A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

– whether it be real or imagined matters not – every silent moment that, to him, screams scorn upon the vast emptiness of his achievements.
    Rhulad. Everything worth fighting for is gained without fighting. Every struggle is a struggle against doubt. Honour is not a thing to be chased, for it, as with all other forces of life, is in fact impelled, streaking straight for you. The moment of collision is where the truth of you is revealed.
    An attempt. Which she will refuse, with outrage in her eyes.
    Or their arms are now entwined, and in the darkness there is heat and sweat. And betrayal.
    And he could not move, could not abandon his own vigil above this anonymous Beneda warrior.
    His brother Fear had made a sword, as was the custom. He had stood before Mayen with the blade resting on the backs of his hands. And she had stepped forward, witnessed by all, to take the weapon from him. Carrying it back to her home.
    Betrothal.
    A year from that day – less than five weeks from now – she would emerge from the doorway with that sword. Then, using it to excavate a trench before the threshold, she would set it down in the earth and bury it. Iron and soil, weapon and home. Man and woman.
    Marriage.
    Before that day when Fear presented the sword, Rhulad had not once looked at Mayen. Was it the uninterest of youth? No, the Edur were not like Letherii. A year among the Letherii was as a day among the Edur. There were a handful of prettier women among the maidens of noble-born households. But he had set his eyes upon her thereafter.
    And that made it what it was.
    He could abandon this vigil. A Beneda warrior was not a Hiroth warrior, after all. A sea-gnawed corpse clothed in copper, not gold. He could set out on that trail, padding through the darkness.
    To find what? Certainty, the sharp teeth behind all that gnawed at his thoughts.
    And the worth of that?
    It is these dark hours —
    Trull Sengar's eyes slowly widened. A figure had emerged from the forest edge opposite him. Heart thudding, he stared.
    It stepped forward. Black blood in its mouth. Skin a pallid, dulled reflection of moonlight, smeared in dirt, smudged by something like mould. Twin, empty scabbards of polished wood at its hips. Fragments of armour hanging from it. Tall, yet stoop-shouldered, as if height had become its own imposition.
    Eyes like dying coals.
    'Ah,' it murmured, looking down on the heap of leaves, 'what have we here?' It spoke the language of night, close kin to that of the Edur.
    Trembling, Trull forced himself to step forward, shifting his spear into a two-handed grip, the iron blade hovering above the corpse. 'He is not for you,' he said, his throat suddenly parched and strangely tight.
    The eyes glowed brighter for a moment as the white-skinned apparition glanced up at Trull. 'Tiste Edur, do you know me?'
    Trull nodded. 'The ghost of darkness. The Betrayer.'
    A yellow and black grin.
    Trull flinched as it drew a step closer and then settled to a crouch on the other side of the leaves. 'Begone from here, ghost,' the Edur said.
    'Or you will do what?'
    'Sound the alarm.'
    'How? Your voice is but a whisper now. Your throat is clenched. You struggle to breathe. Is it betrayal that strangles you, Edur? Never mind. I have wandered far, and have no desire to wear this man's armour.' It straightened. 'Move back, warrior, if you wish to draw breath.'
    Trull held himself where he was. The air hissed its way down his constricted throat, and he could feel his limbs weakening.
    'Well, cowardice was never a flaw among the Edur. Have it your way, then.' The figure turned and walked towards the forest edge.
    Blessed lungful of air, then another. Head spinning, Trull planted his spear and leaned on it. 'Wait!'
    The Betrayer halted, faced him once more.
    'This – this has never happened before. The vigil—'
    'Contested only by hungry earth spirits.' The Betrayer nodded. 'Or, even more pathetic, by the spirits of uprooted Blackwoods, sinking into the flesh to do ... what? Nothing, just as they did in life. There are myriad forces in this world, Tiste Edur, and the majority of them are weak.'
    'Father Shadow imprisoned you—'
    'So he did, and there I remain.' Once again, that ghastly smile. 'Except when I dream. Mother Dark's reluctant gift, a reminder to me that She does not forget. A reminder to me that I, too, must never forget.'
    'This is not a dream,' Trull said.
    'They were shattered,' the Betrayer said. 'Long ago. Fragments scattered across a