A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

so
faded were they to his recollection that he had begun to
suspect the fictional conjuring of nostalgia. As with
civilizations and their golden ages, so too with people: each
individual ever longing for that golden past moment of true
peace and wellness.
    So often it was rooted in childhood, in a time before the
strictures of enlightenment had afflicted the soul, when
what had seemed simple unfolded its complexity like the
petals of a poison flower, to waft its miasma of decay.
    The bodies were of young men and women – too young
in truth to be soldiers, although soldiers they had been.
Their memories of solace would likely have been scoured
from their minds back when, in a place and a world they
had once called home, they hung nailed by iron spikes to
wooden crosses, uncomprehending of their crimes. Of
course there had been no such crimes. And the blood,
which they had shed so profusely, had yielded no evidence
of its taint, for neither the name of a people nor the hue of
their skin, nor indeed the cast of their features, could make
life's blood any less pure, or precious.
    Wilful fools with murder in their rotted hearts believed
otherwise. They divided the dead into innocent victim and
the rightfully punished, and knew with unassailable
conviction upon which side they themselves stood. With
such conviction, the plunging of knives proved so very
easy.
    Here they had fought hard, he observed as he pushed
himself into motion. A pitched battle, then an engaged
withdrawal. Proof of superior training, discipline and a
fierce unwillingness to yield without exacting a price. The
enemy had taken their own fallen away, but for these young
dead, the chasm itself was now their crypt. Saved from their
crucifixions ... for this.
    There had been so many ... pressing tasks. Essential
necessities. That we neglected this company, a company we
ourselves ensconced here, to defend what we claimed our own.
And then, it must have seemed, we abandoned them. And in
that grim conclusion they would, he admitted sourly, not be
far wrong. But we are assailed on all sides, now. We are in our
most desperate moment. Right now ... oh, my fallen friends, I
am sorry for this ...
    A conceit among the living, that their words could ease
the dead. Worse, to voice words seeking forgiveness from those dead. The fallen had but one message to deliver to
the living, and it had nothing to do with forgiveness. Remind yourself of that, Cotillion. Be ever mindful of what the
dead tell you and everyone else, over and over again.
    He heard noises ahead. Muted, a rhythmic rasping
sound, like iron edges licking leather, then the soft pad of
moccasined feet.
    The natural corridor of the chasm narrowed, and blocking
the choke-point was a T'lan Imass, sword-point resting
on the rock before it, watching Cotillion's approach.
Beyond the undead warrior there was the dull yellow glow
of lanterns, a passing shadow, another, then a figure stepped
into view.
    'Stand aside, Ibra Gholan,' Minala said, her eyes on
Cotillion.
    Her armour was in tatters. A spear-point had punctured
chain and leather high on her chest, the left side, just
beneath the shoulder. Old blood crusted the edges. One
side of her helm's cheek-guard was gone and the area of her
face made visible by its absence was swollen and mottled
with bruises. Her extraordinary light grey eyes were fixed
on Cotillion's own as she moved past the T'lan Imass.
'They arrive through a gate,' she said. 'A warren lit by silver
fire.'
    'Chaos,' he said. 'Proof of the alliance we had feared
would come to pass. Minala, how many attacks have you
repulsed?'
    'Four.' She hesitated, then reached up and worked her
helm loose, lifting it clear. Sweat-matted, filthy black hair
snaked down. 'My children ... the losses have been heavy.'
    Cotillion could not hold her gaze any longer. Not with
that admission.
    She went on. 'If not for the T'lan Imass... and Apt, and
the Tiste Edur renegade, this damned First Throne would
now be in the possession of an army of blood-hungry barbarians.'
    'Thus far, then,' Cotillion ventured, 'your attackers have
been exclusively Tiste Edur?'
    'Yes.' She studied him for a long moment. 'That will not
last, will it?'
    Cotillion's eyes focused once again on Ibra Gholan.
    Minala continued, 'The Edur are but skirmishers, aren't
they? And even they have not fully committed themselves
to this cause. Why?'
    'They are as thinly stretched as we are, Minala.'
    'Ah, then I cannot expect more Aptorians. What of the
other