A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

truth has changed in our absence. The blessing will have been given after all. Wait and see.'
    Karsa's eyes widened. 'The elders will lie?'
    'Of course they will lie. And they will expect us to accept their new truths, and we shall – no, we must, Karsa Orlong. The glory of our success must serve to bind the people together – to hold it close is not only selfish, it is potentially deadly. Think on this, Warleader. We will be returning to the village with our own claims. Aye, no doubt a few trophies with us to add proof to our tale, but if we do not share out that glory then the elders will see to it that our claims shall know the poison of disbelief.'
    'Disbelief?'
    'Aye. They will believe but only if they can partake of our glory. They will believe us, but only if we in turn
believe them – their reshaping of the past, the blessing that was not given, now given, all the villagers lining our ride out. They were all there, or so they will tell you, and, eventually, they will themselves come to believe it, and will have the scenes carved into their minds. Does this still confuse you, Karsa? If so, then we'd best not speak of wisdom.'
    'The Teblor do not play games of deceit,' Karsa growled.
    Bairoth studied him for a moment, then he nodded. 'True, they do not.'
    Delum pushed soil and stones into the pit. 'It is time to sleep,' he said, rising to check one last time on the hobbled horses.
    Karsa eyed Bairoth. His mind is as a Lanyd arrow in the forest, but will that aid him when our bloodwood blades are out and battlecries sound on all sides? This is what comes when muscle turns to fat and straw clings to your back. Duelling with words will win you nothing, Bairoth Gild, except perhaps that your tongue will not dry out as quickly on a Rathyd warrior's belt.
     
    'At least eight,' Delum murmured. 'With perhaps one youth. There are indeed two hearths. They have hunted the grey bear that dwells in caves, and carry a trophy with them.'
    'Meaning they are full of themselves.' Bairoth nodded. 'That's good.'
    Karsa frowned at Bairoth. 'Why?'
    The cast of the enemy's mind, Warleader. They will be feeling invincible, and this will make them careless. Do they have horses, Delum?'
    'No. Grey bears know the sound of hoofs too well. If they brought dogs on the hunt, none survived for the return journey.'
    'Better still.'
    They had dismounted, and now crouched near the edge of the tree line. Delum had slipped ahead to scout the
Rathyd encampment. His passage through the tall grasses, knee-high stumps and brush of the slope beyond the trees had not stirred a single blade or leaf.
    The sun was high overhead, the air dry, hot and motionless.
    'Eight,' Bairoth said. He grinned at Karsa. 'And a youth. He should be taken first.'
    To make the survivors know shame. He expects us to lose. 'Leave him to me,' Karsa said. 'My charge will be fierce, and will take me to the other side of the camp. The warriors still standing will turn to face me one and all. That is when you two will charge.'
    Delum blinked. 'You would have us strike from behind?'
    'To even the numbers, yes. Then we shall each settle to our duels.'
    'Will you dodge and duck in your pass?' Bairoth asked, his eyes glittering.
    'No, I will strike.'
    'They will bind you, then, Warleader, and you shall fail in reaching the far side.'
    'I will not be bound, Bairoth Gild.'
    'There are nine of them.'
    'Then watch me dance.'
    Delum asked, 'Why do we not use our horses, Warleader?'
    'I am tired of talking. Follow, but at a slower pace.'
    Bairoth and Delum shared an unreadable look, then Bairoth shrugged. 'We will be your witnesses, then.'
    Karsa unslung his bloodwood sword, closing both hands around the leather-wrapped grip. The blade's wood was deep red, almost black, the glassy polish making the painted warcrest seem to float a finger's width above the surface. The weapon's edge was almost translucent, where the blood-oil rubbed into the grain had hardened, coming to replace the wood. There were no nicks or notches along the edge, only a slight rippling of the line where damage had repaired itself, for blood-oil clung to its
memory and would little tolerate denting or scarring. Karsa held the weapon out before him, then slipped forward through the high grasses, quickening into the dance as he went.
    Reaching the boar trail leading into the forest that Delum had pointed out, he hunched lower and slipped onto its hard-packed, flattened track without breaking stride. The broad,