A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

You don't like the
word, don't live it.'
    Monkrat stared into the man's eyes, and hated what he
saw there. He sagged. 'Best get on with it then, Spin. I got
nothing left. I'm used up. What do you do when the soldier
inside you dies before you do? Tell me.'
    'You go through the motions, Monkrat. You just follow
me. Do as I do. We start there and worry about the rest
later.'
    Monkrat realized that Spindle was still waiting. 'Do
what's right,' Dassem told us. Gods, even after all this
time he still remembered the First Sword's words. 'That's
a higher law than the command of any officer. Higher even
than the Emperor's own words. You are in a damned uniform
but that's not a licence to deliver terror to everyone – just the
enemy soldier you happen to be facing. Do what is right, for that
armour you wear doesn't just protect your flesh and bone. It
defends honour. It defends integrity. It defends justice. Soldiers,
heed me well. That armour defends humanity. And when I look
upon my soldiers, when I see these uniforms, I see compassion
and truth. The moment those virtues fail, then the gods help
you, for no armour is strong enough to save you.'
    'All right, Spin. I'll follow you.'
    A sharp nod. 'Dassem, he'd be proud. And not surprised,
no, not surprised at all.'
    'We have to watch out for Gradithan – he wants those
virgins. He wants their blood, for when the Dying God
arrives.'
    'Yeah? Well, Gredishit can chew on Hood's arsehole. He
ain't getting 'em.'
    'A moment ago I was thinking, Spin . . .'
    'Thinking what?'
    'That you was a three-legged dog. But I was wrong. You're
a damned Hound of Shadow is what you are. Come on. I
know where they all huddle to stay outa the rain.'
    Seerdomin adjusted the grip on his sword and then glanced
back at the Redeemer. The god's position was unchanged.
Kneeling, half bent over, face hidden behind his hands. A
position of abject submission. Defeat and despair. Hardly
an inspiring standard to stand in front of, hardly a thing
to fight for, and Seerdomin could feel the will draining
from him as he faced once more the woman dancing in
the basin.
    Convulsing clouds overhead, an endless rain of kelyk
that turned everything black. The drops stung and then
numbed his eyes. He had ceased to flinch from the crack of
lightning, the stuttering crash of thunder.
    He had fought for something unworthy once, and had
vowed never again . Yet here he was, standing between a
god of unimaginable power and a god not worth believing
in. One wanted to feed and the other looked ready to be
devoured – why should he get in the way of the two?
    A wretched gasp from the Redeemer snapped him
round. The rain painted Itkovian black, ran like dung-stained
water down the face he had lifted skyward. 'Dying,'
he murmured, so faint that Seerdomin had to step closer
to catch the word. 'But no end is desired. Dying, for all
eternity. Who seeks this fate? For himself? Who yearns for
such a thing? Can I . . . can I help him?'
    Seerdomin staggered back, as if struck by a blow to his
chest. That – Beru fend – that is not a proper question! Not
against this . . . this thing. Look to yourself, Redeemer! You
cannot heal what does not want healing! You cannot mend
what delights in being broken! 'You cannot,' he growled.
'You cannot help it, Redeemer. You can only fall to it. Fall,
vanish, be swallowed up.'
    'He wants me. She wants me. She gave him this want, do
you see? Now they share.'
    Seerdomin turned to gaze upon the High Priestess. She
was growing more arms, each bearing a weapon, each
weapon whirling and spinning in a clashing web of edged
iron. Kelyk sprayed from the blades, a whirling cloud of
droplets. Her dance was carrying her closer.
    The attack was beginning.
    'Who,' Seerdomin whispered, 'will share this with me ?'
    'Find her,' said the Redeemer. 'She remains, deep inside.
Drowning, but alive. Find her.'
    'Salind? She is nothing to me!'
    'She is the fire in Spinnock Durav's heart. She is his life.
Fight not for me. Fight not for yourself. Fight, Seerdomin,
for your friend.'
    A sob was wrenched from the warrior. His soul found a
voice, and that voice wailed its anguish. Gasping, he lifted
his sword and set his eyes upon the woman cavorting in her
dance of carnage. Can I do this? Spinnock Durav, you fool,
how could you have fallen so?
    Can I find her?
    I don't know. I don't think so.
    But his friend had found love. Absurd, ridiculous love.
His friend, wherever he was, deserved a chance. For the
only gift that meant a