A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

Dhobri.'
    'Come forward, then, with your people.'
    The two rode back to their kin. Duiker watched them for a moment, then he wheeled his horse and stood in his stirrups. Far to the north, over Sanimon, hung a dust cloud. 'Nether, can you send Coltaine a message?'
    'I can offer him a knowing, yes.'
    'Do so. Tell him: he was right.'
     
    The sense rose slowly, as if from a body all had believed cold, a corpse in truth, the realization rising, filling the air, the spaces in between. Faces took on a cast of disbelief, a numbness that was reluctant to yield its protective barriers. Dusk arrived, clothing an encampment of thirty thousand refugees in the joining of two silences – one from the land and the night sky with its crushed-glass stars, the other from the people themselves. Dour-faced Kherahnal moved among them, their gifts and gestures belying their expressions and reserve. And to each place they went, it was as if they brought, in their touch, a release.
    Sitting beneath that glittering night sky, surrounded by thick grasses, Duiker listened to the cries that cut through the darkness, wrenching at his heart. Joy wrought with dark, blistering anguish, wordless screams, uncontrolled wailing. A stranger would have believed that some horror stalked the camp, a stranger would not have understood the release that the historian heard, the sounds that his own soul answered with burning pain, making him blink at the stars that blurred and swam overhead.
    The release born of salvation was nevertheless tortured, and Duiker well knew why, well knew what was reaching down from the north – a host of inescapable truths. Somewhere out there in the darkness stood a wall of human flesh, clothed in shattered armour, which still defied Korbolo Dom, which had purchased and was still purchasing this dread salvation. There was no escape from that knowledge.
    Grasses whispered near him and he sensed a familiar presence crouch down beside him.
    'How fares Coltaine?' Duiker asked.
    Nether sighed. 'The linkage is broken,' she said.
    The historian stiffened. After a long moment he released a shaky breath. 'Gone, then?'
    'We do not know. Nil continues with the effort, but I fear in our weariness our blood ties are insufficient. We sensed no death cry, and we most surely would, Duiker.'
    'Perhaps he's been captured.'
    'Perhaps. Historian, if Korbolo Dom arrives on the morrow, these Kherahn will pay dearly for this contract. Nor may they prove sufficient in ... in—'
    'Nether?'
    She hung her head. 'I am sorry, I cannot stop my ears – they may be deluding themselves. Even if we make it to Balahn, to Aren Way, it is still three leagues to the city itself.'
    'I share your misgivings. But out there, well, it's the gestures of kindness, don't you see? We none of us have any defence against them.'
    'The release is too soon, Duiker!'
    'Possibly, but there's not a damned thing we can do about it.'
    They turned at the sound of voices. A group of figures approached from the encampment. A hissing argument was under way, quickly quelled as the group neared.
    Duiker slowly rose, Nether doing the same beside him.
    'I trust we are not interrupting anything untoward,' Nethpara called out, the words dripping.
    'I would suggest,' the historian said, 'that the Council retire for the night. A long day of marching awaits us all tomorrow—'
    'And that,' Pullyk Alar said hastily, 'is precisely why we are here.'
    'Those of us retaining a measure of wealth,' Nethpara explained, 'have succeeded in purchasing from the Kherahn fresh horses for our carriages.'
    'We wish to leave now,' Pullyk added. 'Our small group, that is, and make with all haste for Aren—'
    'Where we shall insist the High Fist despatch a force to provide guard for the rest of you,' Nethpara said.
    Duiker stared at the two men, then at the dozen figures behind them. 'Where is Tumlit?' he asked.
    'Alas, he fell ill three days ago and is no longer among the living. We all deeply mourn his passing.'
    No doubt. 'Your suggestion has merit, but is rejected.'
    'But—'
    'Nethpara, if you start moving now, you'll incite panic, and that is something none of us can afford. No, you travel with the rest of us, and must be content with being the first of the refugees to pass beneath the city gates at the head of the train.'
    'This is an outrage!'
    'Get out of my sight, Nethpara, before I finish what I began at Vathar Crossing.'
    'Oh, do not for a moment believe I have forgotten, Historian!'
    'An additional