A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

worn leather
armour, round shields and scimitars at their hips.
    The one closest to her – tall, fierce. Mathok, who
commanded the desert tribes in the Army of the Apocalypse.
Mathok, Leoman's friend.
    And, one pace behind the commander, Mathok's bodyguard
T'morol, looking like some upright, hairless wolf, his
eyes a hunter's eyes, cold, intense.
    They had brought their army, their warriors.
    They had brought that, and more ...
    Felisin the Younger lowered her gaze from Mathok's face,
down to the tattered hide-bound book in his hands. The
Holy Book of Dryjhna the Apocalyptic. Whilst Leoman
had led the Malazans on a wild chase, into the trap that was
Y'Ghatan, Mathok and his desert warriors had travelled
quietly, secretly, evading all contact. There had been
intent, Mathok had explained, to rendezvous at Y'Ghatan,
but then the plague had struck, and the shamans in his
troop had been beset by visions.
    Of Hanar Ara, the City of the Fallen. Of Sha'ik, reborn
yet again. Leoman and Y'Ghatan, they told Mathok, was a
dead end in every sense of the phrase. A feint, punctuated
by annihilation. And so the commander had turned away
with his army, and had set out on the long journey to find
the City of the Fallen. To find her. To deliver the Holy
Book into her hands.
    A difficult journey, one worthy of its own epic, no doubt.
    And now, Mathok stood before her, and his army was
encamping in the city and Felisin sat amidst the cushions
of her own fat, wreathed in smoke, and considered how she
would tell him what he needed to hear – what they all
needed to hear, Kulat included.
    Well, she would be ... direct. 'Thank you, Mathok, for
delivering the Book of Dryjhna. Thank you, as well,
for delivering your army. Alas, I have no need of either gift.'
    Mathok's brows rose fractionally. 'Sha'ik Reborn, with
the Book, you can do as you like. For my warriors, however,
you have great need. A Malazan army approaches—'
    'I know. But you are not enough. Besides, I have no need
for warriors. My army does not march in rank. My army
carries no weapons, wears no armour. In conquering, my
army kills not a single foe, enslaves no-one, rapes no child.
That which my army wields is salvation, Mathok. Its
promise. Its invitation.'
    'And the Malazans?' T'morol demanded in his grating
voice, baring his teeth. 'That army does carry weapons and
wear armour. That army, Holy One, marches in rank,
and right now they're marching right up our ass!'
    'Kulat,' Felisin said. 'Find a place for the Holy Book.
Have the artisans prepare a new one, the pages blank.
There will be a second holy book. My Book of Salvation.
On its first page, Kulat, record what has been said here, this
day, and accord all present with the honour they have
earned. Mathok, and T'morol, you are most welcome here,
in the City of the Fallen. As are your warriors. But understand,
your days of war, of slaughter, are done. Put away
your scimitars and your shields, your bows. Unsaddle your
horses and loose them to the high pastures in the hills at
Denet'inar Spring. They shall live out their lives there, well
and in peace. Mathok, T'morol, do you accept?'
    The commander stared down at the ancient tome in his
hands, and Felisin saw a sneer emerge on his features. He
spread his hands. The book fell to the floor, landing on its
spine. The impact broke it. Ancient pages skirled out.
Ignoring Felisin, Mathok turned to T'morol. 'Gather the
warriors. We will resupply as needed. Then we leave.'
    T'morol faced the throne, and spat onto the floor before
the dais. Then he wheeled and strode from the chamber.
    Mathok hesitated, then he faced Felisin once more.
'Sha'ik Reborn, you will no doubt receive my shamans
without the dishonour witnessed here. I leave them with
you. To you. As for your world, your bloated, disgusting
world and its poisonous salvation, I leave that to you as
well. For all of this, Leoman died. For all of this, Y'Ghatan
burned.' He studied her a moment longer, then he spun
about and walked from the throne room.
    Kulat scurried to kneel beside the broken book. 'It is
ruined!' he said in a voice filled with horror.
    Felisin nodded. 'Utterly.' Then she smiled at her own joke.
     
    'I judge four thousand,' Fist Rythe Bude said.
    The rebel army was positioned along a ridge. Horsewarriors,
lancers, archers, yet none had readied weapons.
    Round shields remained strapped to backs, quivers lidded,
bows unstrung and holstered on saddles. Two riders had
moved out from the line and were working