A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

dusk with a hungry grin in the dimming sky.
    The Wickans have made a pact with the earth spirits. We're here to make fertile soil —
    You've taken the wrong path with that, friend. We're sport for the Whirlwind goddess, nothing more. We are a lesson drawn long in the telling.
    The Council of Nobles are eating children.
    Where did you hear that?
    Someone stumbled onto a grisly feast last night. The Council's petitioned dark Elder gods in order to stay fat —
    To what?
    Fat, I said. Truth. And now bestial spirits wander the camp at night, collecting children dead or near enough to dead to make no difference, except those ones are juicier.
    You've gone mad —
    He may have something there, friend! I myself saw picked and gnawed bones this morning, all in a heap – no skulls but the bones looked human enough, only very small. Wouldn't you do for a roasted baby right now, eh? Instead of the half-cup of brown sludge we're getting these days?
    I heard Aren's army is only days away, led by Pormqual himself. He's got a legion of demons with him, too —
    Sha'ik's dead – you heard the Semk wailing into the night, didn't you? And now they wear greased ash like a second skin. Someone in the Seventh told me he came face to face with one at last night's ambush – the scrap at the dried-up waterhole. Said the Semk's eyes were black pits, dull as dusty stones, they were. Even when the soldier spitted the bastard on his sword, nothing showed in those eyes. I tell you, Sha'ik's dead.
    Ubaryd's been liberated. We're going to swing south any day now – you'll see – it's the only thing that makes sense. There's nothing west of here. Nothing at all —
    Nothing at all. . .
    'Historian!'
    That harsh Falari-accented shout came from the dust-covered rider angling his mount alongside Duiker. Captain Lull, Cartheron Wing, his long, red hair hanging in greasy strands from under his helmet. The historian blinked at him.
    The grizzled soldier grinned. 'Word is, you've lost your way, old man.'
    Duiker shook his head. 'I follow the train,' he said woodenly, wiping at the grit that stung his eyes.
    'We've got a Tithansi warleader out there needs to be found, hunted down,' Lull said, eyes narrow on the historian. 'Sormo and Bult have volunteered some names for the task.'
    'I shall dutifully record them in my List of the Fallen.'
    The breath hissed between the captain's teeth. 'Abyss Below, old man, they ain't dead yet – we ain't dead yet, dammit! Anyway, I'm here to inform you that you've volunteered. We head out tonight, tenth bell. Gathering at Nil's hearth by the ninth.'
    'I decline the offer,' Duiker said.
    Lull's grin returned. 'Request denied, and I'm to stay at your side so you don't slip away as you're wont to do.'
    'Hood take you, bastard!'
    'Aye, soon enough.'
    Nine days to the River P'atha. We stretch to meet each minor goal, there's a genius in this. Coltaine offers the marginally possible to fool us into achieving the impossible. All the way to Aren. But for all his ambition, we shall fail. Fail in the flesh and the bone. 'We kill the warleader, another will step into his place,' Duiker said after a time.
    'Probably not as talented nor as brave as the task demands. A part of him will know: if his efforts are mediocre, we're likely to let him live. If he shows us brilliance, we'll kill him.'
    Ah, that rings of Coltaine. His well-aimed arrows of fear and uncertainty. He's yet to miss the mark. So long as he does not fail, he cannot fail. The day he slips up, shows imperfection, is the day our heads will roll. Nine days to fresh water. Kill the Tithansi war-leader and we'll get there. Make them reel with every victory, let them draw breath with every loss – Coltaine trains them as he would beasts, and they don't even realize it.
    Captain Lull leaned over the saddlehorn. 'Corporal List, you awake?'
    The young man's head swung up and turned from side to side.
    'Damn you, Historian,' Lull growled. 'The lad's fevered from lack of water.'
    Looking at the corporal, Duiker saw the high colour beneath the dust streaks on List's drawn cheeks, his all too bright eyes. 'He wasn't like that this morning—'
    'Eleven hours ago!'
    Eleven?
    The captain twisted his horse away, his shouts for a healer breaking through the incessant rumble of hooves, wagon wheels and countless footfalls which made up the train's unceasing roar.
    Eleven?
    Animals shifted position in the clouds of dust. Lull returned, alongside him Nether, the girl looking tiny