A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4
the
muscles of his legs trembling. He looked round as he slowly
regained his breath. It was chilly, the sun's arc just slipping
past the western peaks, and shadow swallowed the river
valley.
Black water rushed by and he felt its cold – no need
to squat down, no need to slide a hand into the tugging
current. This dark river was, he could see now, nothing
like Dorssan Ryl. How could he have expected otherwise?
The new is ever but a mangled echo of the old and
whatever whispers of similarity one imagined do naught
but sting with pain, leaving one blistered with loss. Oh,
he had been a fool, to have journeyed all this way. Seeking
what? Even that he could not answer.
No, perhaps he could. Escape. Brief, yes, but escape none
the less. The coward flees, knowing he must return, wishing
that the return journey might kill him, take his life as
it did the old everywhere. But listen! You can shape your soul
– make it a bucket, a leaking one that you carry about. Or
your soul can be a rope, thick and twisted, refusing to break
even as it buckles to one knot after another. Choose your
image, Endest Silann. You are here, you've made it this far,
haven't you? And as he told you . . . not much farther to go.
Not much farther at all.
He smelled woodsmoke.
Startled, alarmed, he turned away from the rush of the
river. Faced upstream whence came the late afternoon
breeze. There, in distant gloom, the muted glow of a campfire.
Ah, no escape after all. He'd wanted solitude, face to face
with intractable, indifferent nature. He'd wanted to feel . . .
irrelevant. He'd wanted the wildness to punch him senseless,
leave him humiliated, reduced to a wretch. Oh, he had
wanted plenty, hadn't he?
With a sour grunt, Endest Silann began walking upstream.
At the very least, the fire would warm his hands.
Thirty paces away, he could see the lone figure facing
the smoky flames. Huge, round-shouldered, seated on a
fallen log. And Endest Silann smiled in recognition.
Two trout speared on skewers cooked above the fire.
A pot of simmering tea sat with one blackened shoulder
banked in coals. Two tin cups warmed on the flat rock
making up one side of the hearth.
Another log waited opposite the one on which sat the
warlord, Caladan Brood, who slowly twisted round to
watch Endest Silann approach. The broad, oddly bestial
face split into a wry smile. 'Of all the guests I imagined this
night, old friend, you did not come to mind. Forgive me.
You took your time since beginning your descent into this
valley, but for that I will happily make allowances – but do
not complain if the fish is overcooked.'
'Complaints are far away and will remain so, Caladan.
You have awakened my appetite – for food, drink and, most
of all, company.'
'Then sit, make yourself comfortable.'
'So you did indeed disband your army after the siege,'
said Endest Silann, making his way over to settle himself
down. 'There were rumours. Of course, my master said
nothing.'
'See me now,' said the warlord, 'commanding an army
of wet stones, and yes, it proves far less troublesome
than the last one. Finally, I can sleep soundly at night.
Although, matching wits with these trout has challenged
me mightily. There, take one of those plates, and here
– beware the bones, though,' he added as he set a fish on
the plate.
'Alone here, Caladan Brood – it makes me wonder if you
are hiding.'
'It may be that I am, Endest Silann. Unfortunately,
hiding never works.'
'No, it never does.'
Neither spoke for a time as they ate their supper. The
trout was indeed overdone but Endest Silann said nothing,
for it was delicious none the less.
If Anomander Rake was a mystery shrouded in darkness,
then Caladan Brood was one clothed in geniality. Spare
with words, he nevertheless could make virtually anyone
feel welcome and, indeed, appreciated. Or rather, he could
when the pressures of command weren't crouched on his
shoulders like a damned mountain. This night, then,
Endest Silann well understood, was a gift, all the more
precious in that it was wholly unexpected.
When the meal was done, night's arrival closed out the
world beyond the fire's light. The rush of the river was a
voice, a presence. Water flowed indifferent to the heave
and plunge of the sun, the shrouded moon and the slow
spin of the stars. The sound reached them in a song without
words, and all effort to grasp its meaning was hopeless, for,
like the water itself, one could not grasp hold of sound. The
flow was ceaseless and
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