A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

don't even know if I can open my warren – he's got taints to him I wouldn't want spreading. Without my warren I can't deflect that sorcery. Meaning—'
    'We get roasted crisp,' Gesler said, nodding. 'Look alive up there, Truth. We're heading out!'
    'Yours is a misplaced faith, Corporal,' Heboric said.
    'Knew you'd say that. Now everyone stay low – me and Stormy and the lad got work to do.'
    Although he sat within arm's reach of the tattooed old man, Kulp could sense his own warren. It felt ready – almost eager – for release. The mage was frightened. Meanas was a remote warren, and every fellow practitioner Kulp had met characterized it the same way: cool, detached, amused intelligence. The game of illusions was played with light, dark, texture and shadows, crowing victory when it succeeded in deceiving an eye, but even that triumph felt emotionless, the satisfaction clinical. Accessing the warren always had the feel of interrupting a power busy with other things. As if shaping a small fraction of that power was a distraction barely worth acknowledging.
    Kulp did not trust his warren's uncharacteristic attentiveness.
    It wanted to join the game. He knew he was falling into the trap of thinking
    of Meanas as an entity, a faceless god, where access was worship, success
    a reward of faith. Warrens were not like that. A mage was not a priest and
    magic was not divine intervention. Sorcery could be the ladder to Ascendancy
    – a means to an end, but there was no point to worshipping the means.
    Stormy had rigged a small, square sail, enough to give control but not so large that it would risk the weakened mast. The Ripath slipped forward in front of a mild shore breeze. Truth lay on the bowsprit, scanning the breakers ahead. The cut they'd come in through was proving hard to find. Gesler barked out commands and swung the craft to run parallel to the reef.
    Kulp glanced at Heboric. The ex-priest sat with his left shoulder against the mast, squinting out into the darkness. The mage was desperate to open his warren – to look upon the old man's ghost-hands, to gauge the serpent of Otataral – but he held back, suspicious of his own curiosity.
    'There!' Truth shouted, pointing.
    'I see it!' Gesler bellowed. 'Move it, Stormy!'
    The Ripath swung around, bow wheeling to face the breakers ... and a gap that Kulp could barely make out. The wind picked up, the sail stretching taut.
    Beyond it, the billowing clouds twisted, creating an inverted funnel. Lightning leapt up from the waves to frame it. The Ripath slipped through the reef and plunged directly into the spinning vortex.
    Kulp did not even have time to scream. His warren opened, locking in instant battle with a power demonic in its fury. Spears of water slanted down from overhead, shredding the sail in moments. They struck the deck like quarrels, punching through the planks. Kulp saw one shaft pierce Stormy's thigh, pinning him shrieking to the deck. Others shattered against Heboric's hunched back – he had thrown himself over the girl, Felisin, shielding her as the spears rained down. His tattoos raged with fire the colour of mud-smeared gold.
    Baudin had hurled himself onto the forecastle, one arm reaching down and out of sight. Truth was nowhere to be seen.
    The spears vanished. Pitching as if on a single surging wave, the Ripath lurched forward, stern lifting. Overhead the sky raged, bruised and flushing with blooms of power. Kulp's eyes widened as he stared up – a tiny figure rode the storm above, limbs flailing, the fragments of a cloak whipping about like a tattered wing. Sorcery flung the figure around as if it was no more than a straw-stuffed doll. Blood exploded outward as a coruscating wave engulfed the hapless creature. When the wave swept past, the figure rolled and tumbled after it, webs of blood spreading out like a fisherman's net behind it.
    Then it was falling.
    Gesler pushed past Kulp. 'Take the oar!' he yelled above the roaring wind.
    The mage scrambled aft. Steer? Steer through what? He was certain it was not water carrying them. They'd plunged into a madman's warren. Closing his hands around the oar's handle, he felt his own warren flow down into the wood and take hold. The pitching steadied. Kulp grunted. There was no time to wonder – being appalled demanded all his attention.
    Gesler clambered forward, grasping Baudin's ankles just as the big man started to slip over the bow. Pulling him back revealed that Baudin held, with one