One, then another, then another.
Until, swinging his mount around, he saw that he was done. It was over.
His horse stamping as it continued circling, Whiskeyjack looked up.
To see Onearm's Host lining the ridge far to his left — the space between them littered with trampled bodies but otherwise open. Unobstructed.
His soldiers.
Lining the ridge. Silent.
To have witnessed this. Now, I am indeed damned. From this, no return. No matter what the wards of explanation, of justification. No matter the crimes committed by my victims. I have slain. Not soldiers, not armed opponents, but creatures assailed by madness, stunned senseless, uncomprehending.
He turned, stared at Anomander Rake.
The Lord of Moon's Spawn returned the regard without expression.
This burden — you have taken it before, assumed it long ago, haven't you? This burden, that now assails my soul, it is what you live with — have lived with for centuries. The price for the sword on your back -
'You should have left it with me, friend,' the Tiste Andii said quietly. 'I might have insisted, but I would not cross blades with you. Thus,' he added with a sorrowful smile, 'the opening of my heart proves, once more, a curse. Claiming those I care for, by virtue of that very emotion. Would that I had learned my lesson long ago, do you not agree?'
'It seems,' Whiskeyjack managed, 'we have found something new to share.'
Anomander Rake's eyes narrowed. 'I would not have wished it.'
'I know.' He held hard on his control. 'I'm sorry I gave you no choice.'
They regarded each other.
'I believe Korlat's kin have captured this Anaster,' Rake said after a moment. 'Will you join me in attending to him?'
Whiskeyjack flinched.
'No, my friend,' Rake said. 'I yield judgement of him. Let us leave that to others, shall we?'
In proper military fashion, you mean. That rigid structure that so easily absolves personal responsibility. Of course. We've time for that, now, haven't we? 'Agreed, Lord. Lead on, if you please.'
With another faint, wistful smile, Anomander Rake strode past him.
Whiskeyjack sheathed his bloodied sword, and followed.
He stared at the Tiste Andii's broad back, at the weapon that hung from it. Anomander Rake, how can you bear this burden? This burden that has so thoroughly broken my heart?
But no, that is not what so tears at me.
Lord of Moon's Spawn, you asked me to step aside, and you called it a mercy. I misunderstood you. A mercy, not to the Women of the Dead Seed. But to me. Thus your sorrowed smile when I denied you.
Ah, my friend, I saw only your brutality — and that hurt you.
Better, for us both, had you crossed blades with me.
For us both.
And I–I am not worth such friends. Old man, foolish gestures plague you. Be done with it. Make this your last war.
Make it your last.
Korlat waited with her Tiste Andii kin, surrounding the gaunt figure that was Anaster, First Child of the Dead Seed, at a place near where the youth had landed when thrown by Anomander Rake.
Whiskeyjack saw tears in his lover's eyes, and the sight of them triggered a painful wrench in his gut. He forced himself to look away. Although he needed her now, and perhaps she in turn needed him to share all that she clearly comprehended, it would have to wait. He resolved to take his lead from Anomander Rake, for whom control was both armour and, if demanded by circumstance, a weapon.
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.'
