A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

slashed at least a dozen times, each time the heavy scimitar parting chain then flesh down to the bone, in various places on his body. How he had managed to stand upright, much less continue fighting, belied his earlier claim that his will was not of sufficient purity to match the sword, Grief. Now that the skirmish had been suspended, however, the force that had fired the old warrior fast dissipated. His right arm was incapacitated; the wound on his hip dragged him onto the flagstones – and he could not rise again without help.
    There were nine dead Tiste Edur. Their retreat had probably been triggered by a desire to regroup rather than being hard-pressed.
    Worse, they were but an advance party. The two ships just off the shore were massive: each could easily hold two hundred warriors. Or so Apsalar judged, having scouted the inlet where they were moored.
    'There is plenty of wreckage in the water,' she added, 'and both Edur ships have the look of having been in a fight—'
    'Three Malazan war dromons,' Cutter said. 'A chance encounter. Darist says the Malazans gave a good account of themselves.'
    They were seated on some tumbled rubble a dozen paces from the Tiste Andii, watching the youths hover and fuss over Darist. Cutter's left side ached, and though he did not look beneath his clothes he knew that bruises were spreading. He struggled to ignore the discomfort and continued eyeing the Tiste Andii.
    'They are not what I expected,' he said quietly. 'Not even schooled in the art of fighting—'
    'True. Darist's desire to protect them could prove a fatal one.'
    'Now that the Edur know they exist. Not a part of Darist's plan.'
    Apsalar shrugged. 'They were given a task.'
    He fell silent, pondering that brusque statement. He'd always believed that a singular capacity to inflict death engendered a certain wisdom – of the fragility of the spirit, of its mortality – as he had known, and experienced firsthand, with Rallick Nom in Darujhistan. But Apsalar revealed nothing of such wisdom; her words were hard with judgement, often flatly dismissive. She had taken focus and made of it a weapon ... or a means of self-defence.
    She had not intended any of the three Edur she had taken down to die swiftly. Yet it seemed she drew no pleasure, as a sadist might. It is more as if she was trained to do so . . . trained as a torturer. Yet Cotillion – Dancer — was no torturer. He was an assassin. So where does the vicious streak come from? Does it belong to her own nature? An unpleasant, disturbing thought.
    He lifted his left arm, gingerly, wincing. Their next fight would likely be a short one, even with Apsalar at their side.
    'You are in no condition to fight,' she observed.
    'Nor is Darist,' Cutter retorted.
    'The sword will carry him. But you will prove a liability. I would not be distracted by protecting you.'
    'What do you suggest? I kill myself now so I'm not in your way?'
    She shook her head – as if the suggestion had been, on its face, entirely reasonable, just not what she had in mind – and spoke in a low voice. 'There are others on this island. Hiding well, but not well enough to escape my notice. I want you to go to them. I want you to enlist their help.'
    'Who are these others?'
    'You yourself identified them, Cutter. Malazans. Survivors, I would assume, from the three war dromons. There is one of power among them.'
    Cutter glanced over at Darist. The youths had moved the old man so that he sat with his back against the wall beside the inside doorway, opposite the gate. His head was lowered, bearded chin to chest, and only the faint rise and fall of his chest indicated that he still lived. 'All right. Where will I find them?'
     
    The forest was filled with ruins. Crumbled, moss-covered, often little more than overgrown heaps, but it was evident to Cutter as he padded along the narrow, faint trail Apsalar had described for him that this forest had risen from the heart of a dead city – a huge city, dominated by massive buildings. Pieces of statuary lay scattered here and there, figures of enormous stature, constructed in sections and fixed together with a glassy substance he did not recognize. Although mostly covered in moss, he suspected the figures were Edur.
    An oppressive gloom suffused all that lay beneath the forest canopy. A number of living trees showed torn bark, and while the bark was black, the smooth, wet wood underneath was blood red. Fallen companions revealed that the fierce crimson turned