A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

Kallor's huge sword punched into his chest. Slid between ribs. Ripped through heart and lungs in a diagonal, inward-slicing thrust.
    Whiskeyjack died on that blade – life dropping back from the eyes that met Korlat's, back, away, then gone.
    Kallor dragged his weapon free.
    He reeled suddenly, impaled by two crossbow quarrels. Chaotic magic snaked up around the offending missiles, disintegrating them. Blood spurted. Unmindful, Kallor readied his sword once more, as the two marines closed in tandem.
    The women were superb, fighting as one.
    But the man they fought—
    A mortal scream – the marine on the right stumbled in a welter of blood, reaching down to gather uncoiling, tumbling intestines, then sinking earthward. Her helmed head left her shoulders before her knees touched ground.
    The other woman rushed Kallor, sword thrusting high for the warrior's face.
    A side-step, a downward chop, severing the arm—
    But the marine had already surrendered it, and her left hand, gripping a pig-sticker, was unimpeded as it punched through the chainlinks covering Kallor's stomach.
    The edge of Kallor's sword carved up through the marine's throat. She spun in a red spray, toppled.
    Gasping, the ancient warrior reeled back, yellow-streaked blood spurting from the hole in his stomach. 'Chained One!' he screamed. 'Heal me!'
    Hot – a warren —
    — not chaotic – where?
    A wave of knotted gold hammered into Kallor, swallowed him in frenzied fire. He shrieked, thrown off his feet, battered as the magic pursued, ripping into him, blood threading the air as he sprawled to the ground.
    A second wave rolled towards the man, coruscating with sunfire—
    The warren that opened around Kallor was a miasmic stain, a sickly tear – that swept around him—
    —to vanish, taking Kallor with it.
    The golden sorcery flickered, dissipated.
    No – such control. Who?
    Korlat's body no longer spasmed. It was now numb and cool, strangely remote. Blood was filling one eye. She had to keep blinking to clear it. She was lying on the ground, she finally realized. Kallor had struck her—
    Someone knelt by her side, a soft, warm hand settling on her cheek.
    Korlat struggled to focus.
    'It's me, Silverfox. Help is coming—'
    The Tiste Andii tried to lift a hand, to manage some kind of gesture towards Whiskeyjack, but the desire remained within her mind, racing in circles, and she knew by the faint feel of damp grasses under her palm that her hand did not heed her call.
    'Korlat! Look at me. Please. Brood is coming – and I see a black dragon approaching from the west – Orfantal? The warlord possesses High Denul, Korlat. You must hold on—'
    A shadow over her face. Silverfox glancing up, features twisting into something bitter. 'Tell me,' she said to the newcomer, 'the sorcery that accompanied Kallor's betrayal: was it truly so efficacious as to leave you stunned for so long? Or did you hold back? Calculating your moment, observing the consequences of your inaction – after all, you've done it before, Tayschrenn, haven't you?'
    Tayschrenn?
    But the ragged, pain-racked voice that replied was that of Artanthos, the standard-bearer. 'Silverfox. Please. I would not—'
    'Wouldn't you?'
    'No. Whiskeyjack – he's—'
    'I know,' Silverfox snapped.
    A poorly mended leg . . . never the right time – Brood could have —
    He's dead. Oh, my love, no . . .
    Blurred figures were on all sides now. Malazan soldiers. Barghast. Someone began keening with grief.
    The man she had known as Artanthos leaned over her. Sorcery had split the flesh of his face – the touch of chaos, she recognized. A fiercer touch than what she could have survived. She knew, then, in her soul, that the High Mage had willed no delay to his response. That he'd managed anything at all was ... extraordinary. She met his eyes, saw the layers of pain that still racked through the man.
    'Sil...'
    'Korlat?'
    'Woman,' the Tiste Andii said, the word slurred but audible, 'this man . . .'
    'Yes? He is Tayschrenn, Korlat. The part of me that is Nightchill has known for a long time. I was coming to conf—'
    '. . . thank him.'
    'What?'
    'For . . . your ... life. Thank him, woman ...' She held still to Tayschrenn's eyes. Dark grey, like Whiskeyjack's. 'Kallor – he surprised us all...'
    The man winced, then slowly nodded. 'I am sorry, Korlat. I should have seen—'
    'Yes. Me, too. And Brood.'
    She could feel horse hooves drumming the earth beneath her, the vibration rising up to settle into