A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

below.
    Duiker saw half a dozen tulwars flash, watched the Wickans recoil and then unsheathe their own long-knives. They seemed to have found a leader, a tall, fierce-looking warrior with fetishes in his long braids, who now bellowed encouragement, waving his own weapon over his head. 'Hood!' the historian swore. 'Where on earth is Coltaine?'
    The captain laughed. 'The tall one with the lone long-knife.'
    Duiker's eyes widened. That madman is Coltaine? The Seventh's new Fist?
    'Ain't changed at all, I see,' the captain continued. 'If you're going to keep your head as leader of all the clans, you'd better be nastier than all the rest put together. Why'd you think the old Emperor liked him so much?'
    'Beru fend,' Duiker whispered, appalled.
    In the next breath an ululating scream from Coltaine brought sudden silence from the Wickan company. Weapons slid back into their sheaths, bows were lowered, arrows returned to their quivers. Even the bucking, snapping horses fell still, heads raised and ears pricked. A space cleared around Coltaine, who had turned his back on the guards. The tall warrior gestured and the four men on the parapet watched in silence as with absolute precision every horse was saddled. Less than a minute later the horsesoldiers were mounted, guiding their horses into a close parade formation that would rival the Imperial elites.
    'That,' Duiker said, 'was superbly done.'
    A soft sigh escaped Mallick Rel. 'Savage timing, a beast's sense of challenge, then contempt. Statement for the guards. For us as well?'
    'Coltaine's a snake,' the captain said, 'if that's what you're asking. If the High Command at Aren thinks they can dance around him, they're in for a nasty surprise.'
    'Generous advice,' Rel acknowledged.
    The captain looked as if he'd just swallowed something sharp, and Duiker realized that the man had spoken without thought as to the priest's place in the High Command.
    Kulp cleared his throat. 'He's got them in troop formation – guess the ride to the barracks will be peaceful after all.'
    'I admit,' Duiker said wryly, 'that I look forward to meeting the Seventh's new Fist.'
    His heavy-lidded eyes on the scene below, Rel nodded. 'Agreed.'
     
    Leaving behind the Skara Isles on a heading due south, the fisherboat set out into the Kansu Sea, its triangular sail creaking and straining. If the gale held, they would reach the Ehrlitan coast in four hours. Fiddler's scowl deepened. The Ehrlitan coast, Seven Cities. I hate this damned continent. Hated it the first time, hate it even more now. He leaned over the gunnel and spat acrid bile into the warm, green waves.
    'Feeling any better?' Crokus asked from the prow, his tanned young face creased with genuine concern.
    The old saboteur wanted to punch that face; instead he just growled and hunched down deeper against the barque's hull.
    Kalam's laugh rumbled from where he sat at the tiller. 'Fiddler and water don't mix, lad. Look at him, he's greener than that damned winged monkey of yours.'
    A sympathetic snuffling sound breathed against Fiddler's cheek. He pried open one bloodshot eye to find a tiny, wizened face staring at him. 'Go away, Moby,' Fiddler croaked. The familiar, once servant to Crokus's uncle Mammot, seemed to have adopted the sapper, the way stray dogs and cats often did. Kalam would say it was the other way around, of course. 'A lie,' Fiddler whispered. 'Kalam's good at those—' like lounging around in Rutu Jelba for a whole damn week on the off-chance that a Skrae trader would come in. 'Book passage in comfort, eh, Fid?' Not like the damned ocean crossing, oh no – and that one was supposed to have been in comfort, too. A whole week in Rutu Jelba, a lizard' infested, orange-bricked cesspool of a city, then what? Eight jakatas for this rag-stoppered sawed-in-half ale casket.
    The steady rise and fall lulled Fiddler as the hours passed. His mind drifted back to the appallingly long journey that had brought them thus far, then to the appallingly long journey that lay ahead. We never do things the easy way, do we?
    He would rather that every sea dried up. Men got feet, not
    flippers. Even so, we're about to cross overland – over a fly-
    infested, waterless waste, where people smile only to announce they're about
    to kill you.
    The day dragged on, green-tinged and shaky.
    He thought back to the companions he'd left behind on Genabackis, wishing he could be marching alongside them. Into a religious war. Don't forget that, Fid.