A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

the figure – given the sudden bowing of
the line as the current took the slack. Kalam looked down once more. 'Hood's breath!' The rock lay on the figure's chest... and the distance made that stone look small.
    The armoured figure was enormous, three times a man's height at least. The captain and the lieutenant had been deceived by the scale. Probably fatally so.
    He squinted down at it, wondering at the strange glow, then grasped the rope to retrieve the stone—
    And, far below, a massive hand flashed up and closed on it – and pulled.
    Kalam shouted as he was pulled down into the torrent. As he plunged into the icy water, he reached up in an attempt to grasp the bundle of spears.
    There was a fierce tug, and the spears snapped with an explosive splintering sound directly overhead.
    The assassin still held on to the rope, even as the current swept him along. He felt himself being pulled down.
    The cold was numbing. His ears popped.
    Then he was drawn close by a pair of massive chain-clad fists – close, and face to face with the broad grille of the creature's helm. In the swirling darkness beneath that grille, the glimmer of a rotted, bestial visage, most of the flesh in current-fluttering strips. Teeth devoid of lips—
    And the creature spoke in Kalam's mind. 'The other two eluded me . . . but you I will have. I am so hungry —'
    Hungry? Kalam answered. Try this.
    He drove both long-knives into the creature's chest.
    A thundering bellow, and the fists shot upward, pushing Kalam away – harder and faster than he had thought possible. Both weapons yanked – almost breaking the grip of his hands, but he held on. The current had no time to grasp him as he was thrown upward, shooting back through the hole in an exploding geyser of water. The ledge caught one of his feet and tore the boot off. He struck the chamber's low stone ceiling, driving the last of his breath from his lungs, then dropped.
    He landed half on the pit's ledge, and was nearly swept
back into the river, but he managed to splay himself, clawing to regain the floor, moving clear of the hole. Then he lay motionless, numbed, his boot lying beside him, until he was able to draw in a ragged lungful of bitter cold air.
    He heard feet on the stairs, then Cord burst into the chamber and skidded to a halt directly above Kalam. The sergeant's sword was in one hand, a torch flaring in the other. He stared down at the assassin. 'What was that noise? What happened? Where are the damned spears—'
    Kalam rolled onto his side, looked down over the ledge.
    The frothing torrent was impenetrable – opaqued red with blood. 'Stop,' the assassin gasped.
    'Stop what? Look at that water! Stop what?'
    'Stop ... drawing ... from this well...'
     
    It was a long time before the shivers left his body, to be replaced with countless aches from his collision with the chamber's ceiling. Cord had left then returned with others from his company, as well as Sinn, carrying blankets and more torches.
    There was some difficulty in prying the long-knives from Kalam's hands. The separation revealed that the grips had somehow scorched the assassin's palms and fingerpads.
    'Cold,' Ebron muttered, 'that's what did that. Burned by cold. What did you say that thing looked like?'
    Kalam, huddled in blankets, looked up. 'Like something that should have been dead a long time ago, Mage. Tell me, how much do you know of B'ridys – this fortress?'
    'Probably less than you,' Ebron replied. 'I was born in Karakarang. It was a monastery, wasn't it?'
    'Aye. One of the oldest cults, long extinct.' A squad healer crouched beside him and began applying a numbing salve to the assassin's hands. Kalam leaned his head against the wall and sighed. 'Have you heard of the Nameless Ones?'
    Ebron snorted. 'I said Karakarang, didn't I? The Tanno cult claims a direct descent from the cult of the Nameless
Ones. The Spiritwalkers say their powers, of song and the like, arose from the original patterns that the Nameless Ones fashioned in their rituals – those patterns supposedly crisscross this entire subcontinent, and their power remains to this day. Are you saying this monastery belonged to the Nameless Ones? Yes, of course you are. But they weren't demons, were they—'
    'No, but they were in the habit of chaining them. The one in the pool is probably displeased with its last encounter, but not as displeased as you might think.'
    Ebron frowned, then paled. 'The blood – if anyone drinks water tainted