A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

sword.
    Oh, why does looking at you break my heart?
     
    The sands were settling on the carcasses of the horses. The
three squads sat or stood, waiting for the rest of the legion. Bottle had walked up to the road to see the source of the roar, had come staggering back with the news.
    A sea.
    A damned sea.
    And its song was in Fiddler's soul, now. Strangely warm, almost comforting.
    One and all, they then turned to watch the giant rider and his giant horse thunder along that road, heading westward. Dragging something that kicked up a lot of dust.
    The image of that stayed with Fiddler long after the clouds of dust had drifted off the road, down the near side of the slope.
    Could have been a ghost.
    But he knew it wasn't.
    Could have been their worst enemy.
    But if he was, it didn't matter. Not right now.
    A short while later there was a startled shout from Smiles, and Fiddler turned, in time to see two figures stride out from a warren.
    Despite everything, he found himself grinning.
    Old friends, he realized, were getting harder to find.
    Still, he knew them, and they were his brothers.
    Mortal souls of Raraku. Raraku, the land that had bound them together. Bound them all, as was now clear, beyond even death.
    Fiddler was unmindful of how it looked, of what the others thought, upon seeing the three men close to a single embrace.
     
    The horses clambered up the slope to the ridge. Where their riders reined them in, and one and all turned to stare at the yellow, foaming seas churning below. A moment later a squat four-eyed demon scrabbled onto the summit to join them.
    The Lord of Summer had lent wings to their horses – Heboric could admit no other possibility, so quickly had
they covered the leagues since the night past. And the beasts seemed fresh even now. As fresh as Greyfrog.
    Though he himself was anything but.
    'What has happened?' Scillara wondered aloud.
    Heboric could only shake his head.
    'More importantly,' Felisin said, 'where do we go now? I don't think I can sit in the saddle much longer—'
    'I know how you feel, lass. We should find somewhere to make camp—'
    The squeal of a mule brought all three around.
    A scrawny, black-skinned old man was riding up towards them, seated cross-legged atop the mule. 'Welcome!' he shrieked – a shriek because, even as he spoke, he toppled to one side and thumped hard onto the stony trail. 'Help me, you idiots!'
    Heboric glanced at the two women, but it was Greyfrog who moved first.
    'Food!'
    The old man shrieked again. 'Get away from me! I have news to tell! All of you! Is L'oric dead? No! My shadows saw everything! You are my guests! Now, come prise my legs loose! You, lass. No, you, the other lass! Both of you! Beautiful women with their hands on my legs, my thighs! I can't wait! Do they see the avid lust in my eyes? Of course not, I'm but a helpless wizened creature, potential father figure—'
     
    Cutter stood in the tower's uppermost chamber, staring out of the lone window. Bhok'arala chittered behind him, pausing every now and then to make crooning, mournful sounds.
    He'd woken alone.
    And had known, instantly, that she was gone. And there would be no trail for him to follow.
    Iskaral Pust had conjured up a mule and ridden off earlier. Of Mogora there was, mercifully, no sign.
    Thoroughly alone, then, for most of this day.
    Until now.
    'There are countless paths awaiting you.'
    Cutter sighed. 'Hello, Cotillion. I was wondering if you'd show up ... again.'
    'Again?'
    'You spoke with Apsalar. Here in this very chamber. You helped her decide.'
    'She told you?'
    He shook his head. 'Not entirely.'
    'Her decision was hers to make, Cutter. Hers alone.'
    'It doesn't matter. Never mind. Odd, though. You see countless paths. Whilst I see ... none worth walking.'
    'Do you seek, then, something worthy?'
    Cutter slowly closed his eyes, then sighed. 'What would you have me do?'
    'There was a man, once, whose task was to guard the life of a young girl. He did the best he could – with such honour as to draw, upon his sad death, the attention of Hood himself. Oh, the Lord of Death will look into a mortal's soul, given the right circumstances. The, uh, the proper incentive. Thus, that man is now the Knight of Death—'
    'I don't want to be Knight of anything, nor for anyone, Cotillion—'
    'The wrong track, lad. Let me finish my tale. This man did the best he could, but he failed. And now the girl is dead. She was named Felisin. Of House Paran.'
    Cutter's head turned. He