A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

emerging, spreading out to form a line. Eight hundred, perhaps more.
    Weapons were readied among the Malazans. When Whiskeyjack gave the order, they would march down to meet that undead line of slayers.
    And die. Eight hundred less K'Chain Che'Malle in Coral. Eight hundred K'Chain Che'Malle . . . occupied for a time. Does Dujek even know? Brood is still half a day behind us. The Grey Swords two bells, perhaps more – I'd not expected that news from Kallor – but they will have ridden too hard, too long.
    And Grunde and his legion – they seem to have vanished entirely. Have we lost our shock-troops? Abyss knows, that Daru had no love of battle . . .
    Does Dujek comprehend what we do to purchase for him this day?
    Eight hundred K'Chain Che'Malle on the plain. How many remain in the city? How many now carve deadly paths through the High Fist's companies?
    The twenty or so condors left over the city were one and all circling the keep itself, a measure, perhaps, of the Seer's confidence, that he would see no need for their participation in what was to come.
    The thought brought a bitter taste to her mouth.
    Whiskeyjack turned as she arrived, nodded in greeting. 'Did you find Kruppe? I trust he has chosen a safe place.'
    'With Hetan,' Korlat replied. 'Demanding white paint for his face.'
    Whiskeyjack could not quite manage a smile.
    'My Tiste Andii will precede your soldiers when they advance,' Korlat said after a moment. 'We will see how these undead fare against Kurald Galain.'
    Kallor's expression hinted at a smirk, 'Your warren is still beset, Korlat. You would require a full unveiling – by all your kin, not just the ones here – to achieve a cleansing. Your brothers and sisters are about to be slaughtered.'
    Her eyes narrowed. A full unveiling. Kallor, you know far too much of us. 'I appreciate your tactical acumen,' she replied drily.
    She saw Whiskeyjack glance back at Artanthos, who stood fifteen paces from the others, wrapped against the morning chill in a fur-lined cloak. The man was paying no attention to the others, his gaze fixed on the plain below, a slight frown slowly marring his unlined brow.
    Two marines approached on horseback from the east, riding hard in front of the Malazan line.
    Whiskeyjack's two marines . . .
    Labouring, coughing froth, the horses galloped up the slope. The two women reined in. 'Commander!' one shouted.
    The other added, 'We found her!' Then she pointed.
    Emerging from the ranks to the east. . . Silverfox.
    The sound of thousands of voices crying out in surprise alerted Korlat – she turned to see the killing field before the K'Chain Che'Malle vanish in a sudden haze of dust, thinning quickly to reveal rank upon rank of T'lan Imass.
    Silverfox approached. She seemed to have chosen Artanthos as her destination, her eyes half lidded, her round, heavy face expressionless.
    A roar from Whiskeyjack's army rose into the morning air.
    'Yes ...' rasped Kallor beside her.
    Korlat pulled her gaze from Silverfox, curious enough at Kallor's tone to draw her attention.
    In time to see the rough-edged blade flashing at her head.
    Pain exploded. A moment of confusion, when all was strangely still, then the ground hammered her side. Heat flared down her face, lancing down from her forehead. She blinked, wondered at her own body, which had begun thrashing.
    Warren —
    — chaotic —
    Kallor —
    A blurred scene before her eyes, her point of view from the ground.
    Skull – broken – dying —
    Her vision cleared, every line and edge of what she saw too sharp, sharp like knife-blades, slicing her soul to ribbons. Kallor, with a delighted roar, charged towards Silverfox, chain armour flowing like a cloak. Grey-veined magic danced on the ground around the warrior.
    The Rhivi woman stopped, mouth opening, terror filling her eyes. She screamed something—
    —something—
    'T'lan Ay. Defend me!'
    Yet she remained alone—
    Kallor closed, sword gripped in both gauntleted hands, closed, raising the weapon high.
    Then Whiskeyjack stood in his path, longsword lashing up to clang against Kallor's weapon. A sudden, fierce exchange, sparks flashing. Kallor leapt back, bellowing his frustration, and his heel caught—
    Whiskeyjack saw his moment. Sword thrusting out, a duellist's lunge, fully extending, weight pounding down on the lead leg—
    Which buckled.
    She saw the sliver of bone rip up through the man's leather-clad thigh.
    Saw the pain on her lover's face, the sudden recognition—
    As