A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

of
the Drene, and any vengeance that could be ascribed to the
deed existed only in his own mind. The distinction was
important.
    Even so, a satisfying conceit.
    Yet, these victims here were strangers, these soldiers in
their grey and black uniforms. Stripped now of weapons
and armour, standards taken as trophies, their presence
here in the Awl'dan – in the heart of the rider's homeland
– was perturbing.
    He knew the invading Letherii, after all. The numerous
legions with their peculiar names and fierce rivalries; he
knew as well the fearless cavalry of the Bluerose. And the
still-free kingdoms and territories bordering the Awl'dan,
the rival D'rhasilhani, the Keryn, the Bolkando Kingdom
and the Saphinand State – he had treated with or crossed
blades with them all, years ago, and none were as these
soldiers here.
    Pale-skinned, hair the colour of straw or red as rust. Eyes
of blue or grey. And . . . so many women.
    His gaze settled upon one such soldier, a woman near the
hill's summit. Mangled by sorcery, her armour melded with
the twisted flesh – there were sigils visible on that
armour . . .
    Dismounting, he ascended the slope, picking his way
round bodies, moccasins skidding on blood-soaked mud,
until he crouched down at her side.
    Paint on the blackened bronze hauberk. Wolf heads, a
pair. One was white-furred and one-eyed, the other furred
silver and black. A sigil he had not seen before.
    Strangers indeed.
    Foreigners. Here, in the land of his heart.
    Behind the mask, he scowled. Gone. Too long. Am I now the stranger?
    Heavy drumbeats reverberated through the ground
beneath his feet. He straightened. His companions were
returning.
    So, no vengeance after all.
    Well, there was time yet.
    The mournful howl of wolves had awakened him this
morning, their calls the first to draw him here, to this place,
as if they sought a witness, as if indeed they had summoned
him. While their cries had urged him on, he had not caught
sight of the beasts, not once.
    The wolves had fed, however, some time this morning.
Dragging bodies from the press.
    His steps slowed as he made his way down the slope,
slowed until he stood, his breath drawn in and held as he
looked more closely at the dead soldiers on all sides.
    The wolves have fed. But not as wolves do . . . not like . . . like this.
    Chests torn open, ribs jutting . . . they had devoured
hearts. Nothing else. Just the hearts.
    The drumbeats were louder now, closer, the rake of
talons hissing through grass. Overhead, the ravens, screaming,
fled in all directions.

BOOK ONE

THE EMPEROR IN GOLD
    The lie stands alone, the solitary deceit
with its back turned no matter the direction
of your reluctant approach, and with each step
your goal is driven on, your stride carried astray,
the path enfolding upon itself, round and round
you walk and what stood alone before you,
errant as mischance, an accidental utterance,
now reveals its legion of children, this mass
seething in threads and knots and surrounded,
you cannot draw breath, cannot move.
    The world is of your making and one day,
my friend, you will stand alone amidst
a sea of dead, the purchasing of your words
all about you and the wind will laugh you
a new path into unending torment –
the solitary deceit is its solitude, the lie is
the lie standing alone, the threads and knots
of the multitude tighten in righteous judgement
with which you once so freely strangled
every truthsayer, every voice of dissent.
    So now ease your thirst on my sympathy
and die parched in the wasteland.
    Fragment found on the day
the poetess Tesora Veddict
was arrested by the Patriotists
(six days before her Drowning)

CHAPTER ONE
    Two forces, once in vicious opposition, now found
themselves virtual bedmates, although neither could
decide which of them had their legs pried open first.
The simple facts are these: the original hierarchical
structure of the Tiste Edur tribes proved well-suited
to the Letherii system of power through wealth. The
Edur became the crown, settling easy upon the
bloated gluttony of Lether, but does a crown possess
will? Does the wearer buckle beneath its burden?
Another truth is now, in hindsight, self-evident. As
seamless as this merging seemed to be, a more subtle,
far deadlier conjoining occurred below the surface:
that of the specific flaws within each system, and
this blending was to prove a most volatile brew.
    The Hiroth Dynasty (Volume XVII)
The Colony, a History of Lether
Dinith Arnara
    'Where is this one