‘Well I would,’ Hedge replied, ‘only it seems we’re heading in the same direction.’

‘That cannot be.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you do not know where I am going.’

‘Oh, perfect Imass logic. In other words, absurd idiocy. No, I don’t know precisely where you are going, but it i| undeniably to be found in the same direction as where I am headed. Is that too sharp an observation for you?’

‘Why do you hold to your flesh?’

‘The same reason, I suppose, why you hold on to what’s left of yours. Listen, I am named Hedge. I was once a soldier, a Bridgeburner. Malazan marines. Are you some cast-off from Logros T’lan Imass?’

The warrior said nothing for a moment, then, ‘I was once of Kron T’lan Imass. Born in the Season of Blood-from-the-Mountain to the clan of Eptr Phinana. My own blood arrived on the shores of Jagra Til. I am Emroth.’

‘A woman?’

A clattering, uneven shrug.

‘Well, Emroth, what are you doing walking across Hood’s forgotten ice-pit?’

‘There is no pit here.’

‘As you say.’ Hedge looked round. ‘Is this where abandoned T’lan Imass go, then?’

‘Not here,’ Emroth replied. Then the cutlass lifted and slowly pointed.

Ahead. The direction Hedge had decided to call north. ‘What, are we headed towards a huge pile of frozen bones, then?’

Emroth turned and began walking once more.

Hedge moved up alongside the undead creature. ‘Were you beautiful once, Emroth?’

‘I do not remember.’

‘I was hopeless with women,’ Hedge said. ‘My ears are too big-yes, that’s why I wear this leather cap. And I got knobby knees. It’s why I became a soldier, you know. To meet women. And then I discovered that women soldiers are scary. I mean, a lot more scary than normal women, which is saying something. I guess with you Imass, well, everyone was a warrior, right?’

‘I understand,’ Emroth said.

‘You do? Understand what?’

‘Why you have no companions, Hedge of the Bridgeburners.’

‘You’re not going to turn into a cloud of dust on me, are you?’

‘In this place, I cannot. Alas.’

Grinning, Hedge resumed, ‘It’s not like I died a virgin or anything, of course. Even ugly bastards like me-well, so long as there’s enough coin in your hand. But I’ll tell you something, Emroth, that’s not what you’d call love now, is it? So anyway, the truth of it is, 1 never shared that with anybody. Love. I mean, from the time I stopped being a child, right up until I died.

‘Now there was this soldier, once. She was big and mean. Named Detoran. She decided she loved me, and showed it by beating me senseless. So how do you figure that one? Well, I’ve got it worked out. You see, she was even less lovable than me. Poor old cow. Wish I’d understood that at the time. But I was too busy running away from her. Funny how that is, isn’t it?

‘She died, too. And so I had a chance to, you know, talk to her. Since we found ourselves in the same place. Her problem was, she couldn’t put enough words together to make a real sentence. Not thick, much, just inarticulate. People like that, how can you guess what’s in their mind? They can’t tell you, so the guessing stays guessing and most of the time you’re so wrong it’s pathetic. Well, we worked it out, more or less. I think. She said even less as a ghost.

‘But that’s the thing with it all, Emroth. There’s the big explosion, the white, then black, then you’re stirring awake all over again. A damned ghost with nowhere worthwhile to go, and all you’re left with is realizations and regrets. And a list of wishes longer than Hood’s-’

‘No more, Hedge of the Bridgeburners,’ Emroth interjected, the tremor of emotion in its voice. ‘I am not a fool. I comprehend this game of yours. But my memories are not for you.’

Hedge shrugged. ‘Not for you either, I gather. Gave them all away to wage war against the Jaghut. They were so evil, so dangerous, you made of yourselves your first victims. Kind of a backwards kind of vengeance, wouldn’t you say? Like you went and done their work for them. And the real joke is, they weren’t much evil or dangerous at all. Oh, maybe a handful, but those handful earned the wrath of their kin real fast-often long before you and your armies even showed up. They could police themselves just fine. They flung glaciers at you, so what did you do to defeat that? Why, you made your hearts even colder, even more lifeless than any glacier. Hood knows, that’s irony for you.’

‘I am unbound,’ Emroth said in a rasp. ‘My memories remain with me. It is these memories that have broken me.’

‘Broken?’

Another shrug. ‘Hedge of the Bridgeburners, unlike you, I remember love.’

Neither spoke for a time after that. The wind whipped bitter and dry. The crusted remnants of snow crackled underfoot in the beds of moss and lichen. On the horizon ahead there was a slate-grey ridge of some sort, angular like a massed line of toppled buildings. Above it the sky was milky white. Hedge gestured northward. ‘So, Emroth, is that it?’

The half-shattered head lifted. ‘Omtose Phellack.’

‘Really? But-’

‘We must cross it.’

‘Oh, and what lies beyond?’

The T’lan Imass halted and stared at Hedge with its withered, shadow-shrunken eyes. ‘I am not sure,’ it replied. ‘But, I now believe, it may be… home.’

Damn you, Emroth. You’ve just made things a lot harder.

The temple stood on a low hill, the land barren on all sides. Its huge cyclopean walls looked battered, shoved inward as if by ten thousand stone fists. Crooked fissures tracked the dark grey granite from ground level to the massive lintel stone leaning drunkenly above what had once been a grand, noble entranceway. The remnants of statues jutted from pedestals set to either side of the broad, now sagging steps.

Udinaas did not know where he was. Just another dream, or what started as a dream. Doomed, like all the others, to slide into something far worse.

And so he waited, trembling, his legs crippled, broken and lifeless beneath him-a new variation on the theme of incapacity. Bludgeoning symbol to his many flaws. The last time, he recalled, he had been squirming on the ground, limbless, a broken-backed snake. It seemed his subconscious lacked subtlety, a most bitter admission.

Unless, of course, someone or something else was send-ing these visitations.

And now, corpses had appeared on the stony slopes beneath the temple. Scores, then hundreds.

Tall, skin pale as the shell of turtle eggs, red-rimmed eyes set deep in elongated, chiselled faces, and too many joints on their long limbs, transforming their stiff expressions of death into something surreal, fevered-but that last detail was no surprise.

And now, a smudge of motion in the darkness beneath the lintel stone. A figure staggering into view. Unlike the dead. No, this one looked… human.

Splashed in blood from head to toe, the man reeled forward, halted at the top of the steps and looked round with wild, enraged eyes. Then, flinging his head back, he screamed at the colourless sky.

No words. Just fury.

Udinaas recoiled, sought to drag himself away.

And the figure saw him. One crimson, dripping hand, lifting, reaching out for him. Beckoning.

As if grasped by the throat, Udinaas lurched closer to the man, to the temple, to the cold scree of corpses. ‘No,’ he muttered, ‘not me. Choose someone else. Not me.’

‘Can you feel this grief, mortal?’

‘Not for me!’

‘But it is. You are the only one left. Are their deaths to be empty, forgotten, without meaning?’

‘

Udinaas tried to hold on to the ground, but the stones pulled loose under his hands, the sandy soil broke free as his nails dragged furrows in his wake. ‘Find someone else!’ His shriek echoed, as if launched directly at the temple, in through the gaping entrance, and echoing within-trapped, stolen away, rebounding until it was no longer his own voice, but that of the temple itself-a mournful cry of dying, of desperate defiance. The temple, voicing its thirst.