A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

my
followers.'
    Fear Sengar said, 'You intended to betray Scabandari,
only he acted first. A true alliance of equals, then.'
    'I imagined you might see it that way,' the Tiste Andii
replied. 'Understand me, Fear Sengar. I will not
countenance freeing the soul of Scabandari Bloodeye. This
world has enough reprehensible ascendants.'
    'Without Father Shadow,' Fear said, 'I cannot free
Rhulad from the chains of the Crippled God.'
    'You could not, even with him.'
    'I do not believe you, Silchas Ruin. Scabandari was your
match, after all. And I do not think the Crippled God
hunts you in earnest. If it is indeed Hannan Mosag behind
this endless pursuit, then the ones he seeks are myself and
Udinaas. Not you. It is, perhaps, even possible that the
Warlock King knows nothing of you – of who you are,
beyond the mysterious White Crow.'
    'That does not appear to be the case, Fear Sengar.'
    The statement seemed to rock the Tiste Edur.
    Silchas Ruin continued, 'Scabandari Bloodeye's body
was destroyed. Against me, now, he would be helpless. A
soul without provenance is a vulnerable thing. Furthermore,
it may be that his power is already being . . . used.'
    'By whom?' Fear asked, almost whispering.
    The Tiste Andii shrugged. 'It seems,' he said with something
close to indifference, 'that your quest is without
purpose. You cannot achieve what you seek. I will offer you
this, Fear Sengar. The day I choose to move against the
Crippled God, your brother shall find himself free, as will
all the Tiste Edur. When that time comes, we can speak of
reparation.'
    Fear Sengar stared at Silchas Ruin, then glanced, momentarily,
at Seren Pedac. He drew a deep breath, then said, 'Your
offer . . . humbles me. Yet I could not imagine what the Tiste
Edur could gift you in answer to such deliverance.'
    'Leave that to me,' the Tiste Andii said.
    Seren Pedac sighed, then strode to the horses. 'It's almost
dawn. We should ride until midday at least. Then we can
sleep.' She paused, looked once more over at Silchas Ruin.
'You are confident we will not be pursued?'
    'I am, Acquitor.'
    'So, were there in truth wards awaiting us?'
    The Tiste Andii made no reply.
    As the Acquitor adjusted the saddle and stirrups on one of
the horses to suit Kettle, Udinaas watched the young girl
squatting on her haunches near the forest edge, playing
with an orthen that did not seem in any way desperate to
escape her attentions. The darkness had faded, the mists
silver in the growing light.
    Wither appeared beside him, like a smear of reluctant
night. 'These scaled rats, Udinaas, came from the K'Chain
Che'Malle world. There were larger ones, bred for food, but
they were smart – smarter perhaps than they should have
been. Started escaping their pens, vanishing into the
mountains. It's said there are some still left—'
Udinaas grunted his derision. 'It's said? Been hanging
round in bars, Wither?'
    'The terrible price of familiarity – you no longer respect
me, Indebted. A most tragic error, for the knowledge I
possess—'
    'Is like a curse of boredom,' Udinaas said, pushing himself
to his feet. 'Look at her,' he said, nodding towards
Kettle. 'Tell me, do you believe in innocence? Never mind;
I'm not that interested in your opinion. By and large, I
don't. Believe, that is. And yet, that child there . . . well,
I am already grieving.'
    'Grieving what?' Wither demanded.
    'Innocence, wraith. When we kill her.'
    Wither was, uncharacteristically, silent.
    Udinaas glanced down at the crouching shade, then
sneered. 'All your coveted knowledge . . .'
    Seventeen legends described the war against the scaled
demons the Awl called the Kechra; of those, sixteen were
of battles, terrible clashes that left the corpses of warriors
scattered across the plains and hills of the Awl'dan. Less a
true war than headlong flight, at least in the first years. The
Kechra had come from the west, from lands that would one
day belong to the empire of Lether but were then, all those
countless centuries ago, little more than blasted wastes –
fly-swarmed marshlands of peat and rotten ice. A ragged,
battered horde, the Kechra had seen battle before, and it
was held in some versions of those legends that the Kechra
were themselves fleeing, fleeing a vast, devastating war that
gave cause to their own desperation.
    In the face of annihilation, the Awl had learned how to
fight such creatures. The tide was met, held, then turned.
    Or so the tales proclaimed, in ringing, stirring tones of
triumph.
    Redmask knew