Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen, Book 9) by Steven Erikson

By Steven Erikson

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In battle every body loses.  This brutal fact may be noticeable within the eyes of each soldier in each world…

In Letherii, the exiled Malazan military commanded by way of Adjunct Tavore starts off its march into the japanese Wastelands, to struggle for an unknown reason opposed to an enemy it hasn't ever noticeable.

This final nice military of the Malazan Empire is resolved to make one ultimate defiant, heroic stand within the identify of redemption.  yet can deeds be heroic while there's no one to witness them?  and will that which isn't witnessed perpetually swap the world?  Destinies are hardly basic, truths by no means transparent yet one sure bet is that point is on no one’s side.  For the Deck of Dragons has been learn, unleashing a dread strength that none can comprehend…

In a far off land and underneath detached skies, the ultimate bankruptcy of ‘The Malazan booklet of the Fallen’ has begun…

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Example text

Senta returned his gaze to Angel. 'I think you are wise, old man, but for myself I am disappointed. You are a favourite with the crowds. ' Angel added wood to the fire and stood. Senta had only fought for one more year, then he had joined the Guild, earning far more as an assassin than a gladiator. The door opened behind him, and he felt a cold draught. Turning he saw Miriel walking towards her room. She was naked and carrying her clothes, her body wet from a bath in the stream. His gaze took in her narrow back and waist, the long muscular legs and firm, rounded buttocks.

Both priests stood. 'One more thing,' said Dardalion, his voice little more than a whisper. 'Do not shake hands with the man, or touch him. ' asked Vishna. 'No, but his memories would burn you. ' Dardalion returned to the window. The sun was high, shining down on the distant Delnoch peaks, and from this high window the Abbot could just see the faint grey line of the first wall of the Delnoch fortress. His eyes tracked along the colossal peaks of the mountains, traversing west to east towards the distant sea.

South lay his home; south was where Danyal waited, silent among the flowers and the glittering falls. Once under cover of the trees he relaxed a little, feeling the slow, eternal heartbeat of the forest all around him. What did these trees care for the hopes of Man? Their spirits were everlasting, born into the leaf, carried back to the ground, merging with the earth, feeding the tree, becoming leaves. An endless passive cycle of birth and rebirth through the eons. No murders here, no guilt. He felt the weight of his weapons, and wished he could cast them all aside and walk naked in the forest, the soft earth beneath his feet, the warm sun upon his back.

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