Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen 9)
Kalyth huddled, arms tight about herself. The frost-rimed riders drew closer, and she could just make out that array of faces behind the serpentine nose-guards of their helms-deathly pale, bearing slashes gaping deep crimson but bloodless. They wore surcoats over chain, uniforms, she realized, to mark allegiance to some foreign army, grey and magenta beneath frozen bloodstains and crusted gore. One, she saw, was tattooed, bedecked with fetishes of claws, feathers and beads-huge, barbaric, perhaps not even human. But the others, they were of her own kind-she was certain of that.
They reined in before her and something drew Kalyth’s wide stare to one rider in particular, grey-bearded beneath the dangling crystals of ice, his grey eyes, set deep in shadowed sockets, reminding her of a bird’s fixed regard-cold and raptorial, bereft of all compassion.
When he spoke, in the language of the Elan, no breath plumed from his mouth. ‘Your Reaper’s time is coming to an end. Death shall surrender his face-’
‘Never was a welcoming one,’ cut in the heavy, round-faced soldier on the man’s right.
‘Enough of that, Mallet,’ snapped another horseman, one-armed, hunched with age. ‘You don’t even belong here yet. We’re waiting for the world to catch up-such are dreams and visions-they are indifferent to the ten thousand unerring steps in any given mortal’s life, much less the millions of useless ones. Learn patience, healer.’
‘Where one yields,’ continued the bearded soldier, ‘we shall stand in his stead.’
‘In times of war,’ growled the barbaric warrior-who seemed preoccupied with braiding the ratty tatters of his dead horse’s mane.
‘Life itself is a war, one it is doomed to lose,’ retorted the bearded man. ‘Do not think, Trotts, that our rest will come soon.’
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Kalyth huddled, arms tight about herself. The frost-rimed riders drew closer, and she could just make out that array of faces behind the serpentine nose-guards of their helms-deathly pale, bearing slashes gaping deep crimson but bloodless. They wore surcoats over chain, uniforms, she realized, to mark allegiance to some foreign army, grey and magenta beneath frozen bloodstains and crusted gore. One, she saw, was tattooed, bedecked with fetishes of claws, feathers and beads-huge, barbaric, perhaps not even human. But the others, they were of her own kind-she was certain of that.
They reined in before her and something drew Kalyth’s wide stare to one rider in particular, grey-bearded beneath the dangling crystals of ice, his grey eyes, set deep in shadowed sockets, reminding her of a bird’s fixed regard-cold and raptorial, bereft of all compassion.
When he spoke, in the language of the Elan, no breath plumed from his mouth. ‘Your Reaper’s time is coming to an end. Death shall surrender his face-’
‘Never was a welcoming one,’ cut in the heavy, round-faced soldier on the man’s right.
‘Enough of that, Mallet,’ snapped another horseman, one-armed, hunched with age. ‘You don’t even belong here yet. We’re waiting for the world to catch up-such are dreams and visions-they are indifferent to the ten thousand unerring steps in any given mortal’s life, much less the millions of useless ones. Learn patience, healer.’
‘Where one yields,’ continued the bearded soldier, ‘we shall stand in his stead.’
‘In times of war,’ growled the barbaric warrior-who seemed preoccupied with braiding the ratty tatters of his dead horse’s mane.
‘Life itself is a war, one it is doomed to lose,’ retorted the bearded man. ‘Do not think, Trotts, that our rest will come soon.’
‘He was a god!’ barked another soldier, baring teeth above a jet-black forked beard. ‘We’re just a company of chewed-up marines!’
Trotts laughed. ‘See how high you’ve climbed, Cage? At least you got your head back-I remember burying you in Black Dog-we looked for half the night and never found it.’
‘Got ett by a frog,’ another suggested.
The dead soldiers laughed, even Cage.
Kalyth saw the grey-bearded soldier’s faint smile and it transformed his falcon’s eyes into something that seemed capable of holding, without flinching, the compassion of an entire world. He leaned forward on his saddle, the horn creaking as it bent on its hinge. ‘Aye, we’re no gods, and we’re not going to attempt to replace him beneath that rotted cowl. We’re Bridgeburners, and we’ve been posted to Hood’s Gate-one last posting-’
‘When did we agree to that?’ Mallet demanded, eyes wide.
‘It’s coming. In any case, I was saying-and gods below you’re all getting damned insubordinate in your hoary deadness-we’re Bridgeburners. Why are any of you surprised to find that you’re still saluting? Still taking orders? Still marching out in every miserable kind of weather you can imagine?’ He glared left and right, but it was softened by the wry twist of his lips. ‘Hood knows, it’s what we do.’
Kalyth could hold back no longer. ‘What do you want with me?’
The grey eyes settled on her once more. ‘Destriant, by that title alone you must now consort with the likes of us-in Hood’s-your Reaper’s-stead. You see us as Guardians of the Gate, but we are more than that. We are-or will become-the new arbiters, for as long as is necessary. Among us there are fists, mailed gauntlets of hard violence. And healers, and mages. Assassins and skulkers, sappers and horse-archers, lancers and trackers. Cowards and brave, stolid warriors.’ He hitched a half-smile. ‘And we’ve found all manner of unexpected… allies. In all our guises, Destriant, we shall be more than the Reaper ever was. We are not distant. Not indifferent. You see, unlike Hood, we remember what it was to be alive. We remember each and every moment of yearning, of desperate need, the anguish that comes when no amount of beseeching earns a single instant’s reprieve, no pleading yields a moment’s mercy. We are here, Destriant. When no other choice remains, call upon us.’
The ice of this realm seemed to shatter all around Kalyth and she staggered as warmth flooded through her. Blessed-no, the blessing of warmth. Gasping, she stared up at the unnamed soldier as tears filled her eyes. ‘This… this is not the death I imagined.’
‘No, and I give you this. We are the Bridgeburners. We shall sustain. But not because we were greater in life than anyone else. Because, Destriant, we were no different. Now, answer me as a Destriant, Kalyth of Ampelas Rooted, do we suffice?’