered in his life. Those were important things. A necessary pressure, fire for the blood. None of which existed in Gamet's life.
    She has certainly never needed me, has she? The family tore itself apart, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was only a castellan, a glorified house guard. Taking orders. Even when a word from me could have changed Felisin's fate, I just saluted and said, 'Yes, mistress.'
    But he had always known his own weakness of spirit. And there had been no shortage of opportunities in which he could demonstrate his flaws, his failures. No shortage at all, even if she saw those moments as ones displaying loyalty, as disciplined acceptance of orders no matter how horrendous their outcome.
    'Loud.'
    A new voice. Blinking, he looked around, then down, to see Keneb's adopted whelp, Grub. Half naked, sun-darkened skin smeared with dirt, his hair a wild tangle, his eyes glittering in the starlight.
    'Loud.'
    'Yes, they are.' The child was feral. It was late, maybe even nearing dawn. What was he doing up? What was he doing out here, beyond the camp's pickets, inviting butchery by a desert raider?
    'Not they. It.'
    Gamet frowned down at him. 'What are you talking about? What's loud?' All I hear is voices – you can't hear them. Of course you can't.
    'The sandstorm. Roars. Very ... very ... very very very LOUD!'
    The storm? Gamet wiped grit from his eyes and looked around – to find himself not fifty paces from the Whirlwind Wall. And the sound of sand, racing between rocks on the ground, hissing skyward in wild, cavorting loops, the pebbles clattering here and there, the wind itself whirling through sculpted folds in the limestone – the sound was like ... like voices. Screaming, angry voices. 'I am not mad.'
    'Me neither. I'm happy. Father has a new shiny ring. Around his arm. It's all carved. He's supposed to give more orders, but he gives less. But I'm still happy. It's very shiny. Do you like shiny things? I do, even though they hurt my eyes. Maybe it's because they hurt my eyes. What do you think?'
    'I don't think much of anything any more, lad.'
    'I think you do too much.'
    'Oh, really?'
    'Father thinks the same. You think about things there's no point in thinking about. It makes no difference. But I know why you do.'
    'You do?'
    The lad nodded. 'The same reason I like shiny things. Father's looking for you. I'm going to go tell him I found you.'
    Grub ambled away, quickly vanishing in the darkness.
    Gamet turned and stared up at the Whirlwind Wall. Its rage buffeted him. The whirling sand tore at his eyes, snatched at his breath. It was hungry, had always been hungry, but something new had arrived, altering its shrill timbre. What is it? An urgency, a tone fraught with ... something.
    What am I doing here?
    Now he remembered. He had come looking for death. A
raider's blade across his throat. Quick and sudden, if not entirely random.
    An end to thinking all those thoughts . . . that so hurt my eyes.
     
    The growing thunder of horse hoofs roused him once more, and he turned to see two riders emerge from the gloom, leading a third horse.
    'We've been searching half the night,' Fist Keneb said as they reined in. 'Temul has a third of his Wickans out – all looking for you, sir.'
    Sir? That's inappropriate. 'Your child had no difficulty in finding me.'
    Keneb frowned beneath the rim of his helm. 'Grub? He came here?'
    'He said he was off to tell you he'd found me.'
    The man snorted. 'Unlikely. He's yet to say a word to me. Not even in Aren. I've heard he talks to others, when the mood takes him, and that's rare enough. But not me. And no, I don't know why. In any case, we've brought your horse. The Adjunct is ready.'
    'Ready for what?'
    'To unsheathe her sword, sir. To breach the Whirlwind Wall.'
    'She need not wait for me, Fist.'
    'True, but she chooses to none the less.'
    I don't want to.
    'She has