A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

not
dragons; they were lesser kin – but they knew the power
of mockery, of disdain. For the Enkarala, chaos itself was a
contemptible thing. The dragons, many of whom had been
chained since the time of Draconus, were indifferent to the
Gate, to all the other squalid victims of this dread sword.
They did not fight on behalf of any noble cause. No, each
one fought alone, for itself, and they knew that survival
had nothing to do with nobility. No alliance was weighed,
no thought of fighting in concert brushed the incandescent
minds of these creatures. Nothing in their nature
was designed to accommodate aught but singular battle. A
strength and a curse, but in these fiery, deadly clouds, that
strength was failing, and the very nature of the dragons
was now destroying them.
    The battle raged. Annihilation was a deafening scream
that drove all else from the minds of the defenders. They
made their will into weapons, and with these weapons
they slashed through the misshapen, argent foe, only to
find yet more rising before them, howling, laughing, swords
thundering on shields.
    Toc had no idea where this damned horse had come from,
but clearly some breathtaking will fired its soul. In its life
it had not been bred for war, and yet it fought like a beast
twice its weight. Kicking, stamping, jaws snapping. A
Wickan breed – he was fairly certain of that – a creature
of appalling endurance, it carried him into the fray again
and again, and he had begun to suspect that he would fail
before the horse did.
    Humbling – no, infuriating.
    He struggled to control it as he sought to lunge once
more into that wall of chaotic rage. Getting to be a miserable
habit, all this dying and dying again. Of course, this
would be the final time, and a better man than he would
find some consolation in that. A better man, aye.
    Instead, he railed. He spat into the eye of injustice,
and he fought on, even as his one eyeless socket itched
damnably, until it seemed to be sizzling as if eating its way
into his brain.
    He lost his grip on the reins, and almost pitched from the
saddle as the horse galloped away from the front line of the
Bridgeburners. He loosed a stream of curses – he wanted
to die at their sides, he needed to – no, he was not one
of them, he could not match their power, their ascendant
ferocity – he had seen Trotts there, and Detoran. And so
many others, and there was Iskar Jarak himself, although
why Whiskeyjack had come to prefer some Seven Cities
name – in place of his real one – made no sense to Toc. Not
that he was of any stature to actually ask the man – gods,
even had he been, he couldn't have got close, so tightly
were the Bridgeburners arrayed around the soldier.
    And now the stupid horse was taking him farther and
farther away.
    He saw, ahead, the Lord of Death. Standing motionless,
as if contemplating guests at a damned picnic. The
horse carried Toc straight for the hoary bastard, who slowly
turned at the very last moment, as the horse skidded to a
halt in a spray of ashes and mud.
    Hood glanced down at the spatter on its frayed robes.
    'Don't look at me!' Toc snarled as he collected up the
reins once more. 'I was trying to get the beast going the
other way!'
    'You are my Herald, Toc the Younger, and I have need
of you.'
    'To do what, announce your impending nuptials? Where
is the skeletal hag, anyway?'
    'You have a message to deliver—'
    'Deliver where? How? In case you haven't noticed, we're
in a little trouble here, Hood. Gods, my eye – agh, I mean,
the missing one – it's driving me mad!'
    'Yes, your missing eye. About that—'
    At that instant, Toc's horse reared in sudden terror, as a
churning cloud lunged down like an enormous fist, engulfing
a dying dragon directly overhead.
    Swearing, his voice rising in fear, Toc fought to regain
control of the beast as cloud and dragon tumbled to one
side – the dragon pulled down to the thrashing legions,
which closed in and swarmed it. In moments the dragon
was gone.
    The horse skittered and then settled—
    Only to bolt once more, as in a burst of cold, bitter air,
something else arrived.
    What good could ever come of acceding to the suggestions
of a corpse? This was the sort of question Glanno Tarp was
good at asking, only he'd forgotten this time and it was
funny how blind gibbering terror could do that. Warrens
and warrens and portals and Gates and places nobody in
their right minds might want to visit no matter how special
the scenery – and no,