A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

atop the huge, muscular roan she rode. The captain collected the reins of List's horse and passed them over to Nether. Duiker watched the Wickan child lead the corporal away.
    'I'm tempted to have her attend to you afterward,' Lull said. 'Hood's breath, man – when did you last take a sip of water?'
    'What water?'
    'We've casks left for the soldiers. You take a skin every morning, Historian, up where the wagons carrying the wounded are positioned. Each dusk you bring the skin back.'
    'There's water in the stew, isn't there?'
    'Milk and blood.'
    'If there are casks left for the soldiers, what of everyone else?'
    'Whatever they managed to carry with them from the Sekala River,' Lull said. 'We'll protect them, aye, but we'll not mother them. Water's become the currency, I hear, and the trading's fierce.'
    'Children are dying.'
    Lull nodded. 'That's a succinct summary of humankind, I'd say. Who needs tomes and volumes of history? Children are dying. The injustices of the world hide in those three words. Quote me, Duiker, and your work's done.'
    The bastard's right. Economics, ethics, the games of the gods – all within that single, tragic statement. I'll quote you, soldier. Be assured of that. An old sword, pitted and blunt and nicked, that cuts clean to the heart. 'You humble me, Captain.'
    Lull grunted, passing over a waterskin. 'A couple of mouthfuls. Don't push it or you'll choke.'
    Duiker's smile was wry.
    'I trust,' the captain continued, 'you've kept up on that List of the Fallen you mentioned.'
    'No, I've ... stumbled of late, I'm afraid.'
    Lull jerked a tight nod.
    'How do we fare, Captain?'
    'We're getting mauled. Badly. Close to twenty killed a day, twice that wounded. Vipers in the dust – they suddenly appear, arrows fly, a soldier dies. We send out a troop of Wickans in pursuit, they ride into an ambush. We send out another, we got a major tangle on our hands, leaving flanks open to either side. Refugees get cut down, drovers get skewered and we lose a few more animals – unless those Wickan dogs are around, that is, those are nasty beasts. Mind you, their numbers are dropping as well.'
    'In other words, this can't go on much longer.'
    Lull bared his teeth, a white gleam amidst his grey-shot red beard. 'That's why we're going for the warleader's head. When we reach the River P'atha, there'll be another full-scale battle. He ain't invited.'
    'Another disputed crossing?'
    'No, the river's ankle-deep and getting shallower as the season drags on. More likely on the other side – the trail winds through some rough country – we'll find trouble there. In any case, we either carve ourselves some breathing space then, or we're purple meat under the sun and it don't matter.'
    The Wickan horns sounded.
    'Ah,' Lull said, 'we're done. Get some rest, old man – we'll find us a spot in the Foolish Dog camp. I'll wake you with a meal in a few hours.'
    'Lead on, Captain.'
     
    Scrapping over something unrecognizable in the tall grasses, the pack of Wickan cattle-dogs paused to watch Duiker and Lull stride past at a distance of twenty or so paces. The historian frowned at the wiry, mottled beasts.
    'Best not look them in the eye,' Lull said. 'You ain't Wickan and they know it.'
    'I was just wondering what they're eating.'
    'Not something you want to find out.'
    'There's been a rumour about dug-up child graves ...'
    'Like I said, you don't want to know, Historian.'
    'Well, some of the tougher mud-bloods have been hiring themselves out to stand guard over those graves—'
    'If they ain't got Wickan blood in that mud they'll regret it.'
    The dogs resumed their snapping and bickering once the two men had moved past.
    Hearthfires flickered in the camp ahead. A last line of defenders patrolled the perimeter of the round hide tents, old folk and youths, who revealed a silent, vaguely ominous watchfulness that matched that of the cattle-dogs as the two men strode into the Wickan enclave.
    'I get a sense,' Duiker muttered, 'that the cause of protecting the refugees is cooling among these people ...'
    The captain grimaced but said nothing.
    They continued on, winding between the tent rows. Smoke hung heavy in the air, as did the smell of horse urine and boiled bones, the latter acrid yet strangely sweet. Duiker paused as they passed close to an old woman tending one such iron pot of bones. Whatever boiled in the pot wasn't entirely water. The woman was using a flat blade of wood to collect the thick bone fat and marrow that