A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

shaft. A rough ladder of roots climbed towards a small, pale disc of light.
    Darist's ascent was slow and measured, Cutter impatient on the rungs directly beneath until the thought that he might soon die struck him, at which point a dull lassitude settled into his muscles, and it became a struggle to keep up with the ancient Tiste Andii.
    They eventually emerged onto a leaf-cluttered floor of flagstones. Sunlight speared shafts of dust from slitted windows and gaps in the roof overhead – the storm seemed to have missed this place entirely. One wall had mostly collapsed and it was towards this that Darist strode.
    Cutter followed. 'Some sort of upkeep might well have made this defensible,' he muttered.
    'These surface structures are not Andii – they are Edur, and were in ruin when we first arrived.'
    'How close are they?'
    'They range through the forest, working inland. Cautious. They know they are not alone.'
    'How many can you sense?'
    'This first party numbers perhaps a score. We shall meet them in the courtyard, permitting us sufficient room for
swordplay yet allowing us a wall to which we can set our backs in the last few moments.'
    'Hood's breath, Darist, if we drive them back you'll likely die of shock.'
    The Tiste Andii glanced back at the Daru, then gestured. 'Follow me.'
    A half-dozen similarly ruined chambers were traversed before they came to the courtyard. The vine-latticed walls were twice the height of a human, ragged-topped. Faded frescoes were hinted at beneath the overgrowth. Opposite the inner entrance through which they strode was an arched gateway, beyond which a trail of pine needles, snaking roots and moss-covered boulders wound into the shadows of enormous trees.
    Cutter judged the yard to be twenty paces wide, twenty-five deep. 'There's too much room here, Darist,' he said. 'We'll get flanked—'
    'I will command the centre. You remain behind, for those who might indeed try to get past me.'
    Cutter recalled Anomander Rake's battle with the demon, on the Darujhistan street. The two-handed fighting style the Son of Darkness had employed demanded plenty of room, and it now appeared that Darist would fight in a similar manner – but the sword's blade was, to Cutter's mind, far too thin for such fierce, wheeling swings. 'Is there sorcery invested in that blade of yours?' he asked.
    'Not as investment is commonly known,' the Tiste Andii replied, drawing the weapon and wrapping both hands about the grip, one high under the hilt, the other just above the pommel. 'The power of Grief lies in the focused intent in its creation. The sword demands a singular will in its wielder. With such a will, it cannot be defeated.'
    'And have you that singular will?'
    Darist slowly lowered the tip to the ground. 'Had I, human, this would not be your last day this side of Hood's gate. Now, I suggest you draw your weapons. The Edur have discovered the path and now approach.'
    Cutter found his hands were trembling as he drew out his leading knives. He possessed four others, two under each arm, sheathed in leather and peace-looped by thongs – which he now pulled clear. These four were weighted for throwing. Once done, he adjusted his grip on the knives in his hands, then had to dry his palms and repeat the task.
    A soft whisper of sound made him look up, to see that Darist had slipped into a fighting stance, though the tip of the sword still rested on the flagstones.
    And Cutter saw something else. The leaf clutter and detritus on the flagstones was in motion, crawling as if pushed by an unseen wind, gathering towards the gate's end of the courtyard, and out to heap against the walls to either side.
    'Keep your eyes slitted,' Darist said in a low tone.
    Slitted?
    There was movement in the gloom beyond the gateway, furtive, then three figures stepped into view beneath the arch.
    As tall as Darist, their skin a dusky pallor. Long brown hair, knotted and snarled with fetishes. Necklaces of claws and canines competed with the barbarity of their roughly tanned leather armour that was stitched with articulating strips of bronze. Their helms, also bronze, were shaped like bear or wolf skulls.
    Among them, there was nothing of the natural majesty evident in Darist – or in Anomander Rake. A far more brutal cast, these Edur. Tip-heavy black-bladed scimitars were in their hands, sealskin-covered round shields on their forearms.
    They hesitated before Darist, then the one in the centre snarled something in a language Cutter