A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

bloodied once again. The Seventh was still something to behold, despite its diminished numbers, soldiers among it pitching dead to the ground without a visible wound on them, others wailing and weeping even as they slayed their foes. The arrival of mounted Wickan archers completed the rout, and the time had come once more for rest.
    Fist Coltaine stood waiting, alone, facing the odhan to the south. His feather cloak fluttered in the wind, its ragged edges shivering in the air's breath. Lining a ridge of hills in that direction, two thousand paces distant, another tribe sat their horses, barbaric war standards motionless against the pale-blue sky.
    Duiker's gaze held on the man as they approached. He tried to put himself inside Coltaine's skin, to find the place where the Fist now lived – and flinched back in his mind. No, not a failure of imagination on my part. An unwillingness. I can carry no-one else's burden – not even for a moment. We are all pulled inside ourselves now, each alone . . .
    Coltaine spoke without turning. 'The Kherahn Dhobri – or so they are named on the map.'
    'Aren's reluctant neighbours,' Duiker said.
    The Fist turned at that, his eyes sharp. 'We have ever held to our treaties,' he said.
    'Aye, Fist, we have – to the outrage of many Aren natives.'
    Coltaine faced the distant tribe again, silent for a long minute.
    The historian glanced at his nameless marine. 'You should seek out a cutter,' he said.
    'I can still hold a shield—'
    'No doubt, but it's the risk of infection ...'
    Her eyes widened and Duiker was felled mute, a rush of sorrow flooding him. He broke the gaze. You're a fool, old man.
    Coltaine spoke. 'Captain Lull.'
    'Fist.'
    'Are the wagons ready?'
    'Aye, sir. Coming up now.'
    Coltaine nodded. 'Historian.'
    'Fist?'
    The Wickan slowly turned round to face Duiker. 'I give you Nil and Nether, a troop from the three clans. Captain, has Commander Bult informed the wounded?'
    'Aye, sir, and they have refused you.'
    The skin tightened around Coltaine's eyes, but then he slowly nodded.
    'As has,' Lull continued, looking at Duiker, 'Corporal List.'
    'I admit,' the Fist sighed, 'those I selected from my own people are none too pleased – yet they will not disobey their warleader. Historian, you shall command as you see fit. Your responsibility, however, is singular. Deliver the refugees to Aren.'
    And so we come to this. 'Fist—'
    'You are Malazan,' Coltaine cut in. 'Follow the prescribed procedures—'
    'And if we are betrayed?'
    The Wickan smiled. 'Then we all join Hood, here in one place. If there must be an end to this, let it be fitting.'
    'Hold on as long as you can,' Duiker whispered. 'I'll skin Pormqual's face and give the order through his lips if I have to—'
    'Leave the High Fist to the Empress – and her Adjunct.'
    The historian reached for the glass bottle around his neck.
    Coltaine shook his head. 'This tale is yours, Historian, and right now, no-one is more important than you. And if you one day see Dujek, tell him this: it is not the Empire's soldiers the Empress cannot afford to lose, it is its memory.'
    A troop of Wickans rode towards them, leading spare mounts – including Duiker's faithful mare. Beyond them, the lead wagons of the refugees emerged from the dust, and off to one side waited three additional wagons, guarded – Duiker could see – by Nil and Nether.
    The historian drew a deep breath. 'About Corporal List—'
    'He will not be swayed,' Captain Lull cut in. 'He asked that I pass on his words of farewell, Duiker. I believe he muttered something about a ghost at his shoulder, whatever that means, then he said: "Tell the historian that I have found my war."'
    Coltaine looked away as if those words had struck through to him where all other words could not. 'Captain, inform the companies: we attack within the hour.'
    Attack. Hood's breath! Duiker felt awkward in his own body, his hands like leaden lumps at his sides, as if the question of what to do with his own flesh and bone – what to do in the next moment – had driven him to a crisis.
    Lull's voice broke through. 'Your horse has arrived, Historian.'
    Duiker released a shaky breath. Facing the captain, he slowly shook his head. 'Historian? No, perhaps I shall return to being a historian a week from now. But at this moment, and for what's to come ...' He shook his head a second time. 'I have no word for what I should be called right now.' He smiled. 'I think "old man" suffices—'
    Lull seemed