Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen 9)

The faces arrayed before him were sober, but he could see the gleam in their eyes. They were with him. ‘This night shall stain our souls black, my brothers, but we will spend the rest of our lives cleansing them. Now, go!’

Onos Toolan sat beside the dying fire. The camp was quiet, as his words of truth now sank into hearts like the flames, flaring and winking out.

The stretch of ages could humble the greatest of peoples, once all the self-delusions were stripped away. Pride had its place, but not at the expense of sober truth. Even back on Genabackis, the White Faces had strutted about as if unaware that their culture was drawing to an end; that they had been pushed into inhospitable lands; that farms and then cities rose upon ground they once held to be sacred, or rightly theirs as hunting grounds or pasture lands. All around them, the future showed faces ghastlier and more deadly than anything white paint could achieve-when Humbrall Taur had led them here, to this continent, he had done so in fullest comprehension of the extinction awaiting his Barghast should they remain on Genabackis, besieged by progress.

Prophecies never touched on such matters. By nature, they were proclamations of egotism, rife with pride and bold fates. Humbrall Taur had, however, managed a clever twist or two in making use of them.

Too bad he is gone-I would rather have stood at his side than in his place. I would rather-

Tool’s breath caught and he lifted his head. He reached out and settled one hand down on the packed earth, and then slowly closed his eyes. Ah, Hetan… my children… forgive me.

The Imass rose, turned to the nearest other fire. ‘Bakal.’

The warrior looked over. ‘Warleader?’

‘Draw your dagger, Bakal, and come to me.’

The warrior did not move for a moment, and then he rose, sliding the gutting knife from its scabbard. He walked over, cautious, uncertain.

My warriors… enough blood has been shed. ‘Drive the knife deep, directly under my heart. When I fall, begin shouting these words-as loud as you can. Shout “ Tool is dead! Onos Toolan lies slain! Our Warleader lies dead! ” Do you understand me, Bakal?’

The warrior, eyes wide, slowly backed away. Others had caught the words and were now rising, converging.

Tool closed on Bakal once again. ‘Be quick, Bakal-if you value your life and the lives of every one of your kin here. You must slay me-now!’

‘Warleader! I will not-’

Tool’s hands snapped out, closed on Bakal’s right hand and wrist.

The warrior gasped, struggled to tug free, but against Tool’s strength, he was helpless. The Imass pulled him close. ‘Remember-shout out my death, it is your only hope-’

Bakal sought to loosen his grip on his knife, but Tool’s huge, spatulate hand wrapped his own as would an adult’s a child’s. The other, closed round his wrist, dragged him inexorably forward.

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The faces arrayed before him were sober, but he could see the gleam in their eyes. They were with him. ‘This night shall stain our souls black, my brothers, but we will spend the rest of our lives cleansing them. Now, go!’

Onos Toolan sat beside the dying fire. The camp was quiet, as his words of truth now sank into hearts like the flames, flaring and winking out.

The stretch of ages could humble the greatest of peoples, once all the self-delusions were stripped away. Pride had its place, but not at the expense of sober truth. Even back on Genabackis, the White Faces had strutted about as if unaware that their culture was drawing to an end; that they had been pushed into inhospitable lands; that farms and then cities rose upon ground they once held to be sacred, or rightly theirs as hunting grounds or pasture lands. All around them, the future showed faces ghastlier and more deadly than anything white paint could achieve-when Humbrall Taur had led them here, to this continent, he had done so in fullest comprehension of the extinction awaiting his Barghast should they remain on Genabackis, besieged by progress.

Prophecies never touched on such matters. By nature, they were proclamations of egotism, rife with pride and bold fates. Humbrall Taur had, however, managed a clever twist or two in making use of them.

Too bad he is gone-I would rather have stood at his side than in his place. I would rather-

Tool’s breath caught and he lifted his head. He reached out and settled one hand down on the packed earth, and then slowly closed his eyes. Ah, Hetan… my children… forgive me.

The Imass rose, turned to the nearest other fire. ‘Bakal.’

The warrior looked over. ‘Warleader?’

‘Draw your dagger, Bakal, and come to me.’

The warrior did not move for a moment, and then he rose, sliding the gutting knife from its scabbard. He walked over, cautious, uncertain.

My warriors… enough blood has been shed. ‘Drive the knife deep, directly under my heart. When I fall, begin shouting these words-as loud as you can. Shout “ Tool is dead! Onos Toolan lies slain! Our Warleader lies dead! ” Do you understand me, Bakal?’

The warrior, eyes wide, slowly backed away. Others had caught the words and were now rising, converging.

Tool closed on Bakal once again. ‘Be quick, Bakal-if you value your life and the lives of every one of your kin here. You must slay me-now!’

‘Warleader! I will not-’

Tool’s hands snapped out, closed on Bakal’s right hand and wrist.

The warrior gasped, struggled to tug free, but against Tool’s strength, he was helpless. The Imass pulled him close. ‘Remember-shout out my death, it is your only hope-’

Bakal sought to loosen his grip on his knife, but Tool’s huge, spatulate hand wrapped his own as would an adult’s a child’s. The other, closed round his wrist, dragged him inexorably forward.

The blade’s tip touched Tool’s leather armour.

Whimpering, Bakal sought to throw himself backward-but the imprisoned arm did not move. He tried to drop to his knees, and his elbow dislocated with a pop. He howled in pain.

The other warriors-who had stood frozen-suddenly rushed in.

But Tool gave them no time. He drove the dagger into his chest.

Sudden, blinding pain. Releasing Bakal’s wrist, he staggered back, stared down at the knife buried to its hilt in his chest.

Hetan, my love, forgive me.

There was shouting all round him now-horror, terrible confusion, and then, on his knees, Bakal lifted his head and met Tool’s gaze.

The Imass had lost his voice, but he sought to implore the man with his eyes. Shout out my death! Spirits take me-shout it out loud! He stumbled, lost his footing, and fell heavily on to his back.

Death-he had forgotten its bitter kiss. So long… so long.

But I knew a gift. I tasted the air in my lungs… after so long… after ages of dust. The sweet air of love… but now…

Night-stained faces crowded above him, paint white as bone.

Skulls? Ah, my brothers… we are dust-

Dust, and nothing but-

He could hear shouting, alarms rising from the Senan encampment. Cursing, Maral Eb straightened, saw the sentinels clearly now-all running back into the camp.

‘Damn the gods! We must charge-’

‘Listen!’ cried the scout. ‘Warchief-listen to the words!’

‘What?’

And then he did. His eyes slowly widened. Could it be true? Have the Senan taken matters into their own hands?

Of course they have! They are Barghast! White Faces! He raised his sword high in the air. ‘Barahn!’ he roared. ‘Hear the words of your warchief! Sheathe your weapons! The betrayer is slain! Onos Toolan is slain! Let us go down to meet our brothers!’