But the elderly warrior shook his head. ‘We are done with empire.’ Then he added, ‘If you would permit us to leave.’
‘I can think of quite a few of us who’d be more inclined to kill you all, right now.’
A nod.
‘But,’ Fiddler then said, as his soldiers gathered behind him, all staring at the Tiste Edur-who were staring back-‘we’re not here to conduct genocide. You would leave your Emperor defenceless?’
The war leader pointed northward. ‘Our villages lie far away. Few remain there, and they suffer for our absence. I would lead my warriors home, Malazan. To rebuild. To await the return of our families.’
‘Go on, then.’
The Tiste Edur elder bowed. Then said, ‘Would that we could… take back… all that we have done.’
‘Tell me this. Your Emperor-can he be killed?’
‘No.’
Nothing more was said. Fiddler watched as the Edur set off.
Behind him a grunt from Koryk, who then said, ‘I was damned sure we’d get a fight today.’
‘Fiddler. The Letherii army’s marched off,’ Gesler said.
‘The Adjunct,’ Fiddler said, nodding. ‘She’ll hammer them into the ground.’
‘My point is,’ Gesler continued, ‘our way to Letheras… it’s an open road. Are we going to let the Adjunct and all those salty soldiers of hers beat us there?’
‘Good question,’ Fiddler said, turning at last. ‘Let’s go ask the Fist, shall we?’
‘Aye, and maybe we can find out why we’re all still alive, too.’
‘Aye, and white, too.’
Gesler tugged off his helm and grinned at Fiddler. ‘Speak for yourself, Fid.’
Hair of spun gold. ‘Hood take me,’ Fiddler muttered, ‘that’s about as obnoxious a thing as I’ve ever seen.’
Another helping hand, lifting Beak to his feet. He looked round. Nothing much to see. White sand, a gate of white marble ahead, within which swirled silver light.
The hand gripping his arm was skeletal, the skin a strange hue of green. The figure, very tall, was hooded and wearing black rags. It seemed to be studying the gate.
‘Is that where I’m supposed to go, now?’ Beak asked.
‘Yes.’
‘All right. Are you coming with me?’
‘No.’
‘All right. Well, will you let go of my arm, then?’
The hand fell away. ‘It is not common,’ the figure then said.
‘What?’
‘That I attend to… arrivals. In person.’
‘My name is Beak.’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s through there?’
‘Your brother waits for you, Beak. He has been waiting a long time.’
Beak smiled and stepped forward, all at once in a great hurry-the silver light within that gate was beautiful, reminding him of something.
The stranger’s voice brought him round: ‘Beak.’
‘Yes?’
‘Your brother. He will not know you. Yet. Do you understand?’
Beak nodded. ‘Why aren’t you coming with me?’
‘I choose to wait… for another.’
‘My brother,’ Beak said, his smile broadening. ‘I’m taller now. Stronger. I can save him, can’t I?’
A long pause, and then the figure said, ‘Yes, Beak, you can save him.’
Yes, that made sense. He set out again. With sure strides. To the gate, into that silver glow, to emerge on the other side in a glade beside a trickling stream. And kneeling near the bank, his brother. The same as he remembered. On the ground on all sides there were hundreds of small wax figures. Smiling faces, an entire village, maybe even a whole town.
Beak walked up to his brother.
Who said, too shy to look up, ‘I made all of these, for him.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ Beak said, and he found tears running down his face, which embarrassed him so he wiped them away. Then asked, ‘Can I play with you?’
His brother hesitated, scanning all the figures, then he nodded. ‘All right.’
And so Beak knelt down beside his brother.
While, upon the other side of the gate, the god Hood stood, motionless. Waiting.
A third army rose from the seabed to conquer the others. An army of mud, against whom no shield could defend, through whom no sword could cut to the quick. The precious islands of canvas were how twisted jumbles, fouling the foot, wrapping tight about legs, or pushed down entirely beneath thick silts. Grey-smeared soldier struggled against grey-smeared warrior, locked together in desperation, rage and terror.