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

Ungracious fears, these. Hull Beddict was dead. The only thing that haunted Brys now was his memories of the man, and they belonged to no one else, did they?

Let me lead the army. Let us march into unknown lands-leave me free, brother, to try again, to deliver unto strangers a new meaning to the name ‘Letherii’-not one foul with treachery, not one to become a curse word to every nation we encounter.

Let me heal Hull’s wounds.

He wondered if Tehol would understand any of that, and then snorted-the sound startling both guards, their eyes shifting to him and then away again. Of course Tehol would understand. All too well, in fact, on levels far surpassing Brys’s paltry, shallow efforts. And he would say something offhand, that would cut deep enough to bite bone-or he might not-Tehol was never as cruel as Brys dreaded. And what odd dynamic is that? Only that he’s too smart for me… and if I had his wits, why, I would use them with all the deadly skill I use when wielding a sword.

Hull had been the dreamer, and his dreams were the kind that fed on his own conscience before all else. And see how that blinded him? See how that destroyed him?

Tehol tempered whatever dream he held. It helped having an Elder God at his side, and a wife who was probably a match to Tehol’s own genius. It helps, too, I suppose, that he’s half mad.

What of Brys, then? This brother least of the three? Taking hold of a sword and making it a standard, an icon of adjudication. A weapon master stood before two worlds: the complex one within the weapon’s reach and the simplified one beyond it. I am Hull’s opposite, in all things.

So why do I now yearn to follow in his steps?

He had been interred within stone upon the unlit floor of an ocean. His soul had been a single thread woven into a skein of forgotten and abandoned gods. How could that not have changed him? Perhaps his new thirst was their thirst. Perhaps it had nothing whatsoever to do with Hull Beddict.

Perhaps, indeed, this was the Errant’s nudge.

Sighing, he faced the doors to the throne room, adjusted his weapon belt, and then strode into the chamber.

Brother Tehol, King of Lether, was in the midst of a coughing fit. Janath was at his side, thumping on his back. Bugg was pouring water into a goblet, which he then held at the ready.

Ublala Pung stood before the throne. He swung round at Brys’s approach, revealing an expression of profound distress. ‘Preda! Thank the spirits you’re here! Now you can arrest and execute me!’

‘Ublala, why would I do that?’

‘Look, I have killed the King!’

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Ungracious fears, these. Hull Beddict was dead. The only thing that haunted Brys now was his memories of the man, and they belonged to no one else, did they?

Let me lead the army. Let us march into unknown lands-leave me free, brother, to try again, to deliver unto strangers a new meaning to the name ‘Letherii’-not one foul with treachery, not one to become a curse word to every nation we encounter.

Let me heal Hull’s wounds.

He wondered if Tehol would understand any of that, and then snorted-the sound startling both guards, their eyes shifting to him and then away again. Of course Tehol would understand. All too well, in fact, on levels far surpassing Brys’s paltry, shallow efforts. And he would say something offhand, that would cut deep enough to bite bone-or he might not-Tehol was never as cruel as Brys dreaded. And what odd dynamic is that? Only that he’s too smart for me… and if I had his wits, why, I would use them with all the deadly skill I use when wielding a sword.

Hull had been the dreamer, and his dreams were the kind that fed on his own conscience before all else. And see how that blinded him? See how that destroyed him?

Tehol tempered whatever dream he held. It helped having an Elder God at his side, and a wife who was probably a match to Tehol’s own genius. It helps, too, I suppose, that he’s half mad.

What of Brys, then? This brother least of the three? Taking hold of a sword and making it a standard, an icon of adjudication. A weapon master stood before two worlds: the complex one within the weapon’s reach and the simplified one beyond it. I am Hull’s opposite, in all things.

So why do I now yearn to follow in his steps?

He had been interred within stone upon the unlit floor of an ocean. His soul had been a single thread woven into a skein of forgotten and abandoned gods. How could that not have changed him? Perhaps his new thirst was their thirst. Perhaps it had nothing whatsoever to do with Hull Beddict.

Perhaps, indeed, this was the Errant’s nudge.

Sighing, he faced the doors to the throne room, adjusted his weapon belt, and then strode into the chamber.

Brother Tehol, King of Lether, was in the midst of a coughing fit. Janath was at his side, thumping on his back. Bugg was pouring water into a goblet, which he then held at the ready.

Ublala Pung stood before the throne. He swung round at Brys’s approach, revealing an expression of profound distress. ‘Preda! Thank the spirits you’re here! Now you can arrest and execute me!’

‘Ublala, why would I do that?’

‘Look, I have killed the King!’

But Tehol was finally recovering, sufficiently to take the goblet Bugg proffered. He drank down a mouthful, gasped, and then sat back on the throne. In a rasp he said, ‘It’s all right, Ublala, you’ve not killed me… yet. But that was a close one.’

The Tarthenal whimpered and Brys could see that the huge man was moments from running away.

‘The King exaggerates,’ said Janath. ‘Be at ease, Ublala Pung. Welcome, Brys, I was wondering where you’d got to, since I could have sworn you were on my heels only a few moments ago.’

‘What have I missed?’

Bugg said, ‘Ublala Pung was just informing us of, among other things, something he had forgotten. A matter most, well, extraordinary. Relating to the Toblakai warrior, Karsa Orlong.’

‘The slayer of Rhulad Sengar has returned?’

‘No, we are blessedly spared that, Brys.’ And then Bugg hesitated.

‘It turns out,’ explained Janath-as Tehol quickly drank down a few more mouthfuls of water-‘that Karsa Orlong set a charge upon Ublala Pung, one that he had until today entirely forgotten, distracted as he has been of late by the abuses heaped upon him by his fellow guards.’

‘I’m sorry-what abuses?’

Tehol finally spoke. ‘We can get to that later. The matter may no longer be relevant, in any case, since it seems Ublala must leave us soon.’

Brys squinted at the abject Tarthenal. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To the islands, Preda.’

‘The islands?’

Ublala nodded solemnly. ‘I must gather all the Tarthenal and make an army. And then we have to go to find Karsa Orlong.’

‘An army? Why would Karsa Orlong want an army of Tarthenal?’

‘To destroy the world!’

‘Of course,’ interjected Bugg, ‘by my last census there are fourteen hundred and fifty-one Tarthenal now settled on the islands. One half of them not yet adults-under seventy years of age by Tarthenal reckoning. Ublala’s potential “army” will amount to around five hundred adults of reasonable maturity and dubious martial prowess.’