A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

her bones.
    A dirge. Drums, a lost sound. Horses, driven hard . . . knowing nothing of the reason, yet on they come. Closer. Mindless, yet filled with the urgency of incomprehensible masters.
    But death has already ridden across this hilltop.
    Knowing nothing of reason.
    My love.
    He is yours, now, Hood . . . do you smile?
    My love is . . . yours . . .
     
    Brave and magnificent as it was, Itkovian's mount was faltering. With dawn still two bells away, Gruntle had roused him with uncharacteristic curtness. 'Something's gone wrong,' he'd growled. 'We must ride for Coral, friend.'
    The Grey Swords had not stopped for the night – Itkovian had watched them for as long as he could, until the night's gloom took them from his vision. The Shield Anvil had elected to ride to Whiskeyjack's support. He had thought himself indifferent to the decision, and to what their departure signified, yet bleakness filled his heart, and the sleep that eventually came to him was troubled. After Gruntle's rough awakening, he sought to reflect upon the source of his restlessness, but it eluded him.
    Saddling his horse, Itkovian had paid little attention to Gruntle and his legion, and only when he swung himself up onto his mount and gathered the reins did he note that the Daru and his followers waited – on foot.
    Itkovian had frowned at Gruntle. 'Mortal Sword, what do you intend?'
    The large man grimaced, then said, 'For this journey, swiftness is required. For this journey,' he repeated, glancing at a fiercely scowling Stonny Menackis, 'Trake risks the heart of his power.'
    'Not my god!' Stonny snapped.
    Gruntle offered her a sad smile, 'No, alas. You will have to join Itkovian, and simply ride. We'll not wait for you, but perhaps you will keep up with us ... for a while.'
    Itkovian had not understood any of this. 'Sir,' he said to Gruntle, 'will you travel by warren?'
    'No. Well, not quite. Maybe, how do I know? I just know – somehow – that my legion is capable of... well, of something different. Something ... fast .'
    Itkovian had glanced at Stonny, then shrugged. 'Both Stonny Menackis and I are blessed with exceptional horses. We shall endeavour to keep pace.'
    'Good.'
    'Mortal Sword.'
    'What is it, Itkovian?'
    'What lies ahead, sir, that troubles you so?'
    'I'm not sure, friend, but I'm feeling sick to my stomach. I believe we are about to be betrayed.'
    Itkovian had said nothing to that for a long moment, then, 'Sir, if one regards recent events with an unclouded eye, then one might observe that the betrayal has already occurred.'
    Gruntle had simply shrugged, turning to his followers. 'Stay tight, you damned misfits. Anyone straggles at the start and you'll be left behind.'
    Stonny moved over to Itkovian's side, leading her horse.
    'Do you know,' Itkovian asked her, 'what is about to occur?'
    'Probably nothing,' she snapped, swinging up into her saddle. 'Gruntle must've bumped his head—'
    She got no further, as before them Gruntle and his legion seemed to blur, to meld together in an indistinct flicker of barbed stripes, a single form, massive, low to the ground – that suddenly flowed forward, cat-like, and was gone in the night.
    'Bern fend!' Stonny hissed. 'After it!' she cried, driving heels to her horse's flanks.
    And so they had ridden, hard.
    They passed by Brood's encampment, had noted that it was rousing, even though dawn was still a bell away, with considerable haste.
    They witnessed, without a word exchanged between them, the flash and flare of sorcery in the sky to the southwest.
    Occasionally, through the darkness, they caught a glimpse of the huge creature they pursued, the dull flicker of yellow, black-slashed, moving as if through impossibly high grasses, as if beneath jungle fronds, webbed in shadows, a fluid hint of motion, deadly in its speed and in its silence.
    Then the sky began to lighten, and the horizon to the south was revealed, stands of trees, the trader road wending between them.
    Still the striped beast defied the eye, evaded sharp detection as it reached the parkland's hills.
    Lathered, mouths coughing foam, the horses thundered on, hooves pounding heavy and ragged. Neither animal would ever recover from this ordeal, Itkovian knew. Indeed, their deaths waited only for the journey's end.
    Brave and magnificent, and he wondered if the sacrifice was worth it.
    They rode the track between coppiced stands, the path gently rising towards what Itkovian judged to be an escarpment of some kind.
    Then,