A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

heard. Kind priest, Kruppe
assures you, you did not hear but mishear. Kind priest?
Why, Kruppe is too generous, too forgiving by far, and
hear hear! Or is it here here? No matter, it's not as if
this grinning toad will understand. Why, his mule's got
a sharper look in its eye than he has. Now, kindly priest,
it's late and you should be in bed, yes? Abjectly alone, no
doubt. Hmm?'
    Iskaral Pust stared. He gaped. His eyes darted, alighting
on the bhokaral squatting on the cobbles beside him as it
made staring, gaping, darting expressions. 'My worshippers!
Of course! You! Yes, you! Gather your kin and attack the
fat fool! Attack! Your god commands you! Attack!'
    'Mlawhlaoblossblayowblagmilebbingoblaiblblafblablallblayarblablabnablahblallblah!'
'What?'
    'Bla?'
    'Bla?'
    'Yarb?'
    'Bah! You're stupid and useless and ugly!'
    'Blabluablablablahllalalabala, too!'
    Iskaral Pust scowled at it.
    The bhokaral scowled back.
    'Rat poison!' Pust hissed. And then smiled.
    The bhokaral offered him a dung sausage. And then
smiled.
    *
    Oh, so much for reasoned negotiation.
    Iskaral Pust's warbling battle cry was somewhat strangled
as he leaned forward, perched high in the stirrups, hands
reaching like a raptor's talons, and the mule reluctantly
stumped forward.
    Kruppe watched this agonizingly slow charge. He sighed.
'Really now. It comes to this? So be it.' And he kicked his
war-mule into motion.
    The beasts closed, step by step. By step.
    Iskaral Pust clawed the air, weaving and pitching, head
bobbing. Overhead, the bhokarala screamed and flew in
frenzied circles. The High Priest's mule flicked its tail.
    Kruppe's war-mule edged to the right. Pust's beast angled
to its right. Their heads came alongside, and then their
shoulders. Whereupon they halted.
    Snarling and spitting, Iskaral Pust launched himself at
Kruppe, who grunted a surprised oof! Fists flew, thumbs
jabbed, jaws snapped – the High Priest's crazed attack
– and the Eel threw up his forearms to fend it off, only to
inadvertently punch Pust in the nose with one pudgy hand.
Head rocked back, a stunned gasp. Attack renewed.
    They grappled. They toppled, thumping on to the
cobbles in a flurry of limbs.
    The bhokarala joined in, diving from above with
screeches and snarls, swarming the two combatants before
beginning to fight with each other. Fists flying, thumbs
jabbing, jaws snapping. Spiders swept in from all sides, tiny
fangs nipping everything in sight.
    The entire mass writhed and seethed.
    The two mules walked a short distance away, then
turned in unison to watch the proceedings.
    Best leave this egregious scene for now.
    Honest.
    When the two women appeared some distance down a side
avenue, dressed in diaphanous robes, and approached side
by side with elegant grace – like noble-born sisters out for
a late night stroll – the Great Ravens scattered, shrieking,
and the Hounds of Shadow drew up, hackles rising and lips
stretching back to reveal glistening fangs.
    Even at this distance, Samar Dev could feel the power
emanating from them. She stepped back, her chest tightening.
'Who in Hood's name are they?'
    When Karsa did not reply she glanced over to see that he
was watching a lone horseman coming up from the lakefront.
This rider held a lance and the moment her eyes alit
upon that weapon she drew a sharp, ragged breath. Gods,
now what?
    The horse's hoofs echoed like a cracked temple bell.
    Ignoring the rider, the Hounds of Shadow set out in the
direction of the two women. The five enormous beasts
moved warily, heads held low.
    At this moment, High Alchemist Baruk stood beside his
carriage in the estate compound. It might have seemed to
the servants and guards watching that he was studying the
crazed night sky, but none of these worthies was positioned
to see anything of his face.
    The man was weeping.
    He did not see the shattered moon. Nor the wreaths
of low smoke drifting past. In truth, he saw nothing that
anyone else could possibly see, for his vision was turned
inward, upon memories of friendship, upon burdens since
accepted, and, through it all, there was a rising flood of something – he could not be certain, but he believed it was
humility.
    In the course of a life, sacrifices are made, dire legacies
accepted. Burdens are borne upon a humble back, or they
ride the shoulders of bitter martyrs. These are the choices
available to the spirit. There was no doubt, none at all, as
to which one had been chosen by the Son of Darkness.
    A great man was dead. So much