A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

risk of assassination, to be sure.
    The male – Sag'Churok – was a K'ell Hunter, bred to kill,
the elite guard of a Matron. So where is the Matron? Where is his Queen?
    Perhaps it was the young female in the K'ell's company.
    Gunth Mach. Toc had asked Redmask how he had come to
know their names, but the war leader had refused him an
answer. Reticent bastard. A leader must have his secrets, perhaps more so than anyone else. But Redmask's secrets are driving me mad. K'Chain Che'Malle, for Hood's sake! Outcast, the young warrior had journeyed into the
eastern wastelands. So went the tale, although after that
initial statement it was a tale that in truth went nowhere,
since virtually nothing else was known of Redmask's
adventures during those decades – yet at some point, this man donned a red-scaled mask. And found himself flesh and blood K'Chain Che'Malle. Who did not chop him to pieces. Who somehow communicated to him their names. Then swore allegiance. What is it, then, about this story that I really do not like?
    How about all of it.
    The eastern wastelands. A typical description for a place
the name-givers found inhospitable or unconquerable. We can't claim it so it is worthless, a wasted land, a wasteland. Hah, and you thought us without imaginations!
    Haunted by ghosts, or demons, the earth blasted, where
every blade of grass clings to a neighbour in abject terror.
    The sun's light is darker, its warmth colder. Shadows are
smudged. Water brackish and quite possibly poisonous.
Two-headed babies are common. Every tribe needed such a
place. For heroic war leaders to wander into on some
fraught quest rife with obscure motivations that could
easily be bludgeoned into morality tales. And, alas, this particular tale is far from done. The hero needs to return, to deliver his people. Or annihilate them.
    Toc had his memories, a whole battlefield's worth, and as
the last man left standing he held few illusions of grandeur,
either as witness or as player. So this lone eye cannot help but look askance. Is it any wonder I've taken to poetry?
    The Grey Swords had been cut to pieces. Slaughtered.
Oh, they'd yielded their lives in blood enough to pay the
Hound's Toll, as the Gadrobi were wont to say. But what
had their deaths meant? Nothing. A waste. Yet here he rode,
in the company of his betrayers.
    Does Redmask offer redemption? He promises the defeat of the Letherii – but they were not our enemies, not until we agreed the contract. So, what is redeemed? The extinction of the Grey Swords? Oh, I need to twist and bend to bind those two together, and how am I doing thus far?
    Badly. Not a whisper of righteousness – no crow croaks on my shoulder as we march to war.
    Oh, Tool, I could use your friendship right now. A few terse words on futility to cheer me up.
    Twenty myrid had been killed, gutted and skinned but
not hung to drain their blood. The cavities where their
organs had been were stuffed solid with a local tuber that
had been sweated on hot stones. The carcasses were then
wrapped in hides and loaded into a wagon that was kept
apart from all the others in the train. Redmask's plans for the battle to come. No more peculiar than all the others. The man has spent years thinking on this inevitable war. That makes me nervous.
    Hey, Tool, you'd think after all I've been through, I'd have no nerves left. But I'm no Whiskeyjack. Or Kalam. No, for me, it just gets worse.
    Marching to war. Again. Seems the world wants me to be a soldier.
    Well, the world can go fuck itself.
    'A haunted man,' the elder said in his broken growl as he
reached up and scratched the savage red scar marring his
neck. 'He should not be with us. Fey in darkness, that one.
He dreams of running with wolves.'
    Redmask shrugged, wondering yet again what this old
man wanted with him. An elder who did not fear the
K'Chain Che'Malle, who was so bold as to guide his
ancient horse between Redmask and Sag'Churok.
    'You should have killed him.'
    'I do not ask for your advice, Elder,' Redmask said. 'He is
owed respite. We must redeem our people in his eyes.'
    'Pointless,' the old man snapped. 'Kill him and we need
redeem ourselves to no-one. Kill him and we are free.'
    'One cannot flee the past.'
    'Indeed? That belief must taste bitter for one such as you,
Redmask. Best discard it.'
    Redmask slowly faced the man. 'Of me, Elder, you know
nothing.'
    A twisted smile. 'Alas, I do. You do not recognize me,
Redmask. You should.'
    'You are Renfayar – my tribe. You