'What do you think, High Fist?' Hurlochel asked. 'This has the look of a surrender.'
Paran nodded.
The two men reached the base of the slope and cantered up to halt four paces from the Host's vanguard.
'I am Mathok,' the one on the left said. 'Once of Sha'ik's Army of the Apocalypse.'
'And now?' Paran asked.
A shrug. 'We dwelt in the Holy Desert Raraku, a desert now a sea. We fought as rebels, but the rebellion has ended. We believed. We believe no longer.' He unsheathed his scimitar and flung it onto the ground. '
Do with us as you will.'
Paran settled back in his saddle. He drew a deep breath and released it in a long sigh. 'Mathok,' he said, 'you and your warriors are free to go where you please. I am High Fist Ganoes Paran, and I hereby release you. As you said, the war is over, and I for one am not interested in reparation, nor punishment. Nothing is gained by inflicting yet more atrocities in answer to past ones.'
The grizzled warrior beside Mathok threw a leg over his horse's neck and slipped down to the ground. The impact made him wince and arch his lower back, grimacing, then he hobbled over to his commander's scimitar. Collecting it, he wiped the dust from the blade and the grip, then delivered it back to Mathok.
Paran spoke again: 'You have come from the place of pilgrimage.'
'The City of the Fallen, yes. Do you intend to destroy them, High Fist? They are defenceless.'
'I would speak with their leader.'
'Then you waste your time. She claims she is Sha'ik Reborn. If that is true, then the cult has seen a degradation from which it will never recover. She is fat, poisoned. I barely recognized her. She is indeed fallen. Her followers are sycophants, more interested in orgies and gluttony than anything else. They are disease-scarred and half-mad.
Her High Priest watches her sex acts from behind curtains and masturbates, and in both their energy is unbounded and insatiable.'
'Nonetheless,' Paran said after a moment, 'I sense power there.'
'No doubt,' Mathok replied, leaning to one side and spitting. '
Slaughter them, then, High Fist, and you will rid the world of a new kind of plague.'
'What do you mean?'
'A religion of the maimed and broken. A religion proffering salvation… you just have to die first. I predict the cult will prove highly contagious.'
He's probably right. 'I cannot slaughter innocents, Mathok.'
'Then, one day, the most faithful and zealous among them will slaughter you, High Fist.'
'Perhaps. If so, I will worry about it then. In the meantime, I have other tasks before me.'
'You will speak with Sha'ik Reborn?'
Paran considered, then he shook his head. 'No. As you suggest, there is little point. While I see the possible wisdom of expunging this cult before it gains a foothold, I admit I find the notion reprehensible.'
'Then where, if I may ask, High Fist, will you go now?'
Paran hesitated. Dare I answer? Well, now is as good as later for everyone to hear. 'We turn round, Mathok. The Host marches to Aren.'
'Do you march to war?' the commander asked.
Paran frowned. 'We're an army, Mathok. Eventually, yes, there will be fighting.'
'Will you accept our service, High Fist?'
'What?'
'We are a wandering people,' Mathok explained. 'But we have lost our home. Our families are scattered and no doubt many are dead of plague.
We have nowhere to go, and no-one to fight. If you should reject us now, and free us to go, we shall ride into dissolution. We shall die with our backs covered in straw and sand in our gauntlets. Or warrior will turn upon warrior, and blood will be shed that is without meaning. Accept us into your army, High Fist Ganoes Paran, and we will fight at your side and die with honour.'
'You have no idea where I intend to lead the Host, Mathok.'
The old warrior beside Mathok barked a laugh. 'The wasteland back of camp, or the wasteland few have ever seen before, what's the difference?' He turned to his commander. 'Mathok, my friend, the shamans said this one here killed Poliel. For that alone, I would follow him into the Abyss, so long as he promises us heads to lop off and maybe a woman or two to ride on the way. That's all we're looking for, right, before we dance in a god's lap one last time. Besides, I'm tired of running.'
To all of this, Mathok simply nodded, his gaze fixed on Paran.
Four thousand or so of this continent's finest light cavalry just volunteered, veterans one and all. 'Hurlochel,' he said, 'attach yourself as liaison to Commander Mathok. Commander, you are now a Fist, and Hurlochel will require a written compilation of your officers or potential officers. The Malazan army employs mounted troops in units of fifty, a hundred and three hundred. Adjust your command structure accordingly.'