A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

feed our brothers in the army! Do you suggest we ignore the rich Mezla we come upon?'
    'The Odhan will kill them without our help,' the assassin said. 'You have their oxen.' Aren's yawning gates . . . the Jhistal within. What does that mean? Jhistal, not a familiar word, not Seven Cities. Falari?
    The man's expression had cooled in response to Kalam's words. 'We attack them at dawn. Do you ride with us, Mekral?'
    'They are south of here?'
    'They are. Less than an hour's ride.'
    'Then it is the direction I am already travelling, so I shall join you.'
    'Excellent!'
    'But there is nothing holy in rape,' Kalam growled.
    'No, not holy.' The man grinned. 'But just.'
     
    They rode in the night, beneath a vast scatter of stars. One of the bandits
    had stayed behind with the oxen and other booty, leaving Kalam riding with
    a party of six. All carried short recurved bows, though their supply of arrows
    was low – not a single quiver held more than three, and all with ragged
    fletching. The weapons would be effective at close range only.
    Bordu, the bandit leader, told the assassin that the Malazan refugees consisted of one man – a Malazan soldier – two women and two young boys. He was certain that the soldier had been wounded in the first ambush. Bordu did not expect much of a fight. They would take down the men first. 'Then we can play with the women and boys – perhaps you will change your mind, Mekral.'
    Kalam's only response was a grunt. He knew men such as these. Their courage held so long as they outnumbered their victims, the hollow glory they thirsted for came with overpowering and terrorizing the helpless. Such creatures were common in the world, and a land locked in war left them to run free, the brutal truths behind every just cause. They were given a name in the Ehrlii tongue: e'ptarh le'gebran, the vultures of violence.
    The withered skin of the prairie broke up ahead. Hump-shouldered knobs of granite were visible above the grasses, studding the slopes of a series of low hills. Faint firelight blushed the air behind one such large outcropping. Kalam shook his head. Far too careless in a hostile land – the soldier with them should have known better.
    Bordu raised a hand, slowing them to a halt about fifty paces from the monolithic outcrop. 'Keep your eyes from the hearth,' he whispered to the others. 'Let those fools be cursed with blindness, not us. Now, spread out. The Mekral and I will ride around to the other side. Give us fifty breaths, then attack.'
    Kalam's eyes narrowed on the bandit leader. Coming at the camp from the opposite side, he would run an obvious risk of taking an arrow or three from these attackers in the melee. More soldier's humour, I take it. But he said nothing, pulling away when Bordu did and riding side by side on a route that would circumvent the refugees' camp.
    'Your men are skilled with their bows?' the assassin asked a few minutes later.
    'Like vipers, Mekral.'
    'With about the same range,' Kalam muttered.
    'They'll not miss.'
    'No doubt.'
    'You are afraid, Mekral? You, such a large, dangerous-looking man. A warrior, without doubt. I am surprised.'
    'I've a bigger surprise,' Kalam said, reaching over and sliding a blade across Bordu's throat.
    Blood sprayed. Gurgling, the bandit leader reeled back in his saddle, his head flopping horribly.
    The assassin sheathed his knife. He rode closer in time to prop the man back up in his saddle and hold him balanced there, one hand to Bordu's back. 'Ride with me a while longer,' Kalam said, 'and may the Seven Holies flay your treacherous soul.' As they will mine, when the time comes.
    The glimmering firelight lay ahead. Distant shouts announced the bandits' charge. Horse hooves thumped the hard ground. Kalam tapped his mount into a canter. Bordu's horse matched the pace, the bandit leader's body weaving, his head now lolling almost on its side, ear against one shoulder.
    They reached the hill's slope, which was gentler on this side and mostly unobstructed. The attackers were visible now, riding into the shell of firelight, arrows zinging to thud into the blanket-wrapped figures around the hearth.
    From the sound those arrows made Kalam knew instantly that there were no bodies beneath those blankets. The soldier had proved his worth, had laid a trap. The assassin grinned. He pushed Bordu down over the saddlehorn and gave the bandit leader's horse a slap on the rump. It charged into the light.
    The assassin quickly checked his own