A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

the first wagon was pulled past by the Nerek. She was forced to look at him. Hesitated, then offered him a wry smile. 'Have I shocked you, Hull Beddict?'
    'The ice has broken beneath me.'
    A flash of anger, then she realized the self-mockery in his confession. 'We are not born innocent, simply unmeasured.'
    'And, presumably, immeasurable as well.'
    'For a few years at least. Until the outside is inflicted upon the inside, then the brutal war begins. We are not born to compassion either – large wide eyes and sweet demeanour notwithstanding.'
    'And you came to recognize your war early.'
    Seren shrugged. 'My enemy was not authority, although perhaps it seemed so. It was childhood itself. The lowered expectations of adults, the eagerness to forgive. It sickened me—'
    'Because it was unjust.'
    'A child's sense of injustice is ever self-serving, Hull. I couldn't fool myself with that indignation. Why are we speaking of this?'
    'Questions I forgot to ask. Back then. I think I was a child myself in those days. All inside, no outside.'
    Her brows rose, but she said nothing.
    Hull understood anyway. 'You might be right. In some things, that is. But not when it comes to the Edur.'
    The second wagon trundled past. Seren studied the man before her. 'Are you so certain of that?' she asked. 'Because I see you driven by your own needs. The Edur are the sword but the hand is your own, Hull. Where is the compassion in that?'
    'You have it wrong, Seren. I intend to be the sword.'
    The chill in her bones deepened. 'In what way?'
    But he shook his head. 'I cannot trust you, Seren. Like everyone else, you shall have to wait. One thing, however. Do not stand in my way. Please.'
    I cannot trust you. Words that cut to her soul. Then again, the issue of trust stood on both sides of the path, didn't it?
    The third wagon halted beside them. The curtain in the door window was dragged aside and Buruk's deathly face peered out. 'And this is guidance? Who blazes the trail? Are we doomed now to wander lost? Don't tell me you have become lovers once more! Seren, you look positively besieged. Such is the curse of love, oh, my heart weeps for you!'
    'Enough, Buruk,' Seren said. She wiped the rain from her face and, ignoring Hull, moved past onto the path. Nerek stepped to either side to let her pass.
    The forest trail was flanked by Blackwood trees, planted to assert Edur possession of these lands. Rough midnight bark that had been twisted into nightmarish images and arcane script by the shadow wraiths that clung to every groove and fissure in the rugged skin. Wraiths that now rose into view to watch Seren and those following in her wake.
    There seemed more than usual. Flowing restless like black mist between the huge boles. Scores, then hundreds, crowding either side of the trail. Seren's steps slowed.
    She could hear the Nerek behind her, low moans, the clack of the wagons slowing, then halting.
    Hull came alongside her. 'They have raised an army,' he whispered.
    There was dark satisfaction in his tone.
    'Are they truly the ancestors of the Edur?'
    His gaze snapped to her, feverish. 'Of course. What else could they be?'
    She shook herself. 'Urge the Nerek onward, Hull. They'll listen to you. Two days remaining, that's all—' And then she fell silent.
    For a figure was standing upon the trail. Skin the colour of bleached linen, tall as an Edur, a face obscured by dark streaks, as if blood-stained fingers had drawn down the gaunt cheeks. An apparition, the dull red eyes burning from those deep sockets dead. Mould hung in ragged sheets from rotting armour. Two scabbards, both empty.
    Wraiths swarmed at the figure's feet, as if in worship.
    A wagon door clattered and Buruk staggered out, wrapped in a blanket that dragged the ground behind him as he came to Seren's side.
    'Barrow and Root! ' the merchant hissed. 'The tiles did not lie!'
    Seren took a step forward.
    Hull reached out a hand. 'No—'
    'Would you have us stand here for ever?' she snapped, pulling herself free. Despite the bravado of her words, she was terrified. Ghosts revealed themselves in childhood tales and legends, and in the occasional fevered rumour in the capital. She had believed in such apparitions in a halfhearted way, an idea made wilfully manifest. A whispery vision of history, risen as harbinger, as silent warning. A notion, then, as much symbolic as actual.
    And even then, she had imagined something far more ... ephemeral. Lacking distinction, a face comprised of forlorn