A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Goddess hunts us.'
    The Adjunct's head turned at that.
    Blistig cursed, then said, 'Since when is Poliel eager to
side with some damned rebels – she's already killed most of
them, hasn't she?'
    'I do not understand this need,' Nether replied, shaking
her head. 'But it seems she has set her deathly eyes upon
Malazans. She hunts us, and comes ever closer.'
    Keneb closed his eyes. Haven't we been hurt enough?
     
    They came upon the dead horse shortly after dawn. Amidst
the swarm of capemoths feeding on the carcass were two
skeletal lizards, standing on their hind legs, heads ducking
and darting as they crunched and flayed the bird-sized
insects.
    'Hood's breath,' Lostara muttered, 'what are those?'
    'Telorast and Curdle,' Apsalar replied. 'Ghosts bound to
those small frames. They have been my companions for
some time now.'
    Kalam moved closer and crouched beside the horse.
'Those lizard cats,' he said. 'Came in from all sides.' He
straightened, scanning the rocks. 'I can't imagine Masan
Gilani surviving the ambush.'
    'You'd be wrong,' said a voice from the slope to their
right.
    The soldier sat on the crest, legs sprawled down the
slope. One of those legs was crimson from upper thigh to
the cracked leather boot. Masan Gilani's dark skin was
ashen, her eyes dull. 'Can't stop the bleeding, but I got one
of the bastards and wounded another. Then the Hounds
came ...'
    Captain Faradan Sort turned to the column. 'Deadsmell!
Up front, quick!'
    'Thank you for the knife,' Masan Gilani said to Apsalar.
    'Keep it,' the Kanese woman said.
    'Sorry about your horse.'
    'So am I, but you are not to blame.'
    Kalam said, 'Well, it seems we're in for a long walk after
all.'
     
    Bottle made his way to the front of the column in
Deadsmell's wake, close enough to look long and hard at
the two bird-like reptile skeletons perched on the horse
carcass and intent on killing capemoths. He watched their
darting movements, the flicking of their bony tails, the way
the darkness of their souls bled out like smoke from a
cracked water-pipe.
    Someone came to his side and he glanced over. Fiddler,
the man's blue eyes fixed on the undead creatures. 'What
do you see, Bottle?'
    'Sergeant?'
    Fiddler took him by the arm and pulled him off to one
side. 'Out with it.'
    'Ghosts, possessing those bound-up bones.'
    The sergeant nodded. 'Apsalar said as much. Now, what
kind of ghosts?'
    Frowning, Bottle hesitated.
    Fiddler hissed a curse. 'Bottle.'
    'Well, I was assuming she knows, only has her reasons for
not mentioning it, so I was thinking, it wouldn't be
polite—'
    'Soldier—'
    'I mean, she was a squad-mate of yours, and—'
    'A squad-mate who just happened to have been
possessed herself, by the Rope, almost all the time that I
knew her. So if she's not talking, it's no surprise. Tell me,
Bottle, what manner of flesh did those souls call home?'
    'Are you saying you don't trust her?'
    'I don't even trust you.'
    Frowning, Bottle looked away, watched Deadsmell working
on Masan Gilani on the slope, sensed the whisper of
Denul sorcery ... and something like Hood's own breath. The bastard is a necromancer, damn him!
    'Bottle.'
    'Sergeant? Oh, sorry. I was just wondering.'
    'Wondering what?'
    'Well, why Apsalar has two dragons in tow.'
    'They're not dragons. They're tiny lizards—'
    'No, Sergeant, they're dragons.'
    Slowly, Fiddler's eyes widened.
    Bottle'd known he wouldn't like it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    There is something profoundly cynical, my friends, in
the notion of paradise after death. The lure is evasion.
The promise is excusative. One need not accept
responsibility for the world as it is, and by extension,
one need do nothing about it. To strive for change, for
true goodness in this mortal world, one must acknowledge
and accept, within one's own soul, that this mortal
reality has purpose in itself, that its greatest value is not
for us, but for our children and their children. To view
life as but a quick passage along a foul, tortured path –
made foul and tortured by our own indifference – is to
excuse all manner of misery and depravity, and to exact
cruel punishment upon the innocent lives to come.
    I defy this notion of paradise beyond the gates of
bone. If the soul truly survives the passage, then it
behooves us – each of us, my friends – to nurture a faith
in similitude: what awaits us is a reflection of what we
leave behind, and in the squandering of our mortal
existence, we surrender the opportunity to learn the
ways of goodness, the