A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

Gasping, blinking, Paran raised his head, looked around.
    Rhivi surrounded him, but none moved. Their dark eyes were wide.
    Paran flicked his gaze to his weapon, glared back up and around at the warriors, then his eyes returned to Chance. And stayed there.
    Three iron lanceheads sprouted from the blade like leaves, each point split and jammed, the hafts shattered and gone, leaving only white wood jutting out from the sockets.
    He looked down at his pinned foot. A lance had struck, through his boot, but the wide blade of the head was turned, its flat side pressing against his foot. Splintered wood surrounded him. Paran glanced at his hip, saw no wound. A jagged tear marred the leather of Chance's scabbard.
    The Rhivi warrior with the smashed face lay motionless a few feet from where Paran stood. The captain saw that his mount and the packhorses were untouched and had not moved. The other Rhivi had pulled back. The encirclement now divided as a small figure approached.
    A girl, perhaps no more than five years old. The warriors moved aside from her as if in awe, or fear, possibly both. She wore antelope skins tied with cord at the waist, and nothing on her feet.
    There was something familiar about her, a way of walking, her stance as she stopped before him – something in her heavy-lidded eyes – that made Paran frown uneasily.
    The girl stopped to regard him, her small round face slowly coming to mirror Paran's own frown. She raised one hand, as if reaching for him, then dropped it. The captain found he could not pull away his eyes from her. Child, do I know you?
    As the silence between them lengthened, an old woman came up behind the girl, rested a wrinkled hand on her shoulder. Looking worn, almost exasperated, the old woman studied the captain. The girl beside her said something, the quick lilting language of the Rhivi, surprisingly low-pitched for one so young. The old woman crossed her arms. The girl spoke again, insistently.
    The old woman addressed Paran in Daru, 'Five lances claimed you as our enemy.' She paused. 'Five lances were wrong.'
    'You've plenty more,' Paran said.
    'So we have, and the god favouring your sword has no followers here.'
    'So finish it,' Paran growled. 'I'm tired of the game.'
    The girl spoke, a tone of command that rang like iron on stone.
    The old woman turned in obvious surprise.
    The girl continued, her words now evidently explanatory. The old woman listened, then swung her dark, glittering gaze back to the captain. 'You are Malazan, and Malazans have chosen to be the enemies of the Rhivi. Is this choice yours as well? And know this: I will recognize a lie when I hear it.'
    'I am Malazan by birth,' Paran said. 'I have no interest in calling the Rhivi my enemy. I would rather have no enemies at all.'
    The old woman blinked. 'She offers you words to ease your grief, soldier.'
    'Meaning?'
    'You are to live.'
    Paran did not quite trust this turn of events. 'What words has she for me? I've never seen her before.'
    'Nor has she seen you before. Yet you know each other.'
    'No, we don't.'
    The old woman's eyes hardened. 'Will you hear her words or not? She offers you a gift. Will you throw it back in her face?'
    Profoundly uneasy, he said. 'No, I suppose not.'
    'The child says you need not grieve. The woman you know has not passed through the Arching Trees of Death. Her journey was beyond the lands you can see, beyond those of the spirit that all mortals sense. And now she has returned. You must be patient, soldier. You will meet again, so this child promises.'
    'Which woman?' Paran demanded, his heart pounding.
    'The one you thought dead.'
    He looked again at the girl. The familiarity returned like a blow to his chest. He staggered back a step. 'Not possible,' he whispered.
    The girl withdrew, dust swirling. She vanished.
    'Wait!'
    Another cry sounded. The herd lurched into motion, closing in, obscuring the Rhivi. In moments all Paran could see were the backs of the giant beasts, shuffling past. He thought to push among them, but knew it would bring him only death.
    'Wait!' the captain shouted again, but the sound of hundreds – thousands – of hoofs on the plain drowned his efforts.
    Tattersail!
     
    It was fully an hour before the Bhederin herd's tail end appeared. As the last of the beasts strolled past the captain, he looked around. The wind rolled the dust cloud eastward, over the sloping, humped hills.
    Paran climbed into the saddle, swung his mount southward once again. The hills