A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

of fire. 'Who could manage such a conjuring?'
    'There was one ... once. Of worshippers there are none left, so he is no more. I have no answer to your question, Adjunct.' The Imass staggered as the pillar bloomed outwards, then winked out. A distant thundering rumble reached them.
    'Gone,' Lorn whispered.
    'Destroyed,' Tool said. The warrior cocked his head. 'Strange, the source is indeed destroyed. But something has also been born. I sense it, a new presence.'
    Lorn checked her sword. 'What is it?' she demanded.
    Tool shrugged. 'New. It flees.'
    Was this cause for worry? Lorn scowled and turned to the T'lan Imass, but he had already left her side, and was now striding back to their campfire. The Adjunct glanced once more at the western horizon. There was a cloud, blotting out the stars. It looked huge. She shivered.
    It was time to sleep. The Imass would stand guard, so she need not worry about surprise visitors. The day had been long, and she'd over-rationed her water; she felt weak, an unfamiliar sensation. Her scowl deepened as she walked to the camp. Tool, standing immobile beside the flames, reminded her of his arrival two days ago. The fiery glimmer that jumped along his withered flesh-and-bone helm once again triggered some-thing primordial in her mind, and with it came a deep, unreasoning fear of darkness. She stepped close to the Imass. 'Fire is life,' she whispered, the phrase seeming to rise from the depths of instinct.
    Tool nodded. 'Life is fire,' he said. 'With such words was born the First Empire. The Empire of Imass, the Empire of Humanity.' The warrior turned to the Adjunct. 'You've done well, my child.'
     
    The grey pall of smoke hung unmoving over Blackdog Forest a dozen leagues north of her as Crone dipped her splayed tail and sank wearily towards the army encamped on the Rhivi Plain.
    The tents marched outward like spokes from a central fortified hub where stood a large canopy, rippling in the morning breeze. Towards this centre the Great Raven descended. Her sharp gaze marked Rhivi plainsmen moving among the aisles. Off on the eastern rim fluttered the banners of the Catlin Horse, green and silver to mark the mercenary contingent of Caladan Brood's main army. By far the greatest proportion of soldiers, however, were Tiste Andii – Anomander Rake's people, dwellers of the city within Moon's Spawn – their tall, dark-clad forms moving like shadows between the tents.
    Wheeled tracks led north to the forest fringes: supply routes to entrenchments once held by the Malazans and now marking Brood's front lines. Rhivi-driven carts moved forward an endless stream of supplies, while other wagons, laden with the dead and the wounded, entered the camp in a grim flow.
    Crone cackled. Magic bled from the main tent and stained the dusty air with a heavy, turgid magenta, the colour of the D'riss Warren, earth magic. Her wings now felt light and held a youthful spring as she beat the air. 'Ahhh,' Crone sighed, 'magic' Sweeping through the wards and traps, the Great Raven glided over the tent and thrummed rapidly as she dropped outside the entrance.
    No guard barred the doorway, which had been left pulled back and tied to a support pole. Crone hopped inside.
    With the exception of a small hanging at the far end, behind which squatted an army cot, no other divisions had been made within the tent. In the centre stood a massive table, its surface etched with the contours of the surrounding land. One man stood alone, leaning over it, his back to the doorway. An enormous iron hammer was slung across his broad back; despite its size and evident weight, it looked almost toy-like against that span of muscle and bone. Power rolled from him in musky waves.
    'Delays, delays,' Crone muttered, as she flapped up to land on the tabletop.
    Caladan Brood grunted distractedly.
    'You sensed the storm of sorcery last night?' she asked.
    'Sensed? We could see it. The Rhivi shamans seem somewhat disturbed, but they have no answers. We'll discuss that later, Crone. Now I must think.'
    Crone cocked her head at the map. 'The west flank falls back in total disarray. Who commands that Barghast mob?'
    Brood asked, 'When did you fly within sight of them?'
    'Two days past. I saw but a third of the original force left alive.'
    Brood shook his head. 'Jorrick Sharplance, under him five thousand Barghast and seven Blades of the Crimson Guard.'
    'Sharplance?' Crone hissed laughter. 'Full of himself, is he?'
    'He is, but the Barghast so named