A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

the damned moon?'
    Kallor was certain now. Forces had converged in
Darujhistan. Clashing with deadly consequence, and blood
had been spilled.
    He lived for such things. Sudden opportunities, unexpected
powers stumbling, falling within reach. Anticipation
awakened within him.
    Life thrust forth choices, and the measure of a man or
woman's worth could be found in whether they possessed
the courage, the brazen decisiveness, to grasp hold and not
let go. Kallor never failed such moments. Let the curse
flail him, strike him down; let defeat batter him again and
again. He would just get back up, shake the dust off, and
begin once more.
    He knew the world was damned. He knew that the curse
haunting him was no different from history's own progression,
the endless succession of failures, the puerile triumphs
that had a way of falling over as soon as one stopped looking.
Or caring. He knew that life itself corrected gross
imbalances by simply folding everything over and starting
anew.
    Too often scholars and historians saw the principle
of convergence with narrow, truncated focus. In terms
of ascendants and gods and great powers. But Kallor
understood that the events they described and pored
over after the fact were but concentrated expressions of
something far vaster. Entire ages converged, in chaos and
tumult, in the anarchy of Nature itself. And more often
than not, very few comprehended the disaster erupting all
around them. No, they simply went on day after day with
their pathetic tasks, eyes to the ground, pretending that
everything was just fine.
    Nature wasn't interested in clutching their collars and
giving them a rattling shake, forcing their eyes open. No,
Nature just wiped them off the board.
    And, truth be told, that was pretty much what they
deserved. Not a stitch more. There were those, of course,
who would view such an attitude aghast, and then accuse
Kallor of being a monster, devoid of compassion, a vision
stained indelibly dark and all that rubbish. But they would
be wrong. Compassion is not a replacement for stupidity.
Tearful concern cannot stand in the stead of cold recognition.
Sympathy does not cancel out the hard facts of brutal,
unwavering observation. It was too easy, too cheap, to fret
and wring one's hands, moaning with heartfelt empathy
– it was damned self-indulgent, in fact, providing the perfect
excuse for doing precisely nothing while assuming a
pious pose.
    Enough of that.
    Kallor had no time for such games. A nose in the air just
made it easier to cut the throat beneath it. And when it
came to that choice, why, he never hesitated. As sure as any
force of Nature, was Kallor.
    He walked, shins tearing and uprooting tangled grasses.
Above him, a strange, moonless night with the western
horizon – where the sun had gone down long ago – convulsing
with carmine flashes.
    Reaching a raised road of packed gravel, he set out,
hastening his pace towards the waiting city. The track
dipped and then began a long, stretched-out climb. Upon
reaching the summit, he paused.
    A hundred paces ahead someone had set four torches on
high poles where four paths met, creating a square with the
flaring firelight centred on the crossroads. There were no
buildings in sight, nothing to give reason for such a construction.
Frowning, he resumed walking.
    As he drew closer, he saw someone sitting on a marker
stone, just beneath one of the torches. Hooded, motionless,
forearms resting on thighs, gauntleted hands draped down
over the knees.
    Kallor felt a moment of unease. He scraped through
gravel with one boot and saw the hood slowly lift, the
figure straightening and then rising to its feet.
    Shit.
    The stranger reached up and tugged back the hood, then
walked to position himself in the centre of the crossroads.
    In the wake of recognition, dismay flooded through
Kallor. 'No, Spinnock Durav, not this.'
    The Tiste Andii unsheathed his sword. 'High King, I
cannot let you pass.'
    'Let him fight his own battles!'
    'This need not be a battle,' Spinnock replied. 'I am
camped just off this road. We can go there now, sit at a fire
and drink mulled wine. And, come the morning, you can
turn round, go back the other way. Darujhistan, High King,
is not for you.'
    'You damned fool. You know you cannot best me.' He
glared at the warrior, struggling. A part of him wanted to
. . . gods . . . a part of him wanted to weep. 'How many of
his loyal, brave followers will he see die? And for what?
Listen to me, Spinnock. I have no real