Dust of Dreams: Book Nine of The Malazan Book of the Fallen - By Steven Erikson Page 0,372

can you do?

It was him, but he’s gone and he’s not coming back.

Her pace slowed. She frowned. Where am I going? Ah, that’s right. ‘New whetstone, that’s it.’

The world’s armed, Adjunct, so be careful. Kick open that wardrobe, girl, and start throwing on that armour. The days of fetes are over, all those nights among the glittering smirks of privilege and entitlement.

‘You idiot, Banaschar, there’s only one item in her wardrobe. What’s to choose?’

She almost heard him reply, ‘And still she’s running away.’

No, this conversation wasn’t even real, and it made no sense anyway. Resuming her journey to the smiths’ compound, she encountered a marine coming up the other way. A quick exchange of salutes, and then past.

A sergeant. Marine. Dal Honese. Where in Hood’s name is she going this time of night? Never mind. Whetstone. They keep wearing out. And the sound of the iron licking back and forth, the way it just perfectly echoes the word in my head—amazing. Perfect.

It was him. It was him.

It was him.

Most of the ties and fittings on his armour had loosened or come undone. The heavy dragon-scale breast-and back-plates hung askew from his broad shoulders. The clawed bosses on his knees rested on the ground as he knelt in the wet grasses. He’d pulled off the bone-strip gauntlets to better wipe the tears from his cheeks and the thick smears of snot running from his nose. The massive bone-handled battleaxe rested on the ground beside him.

He’d bawled through half the night, until his throat was raw and his head felt packed solid with sand. Where was everyone? He was alone and it seemed he’d been alone for years now, wandering lost on this empty land. He’d seen old camps, abandoned villages. He’d seen a valley filled with bones and rubble. He’d seen a limping crow that laughed at him only to beg for mercy when he caught it. Stupid! His heart had gone all soft and he foolishly released it, only to have the horrid thing start laughing at him all over again as it limped away. It only stopped laughing when the boulder landed on it. And now he missed that laughing crow and its funny hopping—at least it had been keeping him company. Stupid boulder!

The day had run away and then come back and it wasn’t nearly as cold as it’d been earlier. The ghost of Old Hunch Arbat had blown away like dust and was that fair? It wasn’t. So he was lost, looking for something but he’d forgotten what it was and he wanted to be home in Letheras, having fun with King Tehol and sexing with Shurq Elalle and breaking the arms of his fellow guards in the palace. Oh, where were all his friends?

His bleary, raw eyes settled on the battleaxe and he scowled. It wasn’t even pretty, was it. ‘Smash,’ he mumbled. ‘Crush. Its name is Rilk, but it never says anything. How’d it tell anybody its name? I’m alone. Everybody must be dead. Sorry, crow, you were last other thing left alive! In the whole world! And I killed you!’

‘Sorry I missed it,’ said a voice behind him.

Ublala Pung climbed to his feet and turned round. ‘Life!’

‘I share your exultation, friend.’

‘It’s all cold around you,’ Ublala said.

‘That will pass.’

‘Are you a god?’

‘More or less, Toblakai. Does that frighten you?’

Ublala Pung shook his head. ‘I’ve met gods before. They collect chickens.’

‘We possess mysterious ways indeed.’

‘I know.’ Ublala Pung fidgeted and then said, ‘I’m supposed to save the world.’

The stranger cocked his head. ‘And here I was contemplating killing it.’

‘Then I’d be all alone again!’ Ublala wailed, tears springing back to his puffy eyes.

‘Be at ease, Toblakai. You are reminding me that some things in this world remain worthwhile. If you would save the world, friend, that Draconean armour is fine preparation, as is that weapon at your feet—indeed, I believe I recognize both.’

‘I don’t know,’ Ublala said. ‘I don’t know where to go to save the world. I don’t know anything.’

‘Let us journey together, then.’

‘Gods make good friends,’ nodded Ublala Pung, pleased at this turn of events.

‘And spiteful enemies,’ the stranger said, ‘but we shall not be enemies, so that need not concern us. Wielder of Rilk, Wearer of Dra Alkeleint, what is your name?’

He swelled his chest. He liked being called Wielder and Wearer of things. ‘Ublala Pung. Who are you?’

The stranger smiled. ‘We will walk east, Ublala Pung. I am named Draconus.’

‘Oh, funny.’

‘What is?’

‘That’s the word Old Hunch Arbat’s ghost screamed, before the