came over and crouched down. 'Look at what we run into here. There's beast blood everywhere, and you, y'damned idiot, you stood down one of them monsters – with a damned axe!'
'Help me up, will you?'
Antsy stared, then sighed. 'We'd need the ox for that – you're big as a bhederin. Fine, I'll squat here and you try using me like I was a ladder, but don't blame me if my knees buckle.'
Another carriage had drawn up a short time earlier, and before it stood the High Alchemist Baruk – the one who'd turned them away – and beside him a warrior with Barghast blood, an enormous hammer strapped to his back. This one walked up to stare down at the dead Tiste Andii.
Barathol pulled himself upright, Antsy grunting under his weight, and then straightened with a soft word of thanks. He glanced over to study the others still remaining. The Toblakai warrior and the woman who seemed to be his companion. The two other Toblakai, young women – possibly even children – who might have been sisters, and a large dog bearing more scars than seemed possible. Great Ravens still lined the roof edges, or huddled like black, demonic gnomes on the street itself, silent as wraiths.
The dawn's golden sunlight streamed through the smoke hanging over the city, and he could hear nothing of the normal wakening bustle that should have already begun filling Darujhistan's streets.
Beyond this immediate gathering, others were appearing. Citizens, guards, blank-faced and empty of words, numb as refugees, none drawing too close but seemingly unwilling to leave.
The High Alchemist was standing a respectful distance away from the Barghast and the dead Tiste Andii, watching with sorrow-filled eyes. He then spoke, 'Caladan Brood, what he sought must—'
'Wait,' rumbled the Barghast. 'It must wait.' He bent down then, reached out and grasped hold of the blackbladed sword. And, with little ceremony, he worked the weapon loose, and then straightened once more.
It seemed everyone present held their breath.
Caladan Brood stared down at the weapon in his hands. Then, Barathol saw, the warrior's mouth twisted into a faint snarl, filed teeth gleaming. And he turned round and walked to the carriage, where he opened the side door and tossed the sword inside. It clanged, thumped. The door clicked shut.
The Barghast glared about, and then pointed. 'That ox and cart.'
'Caladan—'
'I will have my way here, Baruk.' His bestial eyes found Barathol. 'You, help me with him.'
Barathol bit back every groan as he took hold of the Tiste Andii's feet, watching as Brood forced his hands beneath the corpse's shoulders, down under the arms. Together, they lifted the body.
Antsy had brought the cart close and he now stood beside the ox, his expression miserable.
They laid the body of Anomander Rake on the slatted bed with its old blood stains. Brood leaned over it for a long moment. And then he drew himself upright once more and faced the High Alchemist. 'I shall build him a barrow. West of the city.'
'Caladan, please, that can wait. We have to—'
'No.' He moved to where Antsy stood and with one hand pushed the Falari away from the ox, grasping hold of the yoke. 'I will do this. None other need be burdened with this journey. It shall be Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake, together one last time.'
And so the ox began its fateful walk. A warrior at its side, the corpse of another in the cart.
The procession was forced to halt but once, not ten paces from where it started, as a short, round man in a red waistcoat had positioned himself directly in its path. Caladan Brood looked up, frowned.
The short, round man then, with surprising grace, bowed, before backing to one side.
Brood said nothing, simply tugging the ox into motion once again.
It was said that he had saved Darujhistan. Once, years ago, and now again. The Lord of Moon's Spawn, who on this night brought darkness down, darkness and cold, down upon the raging fires. Who somehow crushed the life from a growing conflagration of destruction. Saving the lives of everyone. It was said he single-handedly banished the demon Hounds. It was said, upon the instant of his death, the heart of the moon broke. And proof of that still lingered in the sky.
Who killed him? No one was sure. Rumours of Vorcan's return fuelled speculation of some vicious betrayal. A Malazan contract. A god's blind rage. But clearly it was fated, that death, for did not the worshippers of Dessembrae emerge from