A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

leviathan with its foul sense of humour.
    Edging forward, one soft step at a time, he came upon
the place where she had made a kill. A wapiti, its panic a
bitter breath in the air. The humus scuffed by its tiny hoofs,
a smear of blood on curled black leaves. Halting, settling
down, Gruntle lifted his gaze.
    And found her. She had drawn her prey up on to a thick
branch from which lianas depended in a cascade of night
blossoms. The wapiti – or what remained of it – was draped
across the bole, and she was lying along the branch's
length, lambent eyes fixed upon Gruntle.
    This leopard was well suited to hunting at night – her
coat was black on black, the spots barely discernible.
    She regarded him without fear, and this gave Gruntle
pause.
    A voice then murmured in his skull, sweet and dark. 'Go
on your way, Lord. There is not enough to share . . . even if I
so desired, which of course I do not.'
    'I have come for you ,' Gruntle replied.
    Her eyes widened and he saw muscles coiling along her
shoulders. 'Do all beasts know riders, then?'
    For a moment Gruntle did not comprehend her question,
and then understanding arrived with sudden heat, sudden
interest. 'Has your soul travelled far, my lady?'
    'Through time. Through unknown distances. This is where
my dreams take me every night. Ever hunting, ever tasting
blood, ever shying from the path of the likes of you, Lord.'
    'I am summoned by prayer ,' Gruntle said, knowing even
as he said it that it was the truth, that the half-human
creatures he had left behind did indeed call upon him, as if
to invite the killer answered some innate refusal of random
chance. He was summoned to kill, he realized, to give proof
to the notion of fate.
    'Curious idea, Lord.'
    'Spare them, Lady.'
    'Who?'
    'You know of whom I speak. In this time, there is but one
creature that can voice prayers.'
    He sensed wry amusement. 'You are wrong in that.
Although the others have no interest in imagining beasts as gods
and goddesses.'
    'Others?'
    'Many nights away from this place, there are mountains,
and in them can be found fastnesses where dwell the K'Chain
Che'Malle. There is a vast river that runs to a warm ocean, and
on its banks can be found the pit-cities of the Forkrul Assail.
There are solitary towers where lone Jaghut live, waiting to die.
There are the villages of the Tartheno Toblakai and their tundradwelling
cousins, the Neph Trell.'
    'You know this world far better than I do, Lady.'
    'Do you still intend to kill me?'
    'Will you cease hunting the half-humans?'
    'As you like, but you must know, there are times when this
beast has no rider. There are times too, I suspect, when the
beast you now ride also hunts alone.'
    'I understand.'
    She rose from her languid perch, and made her way
down the trunk of the tree head first, landing lightly on
the soft forest floor. 'Why are they so important to you?'
    'I do not know. Perhaps I pity them.'
    'For our kind, Lord, there is no room for pity.'
    'I disagree. It is what we can give when we ride the souls of
these beasts. Hood knows, it's all we can give.'
    'Hood?'
    'The God of Death.'
    'You come from a strange world, I think.'
    Now this was startling. Gruntle was silent for a long
moment, and then he asked, 'Where are you from, Lady?'
    'A city called New Morn.'
    'I know of a ruin named Morn.'
    'My city is no ruin.'
    'Perhaps you exist in a time before the coming of Hood.'
    'Perhaps .' She stretched, the glow of her eyes thinning to
slits. 'I am leaving soon, Lord. If you are here when I do, the
beast that remains will not take kindly to your presence.'
    'Oh? And would she be so foolish as to attack me?'
    'And die? No. But I would not curse her with terror.'
    'Ah, is that pity, then?'
    'No, it is love.'
    Yes, he could see how one could come to love such
magnificent animals, and find the riding of their souls a
most precious gift. 'I will go now, Lady. Do you think we will
meet again?'
    'It does seem we share the night, Lord.'
    She slipped away, and even Gruntle's extraordinary
vision failed him from tracking her beyond a few strides.
He swung about and padded off in the opposite direction.
Yes, he could feel his own grip here weakening, and soon he
would return to his own world. That pallid, stale existence,
where he lived as if half blind, half deaf, deadened and
clumsy.
    He allowed himself a deep cough of anger, silencing the
unseen denizens on all sides.
    Until some brave monkey, high overhead, flung a stick at
him. The thump as it struck the