A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

close enough. Close enough. Tell me, mortals,
do you like my army? I do. Did you know the one thing a
commander must battle against – more than any enemy
across the plain, more than any personal crisis of will or
confidence, more than unkind weather, broken supply
chains, plague and all the rest? Do you know what a
commander wages eternal war with, my friends? I will tell
you. The true enemy is fear . The fear that haunts every
soldier, that haunts even the beasts they ride.' He lifted a
gauntleted hand and waved to the valley below. 'But not
with this army! Oh, no. Fear belongs to the living, after
all.'
    'As with the T'lan Imass,' said Gruntle.
    The darkness within the mask's elongated eye-holes
seemed to glitter as the Seguleh fixed his attention on
Gruntle. 'Trake's cub. Now, wouldn't you like to cross
blades with me?' A low laugh. 'Yes, as with the T'lan Imass.
Is it any wonder the Jaghut recoiled?'
    Master Quell cleared his throat. 'Sir,' he said, 'what need
has Hood for an army? Will he now wage war against the
living?'
    'If only,' the Seguleh replied in a grunt. 'You don't belong
here – and if you drag that infernal carriage of yours back
here any time soon, I will seek you out myself. And then
Trake's spitting kitten here can fulfil his desperate desire,
hah!' He twisted in his saddle. Other riders were approaching.
'Look at them. My watchdogs. "Be reasonable", indeed.
Have I chopped these two interlopers to pieces? I have not.
Restraint has been shown.' He faced Gruntle and Quell
once more. 'You will confirm this, yes?'
    'Beyond you goading Gruntle here,' Quell said, 'yes, I
suppose we can.'
    'It was a jest!' the Seguleh shouted.
    'It was a threat,' Quell corrected, and Gruntle was impressed
by the man's sudden courage.
    The Seguleh tilted his head, as if he too was casting new
measure upon the mage. 'Oh, trundle your wagon wherever
you like, then, see if I care.'
    Three riders mounted the summit and, slowing their
horses to a walk, drew up to where waited the Seguleh,
who now sat slumped like a browbeaten bully.
    Gruntle started, took an involuntary step forward. 'Toc
Anaster?'
    The one-eyed soldier's smile was strained. 'Hello, old
friend. I am sorry. There may come a time for this, but it
is not now.'
    Gruntle edged back, blunted by Toc Anaster's cold
– even harsh – tone. 'I – I did not know.'
    'It was a messy death. My memories remain all too sharp.
Gruntle, deliver this message to your god: not long now.'
    Gruntle scowled. 'Too cryptic. If you want me to pass on
your words, you will have to do better than that.'
    Toc Anaster's single eye – terrifying in its lifelessness
– shifted away.
    'He cannot,' said the middle horseman, and there was
something familiar about the face behind the helm's
cheekguards. 'I remember you from Capustan. Gruntle,
chosen servant of Treach. Your god is confused, but it must
choose, and soon.'
    Gruntle shrugged. 'There is no point in bringing all this
to me. Trake and me, we're not really on speaking terms. I
didn't ask for any of this. I don't even want it—'
    'Hah!' barked the Seguleh, twisting round to face the
middle rider. 'Hear that, Iskar Jarak? Let me kill him!'
    Iskar Jarak? I seem to recall he had a different name. One
of those odd ones, common to the Malazan soldiery – what
was it now?
    'Save your wrath for Skinner,' Iskar Jarak calmly replied.
    'Skinner!' roared the Seguleh, savagely wheeling his
horse round. 'Where is he, then? I'd forgotten! Hood, you
bastard – you made me forget! Where is he?' He faced the
three riders. 'Does Toc know? Brukhalian, you? Someone
tell me where he's hiding!'
'Who knows?' said Iskar Jarak. 'But there is one thing
for certain.'
    'What?' demanded the Seguleh.
    'Skinner is not here on this hill.'
    'Bah!' The Seguleh drove spurs into his horse's senseless
flanks. The animal surged forward anyway, plunging off
the hilltop and raging downslope like an avalanche.
    Soft laughter from Brukhalian, and Gruntle saw that
even Toc was grinning – though he still would not meet
his eyes. That death must have been terrible indeed, as if
the world had but one answer, one way of ending things,
and whatever lessons could be gleaned from that did not
ease the spirit. The notion left him feeling morose.
    It was a common curse to feel unclean, but that curse
would be unbearable if no cleansing awaited one, if not
at the moment of dying, then afterwards. Looking upon
these animated corpses, Gruntle saw nothing of redemption,
nothing