A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

gazing down upon us now. Hear me, Urugal! I, Karsa Orlong, shall slay for you a thousand children! A thousand souls to lay at your feet!
    Nearby, a dog moaned in restless sleep, but did not awaken.
     
    On the north valley side overlooking the village, at the very edge of the tree line, stood twenty-three silent witnesses to the departure of Karsa Orlong, Bairoth Gild and Delum Thord. Ghostly in the darkness between the broadleafed trees, they waited, motionless, until long after the three warriors had passed out of sight down the eastern track.
    Uryd born. Uryd sacrificed, they were blood-kin to Karsa, Bairoth and Delum. In their fourth month of life they had each been given to the Faces in the Rock, laid down by their mothers in the glade at sunset. Offered to the Seven's embrace, vanishing before the sun's rise. Given, one and all, to a new mother.
    'Siballe's children, then and now. 'Siballe, the Unfound, the lone goddess among the Seven without a tribe of her own. And so, she had created one, a secret tribe drawn from the six others, had taught them of their individual blood ties – in order to link them with their unsacrificed kin. Taught them, as well, of their own special purpose, the destiny that would belong to them and them alone.
    She called them her Found, and this was the name by
which they knew themselves, the name of their own hidden tribe. Dwelling unseen in the midst of their kin, their very existence unimagined by anyone in any of the six tribes. There were some, they knew, who might suspect, but suspicion was all they possessed. Men such as Synyg, Karsa's father, who treated the memorial blood-posts with indifference, if not contempt. Such men usually posed no real threat, although on occasion more extreme measures proved necessary when true risk was perceived. Such as with Karsa's mother.
    The twenty-three Found who stood witness to the beginning of the warriors' journey, hidden among the trees of the valley side, were by blood the brothers and sisters of Karsa, Bairoth and Delum, yet they were strangers as well, though at that moment that detail seemed to matter little.
    'One shall make it.' This from Bairoth's eldest brother.
    Delum's twin sister shrugged in reply and said, 'We shall be here, then, upon that one's return.'
    'So we shall.'
    Another trait was shared by all of the Found. 'Siballe had marked her children with a savage scar, a stripping away of flesh and muscle on the left side – from temple down to jawline – of each face, and with that destruction the capacity for expression had been severely diminished. Features on the left were fixed in a downturned grimace, as if in permanent dismay. In some strange manner, the physical scarring had also stripped inflection from their voices – or perhaps 'Siballe's own toneless voice had proved an overwhelming influence.
    Thus bereft of intonation, words of hope had a way of ringing false to their own ears, sufficient to silence those who had spoken.
    One would make it.
    Perhaps.
     
    Synyg continued stirring the stew at the cookfire when the door opened behind him. A soft wheeze, a dragged foot,
the clatter of a walking stick against the doorframe. Then a harsh accusatory question.
    'Did you bless your son?'
    'I gave him Havok, Father.'
    Somehow Pahlk filled a single word with contempt, disgust and suspicion all at once: 'Why?'
    Synyg still did not turn as he listened to his father make a tortured journey to the chair closest to the hearth. 'Havok deserved a final battle, one I knew I would not give him. So.'
    'So, as I thought.' Pahlk settled into the chair with a pained grunt. 'For your horse, but not for your son.'
    'Are you hungry?' Synyg asked.
    'I will not deny you the gesture.'
    Synyg allowed himself a small, bitter smile, then reached over to collect a second bowl and set it down beside his own.
    'He would batter down a mountain,' Pahlk growled, 'to see you stir from your straw.'
    'What he does is not for me, Father, it is for you.'
    'He perceives only the fiercest glory possible will achieve what is necessary – the inundation of the shame that is you, Synyg. You are the straggly bush between two towering trees, child of one and sire to the other. This is why he reached out to me, reached out – do you fret and chafe there in the shadows between Karsa and me? Too bad, the choice was always yours.'
    Synyg filled both bowls and straightened to hand one to his father. 'The scar around an old wound feels nothing,' he said.
    'To