A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

'Welcome.'
    He speaks Malazan. Well, that should make this easier.
    The Adjunct nodded. 'Welcome in return, Perish. I am
Adjunct Tavore Paran, and this is Admiral Nok—'
    'Ah, yes, that name is known to us, sir.' A low bow
towards Nok, who seemed startled for a moment, before
replying in kind.
    'You speak our language well,' Tavore said.
    'Forgive me, Adjunct. I am Destriant Run'Thurvian.' He
gestured to the huge woman beside him. 'This is the Mortal
Sword Krughava.' And then, stepping to one side, he
bowed to another soldier standing two steps behind the
Mortal Sword. 'Shield Anvil Tanakalian.' The Destriant
added something in his own language, and in response both
the Mortal Sword and the Shield Anvil removed their
helms.
    Ah, these are hard, hard soldiers. Krughava, iron-haired,
was blue-eyed, her weathered face seamed with scars, yet
the bones beneath her stern, angular features were robust
and even. The Shield Anvil was, in contrast, quite young,
and if anything broader of shoulder, although not as tall as
the Mortal Sword. His hair was yellow, the colour of stalks
of wheat; his eyes deep grey.
    'Your ships have seen fighting,' Admiral Nok said to the
Destriant.
    'Yes sir. We lost four in the engagement.'
    'And the Tiste Edur,' the Adjunct asked, 'how many did
they lose?'
    The Destriant suddenly deferred to the Mortal Sword,
bowing, and the woman replied in fluent Malazan,
'Uncertain. Perhaps twenty, once their sorcery was fended
aside. Although nimble, the ships were under-strength.
Nonetheless, they fought well, without quarter.'
    'Are you in pursuit of the surviving ships?'
    'No, sir,' Krughava replied, then fell silent.
    The Destriant said, 'Noble sirs, we have been waiting for
you. For the Mezla.'
    He turned then and walked to stand at the Shield
Anvil's side.
    Krughava positioned herself directly opposite the
Adjunct. 'Admiral Nok, forgive me,' she said, holding her
gaze on Tavore. The Mortal Sword then drew her sword.
    As with every other Malazan officer witness to this,
Keneb tensed, reaching for his own weapon.
    But the Adjunct did not flinch. She wore no weapon at
all.
    The length of blue iron sliding from the scabbard was
etched from tip to hilt, two wolves stretched in full charge,
every swirl of fur visible, their fangs polished brighter than
all else, gleaming, the eyes blackened smears. The artisanship
was superb, yet that blade's edge was notched and
battered. Its length gleamed with oil.
    The Mortal Sword held the sword horizontally, against
her own chest, and there was a formal rigidity to her words
as she said, 'I am Krughava, Mortal Sword of the Grey
Helms of the Perish, sworn to the Wolves of Winter. In
solemn acceptance of all that shall soon come to pass, I
pledge my army to your service, Adjunct Tavore Paran. Our
complement: thirty-one Thrones of War. Thirteen
thousand and seventy-nine brothers and sisters of the
Order. Before us, Adjunct Tavore, awaits the end of
the world. In the name of Togg and Fanderay, we shall fight
until we die.'
    No-one spoke.
    The Mortal Sword settled onto one knee, and laid the
sword at Tavore's feet.
     
    On the forecastle, Kalam stood beside Quick Ben, watching
the ceremony on the mid deck. The wizard beside the
assassin was muttering under his breath, the sound finally
irritating Kalam enough to draw his gaze from the scene
below, even as the Adjunct, with a solemnity to match the
Mortal Sword's, picked up the sword and returned it
to Krughava.
    'Will you be quiet, Quick!' Kalam hissed. 'What's wrong
with you?'
    The wizard stared at him with a half-wild look in his dark
eyes. 'I recognize these ... these Perish. Those titles, the
damned formality and high diction – I recognize these
people!'
    'And?'
    'And ... nothing. But I will say this, Kal. If we ever end
up besieged, woe to the attackers.'
    The assassin grunted. 'Grey Helms—'
    'Grey Helms, Swords ... gods below, Kalam – I need to
talk to Tavore.'
    'Finally!'
    'I really need to talk to her.'
    'Go on down and introduce yourself, High Mage.'
    'You must be mad ...'
    Quick Ben's sudden trailing away brought Kalam's gaze
back round to the crowd below, and he saw the Destriant,
Run'Thurvian, looking up, eyes locked with Quick's own.
Then the robed man smiled, and bowed low in greeting.
    Heads turned.
    'Shit,' Quick Ben said at his side.
    Kalam scowled. 'High Mage Ben Adaephon Delat,' he
said under his breath, 'the Lord of High Diction.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
    A Book of Prophecy opens the door. You need a