A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

brutal-looking cattle-dog. A hoof had connected with its head some time in its past, and the bones had healed lopsided, giving the animal a manic half-snarl that seemed well suited to the vicious gleam in its eyes.
    The riders dismounted and carefully laid Nil on the travois. Disdaining its escort, the dog moved off, back towards the Wickan encampment.
    'That was one ugly beast,' Captain Lull said behind the historian.
    Duiker grunted. 'Proof that their skulls are all bone and no brain.'
    'Still lost, old man?'
    The historian scowled. 'Why didn't you tell me we had hidden help, Captain? Who were they, Pormqual's?'
    'What in Hood's name are you talking about?'
    He turned. 'The Claw. Someone was covering our retreat. Using stars and stickers and moving unseen like a Hood-damned breath on my back!'
    Lull's eyes widened.
    'How many more details is Coltaine keeping to himself?'
    'There's no way Coltaine knows anything about this, Duiker,' Lull said, shaking his head. 'If you're certain of what you saw – and I believe you – then the Fist will want to know. Now.'
     
    For the first time that Duiker could recall, Coltaine looked rattled. He stood perfectly still, as if suddenly unsure that no-one hovered behind him, invisible blades but moments from their killing thrust.
    Bult growled low in his throat. 'The heat's got you addled, Historian.'
    'I know what I saw, Uncle. More, I know what I felt.'
    There was a long silence, the air in the tent stifling and still.
    Sormo entered, stopping just inside the entrance as Coltaine pinned him with a glare. The warlock's shoulders were slumped, as if no longer able to bear the weight they had carried all these months. Shadows pouched his eyes with fatigue.
    'Coltaine has some questions for you,' Bult said to him. 'Later.'
    The young man shrugged. 'Nil has awakened. I have answers.'
    'Different questions,' the scarred veteran said with a dark, humourless grin.
    Coltaine spoke. 'Explain what happened, Warlock.'
    'The Semk god isn't dead,' Duiker said.
    'I'd second that opinion,' Lull muttered from where he sat on a camp saddle-chair, his unbuckled vambraces in his lap, his legs stretched out. He met the historian's eyes and winked.
    'Not precisely,' Sormo corrected. He hesitated, drew a deep breath, then continued. 'The Semk god was indeed destroyed. Torn to pieces and devoured. Sometimes, a piece of flesh can contain such malevolence that it corrupts the devourer—'
    Duiker sat forward, wincing at the pain from the force-healed wound in his backside. 'An earth spirit—'
    'A spirit of the land, aye. Hidden ambition and sudden power. The other spirits... suspected naught.'
    Bult's face twisted in disgust. 'We lost seventeen soldiers tonight just to kill a handful of Tithan warchiefs and unmask a rogue spirit?'
    The historian flinched. It was the first time he'd heard the full count of losses. Coltaine's first failure. If Oponn smiles on us , the enemy won't realize it.
    'With such knowledge,' Sormo explained quietly, 'future lives will be saved. The spirits are greatly distressed – they were perplexed at being unable to detect the raids and ambushes, and now they know why. They did not think to look among their own kin. Now they will deliver their own justice, in their own time—'
    'Meaning the raids continue?' The veteran looked ready to spit. 'Will your spirit allies be able to warn us now – as they once did so effectively?'
    'The rogue's efforts will be blunted.'
    'Sormo,' Duiker said, 'why was the Semk's mouth sewn shut?'
    The warlock half smiled. 'That creature is sewn shut everywhere, Historian. Lest that which was devoured escapes.'
    Duiker shook his head. 'Strange magic, this.'
    Sormo nodded. 'Ancient,' he said. 'Sorcery of guts and bone. We struggle with knowledge we once possessed instinctively.' He sighed. 'From a time before warrens, when magic was found within.'
    A year ago Duiker would have been galvanized with curiosity and excitement at such comments, and would have relentlessly interrogated the warlock without surcease. Now, Sormo's words were a dull echo lost in the vast cavern of the historian's exhaustion. He wanted nothing but sleep, and knew it would be denied him for another twelve hours – the camp outside was already stirring, even though another hour of darkness remained.
    'If that's the case,' Lull drawled, 'why didn't that Semk burst apart like a bloated bladder when we pricked him?'
    'What was devoured hides deep. Tell me, was this possessed