A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

first droplets of blood
welling from them. Was that a good sign?
    'Fire is life,' she intoned. 'Stone is flesh. Water is breath.
Fire is life. Stone is water is flesh is breath is life. Pluck a
flower from a field and it will not thrive. Take and beauty
dies, and that which one possesses becomes worthless. I am
a thief. I take but do not keep. All I gain I cast away. I take
your wealth only because you value it.
    'I am Apsal'ara, Mistress of Thieves. Only you need fear
me, you who lust to own.'
    She watched her fingers slowly straighten, watched
flakes of skin lift and then fall away.
    She would survive this. Her hands had touched Darkness,
and lived still.
    As if it mattered.
    Even here, beneath the wagon, the dread sounds of war
surrounded her. Chaos closed in on all sides. Souls died in
numbers beyond counting, and their cries revealed a loss
so far past comprehension that she refused to contemplate
it. The death of honourable souls. The immense sacrifice
wasted. No, none of this bore thinking about.
    Apsal'ara rolled on to her side, and then on to her knees
and elbows.
    She began crawling.
    And then gasped anew, as a familiar voice filled her head.
    'Mistress of Thieves. Take the eye. The eye of the god.
Apsal'ara, steal the eye . . .'
    Trembling – wondering – how? How could he reach so
into her mind? He could do so only if . . . only if—
    Apsal'ara gasped a third time.
    And so . . . once in pain, once in wonder, and once in
. . . in hope.
    She resumed crawling.
    Pluck your flower. I am coming for you.
    Oh yes, I am coming for you.
    With each soul consumed, the power of chaos grew.
Hunger surged with renewed strength, and the beleaguered
defenders fell back another step.
    But they were running out of steps.
    The indomitable legions surrounded the now stationary
wagon and its dwindling ring of souls. The countless dead
who had answered Hood's final summons were melting
away, most of them too ancient to call upon memories of
strength, to even remember that will alone held power. In
standing against the enemy, they had done little more than
marginally slow the advance of chaos, as all that remained
of them was ripped apart, devoured.
    Some, however, were made of sterner things. The Grey
Swords, delivered unto Hood by the loss of Fener, fought
with grim ferocity. Commanding them, Brukhalian was
like a deep-rooted standing stone, as if capable of willing
himself immovable, unconquerable. He had, after all,
done this before. The company fought and held for a time
– an impressive length of time – but now their flanks were
under assault, and there was nothing to do but retreat yet
closer to the enormous wagon with its heap of bodies.
    A score of Seguleh, all that remained of the Second's
forces, formed one impossibly thin link with the Grey
Swords. Each one had fallen to Anomander Rake, and
this knowledge alone was sufficient, for it burned like acid,
it stung like shame. They wore their masks, and as they
fought, the painted slashes, the sigils of rank, began to fade,
worn away by the fires of chaos, until upon each warrior
the mask gleamed pure. As if here, within the world of
this sword, some power could yield to greater truths. Here ,
Dragnipur seemed to say, you are all equal.
    The Grey Swords' other flank closed up with another
knot of soldiers – the Bridgeburners, into which remnants
of other Malazan forces were falling, drawing upon the élite
company's ascendant power, and upon the commander
now known as Iskar Jarak.
    The Bridgeburners were arrayed in a half-circle that
slowly contracted under the brunt of the assault. Grey
Swords on one flank, and the last of the Chained on the
other, where a huge demon formed the point of a defiant
wedge that refused to buckle. Tears streamed down the
demon's face, for even as it fought, it grieved for those lost.
And such grief filled Pearl's heart unto bursting. Pearl did
not fight for itself, nor for the wagon, nor even the Gate
of Darkness, the Wandering Hold. The demon fought for
its comrades, as would a soldier pushed beyond breaking,
pushed until there was nowhere else to go.
    In the ash-swarmed sky above, chained dragons, Loqui
Wyval and Enkarala tore swaths through the tumbling,
descending storm clouds. Lightning lashed out to enwreath
them, slowly tearing them to pieces. Still they fought on.
The Enkarala would not relent for they were mindless in
their rage. The Loqui Wyval found strength in hearts
greater than their modest proportions – no, they were