A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

struck the Tregyn position like a vengeful god's scythe. The north was a spear thrusting deep into Korbolo Dom's flank. A third, hitherto unseen force swept up from the valley itself, behind the Bhilard. Within minutes of the perfectly timed contacts, the Malazan forces found themselves unopposed, while the chaos of battle reigned on all sides.
    Korbolo Dom's army quickly recovered, reforming with as much precision as they could muster, and drove back the Khundryl after more than four hours of pitched battle. One aim had been achieved, however, and that was the shattering of the Semk, the Can'eld and whatever was left of the Tithansi. Half an answer, Coltaine had muttered at that point, in a tone of utter bewilderment.
    The southern forces broke the Tregyn and Bhilard an hour later, and set off in pursuit of the fleeing remnants.
    With dusk an hour away, a lone Khundryl war chief rode up to them at a slow canter, and as he neared they saw that it was the spokesman. He'd been in a scrap and was smeared in blood, at least half of it his own, yet he rode straight in his saddle.
    He reined in ten paces from Coltaine.
    The Fist spoke. 'You have your answer, it seems.'
    'We have it, Blackwing.'
    'The Khundryl.'
    Surprise flitted on the warrior's battered face. 'You honour us, but no. We strove to break the one named Korbolo Dom, but failed. The answer is not the Khundryl.'
    'Then you do honour to Korbolo Dom?'
    The war chief spat at that, growled his disbelief. 'Spirits below! You cannot be such a fool! The answer this day ...' The war chief yanked free his tulwar from its leather sheath, revealing a blade snapped ten inches above the hilt. He raised it over his head and bellowed, 'The Wickans! The Wickans! The Wickans!'

CHAPTER TWENTY
    This path's a dire thing,
the gate it leads to
is like a corpse
over which ten thousand
nightmares bicker
their fruitless claims.
    The Path
Trout Sen'al' Bhok'arala
     
    Seagulls wheeled above them, the first they'd seen in a long while. The horizon ahead, on their course bearing of south by southeast, revealed an uneven smudge that grew steadily even as the day prepared for its swift demise.
    Not a single cloud marred the sky and the wind was brisk and steady.
    Salk Elan joined Kalam on the forecastle. Both of them were wrapped in cloaks against the rhythmic spray kicked up by Ragstopper's headlong plunge into the troughs. To the sailors manning stations on the main deck and aft, the sight of them standing there at the bow like a pair of Great Ravens was black-wrought with omens.
    Oblivious to all this, Kalam's gaze held on the island that awaited them.
    'By midnight,' Salk Elan said with a loud sigh. 'Ancient birthplace of the Malazan Empire—'
    The assassin snorted. 'Ancient? How old do you think the Empire is? Hood's breath!'
    'All right, too romantic by far. I was but seeking a mood—'
    'Why?' Kalam barked.
    Elan shrugged. 'No particular reason, except perhaps this brooding atmosphere of anticipation, nay, impatience, even.'
    'What's to brood about?'
    'You tell me, friend.'
    Kalam grimaced, said nothing.
    'Malaz City,' Elan resumed. 'What should I expect?'
    'Imagine a pigsty by the sea and that'll do. A rotten, festering bug-ridden swamp—'
    'All right, all right! Sorry I asked!'
    'The captain?'
    'No change, alas.'
    Why am I not surprised? Sorcery – gods, how I hate sorcery!
    Salk Elan rested long-fingered hands on the rail, revealing once again his love of green-hued gems set in gaudy rings. 'A fast ship could take us across to Unta in a day and a half...'
    'And how would you know that?'
    'I asked a sailor, Kalam, how else? That salt-crusted friend of yours pretending to be in charge, what's his name again?'
    'I don't recall asking.'
    'It's a true, admirable talent, that.'
    'What is?'
    'Your ability to crush your own curiosity, Kalam. Highly practical in some ways, dreadfully risky in others. You're a hard man to know, harder even to predict—'
    'That's right, Elan.'
    'Yet you like me.'
    'I do?'
    'Aye, you do. And I'm glad, because it's important to me—'
    'Go find a sailor if you're that way, Elan.'
    The other man smiled. 'That is not what I meant, but of course you're well aware of that, you just can't help flinging darts. What I'm saying is, I enjoy being liked by someone I admire—'
    Kalam spun around. 'What do you find so admirable, Salk Elan? In all your vague suppositions, have you discovered a belief that I'm susceptible to flattery? Why are you eager for a