A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

discover that now, instead of in the midst of battle.'
    Toc Anaster settled back on his haunches and watched
Torrent march out of the firelight. Off . . . somewhere. Somewhere important. Like the latrines. He resumed examining
the fletching on the Imass arrows. Gift of an old friend. That clunking, creaking collection of droll bones. He could
barely recall the last time he was among friends. Gruntle,
perhaps. Another continent. A drunken evening – was
that Saltoan wine? Gredfallan ale? He couldn't recall.
    Surrounding him, the murmur of thousands – their
moving through the camp, their quiet conversations
around the cookfires. Old men and old women, the lame,
the young. A fire burning for each and every Awl.
    And somewhere out on the plain, Redmask and his warriors – a night without fires, without conversations. Nothing, I imagine, but the soft honing of weapon edges. Iron and stone whispering in the night.
    A simple deceit, its success dependent on Letherii
expectations. Enemy scouts had spotted this camp, after all.
As predicted. Countless fires in the darkness, appropriately
close to Bast Fulmar, the site of the impending battle. All
the way it was supposed to be.
    But Redmask had other plans. And to aid in the
deception, Toc suspected, some arcane sorcery from
the K'Chain Che'Malle.
    An elder appeared, walking into the fire's glow on bowed
legs. Toc had seen this one speaking to Redmask, often
riding at the war leader's side. He crouched down opposite
Toc and studied him for a dozen heartbeats, then spat into
the flames, nodded at the answering sizzle, and spoke: 'I do
not trust you.'
    'I'm crushed.'
    'Those arrows, they are bound in ritual magic. Yet no
spirit has blessed them. What sort of sorcery is that?
Letherii? Are you a creature of the Tiles and Holds? A
traitor in our midst. You plot betrayal, vengeance against
our abandoning you.'
    'Trying to inspire me, Elder? Sorry to disappoint you, but
there are no embers in the ashes, nothing to stir to
life.'
    'You are young.'
    'Not as young as you think. Besides, what has that to do
with anything?'
    'Redmask likes you.'
    Toc scratched the scar where an eye had been. 'Are your
wits addled by age?'
    A grunt. 'I know secrets.'
    'Me too.'
    'None to compare with mine. I was there when
Redmask's sister killed herself.'
    'And I suckled at the tit of a K'Chain Che'Malle
Matron. If tit is the right word.'
    The old man's face twisted in disbelief. 'That is a good
lie. But it is not the game I am playing. I saw with my own
eyes the great sea canoes. Upon the north shore.
Thousands upon thousands.'
    Toc began returning the arrows to the hide quiver.
'These arrows were made by a dead man. Dead for a
hundred thousand years, or more.'
    The wrinkled scowl opposite him deepened. 'I have seen
skeletons running in the night – on this very plain.'
    'This body you see isn't mine. I stole it.'
    'I alone know the truth of Bast Fulmar.'
    'This body's father was a dead man – he gasped his last
breath even as his seed was taken on a field of battle.'
    'The victory of long ago was in truth a defeat.'
    'This body grew strong on human meat.'
    'Redmask will betray us.'
    'This mouth waters as I look at you.'
    The old man pushed himself to his feet. 'Evil speaks in
lies.'
    'And the good know only one truth. But it's a lie,
because there's always more than one truth.'
    Another throatful of phlegm into the campfire. Then a
complicated series of gestures, the inscribing in the air
above the flames of a skein of wards that seemed to swirl for
a moment in the thin smoke. 'You are banished,' the elder
then pronounced.
    'You have no idea, old man.'
    'I think you should have died long ago.'
    'More times than I can count. Started with a piece of a
moon. Then a damned puppet, then . . . oh, never mind.'
    'Torrent says you will run. In the end. He says your courage
is broken.'
    Toc looked down into the flames. 'That may well be,' he
said.
    'He will kill you then.'
    'Assuming he can catch me. If there's one thing I know
how to do, it's ride a horse.'
    With a snarl, the elder stormed off.
    'Courage,' Toc muttered to himself. 'Yes, there is that.
And maybe cowardice truly is bred in the very bones.' Because let's face it, Anaster was no cold iron. Nor hot, for that matter.
    From somewhere in the night came the keening howl of
a wolf.
    Toc grunted. 'Yes, well, it's not as if I had the privilege of
choice, is it? I wonder if any of us has. Ever.' He raised his
voice slightly, 'You know, Torrent –