A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

on the horse. 'Apsalar.
So where's Crokus Younghand?'
    She shrugged. 'He goes by the name of Cutter, now,
Fiddler.'
    Oh.
    'In any case,' she continued, 'we parted ways some time
ago.'
    Stormy stepped closer to Gesler. 'We lost him?' he asked.
    Gesler looked away, then nodded.
    'What happened?'
    Strings spoke in answer: 'Truth saved all our skins, Stormy.
He did what we couldn't do, when it needed to be done. And
not a word of complaint. Anyway, he gave up his life for us. I
wish it could have been otherwise ...' He shook his head.
'I know, it's hard when they're so young.'
    There were tears now, running down the huge man's sunburnt
face. Saying nothing, he walked past them all, down
onto the slope towards the encamped Malazans. Gesler
watched, then followed.
    No-one spoke.
    'I had a feeling,' Quick Ben said after a time. 'You made
it out of Y'Ghatan – but the Fourteenth's marched already.'
    Fiddler nodded. 'They had to. Plague's coming from the
east. Besides, it must've seemed impossible – anyone
trapped in the city surviving the firestorm.'
    'How did you pull it off?' Kalam demanded.
    'We're about to march,' Fiddler said as Faradan Sort
appeared, clambering onto the road. 'I'll tell you along the
way. And Quick, I've got a mage in my squad I want you to
meet – he saved us all.'
    'What do you want me to do?' the wizard asked. 'Shake
his hand?'
    'Not unless you want to get bit.' Hah, look at his face.
That was worth it.
     
    The bridge was made of black stones, each one roughly
carved yet perfectly fitted. Wide enough to accommodate
two wagons side by side, although there were no barriers
flanking the span and the edges looked worn, crumbly,
enough to make Paran uneasy. Especially since there was
nothing beneath the bridge. Nothing at all. Grey mists in a
depthless sea below. Grey mists swallowing the bridge itself
twenty paces distant; grey mists refuting the sky overhead.
    A realm half-born, dead in still-birth, the air was cold,
clammy, smelling of tidal pools. Paran drew his cloak
tighter about his shoulders. 'Well,' he muttered, 'it's pretty
much how I saw it.'
    The ghostly form of Hedge, standing at the very edge of
the massive bridge, slowly turned. 'You've been here before,
Captain?'
    'Visions,' he replied. 'That's all. We need to cross
this—'
    'Aye,' the sapper said. 'Into a long forgotten world. Does
it belong to Hood? Hard to say.' The ghost's hooded eyes
seemed to shift, fixing on Ganath. 'You should've changed
your mind, Jaghut.'
    Paran glanced over at her. Impossible to read her
expression, but there was a stiffness to her stance, a certain
febrility to the hands she lifted to draw up the hood of the
cape she had conjured.
    'Yes,' she said. 'I should have.'
    'This is older than the Holds, isn't it?' Paran asked her.
'And you recognize it, don't you, Ganath?'
    'Yes, in answer to both your questions. This place
belongs to the Jaghut – to our own myths. This is our vision
of the underworld, Master of the Deck. Verdith'anath, the
Bridge of Death. You must find another path, Ganoes
Paran, to find those whom you seek.'
    He shook his head. 'No, this is the one, I'm afraid.'
    'It cannot be.'
    'Why?'
    She did not reply.
    Paran hesitated, then said, 'This is the place in my
visions. Where I have to begin. But ... well, those dreams
never proceeded from here – I could not see what lay
ahead, on this bridge. So, I had this, what you see before us,
and the knowledge that only a ghost could guide me
across.' He studied the mists engulfing the stone path.
'There's two ways of seeing it, I eventually concluded.'
    'Of seeing what?' Ganath asked.
    'Well, the paucity of those visions, and my hunches on
how to proceed. I could discard all else and attempt to
appease them with precision, never once straying – for fear
that it would prove disastrous. Or, I could see all those
uncertainties as opportunities, and so allow my imagination
fullest rein.'
    Hedge made a motion something like spitting, although
nothing left his mouth. 'I take it you chose the latter,
Captain.'
    Paran nodded, then faced the Jaghut again. 'In your
myths, Ganath, who or what guards this bridge?'
    She shook her head. 'This place lies beneath the ground
beneath Hood's feet. He may well know of this realm, but
would not presume to claim dominance over it ... or its
inhabitants. This is a primal place, Master of the Deck, as
are those forces that call it home. It is a conceit to believe
that death has but a single manifestation. As with