A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

succeeded
in finding the D'ivers, and their blood now filled the bellies
of the five remaining beasts.
    The Trell had stunned Dejim Nebrahl. To snap one of
his necks – not even a Tartheno could manage such a thing
– and one had tried, long ago. Then, to drag the other
down, over the cliff's edge, to plunge to its death among the
jagged rocks below. This audacity was ... unforgivable.
Weak and wounded, Dejim Nebrahl had fled the scene of
ambush, wandering half-crazed with anger and pain until
stumbling upon the trail of this caravan. How many days
and nights had passed, the T'rolbarahl had no idea. There
was hunger, the need to heal, and these demands filled the
mind of the D'ivers.
    Before Dejim Nebrahl, now, waited his salvation.
Enough blood to spawn replacements for those he had lost
in the ambush; perhaps enough blood to fashion yet
another, an eighth.
    He would strike at dusk, the moment the caravan halted
for the day. Slaughter the guards first, then the remaining
dogs, and finally the fat weaklings riding in their puny
carriages. The merchant with his harem of silent children,
each one chained to the next and trailing behind the
carriage. A trader in mortal flesh.
    The notion sickened Dejim Nebrahl. There had been
such detestable creatures in the time of the First Empire,
and depravity never went extinct. When the T'rolbarahl
ruled this land, a new justice would descend upon the
despoilers of flesh. Dejim would feed upon them first, and
then all other criminals, the murderers, the beaters of the
helpless, the stone-throwers, the torturers of the spirit.
    His creator had meant him and his kind to be guardians
of the First Empire. Thus the conjoining of bloods, making
the sense of perfection strong, god-like. Too strong, of
course. The T'rolbarahl would not be ruled by an imperfect
master. No, they would rule, for only then could true justice
be delivered.
    Justice. And ... of course ... natural hunger. Necessity
carved out its own laws, and these could not be denied.
When he ruled, Dejim Nebrahl would fashion a true
balance between the two dominant forces in his D'ivers
soul, and if the mortal fools suffered beneath the weight of
his justice, then so be it. They deserved the truth of their
own beliefs. Deserved the talon-sharp edges of their own
vaunted virtues, for virtues were more than just words, they
were weapons, and it was only right that such weapons be
turned upon their wielders.
    The shadows had descended the cliff-face here in the lee
of the setting sun's light. Dejim Nebrahl followed those
shadows downward to the plain, five sets of eyes, but one
mind. The focus of all absolute and unwavering.
    Delicious slaughter. Splashing red to celebrate the sun's
lurid fire.
    As he flowed out onto the plain, he heard the dogs begin
barking.
    A moment of pity for them. Stupid as they were, they
knew about necessity.
     
    Something of a struggle, but he managed to unfold himself
and descend, groaning with stiffness, from the mule's broad
back. And, despite the awkward effort, he spilled not a
single drop from his cherished bucket. Humming beneath
his breath some chant or other – he'd forgotten where in
the vast tome of Holy Songs it had come from, and really,
did it actually matter? – he waddled with his burden to the
simpering waves of Raraku Sea, then walked out amidst
the softly swirling sands and eagerly trembling reeds.
    Pausing suddenly.
    A desperate scan of the area, sniffing the humid, sultry,
dusky air. Another scan, eyes darting, seeking out every
nearby shadow, every wayward rustle of reed and straggly
bush. Then he ducked lower, soaking his frayed robes as he
knelt in the shallows.
    Sweet, sun-warmed waters.
    A final, suspicious look round, all sides – could never be
too careful – then, with solemn delight, he lowered the
bucket into the sea.
    And watched, eyes shining, as the scores of tiny fish
raced out in all directions. Well, not exactly raced, more
like sat there, for a time, as if stunned by freedom. Or
perhaps some temporary shock of altered temperature, or
the plethora of unseen riches upon which to gorge, to grow
fat, sleek and blissfully energetic.
    The first fish of Raraku Sea.
    Iskaral Pust left the shallows then, flinging the bucket to
one side. 'Tense thy back, mule! I shall now leap astride, oh
yes, and won't you be surprised, to find yourself suddenly
galloping – oh believe me, mule, you know how to gallop,
no more of that stupid fast trot that rattles loose my