Midnight Tides (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #5)

Midnight Tides (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #5) Page 263

‘Why?’

‘Because you might enjoy it.’

‘And what business is that of yours, Iron Bars?’

‘It’s not good, that’s all.’ He turned away. ‘Corlo, see to the prisoners under the wagon. Heal them if they need it.’

He’s right. The bastard’s right. I might enjoy it. Torturing some helpless man. And that wouldn’t be good at all, because I might get hungry for more . She thought back to the feeling when her sword’s blade had connected with that deserter’s helmed head. Sickening, and sick with pleasure, all bound together.

I hurt. But I can make others hurt. Enough so they answer each other, leaving… calm. Is that what it is? Calm? Or just some kind of hardening, senseless and cold .

‘All right, Iron Bars,’ she said. ‘Keep it away from me. Only,’ she looked down at him, ‘it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.’

‘Aye. Not yet, anyway.’

‘Not ever,’ she said. ‘I know, you’re thinking time will bring healing.

But you see, Avowed, it’s something I keep reliving. Every moment. It wasn’t days ago. It was with my last breath, every last breath.’

She saw the compassion in his eyes and, inexplicably, hated him for it. ‘Let me think on that, lass.’

‘To what end?’

‘Can’t say, yet.’

She looked down at the sword in her hand, at the blood and snarled hair along the notched edge where it had struck the man’s head. Disgusting. But they’ll expect it to be wiped away. To make the iron clean and gleaming once more, as if it was nothing more than a sliver of metal. Disconnected from its deeds, its history, its very purpose . She didn’t want that mess cleaned away. She liked the sight of it.

They left the bodies where they had fallen. Left the lances impaled in flesh growing cold. Left the wagon, apart from the food they could transport – the refugees coming up on the road could have the rest. Among the dead were five youths, none of them older than fifteen years. They’d walked a short path, but as Halfpeck observed, it had been the wrong path, and that was that.

Seren pitied none of them.

BOOK FOUR

MIDNIGHT TIDES

Kin mourn my passing, all love is dust The pit is cut from the raw, stones piled to the side Slabs are set upon the banks, the seamed grey wall rises Possessions laid out to flank my place of rest All from the village are drawn, beating hides Keening their grief with streaks in ash Clawed down their cheeks, wounds on their flesh The memory of my life is surrendered In fans of earth from wooden shovels And were I ghostly here at the edge of the living Witness to brothers and sisters unveiled by loss Haunters of despair upon this rich sward Where ancestors stand sentinel, wrapped in skins I might settle motionless, eyes closed to dark’s rush And embrace the spiral pull into indifference Contemplating at the last, what it is to be pleased Yet my flesh is warm, the blood neither still in my veins Nor cold, my breathing joining this wind That carries these false cries, I am banished Alone among the crowd and no more to be seen The stirrings of my life face their turned backs The shudders of their will, and all love is dust Where I now walk, to the pleasure of none Cut raw, the stones piled, the grey wall rising.

Banished Kellun Adara

CHAPTER TWENTY

It seemed the night would never end during the war with the Sar Trell. Before the appearance of Our Great Emperor, Dessimbelackis, our legions were thrown back on the field of battle, again and again. Our sons and daughters wept blood on the green ground, and the wagon-drums of the enemy came forth in thunder. But no stains could hold upon our faith, and it shone ever fierce, ever defiant. We drew our ranks tall, overlapped shields polished and bright as the red sun, and the one among us who was needed, who was destined to grasp the splashed grip of the First Empire’s truthful sword, gave his voice and his strength to lead us in answer to the well-throated rumble of the Sar Trell warcries, the stone-tremble of their wagon-drums. Victory was destined, in the forge-lit eyes of He of the Seven Holy cities, the fever-charge of his will, and on that day, the Nineteenth in the Month of Leth-ara in the Year of Arenbal, the Sar Trell army was broken on the plain south of Yath-Ghatan, and with their bones was laid the foundation, and with their skulls the cobbles of Empire’s road…

The Dessilan Vilara

SOMEWHERE AHEAD, THE ROYAL COLONNADE OF THE ETERNAL Domicile. Arched, the hemispherical ceiling web-spun in gold on a midnight blue background, diamonds glittering like drops of dew in the streaming strands. The pillars flanking the aisle that led to the throne room were carved in a spiral pattern and painted sea-green, twenty to each side and three paces apart. The passageways between them and the wall were wide enough to permit an armoured palace guard to walk without fear of his scabbard scraping, while the approach down the centre aisle was ten men wide. At the outer end was a large chamber that served as a reception area. First Empire murals, copied so many times as to be stylized past meaning, had been painted on the walls. Traditional torch sconces held crystals imbued with sorcery that cast a faintly blue light. At the inward end stood two massive, bejewelled doors that led to a narrow, low passage, fifteen paces long, before opening out into the domed throne room proper.