A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

briefly on
Dassem's sword, and it seemed a sad smile showed itself, in
the instant before Dassem attacked.
    To all who witnessed – the cultists, Samar Dev, Karsa
Orlong, even unto the five Hounds of Shadow and the
Great Ravens hunched on every ledge – that first clash of
weapons was too fast to register. Sparks slanted, the night
air rang with savage parries, counter-blows, the biting
crunch of edges against cross-hilts. Even their bodies were
but a blur.
    And then both warriors staggered back, opening up the
distance between them once more.
    'Faces in the Rock,' hissed Karsa Orlong.
    'Karsa—'
    'No. Only a fool would step between these two.'
    And the Toblakai sounded . . . shaken.
    Dassem launched himself forward again. There were no
war cries, no bellowed curses, not even the grunts bursting
free as ferocious swings hammered forged iron. But
the swords had begun singing, a dreadful, mournful pair
of voices rising in eerie syncopation. Thrusts, slashes, lowedged
ripostes, the whistle of a blade cutting through air
where a head had been an instant earlier, bodies writhing
to evade counter-strokes, and sparks rained, poured, from
the two combatants, bounced like shattered stars across
the cobbles.
    They did not break apart this time. The frenzied flurry
did not abate, but went on, impossibly on. Two forces, neither
yielding, neither prepared to draw a single step back.
    And yet, for all the blinding speed, the glowing shower
spraying out like the blood of iron, Samar Dev saw the
death blow. She saw it clear. She saw its undeniable truth
– and somehow, somehow , it was all wrong.
    Rake wide-legged, angling the pommel high before his
face with Dragnipur's point downward – as if to echo his
opening stance – and higher still, and Dassem, his free
hand joining the other upon his sword's grip, throwing his
entire weight into a crossways slash – the warrior bodily
lifting as if about to take to the air and close upon Rake
with an embrace. And his swing met the edge of Dragnipur
at a full right angle – a single moment shaping a perfect
cruciform fashioned by the two weapons' colliding, and
then the power of Dassem's blow slammed Dragnipur
back—
    Driving its inside edge into Anomander Rake's forehead,
and then down through his face.
    His gauntleted hands sprang away from the handle, yet
Dragnipur remained jammed, seeming to erupt from his
head, as he toppled backward, blood streaming down to
flare from the tip as the Son of Darkness crashed down on
his back.
    Even this impact did not dislodge Dragnipur. The sword
shivered, and now there was but one song, querulous and
fading in the sudden stillness.
    Blood boiled, turned black. The body lying on the
cobbles did not move. Anomander Rake was dead.
    Dassem Ultor slowly lowered his weapon, his chest heaving.
    And then he cried out, in a voice so filled with anguish
that it seemed to tear a jagged hole in the night air.
This unhuman scream was joined by a chorus of shrieks
as the Great Ravens exploded into flight, lifting like
a massive feathered veil that whirled above the street,
and then began a spinning descent. Cultists flinched
away and crouched against building walls, their wordless
chant drowned beneath the caterwauling cacophony
of this black, glistening shroud that swept down like a
curtain.
    Dassem staggered back, and then pitched drunkenly to
one side, his sword dragging in his wake, point skirling a
snake track across the cobbles. He was brought up short by
a pitted wall, and he sagged against it, burying his face in
the shelter of a crooked arm that seemed to be all that held
him upright.
    Broken. Broken. They are broken.
    Oh, gods forgive them, they are broken.
    Karsa Orlong shocked her then, as he twisted to one
side and pointedly spat on to the street. 'Cheated,' he said.
'Cheated!'
    She stared at him, aghast. She did not know what he
meant – but no, she did. Yes, she did. 'Karsa, what just happened?' Wrong. It was wrong. 'I saw – I saw—'
    'You saw true,' he said, baring his teeth, his gaze fixed
upon that fallen body. 'As did Traveller, and see what it has
done to him.'
    The area surrounding the corpse of Anomander Rake
churned with Great Ravens – although not one drew close
enough to touch the cooling flesh – and now the five
Hounds of Shadow, not one spared of wounds, closed in to
push the birds aside, as if to form a protective circle around
Anomander Rake.
    No, not him. The sword . . .
    Unease stirred awake in Samar Dev. 'This is not