Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

Riders were approaching from the Malazan position, as well as from Brood's. There would be witnesses to what followed — and that I now curse such truths is true revelation of how far I have fallen. When, before, did I ever fear witnesses to what I did or said? Queen of Dreams, forgive me. I have found myself in a living nightmare, and the monster that stalks me is none other than myself.

Reining his horse to a halt before the gathered Tiste Andii, Whiskeyjack was able to examine Anaster closely for the first time.

Disarmed, bruised and blood-smeared, his face turned away, he looked pitiful, weak and small.

But that is always the way with leaders who have been broken. Whether kings or commanders, defeat withers them -

And then he saw the youth's face. Something had gouged out one of his eyes, leaving a welter of deep red blood. The remaining eye lifted, fixed on Whiskeyjack. Intent, yet horrifyingly lifeless, a stare both cold and casual, curious yet vastly — fundamentally — indifferent. 'The slayer of my mother,' Anaster said in a lilting voice, cocking his head as he continued to study the Malazan.

Whiskeyjack's voice was hoarse. 'I am sorry for that, First Child.'

'I am not. She was insane. A prisoner of herself, possessed by her own demons. Not alone in that curse, we must presume.'

'Not any more,' Whiskeyjack answered.

'It is as a plague, is it not? Ever spreading. Devouring lives. That is why you will, ultimately, fail. All of you. You become what you destroy.'

The tone of Anomander Rake's response was shockingly vulgar. 'No more appropriate words could come from a cannibal. What, Anaster, do you think we should do with you? Be honest, now.'

The young man swung his singular gaze to the Lord of Moon's Spawn. Whatever self-possession he contained seemed to falter suddenly with that contact, for he reached up a tentative hand to hover before the bloodied eye-socket, and his pale face grew paler. 'Kill me,' he whispered.

Rake frowned. 'Korlat?'

'Aye, he lost control, then. His fear has a face. One that I have not seen before-'

Anaster turned on her. 'Shut up! You saw nothing!'

'There is darkness within you,' she replied in calm tones. 'Virulent cousin to Kurald Galain. A darkness of the soul. When you falter, child, we see what hides within it.'

'Liar!' he hissed.

'A soldier's face,' Anomander Rake said. He slowly faced westward. 'From the city. From Capustan.' He turned back to Anaster. 'He is still there, isn't he? It seems, mortal, that you have acquired a nemesis — one who promises something other than death, something far more terrible. Interesting.'

'You do not understand! He is Itkovian! Shield Anvil! He wishes my soul! Please, kill me!'

Dujek and Caladan Brood had arrived from the allied lines, as well as Kallor and Artanthos. They sat on their horses, watchful, silent.

'Perhaps we will,' the Lord of Moon's Spawn replied after a moment. 'In time. For now, we will take you with us to Capustan-'

' No! Please! Kill me now! '

'I see no absolution in your particular madness, child,' Anomander Rake said. 'No cause for mercy. Not yet. Perhaps, upon meeting the one — Itkovian? — who so terrifies you, we will judge otherwise, and so grant you a swift end. As you are our prisoner, that is our right. You might be spared your nemesis after all.' He faced Brood and the others. 'Acceptable?'

'Aye,' Dujek growled, eyes on Whiskeyjack.

'Agreed,' Brood said.

Anaster made a desperate attempt to snatch a dagger from a Tiste Andii warrior beside him, which was effortlessly denied. The youth collapsed, then, weeping, down onto his knees, his thin frame racked by heaves.

'Best take him away,' Anomander Rake said, studying the broken figure. 'This is no act.'

That much was plain to everyone present.

Whiskeyjack nudged his horse to come alongside Dujek.

The old man nodded in greeting, then muttered, 'That was damned unfortunate.'

'It was.'

'From the distance, it looked-'

'It looked bad, High Fist, because it was.'

'Understand, Whiskeyjack, I comprehend your … your mercy. Rake's sword — but, dammit, could you not have waited?'

Explanations, sound justifications crowded Whiskeyjack's mind, but all he said was, 'No.'

'Executions demand procedures-'

'Then strip me of my rank, sir.'

Dujek winced, looked away. He sighed roughly. 'That's not what I meant, Whiskeyjack. I know well enough the significance of such procedures — the real reason for their existing in the first place. A sharing of necessary but brutal acts-'

'Diminishes the personal cost, aye,' Whiskeyjack answered in low tones. 'No doubt Anomander Rake could have easily managed those few souls added to his legendary list. But I took them instead. I diminished his personal cost. A paltry effort, granted, and one he asked me not to do. But it is done now. The issue is ended.'

'The issue is anything but,' Dujek grated. 'I am your friend-'

'No.' We're not at risk of crossing blades, so there won't be any sharing of this one. 'No,' he repeated. Not this time.

He could almost hear Dujek's teeth grinding.

Korlat joined them. 'A strange young man, the one known as Anaster.'

The two Malazans turned at her words.

'Does that surprise you?' Dujek asked.

She shrugged. 'There was much hidden within the darkness of his soul, High Fist. More than just a soldier's face. He could not bear leading his army. Could not bear to see the starvation, the loss and desperation. And so was resolved to send it to its death, to absolute annihilation. As an act of mercy, no less. To relieve the suffering.

'For himself, he committed crimes that could only be answered with death. Execution at the hands of those survivors among his victims. But not a simple death — he seeks something more. He seeks damnation as his sentence. An eternity of damnation. I cannot fathom such self-loathing.'

I can, for I feel as if I am tottering on the very edge of that steep slope myself. One more misstep … Whiskeyjack looked away, towards the Malazan legions massed on the distant ridge. The sun flashing from armour and weapons was blinding, making his eyes water.

Dujek moved his horse away, rejoining Artanthos, Brood and Kallor.

Leaving Whiskeyjack alone with Korlat.

She reached up, touched his gauntleted hand.

He could not meet her gaze, continued studying the motionless lines of his soldiers.

'My love,' she murmured. 'Those women — they were not defenceless. The power they drew on came from the Warren of Chaos itself. My Lord's initial attack was intended to destroy them; instead, it but left them momentarily stunned. They were recovering. And, in their awakened power, they would have unleashed devastation. Madness and death, for your army. This entire day could have been lost.'

He grimaced. 'I do not rail at necessity,' he said.

'It seems … you do.'

'War has its necessities, Korlat, and I have always understood that. Always known the cost. But, this day, by my own hand, I have realized something else. War is not a natural state. It is an imposition, and a damned unhealthy one. With its rules, we willingly yield our humanity. Speak not of just causes, worthy goals. We are takers of life. Servants of Hood, one and all.'

'The Women of the Dead Seed would have killed hundreds, perhaps thousands, Whiskeyjack-'

'And I have commanded the same, in my time, Korlat. What difference is there between us?'

'You are not afraid of the questions that follow such acts,' she said. 'Those that you willingly ask of yourself. Perhaps you see that as self-destructive ruthlessness, but I see it as courage — a courage that is extraordinary. A man less brave would have left my Lord to his unseemly task.'