A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

wither every planted crop to blackened
stalks, the soil blown into the sky. One could tame such
land for a generation or two, but in the end the Odhan
would reclaim its wild mien, fit for naught but bhederin,
jackrabbits, wolves and antelope.
    Westward, then, for a half-dozen or so days. Whereupon
they would come to a long-dead river-bed wending northwestward,
the valley sides cut and gnawed by the seasonal
run-off from countless centuries past, gnarled now with
sage brush and cacti and grey-oaks. Dark hills on the
horizon where the sun set, a sacred place, the oldest maps
noted, of some tribe so long extinct their name meant
nothing.
    Out onto the battered road, then, the city falling away
behind them. After a time, Karsa glanced back and bared
his teeth at her. 'Listen. That is better, yes?'
    'I hear only the wind.'
    'Better than ten thousand tireless contrivances.'
    He turned back, leaving Samar to mull on his words.
Inventions cast moral shadows, she well knew, better than
most, in fact. But ... could simple convenience prove so
perniciously evil? The action of doing things, laborious
things, repetitive things, such actions invited ritual, and
with ritual came meaning that expanded beyond the
accomplishment of the deed itself. From such ritual selfidentity
emerged, and with it self-worth. Even so, to make
life easier must possess some inherent value, mustn't it?
    Easier. Nothing earned, the language of recompense fading
away until as lost as that ancient tribe's cherished tongue. Worth
diminished, value transformed into arbitrariness, oh gods below,
and I was so bold as to speak of freedom! She kicked her horse
forward until she came alongside the Toblakai. 'But is that
all? Karsa Orlong! I ask you, is that all?'
    'Among my people,' he said after a moment, 'the day is
filled, as is the night.'
    'With what? Weaving baskets, trapping fish, sharpening
swords, training horses, cooking, eating, sewing,
fucking—'
    'Telling stories, mocking fools who do and say foolish
things, yes, all that. You must have visited there, then?'
    'I have not.'
    A faint smile, then gone. 'There are things to do. And,
always, witch, ways of cheating them. But no-one truly in
their lives is naive.'
    'Truly in their lives?'
    'Exulting in the moment, witch, does not require wild
dancing.'
    'And so, without those rituals ...'
    'The young warriors go looking for war.'
    'As you must have done.'
    Another two hundred paces passed before he said, 'Three
of us, we came to deliver death and blood. Yoked like oxen,
we were, to glory. To great deeds and the heavy shackles of
vows. We went hunting children, Samar Dev.'
    'Children?'
    He grimaced. 'Your kind. The small creatures who breed
like maggots in rotting meat. We sought – no, I sought – to
cleanse the world of you and your kin. You, the cutters of
forests, the breakers of earth, the binders of freedom. I was
a young warrior, looking for war.'
    She studied the escaped slave tattoo on his face. 'You
found more than you bargained for.'
    'I know all about small worlds. I was born in one.'
    'So, experience has now tempered your zeal,' she said,
nodding. 'No longer out to cleanse the world of humanity.'
    He glanced across and down at her. 'I did not say that.'
    'Oh. Hard to manage, I would imagine, for a lone
warrior, even a Toblakai warrior. What happened to your
companions?'
    'Dead. Yes, it is as you say. A lone warrior cannot slay a
hundred thousand enemies, even if they are children.'
    'A hundred thousand? Oh, Karsa, that's barely the
population of two Holy Cities. Your enemy does not
number in the hundreds of thousands, it numbers in the
tens of millions.'
    'That many?'
    'Are you reconsidering?'
    He shook his head slowly, clearly amused. 'Samar Dev,
even tens of millions can die, one city at a time.'
    'You will need an army.'
    'I have an army. It awaits my return.'
    Toblakai. An army of Toblakai, now that would be a sight to
loosen the bladder of the Empress herself. 'Needless to say,
Karsa Orlong, I hope you never make it home.'
    'Hope as you like, Samar Dev. I shall do what needs
doing in my own time. None can stop me.'
    A statement, not a boast. The witch shivered in the heat.
     
    They approached a range of cliffs marking the Turul'a
Escarpment, the sheer face of the limestone pocked with
countless caves. Cutter watched Heboric Ghost Hands urge
his mount into a canter, drawing ahead, then reining in
sharply, the reins cutting into his wrists, a flare of greenish
fire blossoming at his