A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

cruelly taken away on
this sour night.
    And he had lost a friend.
    It availed him nothing that he understood, that he accepted
that so many other choices were made, and that he
had his own role still to play out in this tragic end.
    No, he simply felt broken inside.
    Everything seemed thin, fragile. All that he felt in his
heart, all that he saw with his eyes. So very fragile.
    Yes, the moon died, but a rebirth was coming.
    Could he hold to that?
    He would try.
    For now, however, all he could manage were these tears.
    Baruk turned to his carriage, stepped inside. The door
was shut behind him as he settled on the cushioned bench.
He looked across to his guest, but could say nothing. Not
to this one, who had lost so much more than he had. So
much more.
    The gates were opened and the carriage set out, its
corner lanterns swinging.
    Cutter dismounted, leaving the horse to wander where it
would. He walked forward, indifferent to the presence of
the Hounds – they seemed intent on something else in
any case – and indifferent as well to the Great Ravens as
they drove onlookers away with beaks eager to stab and
slash. His eyes were on the body lying on the cobbles.
    He walked past a woman who stood beside a towering
warrior who was drawing loose a two-handed flint sword
as he stared at something in the direction from whence
Cutter had just come.
    None of these details could drag Cutter's attention from
the body, and that gleaming black sword so brutally driven
into the head and face. He walked until he stood over it.
    The woman moved up beside him. 'That weapon in your
hands – it's not—'
    'We are in trouble,' Cutter said.
    'What?'
    He could not believe what he was seeing. Could not
accept that the Lord of Moon's Spawn was lying here, one
eye closed, the other open and staring sightlessly. Killed by
his own sword. Killed . . . taken. By Dragnipur. 'How did
this happen? Who could have . . .'
    'Dassem Ultor.'
    He finally looked at her. She was Seven Cities, that
much he could see at once. Older than Cutter by a decade,
maybe more. 'The name's familiar, but . . .' He shrugged.
    She pointed to one side and Cutter turned.
    A man was crouched, slumped against a wall, a sword
propped up beside him. He had buried his face in his arms.
Cutter's eyes went back to that sword. I've seen that thing
before . . . but where? When?
    'He was known to us,' said the woman, 'as Traveller.'
    Memories rushed through Cutter, leaving in their wake
something cold, lifeless. 'It's not the same,' he whispered.
'Vengeance. Or grief. Your choice.' He drew an uneven
breath. 'That sword – it was forged by Anomander Rake.
It was his weapon. Before Dragnipur. He left it with his
brother, Andarist. And then I . . . I . . . Beru fend . . .'
    The giant warrior now twisted round. 'If you would protect
that body,' he said in a growl, 'then ready that spear.'
    The two women had halted a street away, their path
blocked by a half-circle of Hounds, with less than twenty
paces separating the parties.
    Seeing those women, Cutter frowned. 'Spite,' he muttered.
'Did you guess? Or was it just some damned itch?'
    'Samar Dev,' snapped the giant. 'Witch! Get Traveller on
his feet! I will need him!'
    'Damn you!' screamed the woman beside Cutter. 'What
is it?'
    But there was no need for an answer. For she saw now,
as did Cutter.
    More Hounds, these ones pale as ghosts, a pack twice
the number of the Hounds of Shadow. Loping up the street
from Lakefront, moments from a charge.
    'It's the sword,' said the woman named Samar Dev.
'They've come for the sword.'
    Cutter felt his limbs turn to ice, even as the lance in his
hands flared with heat.
    'Give me room,' said the giant, lumbering forward into
a clear space.
    Against ten Hounds? Are you mad?
    Cutter moved out to the left of the warrior. The witch
rushed over to Traveller.
    The lance trembled. It was getting too hot to hold, but
what else did he have? Some damned daggers – against
these things? Gods, what am I even doing here?
    But he would stand. He would die here, beside a giant
– who was just as doomed. And for what? There is nothing
. . . there is nothing in my life. To explain any of this. He
glared at the white Hounds. It's just a sword. What will
you even do with it? Chew the handle? Piss on the blade? He
looked across at the huge warrior beside him. 'What's your
name at least?'
    The giant glanced at him. 'Yes,' he said with a sharp nod.
'I am Karsa Orlong of the Teblor. Toblakai. And you?'
    'Crokus. Crokus