A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

Younghand.' He hesitated, then said, 'I
was once a thief.'
    'Be one again,' said Karsa, teeth bared, 'and steal me a
Hound's life this night.'
    Shit. 'I'll try.'
    'That will do,' the Toblakai replied.
    Thirty paces away now. And the white Hounds fanned
out, filled the street in a wall of bleached hide, rippling
muscle and rows of fangs.
    A gust of charnel wind swept round Cutter; something
clattered, rang sharp on cobbles, and then a hand swept
down—
    The Hounds of Light charged.
    As, on the side street to the left, the daughters of
Draconus unleashed their warrens in a howling rush of
destruction that engulfed the five beasts before them.
    *
    Scything blade of notched iron, driving Spinnock Durav
back. Blood sprayed with each blow, links of ringed armour
pattered on the ground. So many tiny broken chains, there
was a trail of them, marking each step of the warrior's rocking,
reeling retreat. When his own sword caught Kallor's
frenzied blows, the reverberation ripped up Spinnock's
arm, seeming to mash his muscles into lifeless pulp.
    His blood was draining away from countless wounds.
His helm had been battered off, that single blow leaving
behind a fractured cheekbone and a deaf ear.
    Still he fought on; still he held Kallor before him.
    Kallor.
    There was no one behind the High King's eyes. The
berserk rage had devoured the ancient warrior. He seemed
tireless, an automaton. Spinnock Durav could find no
opening, no chance to counter-attack. It was all he could
do simply to evade each death blow, to minimize the impacts
of that jagged edge, to turn the remaining fragments
of his hauberk into the blade's inexorable path.
    Spreading bruises, cracked bones, gaping gouges from
which blood welled, soaking his wool gambon, he staggered
under the unceasing assault.
    It could not last.
    It had already lasted beyond all reason.
    Spinnock blocked yet another slash, but this time the
sound his sword made was strangely dull, and the grip
suddenly felt loose, the handle shorn from the tine – the
pommel was gone. With a sobbing gasp, he ducked beneath
a whistling blade and then pitched back—
    But Kallor pressed forward, giving him no distance, and
that two-handed sword lashed out yet again.
    Spinnock's parry jolted his arm and his weapon seemed
to blow apart in his hand, tined blade spinning into the air,
the fragments of the grip a handful of shards falling from
his numbed fingers.
    The back-slash caught him across his chest.
    He was thrown from his feet, landing hard on the slope
of the ditch, where he sagged back, blood streaming down
his front, and closed his eyes.
    Kallor's rasping breaths drew closer.
    Sweat dripped on to Spinnock's face, but still he did not
open his eyes. He had felt it. A distant death. Yes, he had
felt it, as he feared he might. So feared that he might. And,
of all the deeds he had managed here at these crossroads,
all that he had done up until this moment, not one could
match the cost of the smile that now emerged on split,
bleeding lips.
    And this alone stayed Kallor's sword from its closing
thrust. Stayed it . . . for a time.
    'What,' Kallor asked softly, 'was the point, Spinnock
Durav?'
    But the fallen warrior did not answer.
    'You could never win. You could never do anything but
die here. Tell me, damn you, what was the fucking point?'
    The question was a sob, the anguish so raw that
Spinnock was startled into opening his eyes, into looking
up at Kallor.
    Behind the silhouette with its halo of tangled, sweat-matted
hair, the heaving shoulders, he saw Great Ravens, a
score or more, flying up from the south.
    Closer and closer.
    With an effort, Spinnock focused on Kallor once more.
'You don't understand,' he said. 'Not yet, Kallor, but you
will. Someday, you will.'
    'He does not deserve you!'
    Spinnock frowned, blinked to clear his eyes. 'Oh,
Kallor . . .'
    The High King's face was ravaged with grief, and all that
raged in the ancient man's eyes – well, none of it belonged.
Not to the legend that was Kallor. Not to the nightmares
roiling round and round his very name. Not to the lifeless
sea of ashes in his wake. No, what Spinnock saw in Kallor's
eyes were things that, he suspected, no one would ever see
again.
    It was, of sorts, a gift.
    'Kallor,' he said, 'listen to me. Take this as you will, or
not at all. I – I am sorry. That you are driven to this. And
. . . and may you one day show your true self. May you, one
day, be redeemed in the eyes of the world.'
    Kallor cried out, as if struck,