A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

roaring fires swept away. But Baudin had become a thing mindless in its pain. His arm flung outward, and the mage was hurled back through the flames.
    Bellowing, Baudin lurched on, a blind, hopeless flight to the sterncastle. The marines had vanished – either incinerated or dying somewhere below decks. Felisin did not struggle. Seeing that no escape was possible, she almost welcomed the bites of fire that now came with increasing frequency.
    She simply watched as Baudin carried her over the stern rail.
    They fell.
    The breath was knocked from her lungs as they struck hard-packed sand. Still clutched in an embrace, they rolled down a steep slope and came to rest amidst a pile of water-smoothed cobbles. The bronze fire was gone.
    Dust settling around them, Felisin stared up at bright sunlight. Somewhere near her head flies buzzed, the sound so natural that she trembled – as if desperately held defensive walls were crumbling within her. We've returned. Home. She knew it with instinctive certainty.
    Baudin groaned. Slowly he pushed himself away, the cobbles sliding and grating beneath him.
    She looked at him. The hair was gone from his head, leaving a flash-burned pate the colour of mottled bronze. His leather shirt was nothing but stitched strips hanging down his broad back like fragments of charred webbing. If anything, the skin of his back was darker and more mottled than that of his head. The bandages on his hand were gone as well, revealing swollen fingers and bruised joints. Incredibly, his skin was not cracked, not split open; instead, he had the appearance of having been gilded. Tempered.
    Baudin rose, slowly, each move aching with precision. She saw him blink, draw a deep breath. His eyes widened as he looked down at himself.
    Not what you were expecting. The pain fades – I see it in your face – now only a memory. You've survived, but somehow ... it all feels different. It feels. You feel.
    Can nothing Ml you, Baudin?
    He glanced at her, then frowned.
    'We're alive,' she said.
    She followed suit when he clambered upright. They stood in a narrow arroyo, a gorge where flash floods had swept through with such force as to pack the bends of the channel with skull-sized rocks. The cut was less than five paces wide, the sides twice the height of a man and banded in variously coloured layers of sand.
    The heat was fierce. Sweat ran in runnels down her back. 'Can you see anywhere we can climb out?' she asked.
    'Can you smell Otataral?' Baudin muttered.
    A chill wrapped her bones. We're back on the island — 'No. Can you?'
    He shook his head. 'Can't smell a damned thing. Just a thought.'
    'Not a nice one,' she snapped. 'Let's find a way out.' You
    expect me to thank you for saving my life, don't you? You're waiting for even
    a single word, or maybe something as small as a look, a meeting of the eyes.
    You can wait for ever, thug.
    They worked their way along the choked channel, surrounded by a whirring cloud of flies and their own echoes.
    'I'm ... heavier,' Baudin said after a few minutes.
    She paused, glanced back at him. 'What?'
    He shrugged. 'Heavier.' He kneaded his own arm with his uninjured hand. 'More solid. I don't know. Something's changed.'
    Something's changed. She stared at him, the emotions within her twisting around unvoiced fears.
    'I could've sworn I was burning away to bones,' he said, his frown deepening.
    'I haven't changed,' she said, turning and continuing on. She heard him follow a moment later.
    They found a side channel, a cleft where torrents of water had rushed down to join the main channel's course, cutting through the layers of sandstone. This track quickly lost its depth, opening out after twenty or so paces. They emerged onto the edge of a range of blunt hills overlooking a broad valley of cracked earth. More hills, sharper and ragged, rose on the other side, blurry behind waves of heat.
    Five hundred paces out on the pan stood a figure. At its feet lay a humped shape.
    'Heboric,' Baudin said, squinting. 'The one standing.'
    And the other one? Dead or alive? And who?
    They walked side by side towards the ex-priest, who now watched them. His clothing too had burned away to little more than charred rags. Yet his flesh, beneath that skein of tattooing, was unmarred.
    As they neared, Heboric gestured towards his own bald pate. 'Suits you, Baudin,' he said with a wry grin.
    'What?' Felisin's tone was caustic. 'Are you two a brotherhood now?'
    The figure at the old man's feet was the