'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.