A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

one, but it was only a matter of time. When she did, she would ask them if they'd detected any source of magic recently.
    Brood was not one to overreact. If something was happening down here that soured his palate, it could be momentous, and she wanted to know of it before anyone else.
    Fire flashed in the sky ahead of her, perhaps a league distant. It flared briefly, tinged green and blue, then disappeared. Crone tensed. That had been sorcery, but of a kind she'd never known. As she swept into the area the air washed over her hot and wet, with a charnel stench that reminded her of – she cocked her head – burnt feathers.
    A cry sounded ahead, angry and frightened. Crone opened her beak to reply, then shut it again. It had come from one of her kin, she was certain, but for some reason she felt the need to hold her tongue. Then another ball of fire flashed, this time close enough to Crone that she saw what it engulfed: a Great Raven.
    Her breath hissed from her beak. In that brief instant of light she'd seen half a dozen more of her brethren wheeling in the sky ahead of her and to the west. She thrummed her wings and angled towards them.
    When she could hear their panicked flapping about her on all sides, Crone called out, 'Children! Attend to Crone! The Great Mother has come!'
    The ravens voiced relieved cries and closed in around her. They all shrieked at once in an effort to tell her what was happening, but Crone's angry hiss silenced them at once. 'I heard among you Hurtle's voice,' Crone said, 'did I not?'
    One male swept near her. 'You did,' he replied. 'I am Hurtle.'
    'I've just come from the north, Hurtle. Explain to me what has occurred.'
    'Confusion,' Hurtle drawled sarcastically.
    Crone cackled. She loved a good joke more than anyone. 'Indeed! Go on, lad!'
    'Before dusk Kin Clip detected a flare of sorcery below her on the plain. It was odd, its feel, but clearly a Warren had just opened and something had issued on to the plain. Kin Clip spoke to me of this, then investigated. I shadowed her from above during the descent, and so saw what she saw. Crone, it has come to my mind that once again the art of soul-shifting has been exercised.'
    'Eh?'
    'Travelling on the ground and having just come from a Warren was a small puppet,' Hurtle explained, 'animate and possessing great power. When this puppet detected Clip he gestured at her and she burst into flames. Since then, the creature has disappeared into its Warren, reappearing only to kill another of us.'
    'Why do you remain?' Crone demanded.
    Hurtle chuckled. 'We would determine its course, Crone. Thus far, it seems to travel southward.'
    'Very well. Now that that's been confirmed, leave and take the others with you. Return to Moon's Spawn and report to our lord.'
    'As you command, Crone.' Hurtle dipped a wing and slid off into darkness. His voice called out and was answered by a chorus.
    Crone waited. She wanted to be certain that they had all departed the area before doing some investigating on her own. Was this puppet the thing birthed in the pillar of fire? It didn't seem likely. And what kind of sorcery did it employ that no Great Raven could absorb? There was an Eldering taste about this. Soul-shifting was no simple cantrip, and it had never been common among the wizards even when its techniques were known. Too many tales of madness born within the shifting.
    Perhaps this puppet had survived from these times. Crone thought about that. Unlikely.
    Magic bloomed on the plain below, then faded. A small magical force scampered from the spot, weaving as it ran. There, thought Crone, there lie the answers to my questions. Destroy my younglings, will you? Would you so easily disdain Crone?
    She crooked her wings and dropped. The air whistled around her. She raised a penumbra of protective magic that encapsulated her just as the small figure ceased its march and looked up. Faintly, Crone heard a manic laugh rise up to meet her, then the puppet gestured.
    The power that engulfed Crone was immense, far beyond anything she anticipated. Her defences held but she found herself buffeted, as if fists punched her from every direction. She cried out in pain, spinning as she fell. It took all her strength and will to thrust out her battered wings and catch a rising current of air. She voiced an outraged, alarmed shriek as she climbed higher into the night sky. A glance down revealed that the puppet had returned once again to its Warren, for nothing magical was