A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Dark red.
    'So, Temper. I suppose we can't hope that's mud, now can
we?'
    'I think not, Brav.'
    'Well, think I'll plant myself in Coop's. You done with
your walk?'
    A final glance across at the Deadhouse, then the huge
man nodded. 'So it seems.'
    The two went down into the murky confines of the
Hanged Man.
     
    An auspicious guest had holed up in Coop's this night. Fist
Aragan, who'd taken the cramped booth farthest from the
door, in the darkest corner, where he sat alone, nursing a
tankard of ale as bell after bell tolled outside, amidst
a distant and sometimes not-so-distant chorus of riotous
mayhem.
    He was not alone in looking up, then holding his gaze
fixed in admiration for the unknown black-haired Kanese
woman who walked in moments before dawn. He watched
from beneath hooded brows, as she headed to the bar and
ordered Kanese rice wine, forcing Coop to scramble in
desperate search before coming up with a dusty amber-hued
glass bottle – in itself worth a small fortune.
    Moments later Temper – weighed down in a heap of
archaic armour – entered the tavern, followed by Master
Sergeant Braven Tooth. And Aragan hunched down deep
in his seat, averting his gaze.
    No company for him this night.
    He'd been battling a headache since dusk, and he'd
thought it beaten – but suddenly the pounding in his skull
returned, redoubled in intensity, and a small groan escaped
him.
    Braven Tooth tried talking to the woman, but got a
knife-point pressed beneath his eye for the effort, and the
woman then paid for the entire bottle, claimed a room
upstairs, and headed up. Entirely on her own. And no-one
followed.
    The Master Sergeant, swearing, wiped sweat from his
face, then roared for ale.
    Strange goings-on at Coop's, but, as always, ale and wine
soon muddied the waters, and as for dawn stealing into life
outside, well, that belonged to another world, didn't it?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
    Draw a breath,
a deep breath,
now hold it, my friends,
hold it long
for the world
the world drowns.
    Wu
     
    T here were many faces to chaos, to the realm between the realms, and
    this path they had taken, Taralack Veed reflected, was truly horrific. Defoliated
    trees rose here and there, broken-fingered branches slowly spinning in the
    chill, desultory wind, wreaths of smoke drifting across the blasted landscape
    of mud and, everywhere, corpses. Sheathed in clay, limbs jutting from the
    ground, huddled forms caked and half-submerged.
    In the distance was the flash of sorcery, signs of a battle
still underway, but the place where they walked was lifeless,
silence like a shroud on all sides, the only sounds
tremulously close by – the sob of boots pulling free of the
grey slime, the rustle of weapons and armour, and the
occasional soft-voiced curse in both Letherii and Edur.
    Days of this madness, this brutal reminder of what was
possible, the way things could slide down, ever down, until
warriors fought without meaning and lives rushed away to
fill muddy pools, cold flesh giving way underfoot.
    And we march to our own battle, pretending indifference to
all that surrounds us. He was no fool. He had been born to a
tribe that most called primitive, backward. Warrior castes,
cults of blood and ceaseless vendetta. The Gral were without
sophistication, driven by shallow desires and baseless
convictions. Worshippers of violence. Yet, was there not
wisdom in imposing rules to keep madness in check, to
never go too far in the bloodletting?
    Taralack Veed realized now that he had absorbed something
of civilized ways; like fever from bad water, his
thoughts had been twisted with dreams of annihilation – an
entire clan, he'd wanted every person in it killed, preferably
by his own hand. Man, woman, child, babe. And then, in
a measure of modest tempering, he had imagined a lesser
whirlwind of slaughter, one that would give him enough
kin over which he could rule, unopposed, free to do with
them as he pleased. He would be the male wolf in its prime,
commanding with a look in its eye, proving with a simple
gesture its absolute domination.
    None of it made sense any more.
    Up ahead, the Edur warrior Ahlrada Ahn called out a rest,
and Taralack Veed sank down against the sloped, sodden wall
of a trench, stared down at his legs, which seemed to end just
beneath his knees, the rest invisible beneath an opaque pool
of water reflecting the grey sludge of sky.
    The dark-skinned Tiste Edur made his way back along
the line, halted before the Gral and the Jhag