A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

air, streaming mud – standards, banners, pikes
bearing grisly, rotting trophies, rising along the entire
shoreline now.
    Raraku Sea had given up its dead.
    In answer to the call of one man.
    White, like slashes of absence, bone hands gripping
shafts of black wood, forearms beneath tattered leather and
corroded vambraces, and then, lifting clear of the water,
rotted helms and flesh-stripped faces. Human, Trell,
Barghast, Imass, Jaghut. The races, and all their race-wars.
Oh, could I drag every mortal historian down here, to this shore,
so that they could look upon our true roll, our progression of
hatred and annihilation.
    How many would seek, desperate in whatever zealotry
gripped them, to hunt reasons and justifications? Causes, crimes
and justices – Paran's thoughts stuttered to a halt, as he realized
that, like Ganath, he had been backing up, step by
step, pushed back, in the face of revelation. Oh, these
messengers would earn so much ... displeasure. And
vilification. And these dead, oh how they'd laugh, understanding
so well the defensive tactic of all-out attack. The dead mock us,
mock us all, and need say nothing ...
    All those enemies of reason – yet not reason as a force, or a
god, not reason in the cold, critical sense. Reason only in its
purest armour, when it strides forward into the midst of those
haters of tolerance, oh gods below, I am lost, lost in all of this.
You cannot fight unreason, and as these dead multitudes will tell
you – are telling you even now – certitude is the enemy.
    'These,' Ganath whispered, 'these dead have no blood to
give you, Ganoes Paran. They will not worship. They will
not follow. They will not dream of glory in your eyes. They
are done with that, with all of that. What do you see,
Ganoes Paran, in these staring holes that once were eyes? What do you see?'
    'Answers,' he replied.
    'Answers?' Her voice was harsh with rage. 'To what?'
    Not replying, Paran forced himself forward, one step,
then another.
    The first ranks stood upon the shore's verge, foam
swirling round their skeletal feet, behind them thousands
upon thousands of kin. Clutching weapons of wood, bone,
horn, flint, copper, bronze and iron. Arrayed in fragments
of armour, fur, hide. Silent, now, motionless.
    The sky overhead was dark, lowering and yet still, as if a
storm had drawn its first breath ... only to hold it.
    Paran looked upon that ghastly rank facing him. He was
not sure how to do this – he had not even known if his
summoning would succeed. And now ... there are so many. He cleared his throat, then began calling out names.
    'Shank! Aimless! Runter! Detoran! Bucklund, Hedge,
Mulch, Toes, Trotts!' And still more names, as he scoured
his memory, his recollection, for every Bridgeburner he
knew had died. At Coral, beneath Pale, in Blackdog Forest
and Mott Wood, north of Genabaris and northeast of
Nathilog – names he had once fixed in his mind
as he researched – for Adjunct Lorn – the turgid, grim
history of the Bridgeburners. He drew upon names of the
deserters, although he knew not if they lived still or, if
indeed dead, whether or not they had returned to the fold.
The ones that had vanished in Blackdog's great marshes,
that had disappeared after the taking of Mott City.
    And when he was done, when he could remember no
more names, he began his list again.
    Then saw one figure in the front row dissolving, melting
into sludge that pooled in the shallow water, slowly seeping
away. And in its place arose a man he recognized, the firescorched,
blasted face grinning – Paran belatedly realized
that the brutal smile held no amusement, only the memory
of a death-grimace. That and the terrible damage left
behind by a weapon.
    'Runter,' Paran whispered. 'Black Coral—'
    'Captain,' cut in the dead sapper, 'what are you doing
here?'
    I wish people would stop asking me that. 'I need your help.'
    More Bridgeburners were forming in the front ranks.
Detoran. Sergeant Bucklund. Hedge, who now stepped
from the water's edge. 'Captain. I always wondered why you
were so hard to kill. Now I know.'
    'You do?'
    'Aye, you're doomed to haunt us! Hah! Hah hah!'
Behind him, the others began laughing.
    Hundreds of thousands of ghosts, all joined in laughter,
was a sound Ganoes Paran never, ever wanted to hear
again. Mercifully, it was shortlived, as if all at once the
army of dead forgot the reason for their amusement.
    'Now,' Hedge finally said, 'as you can see, we're busy.
Hah!'
    Paran shot out a hand. 'No,