A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

that clearly had no chance of any kind of measurable success. 'If not, then kindly ride out there and check for holes.'
    'Slowly,' Strings added. 'Let your horse find its own pace.'
    Maybe's brows rose. 'Really?' Then he nudged his mount forward.
    Strings stared after the soldier. 'I hate satirical bastards like him.'
    'The Wickans will skin him alive if he breaks that horse's legs.'
    'That has the sound of a feud in the making.'
    Cuttle paused in his fruitless efforts to clean himself, then frowned. 'What?'
    'Never mind.'
    Ranal and Keneb rode up. 'Nicely done,' the captain said. 'I think.'
    'Should be all right,' Strings replied. 'So long as nobody starts firing arrows at us.'
    'Taken care of, Sergeant. Well, to your squad, the privilege of first crossing.'
    'Aye, sir.'
    There should have been pleasure, in a task well done, but Strings felt nothing beyond the initial rush that had immediately followed the detonation. The broken song whispered on in his mind, a dirge lying beneath his every thought.
    'The way ahead seems clear,' Cuttle muttered.
    Aye. Doesn't mean I have to like it.
     
    The land rose steeply on the north side of the Vathar River, with a treeless butte towering over the trail to the west. The army's crossing continued as the Adjunct and Gamet climbed the goat trail towards the butte's summit. The sun was low in the sky – their second full day at the ford – and the river was made molten by the lurid streams of light off to their left, although this side of the rock prominence was in deep shadow.
    The mud covering Gamet's leather-clad legs was drying to a stiff, crack-latticed skin that shed dust as he clambered in Tavore's wake. He was breathing hard, his undergarments soaked with sweat.
    They reached the summit, emerging once more into sunlight. A brisk, hot wind swept the barren, flat rock. A ring of stones on a lower shelf, on what passed for the lee side, marked where a hearth or watch-fire had once been constructed, possibly at the time of the Chain of Dogs.
    The Adjunct wiped dust from her gloves, then strode to the north edge. After a moment, Gamet followed.
    The city of Ubaryd was visible, dun-coloured and sheathed in smoke, to the northeast. Beyond it glittered the Dojal Hading Sea. The city's harbour was crowded with ships.
    'Admiral Nok,' the Adjunct said.
    'He's retaken Ubaryd, then.'
    'Where we will resupply, yes.' Then she pointed northward. 'There, Gamet. Do you see it?'
    He squinted, wondering what he was supposed to look at
across the vast wasteland that was the Ubaryd Odhan. Then the breath hissed between his teeth.
    A fiery wall of red on the horizon, as if a second sun was setting.
    'The Whirlwind,' Tavore said.
    Suddenly, the wind was much colder, pushing hard against Gamet where he stood.
    'Beyond it,' the Adjunct continued, 'waits our enemy. Tell me, do you think Sha'ik will contest our approach?'
    'She would be a fool not to,' he replied.
    'Are you certain of that? Would she rather not face unblooded recruits?'
    'It is a huge gamble, Adjunct. The march alone will have hardened the Fourteenth. Were I her, I would prefer to face a battle-weary, bruised enemy. An enemy burdened with wounded, with a shortage of arrows, horses and whatnot. And by that time of final meeting, I would also have learned something of you, Adjunct. Your tactics. As it is, Sha'ik has no way to take your measure.'
    'Yes. Curious, isn't it? Either she is indifferent to me, or she feels she has already taken my measure – which of course is impossible. Even assuming she has spies in our army, thus far I have done little more than ensure that we march in an organized fashion.'
    Spies? Gods below, I hadn't even considered that!
    Neither spoke for a time, each lost in their own thoughts as they stared northward.
    The sun was vanishing on their left.
    But the Whirlwind held its own fire.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    Power has voice, and that voice is the Song of the Tanno Spiritwalker.
    Kimloc
     
    He awoke to a faint, damp nuzzling against his side. eyes slowly opened, head tilted downward, to see a bhok'aral pup, patchy with some sort of skin infection, curled against his stomach.
    Kalam sat up, suppressing the urge to grab the creature by the neck and fling it against a wall. Compassion was not the consideration, of course. Rather, it was the fact that this subterranean temple was home to hundreds, perhaps even thousands of bhok'arala, and the creatures possessed a complex social structure – harm this pup and