A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

the
enemy?'
    The one so addressed had the look of a veteran among
veterans. Grey-bearded, scarred, wearing threadbare, faded
colours over his plain chain hauberk. Grey and magenta,
bordered in black. At Hood's request he faced the Jaghut.
'We will harden the point,' he said. 'With Malazans. At the
very tip, my Bridgeburners. Dujek on my left flank, Bult
on the right with the Seventh and his Wickans.' He then
twisted in the saddle to regard another soldier. 'Brukhalian
and his Grey Swords to the right of Bult.'
    Brukhalian nodded. 'I find honour in that, Iskar Jarak.'
    'Skamar Ara, your Jacuruku legions to the left of Dujek.
Hood, listen well. Beyond the spear, so many of the rest
are so much dross. Their will is weakened by countless
millennia – they will march into the face of the enemy, but
they will not last.'
    'Yes,' said Hood.
    'Just so you know,' said Iskar Jarak. 'Just so you know.'
    'Return now to your forces,' Hood commanded. 'Iskar
Jarak, send to me the one-eyed outrider. And Bult, find
my Soldier, the one once named Baudin. There are things
still to do.'
    Draconus watched as the commanders rode off, with
only the Seguleh remaining, swords sheathed once more.
    'Hood,' he said, 'what is happening here? You will ask the
dead to fight for us? They will fail. They will earn oblivion
and naught else. They cannot succeed, Hood. The chaos
pursuing Dragnipur will not be denied – do you understand
what I'm telling you?'
    The Knight snorted. 'It is you who does not understand,
Elder. Long before he was Lord of the Fallen, he was Jaghut .
    Lords of the Last Stands, hah! Sentinels of the Sundered
Keeps. Devourers of the Forlorn Hope. You, Elder, who
stood time and again against the Tiste Andii, the Tiste
Edur – you, who walked the ashes of Kharkanas itself
– understand me. The dour Tiste Andii and the suicidal
Edur, they are as nothing to the miserable madness of the
Jaghut!'
    During this tirade, Hood continued to stare at the wagon,
at its towering, tottering heap of bodies. And then the
Lord of the Dead spoke. 'I often wondered what it looked
like, this Hold creaking on its wooden wheels . . . a pathetic
thing, really. Crude, clumsy.' He faced Draconus, rotted
skin curling back from the tusks. 'Now, turn it around.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
    Ask what the dead face
Snatching the curtain aside
These stony tracks into blind worlds
Where to grope is to recall
All the precious jewels of life
    Ask what the dead see
In that last backward glance
These fetish strings knots left untied
Where every sinew strains
To reach and touch once more
    Ask what the dead know
When knowing means nothing
Arms full and heaped with baubles
As if to build a home anew
In places we've never been
    Ask but the dead do not answer
Behind the veil of salty rain
Skirl now amid the rotted leavings
When the worms fall away
To that wealth of silence
    The Lost Treasures of Indaros
Fisher kel Tath
    Eyes rolling white, the ox ran for its life. Cart skidding
and bouncing, tilting on one wild wheel as the
moaning beast hurtled round a corner and raced
down a cobbled street.
    Even the gods could not reach through that thick-boned
pate of skull, down into the tender knot of terror in its
murky brain. Once prodded awake, incessant need blurred
the world beyond, reducing all to a narrow tunnel with
salvation at the far, far end. Why, who could comprehend
such extremity? Not mortal kin, much less a god with its
eternally bemused brow – to regard such fitful interludes,
blank-eyed and mind rushing past like a flash flood, what
would be the value of that, after all?
    The beast is what it is. Four-legged, two-legged. Panic
will use as many limbs as are available to it, and a few more
besides. Panic will ride a wheeled cart, and thunder on
dung-smeared hoofs. Panic will scrabble up the very walls
as one horrendous Hound after another slinks past.
    The night air stinks and that stink fills the nostrils with
all the frenzied flags of a ship floundering on shoals. Smoke
and blood, bile and piss. But, mostly, blood.
    And then there were the screams. Ringing out everywhere,
so many of them cutting off in mid-shriek, or, even
more chilling, in strangled gurgle. Mothers never before
heard such a multitude of beseeching calls! And who
could say if the ox was not bellowing for its own, for that
sweet teat, the massive hulk looming overhead, with all its
sure scents and briny warmth? Alas, the beast's mam was
long since sent off to pull the great cart beyond the