The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (140 page)

Two figures emerged into the firelight. The man in the lead was built like a bear, the comparison strengthened by the fur of that animal riding his broad shoulders. A single-bladed throwing axe jutted from each hip. His leather shirt was unlaced from the breastbone up, revealing solid muscles and thick, matted hair. The crimson slashes of paint on his cheeks announced him as a warleader, each slash denoting a recent victory. The multitude of freshly painted bands made plain the Malazans' ill fortune at his hands.

Behind this formidable creature was a Semk.

That's one assumption obliterated
. Evidently the Semk tribe's avowed hatred of all who were not Semk had been set aside in obeisance to the Whirlwind goddess.
Or, more accurately, to the destruction of Coltaine
.

The Semk was a squatter, more pugnacious-looking version of the Tithan warleader, hairy enough to dispense with the need for a bear fur. His only clothing was a hide loincloth and a brace of belts cinched tight over his stomach. The man was covered in greasy ash, his shaggy black hair hanging in thick threads, his beard knotted with finger-bone fetishes. The contemptuous sneer twisting his face had a permanence about it.

The last detail that revealed itself as the Semk stepped closer to the fire was the gut-stitching closing his mouth.
Hood's breath, the Semk take their vows of silence seriously!

The air grew icy. Faint alarm whispered at the back of Duiker's mind and he reached out to nudge Nil yet again.

Before he could make contact with the warlock, crossbows snapped. Two quarrels jutted from the Tithan warleader's chest, while two other Tithan warriors grunted before pitching to the ground. A fifth quarrel sank deep in the Semk's shoulder.

The earth beneath the hearth erupted, flinging coals and burning wood skyward. A multilimbed, tar-skinned beast clambered free, loosing a bone-shivering scream. It plunged in among the remaining Tithansi, claws ripping through armor and flesh.

The warleader fell to his knees, staring dumbly down at the leather-finned quarrels buried in his chest. Blood sprayed as he coughed, convulsed, then toppled face down on the dusty ground.

A mistake—the wrong—

The Semk had torn the quarrel from his shoulder as if it was a carpenter's nail. The air around him swirled white. Dark eyes fixing on the earth spirit, he leaped to meet it.

Nil was motionless at the historian's side. Duiker twisted to shake him, and found the young warlock unconscious.

The other Wickan youth was on his feet, reeling back under an invisible sorcerous onslaught. Strips of flesh and blood flew from the warlock—in moments there was only bone and cartilage where his face had been. The sight of the boy's eyes bursting had Duiker spinning away.

Tithansi were converging from all sides. As he dragged Nil back, the historian saw Lull and one of his marines releasing quarrels at almost point-blank range into the Semk's back. A lance flew out of the darkness and skidded from the marine's chain-armored back. Both soldiers wheeled, flinging away their crossbows and unsheathing long-knives to meet the first warriors to arrive.

The earth spirit was shrieking now, three of its limbs torn off its body and lying twitching on the ground. The Semk was silent mayhem, ignoring the quarrels in his back, closing again and again to batter the earth spirit. Cold poured in waves from the Semk—a cold Duiker recognized:
The Semk god—a piece of him survived, a piece of him commands one of his chosen warriors—

Detonations erupted to the south. Sharpers. Screams filled the night. Malazan sappers were blasting a hole through the Tithansi lines.
And here I'd concluded this was a suicide mission
.

Duiker continued dragging Nil southward, toward the explosions, praying that the sappers wouldn't mistake him for an enemy.

Horses thundered nearby. Iron rang.

One of the marines was suddenly at his side. Blood sheathed one side of her face, but she flung away her sword and pulled the warlock from the historian's hands, hoisting the lad effortlessly over one shoulder. “Pull out that damned sword and cover me!” she snarled, bolting forward.

Without a shield? Hood take us, you can't use a short sword without a shield!
But the weapon was in his hand as if it had leaped free of its scabbard and into his palm of its own will. The tin-pitted iron blade looked pitifully short as he backed away in the marine's wake, the weapon held out before him.

His heels struck something soft and with a curse he stumbled and fell.

The marine glanced back. “On your feet, dammit! Someone's after us!”

Duiker had tripped over a body, a Tithansi lancer who'd been dragged by his horse before the mangled mess of his left hand finally released the reins. A throwing star was buried deep in his neck. The historian blinked at that
—a Claw's weapon, that star—
as he scrambled to his feet.
More unseen back-up?
Sounds of battle echoed through the mists, as if a full-scale engagement was underway.

Duiker resumed covering the marine as she continued on, Nil's limp body hanging like a sack of turnips over one shoulder.

A moment later three Tithansi warriors plunged out of the fog, tulwars swinging.

Decades-old training saved the historian from their initial onslaught. He ducked low and closed with the warrior on his right, grunting as the man's leather-wrapped forearm cracked down on his left shoulder, then gasping as the tulwar it held whipped down—the Tithansi bending his wrist—and chopped deep into Duiker's left buttock. Even as the pain jolted through him, he'd driven his short sword up and under the warrior's ribcage, piercing his heart.

Tearing the blade free, the historian jumped right. There was a falling body between him and the two remaining warriors, both of whom had the added disadvantage of being right-handed. The slashing tulwars missed Duiker by an arm's length.

The nearest weapon had been swung with enough force to drive it into the ground. The historian stamped a boot down hard on the flat of the blade, springing the tulwar from the Tithan's hand. Duiker followed up with a savage chop between the man's shoulder and neck, snapping through the collarbone.

He launched himself behind the reeling warrior's back to challenge the third Tithan, only to see the man face down on the ground, a silver-pommelled throwing knife jutting from between his shoulder blades.
A Claw's sticker—I'd recognize it anywhere!

The historian paused, glared around, but could see no one. The mists swirled thick, smelling of ash. A hiss from the marine brought him around. She crouched at the inside edge of the picket trench, gesturing him forward.

Suddenly soaked with sweat and shivering, Duiker quickly joined her.

The woman grinned. “That was damned impressive sword-play, old man, though I couldn't make out how you done the last one.”

“You saw no one else?”

“Huh?”

Struggling to draw breath, Duiker only shook his head. He glanced down to where Nil lay motionless on the earthen bank. “What's wrong with him?”

The marine shrugged. Her pale-blue eyes were still appraising the historian. “We could use you in the ranks,” she said.

“What I've lost in speed I've made up in experience, and experience tells me not to get into messes like this one. Not an old man's game, soldier.”

She grimaced, but with good humor, “Nor an old woman's. Come on, the scrap's swung east—we shouldn't have any trouble crossing the trench.” She lifted Nil back onto her shoulder with ease.

“You nailed the wrong man, you know…”

“Aye, we'd guessed as much. That Semk was possessed, wasn't he?”

They reached the slope and picked their way carefully through the spikes studding the earth. Tents were burning in the Tithansi camp, adding smoke to the fog. Screams and the clash of weapons still echoed in the distance.

Duiker asked, “Did you see anyone else get out?”

She shook her head.

They came upon a score of bodies, a Tithansi patrol who'd been hit with a sharper. The grenado's slivers of iron had ripped through them with horrific efficiency. Blood trails indicated the recent departure of survivors.

The fog quickly thinned as they approached the Wickan lines. A troop of Foolish Dog lancers who had been patrolling the wicker barriers spotted them and rode up.

Their eyes fixed on Nil.

The marine said, “He lives, but you'd better find Sormo.”

Two riders peeled off, cantered back to the camp.

“Any news of the other marines?” Duiker asked the nearest horsewarrior.

The Wickan nodded. “The captain and one other made it.”

A squad of sappers emerged from the mists in a desultory dog-trot that slowed to a walk as soon as they saw the group. “Two sharpers,” one was saying, disbelief souring his voice, “and the bastard just got back up.”

Duiker stepped forward. “Who, soldier?”

“That hairy Semk—”

“Ain't hairy no more,” another sapper threw in.

“We were the mop-up mission,” the first man said, showing a red-stained grin. “Coltaine's axe—you were the edge, we were the wedge. We hammered that ogre but it done no good—”

“Sarge took an arrow,” said the other sapper. “His lung's bleeding—”

“Just one of them and it's a pinprick,” the sergeant corrected, pausing to spit. “The other one's fine.”

“Can't breathe blood, Sarge—”

“I shared a tent with you, lad—I've breathed worse.”

The squad continued on, arguing over whether or not the sergeant should go find a healer. The marine stared after them, shaking her head. Then she turned to the historian. “I'll leave you to talk with Sormo, sir, if that's all right.”

Duiker nodded. “Two of your friends didn't make it back—”

“But one did. Next time for sword practice, I'll come looking for you, sir.”

“My joints are already seizing, soldier. You'll have to prop me up.”

She gently lowered Nil to the grass, then moved off.

Ten years younger, I'd have the nerve to ask her…well, never mind. Imagine the arguments at the cooking fire…

The two Wickan riders returned, flanking a travois harnessed to a brutal-looking cattle-dog. A hoof had connected with its head some time in its past, and the bones had healed lopsided, giving the animal a manic half-snarl that seemed well suited to the vicious gleam in its eyes.

The riders dismounted and carefully laid Nil on the travois. Disdaining its escort, the dog moved off, back toward the Wickan encampment.

“That was one ugly beast,” Captain Lull said behind the historian.

Duiker grunted. “Proof that their skulls are all bone and no brain.”

“Still lost, old man?”

The historian scowled. “Why didn't you tell me we had hidden help, Captain? Who were they, Pormqual's?”

“What in Hood's name are you talking about?”

He turned. “The Claw.
Someone
was covering our retreat. Using stars and stickers and moving unseen like a Hood-damned breath on my back!”

Lull's eyes widened.

“How many more
details
is Coltaine keeping to himself?”

“There's no way Coltaine knows anything about this, Duiker,” Lull said, shaking his head. “If you're certain of what you saw—and I believe you—then the Fist will want to know. Now.”

For the first time that Duiker could recall, Coltaine looked rattled. He stood perfectly still, as if suddenly unsure that no one hovered behind him, invisible blades but moments from their killing thrust.

Bult growled low in his throat. “The heat's got you addled, Historian.”

“I know what I saw, Uncle. More, I know what I
felt
.”

There was a long silence, the air in the tent stifling and still.

Sormo entered, stopping just inside the entrance as Coltaine pinned him with a glare. The warlock's shoulders were slumped, as if no longer able to bear the weight they had carried all these months. Shadows pouched his eyes with fatigue.

“Coltaine has some questions for you,” Bult said to him. “Later.”

The young man shrugged. “Nil has awakened. I have answers.”

“Different questions,” the scarred veteran said with a dark, humorless grin.

Coltaine spoke. “Explain what happened, Warlock.”

“The Semk god isn't dead,” Duiker said.

“I'd second that opinion,” Lull muttered from where he sat on a camp saddlechair, his unbuckled vambraces in his lap, his legs stretched out. He met the historian's eyes and winked.

“Not precisely,” Sormo corrected. He hesitated, drew a deep breath, then continued. “The Semk god was indeed destroyed. Torn to pieces and devoured. Sometimes, a piece of flesh can contain such malevolence that it corrupts the devourer—”

Duiker sat forward, wincing at the pain from the force-healed wound in his backside. “An earth spirit—”