A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

executioners, but among my kind, execution is an act of mercy. For your average condemned bastard, prolonged torture is far more likely. The Nathii have made the infliction of suffering an art – must be the cold winters or something. In any case, if not for Silgar claiming you – and the Malazan soldiers in town – the locals would be peeling the skin from your flesh right now, a sliver at a time. Then they'd lock you inside a box to let you heal. They know that your kind are immune to infections, which means they can make you suffer for a long, long time. There's a lot of frustrated townsfolk out there right now, I'd imagine.'
    Karsa began pulling on the bar once more.
    He was interrupted by voices overhead, then heavy thumping, as of a dozen or more barefooted arrivals, the sound joined now by chains slithering across the warehouse floor.
    Karsa settled back against the opposite trench slope.
    The trapdoor opened. A child in the lead, lantern in hand, and then Sunyd – naked but for rough-woven short skirts – making a slow descent, their left ankles shackled with a chain linking them all together. The lowlander with the lantern walked down the walkway between the two trenches. The Sunyd, eleven in all, six men and five women, followed.
    Their heads were lowered; none would meet Karsa's steady, cold regard.
    At a gesture from the child, who had halted four long paces from Karsa's position, the Sunyd turned and slid down the slope of their trench. Three more lowlanders had appeared, and followed them down to apply the fixed shackles to the Teblor's other ankles. There was no resistance from the Sunyd.
    Moments later, the lowlanders were back on the walk-way, then heading up the steps. The trapdoor squealed on its hinges, closing with a reverberating thump that sent dust drifting down through the gloom.
    'It is true, then. An Uryd.' The voice was a whisper.
    Karsa sneered. 'Was that the voice of a Teblor? No, it could not have been. Teblor do not become slaves. Teblor would rather die than kneel before a lowlander.'
    'An Uryd . . . in chains. Like the rest of us—'
    'Like the Sunyd? Who let these foul children come close and fix shackles to their legs? No. I am a prisoner, but no bindings shall hold me for long. The Sunyd must be reminded what it is to be a Teblor.'
    A new voice spoke from among the Sunyd, a woman's. 'We saw the dead, lined up on the ground before the hunters' camp. We saw wagons, filled with dead Malazans. Townsfolk were wailing. Yet, it is said there were but three of you—'
    'Two, not three. Our companion, Delum Thord, was wounded in the head, his mind had fallen away. He ran with the dogs. Had his mind been whole, his bloodsword in his hands—'
    There was sudden murmuring from the Sunyd, the word bloodsword spoken in tones of awe.
    Karsa scowled. 'What is this madness? Have the Sunyd lost all the old ways of the Teblor?'
    The woman sighed. 'Lost? Yes, long ago. Our own children slipping away in the night to wander south into the lowlands, eager for the cursed lowlander coins – the bits of metal around which life itself seems to revolve. Sorely used, were our children – some even returned to our valleys, as scouts for the hunters. The secret groves of bloodwood were burned down, our horses slain. To be betrayed by our own children, Uryd, this is what broke the Sunyd.'
    'Your children should have been hunted down,' Karsa said. 'The hearts of your warriors were too soft. Blood-kin is
cut when betrayal is done. Those children ceased being Sunyd. I will kill them for you.'
    'You would have trouble finding them, Uryd. They are scattered, many fallen, many now sold into servitude to repay their debts. And some have travelled great distances, to the great cities of Nathilog and Genabaris. Our tribe is no more.'
    The first Sunyd who had spoken added, 'Besides, Uryd, you are in chains. Now the property of Master Silgar, from whom no slave has ever escaped. You will be killing no-one, ever again. And like us, you will be made to kneel. Your words are empty.'
    Karsa straddled the log once more. He grasped hold of the chains this time, wrapping them about his wrists as many times as he could.
    Then he threw himself back. Muscles bunching, legs pushing down on the log, back straightening. Grinding, splintering, a sudden loud crack.
    Karsa was thrown backward onto the clay slope, chains snapping around him. Blinking the sweat from his eyes, he stared down at the log.
    The trunk had split, down its