There was, beneath the cold faces of gods, warmth. Yet it was sorrow in darkness, for it was not the gods themselves who were unfathomable. It was mortals. As for the gods — they simply paid.

We — we are the rack upon which they are stretched.

Then the sensation was gone, fleeing him as the alien god succeeded in extracting itself, leaving Itkovian with but fading echoes of a distant world's grief — a world with its own atrocities, layer upon layer through a long, tortured history. Fading … then gone.

Leaving him with heart-rending knowledge.

A small mercy. He was buckling beneath Rath'Fener's pain and the growing onslaught of Capustan's appalling death as his embrace was forced ever wider. The clamouring souls on all sides, not one life's history unworthy of notice, of acknowledgement. Not one he would turn away. Souls in the tens of thousands, lifetimes of pain, loss, love and sorrow, each leading to — each riding memories of its own agonized death. Iron and fire and smoke and falling stone. Dust and airlessness. Memories of piteous, pointless ends to thousands and thousands of lives.

I must atone. I must give answer. To every death. Every death.

He was lost within the storm, his embrace incapable of closing around the sheer immensity of anguish assailing him. Yet he struggled on. The gift of peace. The stripping away of pain's trauma, to free the souls to find their way … to the feet of countless gods, or Hood's own realm, or, indeed, to the Abyss itself. Necessary journeys, to free souls trapped in their own tortured deaths.

I am the. the Shield Anvil. This is for me. to hold. hold on. Reach — gods! Redeem them, sir! It is your task. The heart of your vows — you are the walker among the dead in the field of battle, you are the bringer of peace, the redeemer of the fallen. You are the mender of broken lives. Without you, death is senseless, and the denial of meaning is the world's greatest crime to its own children. Hold, Itkovian. hold fast -

But he had no god against which to set his back, no solid, intractable presence awaiting him to answer his own need. And he was but one mortal soul…

Yet, I must not surrender. Gods, hear me! I may not be yours. But your fallen children, they are mine. Witness, then, what lies behind my cold face. Witness!

In the plaza, amidst a dreadful silence, Paran and the others watched as Itkovian slowly settled to his knees. A rotting, lifeless corpse was slumped in his arms. The lone, kneeling figure seemed — to the captain's eyes — to encompass the exhaustion of the world, an image that burned into his mind, and one that he knew would never leave him.

Of the struggles — the wars — still being waged within the Shield Anvil, little showed. After a long moment, Itkovian reached up with one hand and unstrapped his helm, lifting it clear to reveal the sweat-stained leather under-helm. The long, dripping hair plastered against his brow and neck shrouded his face as he knelt with head bowed, the corpse in his arms crumbling to pale ash. The Shield Anvil was motionless.

The uneven rise and fall of his frame slowed.

Stuttered.

Then ceased.

Captain Paran, his heart hammering loud in his chest, darted close, grasped Itkovian's shoulders and shook the man. 'No, damn you! This isn't what I've come here to see! Wake up, you bastard!'

—  peace — I have you now? My gift — ah, this burden -

The Shield Anvil's head jerked back. Drew a sobbing breath.

Settling. such weight! Why? Gods — you all watched. You witnessed with your immortal eyes. Yet you did not step forward. You denied my cry for help. Why?

Crouching, the Malazan moved round to face Itkovian. 'Mallet!' he shouted over a shoulder.

As the healer ran forward, Itkovian, his eyes finding Paran, slowly raised a hand. Swallowing his dismay, he managed to find words. 'I know not how,' he rasped, 'but you have returned me …'

Paran's grin was forced. 'You are the Shield Anvil.'

'Aye,' Itkovian whispered. And Fener forgive me, what you have done is no mercy … 'I am the Shield Anvil.'

'I can feel it in the air,' Paran said, eyes searching Itkovian's. 'It's. it's been cleansed .'

Aye.

And I am not yet done.

Gruntle stood watching as the Malazan and his healer spoke with the Grey Sword commander. The fog of his thoughts — which had been closed around him for what he now realized was days — had begun to thin. Details now assailed him, and the evidence of the changes within himself left him alarmed.

His eyes saw … differently. Unhuman acuity. Motion — no matter how slight or peripheral — caught his attention, filled his awareness. Judged inconsequential or defined as threat, prey or unknown: instinctive decisions yet no longer buried deep, now lurking just beneath the surface of his mind.