A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

and after a time all those
fortifications and bastions had stretched open their doorways
and portals.
    The rum had lit a fire in Nimander's brain, casting
flickering red light on a host of memories gathered ghostly
round the unwelcoming hearth. There had been a keep,
somewhere, a place of childhood secure and protected by
the one they all called Father . Ridged spines of snow lining
the cobbled track leading to the embrasure gate, a wind
howling down from grey mountains – a momentary abode
where scores of children scurried about wild as rats, with
the tall figure of Anomander Rake wandering the corridors
in godlike indifference.
    What had there been before that? Where were all the
mothers? That memory was lost, entirely lost.
    There had been a priest, an ancient companion of the
Son of Darkness, whose task it had been to keep the brood
fed, clothed, and healthy. He had looked upon them all
with eyes filled with dismay, no doubt understanding –
long before any of them did – the future that awaited them.
Understanding well enough to withhold his warmth – oh,
he had been like an ogre to them all, certainly, but one
who, for all his bluster, would never, ever do them harm.
    Knowing this, they had abused their freedom often.
They had, more than once, mocked that poor old man.
They had rolled beakers into his path when he walked
past, squealing with delight when his feet sent them
flying to bounce and shatter, or, better yet, when he lost
his balance and thumped down on his backside, wincing
in pain.
    Such a cruel fire, lighting up all these ghastly recollections.
Deadsmell, in his sleepy, seemingly careless way, had
drawn out their tale. From that keep hidden in the fastness
of some remote range of mountains to the sudden, startling
arrival of a stranger – the aged, stooped Tiste Andii who
was, it was learned with a shock, Anomander's very own
brother. And the arguments echoing from their father's
private chambers, as brothers fought over unknown things
– decisions past, decisions to come, the precise unfolding
of crimes of the soul that led to harsh accusations and cold,
cold silences.
    Days later, peace was struck, somehow, in the dark of
night. Their father came to them then, to tell them how
Andarist was taking them all away. To an island, a place
of warmth, of stretches of soft sand and pellucid waters,
of trees crowded with fruit. And there, standing in the
background during this imparting of a new future, was
old Endest Silann, his face ravaged by some extremity of
emotion – no more beakers underfoot, no more taunts and
elusive imps racing to escape imagined pursuits (he never
pursued, never once reached to snatch one of them, never
raised a hand, never even raised his voice; he was nothing
but a focus for their irreverence – an irreverence they
would not dare turn upon their father). He had had his
purpose and he had weathered it and now he wept as the
children were drawn together and a warren was opened, a
portalway into an unknown, mysterious new world where
anything was possible.
    Andarist led them through.
    They would learn new things. The weapons awaiting
them.
    A stern teacher, not one to mock, oh no, that was
quickly made clear when a casual cuff against the side of
Skintick's head sent him flying – a cuff to answer some
muttered derision, no doubt.
    The games ended. The world turned suddenly serious.
    They came to love that old man. Loved him far too
much, as it turned out, for where Anomander might well
have proved capable of pushing back the horrors of adulthood
and its terrible world, Andarist was not.
    Children made perfect soldiers, perfect killers. They had
no sense of mortality. They did not fear death. They took
bright pleasure in destruction, even when that destruction
involved taking a life. They played with cruelty to watch
the results. They understood the simplicity of power found
there in the weapon held in the hand.
    See a bored child with a stick – and see how every beast
nearby flees, understanding well what is now possible and,
indeed, probable. See the child, eyes scanning the ground,
swinging the stick down to crush insects, to thrash flowers,
to wage a war of mayhem. Replace the stick with a sword.
Explain how guilt need not be considered when the ones who
must die are the enemy.
    Unleash them, these children with the avid eyes.
    Good soldiers. Andarist had made them good soldiers.
What child, after all, does not know rage?
    But the vessel breaks.
    The vessel