A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

itself a
colour unlike any metal the Captain knew.
    As the figure came closer, as if expecting the massed
slaves to simply part before him, the Captain's sense of
scale was jarred. The warrior was enormous, easily half
again as tall as the tallest Skathandi – taller even than
a Barghast. A face seemingly masked – no, tattooed, in a
crazed broken glass or tattered web pattern. Beneath that
barbaric visage, the torso was covered in some kind of shell
armour, pretty but probably useless.
    Well, the fool – huge or not – was about to be trampled or
pushed aside. Motion was eternal. Motion was – a sudden
spasm clutched at the Captain's mind, digging fingers into
his brain – the spirits, thrashing in terror – shrieking—
    A taste of acid on his tongue—
    Gasping, the Captain gestured.
    A servant, who sat behind him in an upright coffin-shaped
box, watching through a slit in the wood, saw the
signal and pulled hard on a braided rope. A horn blared,
followed by three more.
    And, for the first time in seven years, the kingdom of
Skathandi ground to a halt.
    The giant warrior strode for the head of the slave
column. He drew his sword. As he swung down with that
savage weapon, the slaves began screaming.
    From both flanks, the ground shook as knights charged
inward.
    More frantic gestures from the Captain. Horns sounded
again and the knights shifted en masse, swung out wide to
avoid the giant.
    The sword's downward stroke had struck the centre spar
linking the yoke harnesses. Edge on blunt end, splitting
the spar for half its twenty-man length. Bolts scattered,
chains rushed through iron loops to coil and slither on to
the ground.
    The Captain was on his feet, tottering, gripping the
bollards of the balcony rail. He could see, as his knights
drew up into ranks once more, all heads turned towards
him, watching, waiting for the command. But he could not
move. Pain lanced up his legs from the misshapen bones
of his feet. He held on to the ornate posts with his feeble
hands. Ants swarmed in his skull.
    The spirits were gone.
    Fled.
    He was alone. He was empty.
    Reeling back, falling into his throne.
    He saw one of his sergeants ride out, drawing closer
to the giant, who now stood leaning on his sword. The
screams of the slaves sank away and those suddenly free
of their bindings staggered to either side, some falling to
their knees as if subjecting themselves before a new king,
a usurper. The sergeant reined in and, eyes level with the
giant's own, began speaking.
    The Captain was too far away. He could not hear, and he
needed to – sweat poured from him, soaking his fine silks.
He shivered as fever rose through him. He looked down
at his hands and saw blood welling from the old wounds
– opened once more – and from his feet as well, pooling in
the soft padded slippers. He remembered, suddenly, what
it was like to think about dying, letting go, surrendering.
There, yes, beneath the shade of the cottonwoods—
    The sergeant collected his reins and rode at the canter
for the palace.
    He drew up, dismounted in a clatter of armour and
reached up to remove his visored helm. Then he ascended
the steps.
    'Captain, sir. The fool claims that the slaves are now
free.'
    Staring into the soldier's blue eyes, the grizzled expression
now widened by disbelief, by utter amazement, the
Captain felt a pang of pity. 'He is the one, isn't he?'
    'Sir?'
    'The enemy. The slayer of my subjects. I feel it. The truth
– I see it, I feel it. I taste it!'
The sergeant said nothing.
    'He wants my throne,' the Captain whispered, holding
up his bleeding hands. 'Was that all this was for, do you
think? All I've done, just for him?'
    'Captain,' the sergeant said in a harsh growl. 'He has
ensorcelled you. We will cut him down.'
    'No. You do not understand. They're gone!'
    'Sir—'
    'Make camp, Sergeant. Tell him – tell him he is to be
my guest at dinner. My guest. Tell him . . . tell him . . .
my guest, yes, just that.'
    The sergeant, a fine soldier indeed, saluted and set off.
    Another gesture with one stained, dripping, mangled
hand. Two maids crept out to help him to his feet. He
looked down at one. A Kindaru, round and plump and
snouted like a fox – he saw her eyes fix upon the bleeding
appendage at the end of the arm she supported, and she
licked her lips.
    I am dying.
    Not centuries. Before this day is done. Before this day is done, I will be dead. 'Make me presentable,' he gasped.
    'There shall be no shame upon him, do you see? I want