A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

who on this
night brought darkness down, darkness and cold, down
upon the raging fires. Who somehow crushed the life
from a growing conflagration of destruction. Saving the
lives of everyone. It was said he single-handedly banished
the demon Hounds. It was said, upon the instant of his
death, the heart of the moon broke. And proof of that still
lingered in the sky.
    Who killed him? No one was sure. Rumours of Vorcan's
return fuelled speculation of some vicious betrayal. A
Malazan contract. A god's blind rage. But clearly it was
fated, that death, for did not the worshippers of Dessembrae
emerge from their temple last night? Was that not a time
for the Lord of Tragedy? Oh, but it was, yes, it surely was.
    And so, unbidden, people came out on to the streets.
They lined the route taken by Caladan Brood to await his
passing, the warrior, the ox, the cart. And when he did,
he was watched in silence; and when the procession had
passed, the people fell into his wake, becoming a river of
humanity.
    On this morning, Darujhistan was like no other city.
No hawkers called out their wares. Market stalls remained
shut. No fisher boats slipped their moorings and set out
on the mirror waters of the lake. Looms stayed motionless,
spindles unspun. And, from every temple, bells began their
toll. Discordant, sonorous, building like a broken echo, as
if the city itself had found a voice, and that voice, so filled
with the chaos of grief, would now speak for every citizen,
for the priests and priestesses, for the very gods in their
temples.
    Amidst the clanging bells, Great Ravens rose into the
smoky sky, wheeling above rooftops, forming a caterwauling,
grisly escort. At first there were but hundreds, and
then there were thousands. Swirling in a mass, as if drawn
to deliver darkness to Darujhistan, as if to shroud the body
below.
    And, just beyond Worrytown, ascending the first of the
Gadrobi Hills, a lone swordsman paused and half turned a
ravaged face to the fretful music of those bells, those birds,
and whatever might have been there, in his eyes, well,
there was no one to witness it.
    And so he set his back to Darujhistan and resumed
his journey. That he had nowhere to go, at least for
the moment, was without relevance. Solitude finds its
own path, for the one who will not share burdens. And
loneliness is no fit companion for the eternally lost, but it
is the only one they know.
    At this moment, another lone figure, clad in chain, sat
in a tavern in Worrytown. The notion of witnessing the
procession in the city was proving too . . . unpalatable.
Kallor despised funerals. Celebrations of failure.
Wallowing in pathos. Every living soul standing there
forced to stare into mortality's grinning face – no, that
was not for Kallor.
    He preferred kicking that piss-grinning, shit-reeking
bastard face, right between the fucking eyes.
    The tavern was empty, since it seemed no one else
shared his sentiments, and that was fine with him. It had
always been fine with him.
    Or so he told himself, as he stared down into his stolen
tankard of bad ale, and listened to those infernal bells and
those oversized vultures. And that chorus was hauntingly
familiar. Death, ruin, grief. 'Hear that?' he said to his
tankard, 'they're playing our song.'
    Blend walked into K'rul's Bar and found it empty, save for
the hunched figure of the historian, who sat at his chosen
table, staring at the stained, pitted wood. She walked over
and looked down at him. 'Who died?'
    Duiker did not look up. 'Not who , Blend. More like what. What died? More, I think, than we'll ever know.'
    She hesitated. 'Have you checked on Picker?'
    'She walked out of here a quarter-bell ago.'
    'What?'
    'Said she'd be back.'
    'That's it? That's all she said?'
    'Something else. Something about "them damned
torcs".' He finally glanced up, his eyes bleak as ever. 'Sit
down, Blend. Please. I don't like being alone, not right now.
She'll be back.'
    At that moment a bell began ringing overhead and both
Malazans ducked at the deafening clangour.
    'Gods below!' swore Blend. 'Who's up in the belfry?'
    Duiker was frowning. 'The only other person here is
Scillara. I suppose . . .' and then he fell silent, and the
wasted misery in his eyes deepened.
    Blend sat down. 'She'd better get tired soon, or I'll have
to go up there.'
    They sat, weathering the clanging. Blend studied Duiker,
wondering at his ever-deepening despondency. And then a
realization struck her. 'I thought we unshipped that bell.'
    'We did,