A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

his mule, scrabbled aboard, and fled
for his life.
    The mule walked, seemingly unmindful of the rider
thrashing and kicking about on its back, and at a leisurely
saunter, Mogora kept pace.
    The bhokarala, which had been cooing and grooming
in a reconciliatory love fest, now flapped up into the air,
circling over their god's head like gnats round the sweetest
heap of dung ever beheld.
    Approaching thunder startled Picker from her reverie
within the strange cave, and she stared upon the carved
rock wall, eyes widening to see the image of the carriage
blurring as if in motion.
    If the monstrosity was indeed pounding straight for her,
moments from exploding into the cavern, then she would
be trampled, for there was nowhere to go in the hope of
evading those rearing horses and the pitching carriage
behind them.
    An absurd way for her soul to die—
    The apparition arrived in a storm of infernal wind,
yet it emerged from the wall ghostly, almost transparent,
and she felt the beasts and the conveyance tear through
her – a momentary glimpse of a manic driver, eyes wide
and staring, both legs jutting out straight and splayed and
apparently splinted. And still others, on the carriage roof
and tossing about on the ends of straps from the sides,
expressions stunned and jolted. All of this, sweeping
through her, and past—
    And a rider lunged into view directly before her, sawing
the reins – and this man and his mount were real, solid.
Sparks spat out from skidding hoofs, the horse's eyeless
head lifting. Picker staggered back in alarm.
    Damned corpses! She stared up at the rider, and then
swore. 'I know you!'
    The one-eyed man, enwreathed in the stench of death,
settled his horse and looked down upon her. And then he
said, 'I am Hood's Herald now, Corporal Picker.'
    'Oh. Is that a promotion?'
    'No, a damned sentence, and you're not the only one I
need to visit, so enough of the sardonic shit and listen to
me—'
    She bridled. 'Why? What am I doing here? What's Hood
want with me that he ain't already got? Hey, take a message
back to him! I want to—'
    'I cannot, Picker. Hood is dead.'
    'He's what ?'
    'The Lord of Death no longer exists. Gone. For
ever more. Listen, I ride to the gods of war. Do you
understand, torc-bearer? I ride to all the gods of war.'
    Torc-bearer? She sagged. 'Ah, shit.'
    Toc the Younger spoke then, and told her all she needed
to know.
    When he was done, she stared, the blood drained from
her face, and watched as he gathered the reins once more
and prepared to leave.
    'Wait!' she demanded. 'I need to get out of here! How do
I do that, Toc?'
    The dead eye fixed upon her one last time. He pointed at
the gourds resting on the stone floor to either side of Picker.
'Drink. Live up to your name. Pick one, Picker.'
    'Are you mad? You just told me where that blood's come
from!'
    'Drink, and remember all that I have told you.'
    And then he was gone.
    Remember, yes, she would do that. 'Find the Toblakai.
Find the killer and remind him . . . remind him, do you understand
me? Then, torc-bearer, lead him to war.
    'Lead him to war . . .'
    There had been more, much more. None of it anything
she could hope to forget. 'All I wanted to do was retire.'
    Cursing under her breath, she walked over to the nearest
gourd, crouched down before it. Drink. It's blood, dammit!
    Drink.
    To stand in the heart of Dragnipur, to stand above the very
Gate of Darkness, this was, for Anomander Rake, a most
final act. Perhaps it was desperation. Or a sacrifice beyond
all mortal measure.
    A weapon named Vengeance, or a weapon named Grief
– either way, where he had been delivered by that sword
was a world of his own making. And all the choices that
might have been were as dust on the bleak trail of his life.
    He was the Son of Darkness. His people were lost. There
was, for him, room to grieve, here at the end of things, and
he could finally turn away, as his mother had done so long
ago. Turn away from his children. As every father must one
day do, in that final moment that was death. The notion of
forgiveness did not even occur to him, as he stood on the
mound of moaning, tattooed bodies.
    He was, after all, not the begging sort.
    The one exception was Draconus. Ah, but those circumstances
were unique, the crime so faceted, so intricately
complicated, that it did no good to seek to prise loose
any single detail. In any case, the forgiveness he asked
for did not demand an answer. All that mattered was that
Draconus be given those words. He