A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

betray the
Son of Darkness, not in this, not even now – though he has
left us, though he has returned to his Mother's realm.'
    'You chastise me, Iskar Jarak?'
    'I do.'
    The Jaghut snorted. 'Accepted,' he said.
    Barathol sat on the cobbles, feeling as if every bone in
his body was fractured, as if every muscle was bruised. He
wanted to throw up, but struggled against the impulse,
lest the convulsions kill him. He glanced yet again at that
sprawled corpse with the sword embedded in its face and
skull. He could see the broad, deep puncture wounds on
one thigh, where the Hound had picked it up. No blood
leaked from them.
    Antsy came over and crouched down. 'Look at what we
run into here. There's beast blood everywhere, and you,
y'damned idiot, you stood down one of them monsters
– with a damned axe!'
    'Help me up, will you?'
    Antsy stared, then sighed. 'We'd need the ox for that
– you're big as a bhederin. Fine, I'll squat here and you try
using me like I was a ladder, but don't blame me if my knees
buckle.'
    Another carriage had drawn up a short time earlier,
and before it stood the High Alchemist Baruk – the one
who'd turned them away – and beside him a warrior with
Barghast blood, an enormous hammer strapped to his back.
This one walked up to stare down at the dead Tiste Andii.
    Barathol pulled himself upright, Antsy grunting under
his weight, and then straightened with a soft word of
thanks. He glanced over to study the others still remaining.
The Toblakai warrior and the woman who seemed to be
his companion. The two other Toblakai, young women
– possibly even children – who might have been sisters, and
a large dog bearing more scars than seemed possible. Great
Ravens still lined the roof edges, or huddled like black,
demonic gnomes on the street itself, silent as wraiths.
    The dawn's golden sunlight streamed through the smoke
hanging over the city, and he could hear nothing of the
normal wakening bustle that should have already begun
filling Darujhistan's streets.
    Beyond this immediate gathering, others were appearing.
Citizens, guards, blank-faced and empty of words,
numb as refugees, none drawing too close but seemingly
unwilling to leave.
    The High Alchemist was standing a respectful distance
away from the Barghast and the dead Tiste Andii, watching
with sorrow-filled eyes. He then spoke, 'Caladan Brood,
what he sought must—'
    'Wait,' rumbled the Barghast. 'It must wait.' He bent
down then, reached out and grasped hold of the blackbladed
sword. And, with little ceremony, he worked the
weapon loose, and then straightened once more.
    It seemed everyone present held their breath.
    Caladan Brood stared down at the weapon in his hands.
Then, Barathol saw, the warrior's mouth twisted into a
faint snarl, filed teeth gleaming. And he turned round and
walked to the carriage, where he opened the side door and
tossed the sword inside. It clanged, thumped. The door
clicked shut.
    The Barghast glared about, and then pointed. 'That ox
and cart.'
    'Caladan—'
    'I will have my way here, Baruk.' His bestial eyes found
Barathol. 'You, help me with him.'
    Barathol bit back every groan as he took hold of the
Tiste Andii's feet, watching as Brood forced his hands
beneath the corpse's shoulders, down under the arms.
Together, they lifted the body.
    Antsy had brought the cart close and he now stood beside
the ox, his expression miserable.
    They laid the body of Anomander Rake on the slatted
bed with its old blood stains. Brood leaned over it for a long
moment. And then he drew himself upright once more and
faced the High Alchemist. 'I shall build him a barrow. West
of the city.'
    'Caladan, please, that can wait. We have to—'
    'No.' He moved to where Antsy stood and with one hand
pushed the Falari away from the ox, grasping hold of the
yoke. 'I will do this. None other need be burdened with this
journey. It shall be Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake,
together one last time.'
    And so the ox began its fateful walk. A warrior at its
side, the corpse of another in the cart.
    The procession was forced to halt but once, not ten
paces from where it started, as a short, round man in a
red waistcoat had positioned himself directly in its path.
Caladan Brood looked up, frowned.
    The short, round man then, with surprising grace,
bowed, before backing to one side.
    Brood said nothing, simply tugging the ox into motion
once again.
    It was said that he had saved Darujhistan. Once, years ago,
and now again. The Lord of Moon's Spawn,