I see you recoil, and know it for your final gesture. One that is atonement. To this, I cannot but answer in kind, Rath'Fener. Thus. I assume your pain, sir. No, do not fight this gift. I free your soul to Hood, to death's solace—
Paran and the others saw naught but the Shield Anvil standing motionless, Rath'Fener in his arms. The rendered, blood-streaked priest continued to struggle for a moment longer, then he seemed to collapse inward, his screams falling into silence.
The man's life unfolded in Itkovian's mind. Before him, the priest's path to betrayal. He saw a young acolyte, pure of heart, cruelly schooled not in piety and faith, but in the cynical lessons of secular power struggles. Rule and administration was a viper's nest, a ceaseless contest among small and petty minds with illusory rewards. A life within the cold halls of the Thrall that had hollowed out the priest's soul. The self filled the new cavern of lost faith, beset by fears and jealousies, to which malevolent acts were the only answer. The need for preservation made every virtue a commodity, to be traded away.
Itkovian understood him, could see each step taken that led, inevitably, to the betrayal, the trading of lives as agreed between the priest and the agents of the Pannion Domin. And within that, Rath'Fener's knowledge that he had in so doing wrapped a viper about himself whose kiss was deadly. He was dead either way, but he had gone too far from his faith, too far to ever imagine he might one day return to it.
I comprehend you, now, Rath'Fener, but comprehension is not synonymous with absolution. The justice that is your punishment does not waver. Thus, you were made to know pain.
Aye, Fener should have been awaiting you; our god should have accepted your severed hands, so that he might look upon you following your death, that he might voice the words prepared for you and you alone—the words on your skin. The final atonement to your crimes. This is as it should have been, sir.
But Fener is gone.
And what holds you now has… other desires.
I now deny it the possession of you—
Rath'Fener's soul shrieked, seeking to pull away once more. Carving words through the tumult: Itkovian! You must not! Leave me with this, I beg you. Not for your soul—I never meant—please,
Itkovian—
The Shield Anvil tightened his spiritual embrace, breaking the last barriers. No-one is to be denied their grief, sir, not even you.
But barriers, once lowered, could not choose what would pass through.
The storm that hit Itkovian overwhelmed him. Pain so intense as to become an abstract force, a living entity that was itself a thing filled with panic and terror. He opened himself to it, let its screams fill him.
On a field of battle, after the last heart has stilled, pain remains. Locked in soil, in stone, bridging the air from each place to every other, a web of memory, trembling to a silent song. But for Itkovian, his vow denied the gift of silence. He could hear that song. It filled him entire. And he was its counterpoint. Its answer.
I have you now, Rath'Fener. You are found, and so I… answer.
Suddenly, beyond the pain, a mutual awareness—an alien presence. Immense power. Not malign, yet profoundly… different. From that presence: storm-tossed confusion, anguish. Seeking to make of the unexpected gift of a mortal's two hands… something of beauty. Yet that man's flesh could not contain that gift.
Horror within the storm. Horror… and grief.
Ah, even gods weep. Commend yourself, then, to my spirit. I will have your pain as well, sir.
The alien presence recoiled, but it was too late. Itkovian's embrace offered its immeasurable gift—
—and was engulfed. He felt his soul dissolving, tearing apart—too vast!
There was, beneath the cold faces of gods, warmth. Yet it was sorrow in darkness, for it was not the gods themselves who were unfathomable. It was mortals. As for the gods—they simply paid.
We—we are the rack upon which they are stretched.
Then the sensation was gone, fleeing him as the alien god succeeded in extracting itself, leaving Itkovian with but fading echoes of a distant world's grief—a world with its own atrocities, layer upon layer through a long, tortured history. Fading… then gone.
Leaving him with heart-rending knowledge.
A small mercy. He was buckling beneath Rath'Fener's pain and the growing onslaught of Capustan's appalling death as his embrace was forced ever wider. The clamouring souls on all sides, not one life's history unworthy of notice, of acknowledgement. Not one he would turn away. Souls in the tens of thousands, lifetimes of pain, loss, love and sorrow, each leading to—each riding memories of its own agonized death. Iron and fire and smoke and falling stone. Dust and airlessness. Memories of piteous, pointless ends to thousands and thousands of lives.
I must atone. I must give answer. To every death. Every death.
He was lost within the storm, his embrace incapable of closing around the sheer immensity of anguish assailing him. Yet he struggled on. The gift of peace. The stripping away of pain's trauma, to free the souls to find their way… to the feet of countless gods, or Hood's own realm, or, indeed, to the Abyss itself. Necessary journeys, to free souls trapped in their own tortured deaths.
I am the… the Shield Anvil. This is for me… to hold… hold on. Reach gods! Redeem them, sir! It is your task. The heart of your vows—you are the walker among the dead in the field of battle, you are the bringer of peace, the redeemer of the fallen. You are the mender of broken lives. Without you, death is senseless, and the denial of meaning is the world's greatest crime to its own children. Hold, Itkovian… hold fast—
But he had no god against which to set his back, no solid, intractable presence awaiting him to answer his own need. And he was but one mortal soul…
Yet, I must not surrender. Gods, hear me! I may not be yours. But your fallen children, they are mine. Witness, then, what lies behind my cold face. Witness!
In the plaza, amidst a dreadful silence, Paran and the others watched as Itkovian slowly settled to his knees. A rotting, lifeless corpse was slumped in his arms. The lone, kneeling figure seemed—to the captain's eyes—to encompass the exhaustion of the world, an image that burned into his mind, and one that he knew would never leave him.
Of the struggles—the wars—still being waged within the Shield Anvil, little showed. After a long moment, Itkovian reached up with one hand and unstrapped his helm, lifting it clear to reveal the sweat-stained leather under-helm. The long, dripping hair plastered against his brow and neck shrouded his face as he knelt with head bowed, the corpse in his arms crumbling to pale ash. The Shield Anvil was motionless.
The uneven rise and fall of his frame slowed.
Stuttered.
Then ceased.
Captain Paran, his heart hammering loud in his chest, darted close, grasped Itkovian's shoulders and shook the man. 'No, damn you! This isn't what I've come here to see! Wake up, you bastard!'
—peace—I have you now? My gift—ah, this burden—
The Shield Anvil's head jerked back. Drew a sobbing breath.
Settling… such weight! Why? Gods—you all watched. You witnessed with your immortal eyes. Yet you did not step forward. You denied my cry for help. Why?
Crouching, the Malazan moved round to face Itkovian. 'Mallet!' he shouted over a shoulder.
As the healer ran forward, Itkovian, his eyes finding Paran, slowly raised a hand. Swallowing his dismay, he managed to find words. 'I know not how,' he rasped, 'but you have returned me…'
Paran's grin was forced. 'You are the Shield Anvil.'
'Aye,' Itkovian whispered. And Fener forgive me, what you have done is no mercy … 'I am the Shield Anvil.'
'I can feel it in the air,' Paran said, eyes searching Itkovian's. 'It's… it's been cleansed.'
Aye.
And I am not yet done.
Gruntle stood watching as the Malazan and his healer spoke with the Grey Sword commander. The fog of his thoughts—which had been closed around him for what he now realized was days—had begun to t
hin. Details now assailed him, and the evidence of the changes within himself left him alarmed.
His eyes saw… differently. Unhuman acuity. Motion—no matter how slight or peripheral—caught his attention, filled his awareness. Judged inconsequential or defined as threat, prey or unknown: instinctive decisions yet no longer buried deep, now lurking just beneath the surface of his mind.
He could feel his every muscle, every tendon and bone, could concentrate on each one to the exclusion of all the others, achieving a spatial sensitivity that made control absolute. He could walk a forest floor in absolute silence, if he so wished. He could freeze, shielding even the breath he drew, and become perfectly motionless.
But the changes he felt were far more profound than these physical manifestations. The violence residing within him was that of a killer. Cold and implacable, devoid of compassion or ambiguity.
And this realization terrified him.
The Tiger of Summer's Mortal Sword. Yes, Trake, I feel you. I know what you have made of me. Dammit, you could've at least asked.
He looked upon his followers, knowing them to be precisely that. Followers, his very own Sworn. An appalling truth. Among them, Stonny Menackis—no, she isn't Trake's. She's chosen Keruli's Elder God. Good. If she was ever to kneel before me we wouldn't be thinking religious thoughts… and how likely is that? Ah, lass…
Sensing his gaze, she looked at him.
Gruntle winked.
Her brows rose, and he understood her alarm, making him even more amused—his only answer to his terror at the brutal murderer hiding within him.
She hesitated, then approached. 'Gruntle?'
'Aye. I feel like I've just woken up.'
'Yeah, well, the hangover shows, believe me.'
'What's been going on?'
'You don't know?'
'I think I do, but I'm not entirely sure… of myself, of my own memories. We defended our tenement, and it was uglier than what's between Hood's toes. You were wounded. Dying. That Malazan soldier there healed you. And there's Itkovian—the priest in his arms has just turned to dust—gods, he must've needed a bath—'
'Beru fend us all, it really is you, Gruntle. I'd thought you were lost to m—to us for good.'
'I think a part of me is, lass. Lost to us all.'
'Since when were you the worshipping type?'
'That's the joke on Trake. I'm not. He's made a terrible choice. Show me an altar and I'm more likely to piss on it than kiss it.'
'You might have to kiss it, so I'd suggest you reverse the gestures.'
'Ha ha.' He shook himself, rolling his shoulders, and sighed. Stonny recoiled slightly at the motion. 'Uh, that was too cat-like for me—your muscles rippled under that barbed skin.'
'And it felt damned good. Rippled? You should be considering new . . . possibilities, lass.'
'Keep dreaming, oaf.'
The banter was brittle, and they both sensed it. Stonny was silent for a moment, then the breath hissed between her teeth. 'Buke. I guess he's gone—'
'No, he's alive. Circling overhead right now, in fact. That sparrow hawk—Keruli's gift to help the man keep an eye on Korbal Broach. He's Soletaken, now.'
Stonny was glaring skyward, hands on her hips. 'Well, that's just great!' She swung a venomous look upon Keruli—who was standing well off to one side, hands within sleeves, unnoticed, watching all in silence. 'Everybody gets blessed but me! Where's the justice in that?'
'Well, you're already blessed with incomparable beauty, Stonny—'
'Another word and I'll cut your tail off, I swear it.'
'I haven't got a tail.'
'Precisely.' She faced him. 'Now listen, we've got something to work out. Something tells me that for both of us, heading back to Darujhistan isn't likely—at least not for the next while, anyway. So, now what? Are we about to part ways, you miserable old man?'
'No rush on all that, lass. Let's see how things settle—'
'Excuse me.'
Both turned at the voice, to find that Rath'Trake had joined them.
Gruntle scowled at the masked priest. 'What?'
'I believe we have matters to discuss, you and I, Mortal Sword.'
'You believe what you like,' the Daru replied. 'I've already made it plain to the Whiskered One that I'm a bad choice—'
Rath'Trake seemed to choke. 'The Whiskered One?' he sputtered in indignation.
Stonny laughed, and clouted the priest on the shoulder. 'He's a reverent bastard, ain't he just?'
'I don't kneel to anyone,' Gruntle growled. 'And that includes gods. And if scrubbing would do it, I'd get these stripes off my hide right now.'
The priest rubbed his bruised shoulder, the eyes within the feline mask glaring at Stonny. At Gruntle's words he faced the Daru again. 'These are not matters open to debate, Mortal Sword. You are what you are—'
'I'm a caravan guard captain, and damned good at it. When I'm sober, that is.'
'You are the master of war in the name of the Lord of Summer—'
'We'll call that a hobby.'
'A-a what!?'
They heard laughter. Captain Paran, still crouching beside Itkovian, was looking their way, and had clearly heard the conversation. The Malazan grinned at Rath'Trake. 'It never goes how you think it should, does it, priest? That's the glory of us humans, and your new god had best make peace with that, and soon. Gruntle, keep playing by your own rules.'
'I hadn't planned otherwise, Captain,' Gruntle replied. 'How fares the Shield Anvil?'
Itkovian glanced over. 'I am well, sir.'
'Now that's a lie,' Stonny said.
'None the less,' the Shield Anvil said, accepting Mallet's shoulder as he slowly straightened.
Gruntle looked down at the two white cutlasses in his hands. 'Hood take me,' he muttered, 'but these have turned damned ugly.' He forced the blades into their scarred, tattered sheaths.
'They are not to leave your hands until this war is done,' Rath'Trake snapped.
'Another word from you, priest,' Gruntle said, 'and you'll be done.'
No-one else had ventured onto the plaza. Corporal Picker stood with the other Bridgeburners at the alley mouth, trying to determine what was going on. Conversations surrounded her, as the soldiers conjectured in time-honoured fashion, guessing at the meaning of the gestures and muted exchanges they witnessed among the dignitaries.
Picker glared about. 'Blend, where are you?'
'Here,' she replied at the corporal's shoulder.
'Why don't you sidle out there and find out what's happening?'
She shrugged. 'I'd get noticed.'
'Really?'
'Besides, I don't need to. It's plain to me what's happened.'
'Really?'
Blend made a wry face. 'You lose your brain when you gave up those tores, Corporal? Never seen you so consistently wide-eyed before.'
'Really,' Picker repeated, this time in a dangerous drawl. 'Keep it up and you'll regret it, soldier.'
'An explanation? All right. Here's what I think I've been seeing. The Grey Swords had some personal business to clear up, which they've done, only it damn near ripped that commander to pieces. But Mallet, drawing on Hood-knows whose powers, has lent some strength—though I think it was the captain's hand that brought the man back from the dead—and no, I never knew Paran had it in him, and if we've been thinking lately that he was more than just a willow-spined noble-born officer, we've just seen proof of our suspicions. But I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing for us—he won't stick a sword in our backs, Corporal. He might step in front of one heading our way, in fact. As for Gruntle, well, I think he's just shaken himself awake—and that masked priest of Trake's ain't happy about it—but no-one else gives a damn, because sometimes a smile is precisely what we all need.'
Picker's reply was a grunt.
'And finally, after watching all that,' Blend continued, 'it's time for Humbrall Taur and his Barghast…'
Humbrall Taur had raised his axe high, and had begun w
alking towards the Thrall's gate. Warchiefs and shouldermen and women emerged from the gathered tribes, crossing the plaza in the giant warrior's wake.
Trotts pushed his way through the knot of Bridgeburners and joined them.
Staring at his back, Picker snorted.
'He goes to meet his gods,' Blend murmured. 'Give him that, Corporal.'
'Let's hope he stays with them,' she replied. 'Hood knows, he don't know how to command—'
'But Captain Paran does,' Blend said.
She glanced at her companion, then shrugged. 'I suppose he does at that.'
'Might be worth cornering Antsy,' Blend continued in a low tone, 'and anyone else who's been talking through their cracks of late…'
'Cornering, aye. Then beating them senseless. Sound plan, Blend. Find us Detoran. Seems we got personal business, too, to clear up.'
'Well. Guess your brain's working after all.'
Picker's only reply was another grunt. Blend slipped back into the crowd.
Personal business. I like the sound of that. We'll straighten 'em up for ya, Captain. Hood knows, it's the least I can do…
Circling high overhead, the sparrowhawk's sharp eyes missed nothing. The day was drawing to a close, shadows lengthening. Banks of dust on the plain to the west revealed the retreating Pannions—still being driven ever westward by elements of Humbrall Taur's Barahn clan.
In the city itself, still more thousands of Barghast moved through the streets. Clearing away dead, whilst tribes worked to excavate vast pits beyond the north wall, which had begun filling as commandeered wagons began filing out from Capustan. The long, soul-numbing task of cleansing the city had begun.
Directly below, the plaza's expanse was now threaded with figures, Barghast moving in procession from streets and alley mouths, following Humbrall Taur as the warchief approached the Thrall's gate. The sparrowhawk that had once been Buke heard no sound but the wind, lending the scene below a solemn, ethereal quality.
None the less, the raptor drew no closer. Distance was all that kept it sane, was all that had been keeping it sane since the dawn.
From here, far above Capustan, vast dramas of death and desperation were diminished, almost into abstraction. Tides of motion, the blurring of colours, the sheer muddiness of humanity—all diminished, the futility reduced to something strangely manageable.