A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

purchased. But – 'Wasted. All wasted! Why? This has
achieved nothing ! Hood – you were betrayed. Can you not
see that? No—' Draconus clutched at his head. 'Rake, oh
Rake, what did you want of this? How could you think it
would achieve anything?'
    'I have missed you, Draconus,' Hood said.
    And he twisted round once more, glaring at the god.
Jaghut. Yes, the mad, unknowable Jaghut. 'You damned fool!
You asked for this, didn't you? Have you lost your mind?'
    'A bargain, old friend,' Hood replied, still studying the
chains on his wrists. 'A . . . gamble.'
    'What will happen? When chaos claims you? When
chaos devours the realm of death itself? You have betrayed
the gods, all of them. You have betrayed all life. When you
fall—'
    'Draconus,' Hood cut in with a sigh, reaching up now to
pull back the hood, revealing that withered Jaghut face,
the clawed lines of eternal sorrow. 'Draconus, my friend,'
he said softly, 'surely you do not think I have come here
alone?'
    He stared at the god, for a moment uncomprehending.
And then – he caught a distant roar of sound, edging in
from three of the four horizons, and those indistinct skylines
were now . . . seething .
    As the armies of the dead marched at the behest of their
Lord.
    From one side, a score of riders was fast approaching.
    'Hood,' Draconus said, numbed, baffled, 'they are unchained.'
    'So they are.'
    'This is not their fight.'
    'Perhaps. That is, as yet, undecided.'
    Draconus shook his head. 'They cannot be here. They
cannot fight the enemy – those dead, Hood, all they have
left is their identities, each soul, barely holding on. You
cannot do this to them! You cannot ask this of them!'
    The god was now eyeing the wagon. 'All I shall ask,' he
said, 'of the fallen, Draconus, is that they choose. Of their
own will. After this, I shall ask nothing of them. Ever
again.'
    'So who will claim the dead?'
    'Let the gods see to their own.'
    The coldness of that response staggered Draconus. 'And
what of those who worship no gods?'
    'Yes, what of them?'
    'What's that supposed to mean?'
    'After this,' Hood said, still studying the wagon, 'the
dead will not be my concern. Ever again.'
    The approaching riders rode rotted, skeletal mounts.
Ragged capes flailed out behind the warriors. From the
advancing armies, countless standards wavered and
pitched about amidst up-thrust spearheads. The numbers
were indeed unimaginable. Broken fragments of war songs
arrived like tatters of wind. The realm groaned – Draconus
could not comprehend the weight that must now be
crushing down the weapon's wielder. Could Draconus have
withstood it? He did not know. But then, perhaps even at
this moment Anomander Rake himself was dying, bones
snapping, blood spurting . . .
    But there was more. Here, before his eyes.
    All the creatures chained to the wagon had ceased pulling
the enormous edifice – for the first time in millennia,
the wagon had stopped rolling . And those creatures stood
or knelt, staring outward, silent, perhaps disbelieving, as
legions of the dead closed in. A flood, an ocean of iron
and bone—
    The riders arrived. Strangers all to Draconus. Six trotted
their withered mounts closer. One of them was masked, and
he had seen those masks before – a host slain in succession
by Anomander Rake. Seguleh. The marks upon this one
told Draconus that he was looking upon the Second. Had
he challenged the First? Or had someone challenged him?
    The Second was the first to speak. 'This is the sorry shithole
you want us to fight for, Hood? Flinging ourselves into
the maw of chaos.' The masked face seemed to scan the
huddled, bedraggled creatures in their chains. 'What are
these, that we must now die again for? That we must cease
for? Miserable wretches, one and all! Useless fools, bah!
Hood, you ask too much.'
    The Lord of Death did not even face the Seguleh as he
replied, 'Do you now change your mind, Knight?'
    'No,' he said. 'I was just complaining.' He drew out a pair
of notched, rust-stained swords. 'You know me better than
that. Still, oh, how I wanted Skinner. To lose him this way
– by the Tyrant, it galls.'
    'That is why,' said Hood, 'you will not lead the Dead into
this war.'
    'What? I am the Knight of Death! The damned bony fist
himself! I demand—'
    'Oh, do be quiet, Second,' sighed the Lord of Death.
'Other tasks await you – and you will not rue them, I am
sure. Iskar Jarak, will you command in the Knight's stead?
At the head of the spear, driving into the very heart of