A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

wounds have not healed.'
    'A recent reminder, that's all,' Kallor replied, watching
the water slowly awaken. He tossed in a handful of herbs.
'Very well, tell me your tale. I welcome the amusement.'
    The dragon lifted its head and seemed to study the
eastern horizon.
    'Never wise to stare into the sun,' Kallor observed. 'You
might burn your eyes.'
    'It was brighter then – do you recall?'
    'Perturbations of orbit, or so believed the K'Chain
Che'Malle.'
    'So too the Jaghut, who were most diligent in their observations
of the world. Tell me, High King, did you know they broke
peace only once? In all their existence – no, not the T'lan Imass
– that war belonged to those savages and the Jaghut were a most
reluctant foe.'
    'They should have turned on the Imass,' Kallor said.
'They should have annihilated the vermin.'
    'Perhaps, but I was speaking of an earlier war – the war that
destroyed the Jaghut long before the coming of the T'lan Imass.
The war that shattered their unity, that made of their lives a
moribund flight from an implacable enemy – yes, long before
and long after the T'lan Imass.'
    Kallor considered that for a moment, and then he
grunted and said, 'I am not well versed in Jaghut history.
What war was this? The K'Chain Che'Malle? The Forkrul
Assail?' He squinted at the dragon. 'Or, perhaps, you
Eleint?'
    There was sorrow in its tone as the dragon replied, 'No.
here were some among us who chose to join in this war, to
ight alongside the Jaghut armies—'
    'Armies? Jaghut armies?'
    'Yes, an entire people gathered, a host of singular will.
Legions uncountable. Their standard was rage, their clarion call
injustice. When they marched, swords beating on shields, time
itself found measure, a hundred million hearts of edged iron.
Not even you, High King, could imagine such a sight – your
empire was less than a squall to that terrible storm.'
    For once, Kallor had nothing to say. No snide comment
to voice, no scoffing refutation. In his mind he saw the
scene the dragon had described, and was struck mute. To
have witnessed such a thing!
    The dragon seemed to comprehend his awe. 'Yes again,
High King. When you forged your empire, it was on the dust of
that time, that grand contest, that most bold assault. We fought.
We refused to retreat. We failed. We fell. So many of us fell
– should we have believed otherwise? Should we have held to
our faith in the righteousness of our cause, even as we came to
believe that we were doomed?'
    Kallor stared across at the dragon, the tea in the pot
steaming away. He could almost hear the echoes of tens of
millions, hundreds of millions, dying on a plain so vast even
the horizons could not close it in. He saw flames, rivers of
blood, a sky solid with ash. In creating this image, he had
only to draw upon his own fury of destruction, then multiply
it a thousandfold. The notion took his breath, snatched it
from his lungs, and his chest filled with pain. 'What,' he
managed, 'who? What enemy could vanquish such a force?'
    'Grieve for the Jaghut, High King, when at last you sit on
that throne. Grieve for the chains that bind all life, that you
can never break. Weep, for me and my fallen kin – who did not
hesitate to join a war that could not be won. Know, for ever in
your soul, Kallor Eidorann, that the Jaghut fought the war no
other has dared to fight.'
    'Eleint . . .'
    'Think of these people. Think of them, High King. The
sacrifice they made for us all. Think of the Jaghut, and an
impossible victory won in the heart of defeat. Think, and
then you will come to understand all that is to come. Perhaps,
then, you alone will know enough to honour their memory, the
sacrifice they made for us all.
    'High King, the Jaghut's only war, their greatest war, was
against Death itself.'
    The dragon turned away then, spreading its tattered
wings. Sorcery blossomed round the huge creature, and it
lifted into the air.
    Kallor stood, watching the Eleint rise into the cinnamon
sky. A nameless dead dragon, that had fallen in the realm
of Death, that had fallen and in dying had simply . . . switched sides . No, there could be no winning such a war.
'You damned fool,' he whispered at the fast receding Eleint.
'All of you, damned fools.' Bless you, bless you all.
    Gothos, when next we meet, this High King owes you an
apology.
    On withered cheeks that seemed cursed to eternal dryness,
tears now trickled down. He would think long and
think hard, now, and he would come to feelings that he'd
not felt in