A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

eyes.
    Kamist Reloe stood on the platform, Korbolo Dom at his side. Sorcery blossomed – a virulent, wild wave that surged up and crashed against the approaching crows. Black shapes spun and tumbled from the sky—
    'No!' Nether shrieked, writhing in Duiker's arms, seeking to fling herself over the wall.
    The cloud of crows scattered, reformed, sought to approach once again.
    Kamist Reloe obliterated hundreds more.
    'Release his soul! From the flesh! Release it!'
    Beside them, the garrison commander turned and called to one of his aides in a voice of ice, 'Get me Squint, Corporal. Now!'
    The aide did not bother darting down the stairs – he simply went to the far wall, leaned out and screamed, 'Squint! Up here, damn you!'
    Another wave of sorcery swept more crows from the sky. In silence, they regrouped once again.
    The roar from Aren's walls had stilled. Now only silence held the air.
    Nether had collapsed against the historian, a child in his arms. Duiker could see Nil curled and motionless on the platform near the hatch – either unconscious or dead. He had wet himself, the puddle spreading out around him.
    Boots thumped on the stairs.
    The aide said to the commander, 'He's been helping the refugees, sir. I don't think he has any idea what's going on...'
    Duiker turned again to look out at the lone figure nailed to the cross. He still lived – they would not let him die, would not free his soul, and Kamist Reloe knew precisely what he was doing, knew the full horror of his crime, as he methodically destroyed the vessels for that soul. On all sides, screaming warriors pressed close, seething on the barrow like insects.
    Objects started striking the figure on the cross, leaving red stains. Pieces of flesh, gods – pieces of flesh, – what's left of the army – this was a level of cruelty that left Duiker cowering inside.
    'Over here, Squint!' he heard the commander growl. A figure pushed to Duiker's side, short, squat, grey-haired. His eyes, buried in a nest of wrinkles, were fixed on that distant figure. 'Mercy,' he whispered.
    'Well?' the commander demanded.
    'That's half a thousand paces, Blistig—'
    'I know.'
    'Might take more than one shot, sir.'
    'Then get started, damn you.'
    The old soldier, wearing a uniform that looked as if it had not been washed or repaired in decades, unslung the longbow from one shoulder. He gathered the string, stepped into the bow's plane, bent it hard over one thigh. His limbs shook as he edged the string's loop into its niche. Then he straightened up and studied the arrows in the quiver strapped to his hip.
    Another wave of sorcery struck the crows.
    After a long moment, Squint selected an arrow. 'I'll try for the chest. Biggest target, sir, and enough good hits and that'll do the poor soul.'
    'Another word, Squint,' Blistig whispered, 'and I'll have your tongue.'
    The soldier nocked the arrow. 'Clear me some space, then.'
    Nether was limp in Duiker's arms as he dragged her back a step.
    The man's bow, even strung, was as tall as he was. His forearms as he drew the string back were like hemp ropes, bundled and twisted and taut. The string brushed his stubbled jawline as he completed the draw, then locked it in place with a slow, even exhalation.
    Duiker saw the man tremble suddenly, and his eyes widened, revealing themselves for the first time – black, small marbles in red-streaked nests.
    Raw fear edged Blistig's voice. 'Squint—'
    'That's got to be Coltaine, sir!' the old man gasped. 'You want me to kill Coltaine—'
    'Squint!'
    Nether raised her head and reached out one bloody hand in supplication. 'Release him. Please.'
    The old man studied her a moment. Tears streamed down his face. The trembling stilled – the bow itself had not moved an inch.
    'Hood's breath!' Duiker hissed. He's weeping. He can't aim – the bastard can't aim —
    The bowstring thrummed. The long shaft cut through the sky.
    'Oh, gods!' Squint moaned. 'Too high – too high!'
    It rose, swept through the massed crows untouched and unwavering, began arcing down.
    Duiker could have sworn that Coltaine looked up then, lifted his gaze to greet that gift, as the iron head impacted his forehead, shattered the bone, sank deep into his brain and killed him instantly. His head snapped back between the spars of wood, then the arrow was through.
    The warriors on the barrow's slopes flinched back.
    The crows shook the air with their eerie cries and plunged down towards the sagging figure on the cross,