A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

lancing through him with glacial fire.
    Undead cared nothing for the limits of mortal flesh, a lesson now burning in his bones.
    The distant rent closed. All at once other powers were channelling through the mage. Ascendants, grasping Kulp's outrageous intent, swept in to join the game with dark glee. Always a game. Damn you bastards one and all! I take back my prayers! Hear me? Hood take you all!
    He realized the pain was gone, the Soletaken dragon withdrawing its attention as soon as other forces arrived to take its place. He remained hovering a few feet above the deck, however, his limbs twitching as the powers using him playfully plucked at his mortality. Not the indifference of an undead, but malice. Kulp began to yearn for the former.
    He fell suddenly, cracking both knees on the dirt-smeared deck. Too! done with, now discarded . . .
    Stormy was at his side, waving a wineskin before the mage's face. Kulp grasped it and poured until his mouth was full of the tart liquid.
    'We ride the dragon's wake,' the soldier said. 'Though not on water any more. That gush has closed up tight as a sapper's arse. Whatever you did, Mage, it worked.'
    'Not over yet,' Kulp muttered, trying to still his trembling limbs. He swallowed more wine.
    'Watch yourself with that, then,' Stormy said with a grin. 'It packs a punch, right to the back of the head—'
    'I won't notice the difference – my skull's already full of pulp.'
    'You lit up with blue fire, Mage. Never seen anything like it. Make a damned good tavern tale.'
    'Ah, I've achieved immortality at last. Take that, Hood!'
    'Well enough to stand?'
    Kulp was not too proud to accept the soldier's arm as he tottered to his feet. 'Give me a few moments,' he said, 'then I'll try to slip us from the warren ... back to our realm.'
    'Will the ride be as rough, Mage?'
    'I hope not.'
     
    Felisin stood on the forecastle deck, watching the mage and Stormy passing the wineskin between them. She had felt the presence of the Ascendants, the cold, bloodless attention plucking and prodding at the ship and all who were upon it. The dragon was the worst of them all, gelid and remote. Like fleas on its hide, that's all we were to it.
    She swung about. Baudin was studying the massive winged apparition cleaving the path ahead, his bandaged hand resting lightly on the carved rail. Whatever they rode rolled beneath them in a whispering surge. The oars still plied with remorseless patience, though it was clear that Silanda was moving more swiftly than anything muscle and bone could achieve – even when those muscles and bones were undead.
    Look at us. A handful of destinies. We command nothing, not even our next step in this mad, fraught journey. The mage has his sorcery, the old soldier his stone sword and the other two their faith in the Tusked God. Heboric . . . Heboric has nothing. And as for me, I have pocks and scars. So much for our possessions.
    'The beast prepares...'
    She glanced over at Baudin. Oh yes, I forgot the thug. He has
    his secrets, for what that's worth, like as not scant little. 'Prepares what? Are you an expert in dragons as well?'
    'Something's opening ahead – there's a change in the sky. See it?'
    She did. The unrelieved grey pall had acquired a stain ahead, a smudge of brass that deepened, grew larger. A word to the mage, I think —
    But even as she turned, the stain blossomed, filling half the sky. From somewhere far behind them came a howl of curdled outrage. Shadows sped across their path, tumbled to the sides as Silanda's prow clove through them. The dragon crooked its wings, vanishing into a blazing inferno of bronze fire.
    Spinning, Baudin wrapped Felisin in his huge arms and ducked down around her as the fire swept over the ship. She heard his hiss as the flames engulfed them.
    The dragon's found a warren . . . to sear the fleas from its hide!
    She flinched as the flames licked around Baudin's protective mass. She could smell him burning – the leather shirt, the skin of his back, his hair. Her gasps drew agony into her lungs.
    Then Baudin was running, carrying her effortlessly in his arms, leaping down the companionway to the main deck. Voices were shouting. Felisin caught a glimpse of Heboric – his tattoos wreathed in black smoke – staggering, striking the port rail, then plummeting over the ship's side.
    Silanda burned.
    Still running, Baudin plunged past the mainmast. Kulp lunged into view and grasped the thug's arms as he tried to scream something the