A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

underfoot hardpacked between the knotted roots. Small creatures rustled continually from his path, and he startled the occasional deer – a small breed, reaching no higher than his knees, that hissed like an arrow between the stalks as it fled.
    One proved not quite fast enough to avoid his scything blade, and Karsa would eat well this night. Thus, his sword's virgin thirst was born of necessity, not the rage of battle. He wondered if the ghosts had known displeasure at such an ignoble beginning. They had surrendered their ability to communicate with him upon entering the stone, though Karsa's imagination had no difficulty in finding
Bairoth's sarcastic commentary, should he seek it. Delum's measured wisdom was more difficult, yet valued all the more for that.
    The sun swept its even arc across the cloudless sky as he marched on. Towards dusk he saw bhederin herds to the west, and, two thousand paces ahead, a herd of striped antelope crested a hilltop to watch him for a time, before wheeling as one and vanishing from sight.
    The western horizon was a fiery conflagration when he reached the place where they had stood.
    Where a figure awaited him.
    The grasses had been flattened in a modest circle. A three-legged brazier squatted in its centre, filled with orange-glowing pieces of bhederin dung that cast forth no smoke. Seated behind it was a Jaghut. Bent and gaunt to the point of emaciation, wearing ragged skins and hides, long grey hair hanging in strands over a blotched, wrinkled brow, eyes the colour of the surrounding grass.
    The Jaghut glanced up as Karsa approached, offering the Teblor something between a grimace and a smile, his yellowed tusks gleaming. 'You have made a mess of that deer skin, Toblakai. I will take it none the less, in exchange for this cookfire.'
    'Agreed,' Karsa replied, dropping the carcass beside the brazier.
    'Aramala contacted me, and so I have come to meet you. You have done her a noble service, Toblakai.'
    Karsa set down his pack and squatted before the brazier. 'I hold no loyalty to the T'lan Imass.'
    The Jaghut reached across and collected the deer. A small knife flashed in his hand and he began cutting just above the animal's small hoofs. 'An expression of their gratitude, after she fought alongside them against the Tyrants. As did I, although I was fortunate enough to escape with little more than a broken spine. Tomorrow, I will lead you to one far less fortunate than either Aramala or myself.'
    Karsa grunted. 'I seek a Jhag horse, not an introduction to your friends.'
    The ancient Jaghut cackled. 'Blunt words. Thelomen Toblakai indeed. I had forgotten, and so lost my appreciation. The one I will take you to shall call out to the wild horses – and they will come.'
    'A singular skill.'
    'Aye, and hers alone, for it was, by and large, by her hand and her will that the horses came into being.'
    'A breeder, then.'
    'Of sorts,' the Jaghut nodded amicably. He began peeling the hide from the deer. 'The few of my fallen kin still alive will greatly appreciate this skin, despite the damage wrought by your ghastly stone sword. The aras deer are fleet, and clever. They never use the same trail – ha, they do not even make trails! And so one cannot lie in wait. Nor are snares of any use. And when pursued, where do they go? Why, into the bhederin herds, under the very beasts themselves. Clever, I said. Very clever.'
    'I am Karsa Orlong, of the Uryd—'
    'Yes, yes, I know. From distant Genabackis. Little different from my fallen kin, the Jhag. Ignorant of your great and noble history—'
    'Less ignorant than I once was.'
    'Good. I am named Cynnigig, and now you are even less ignorant.'
    Karsa shrugged. 'The name means nothing to me.'
    'Of course not, it's mine. Was I infamous? No, though once I aspired to be. Well, for a moment or two. But then I changed my mind. You, Karsa Orlong, you are destined for infamy. Perhaps indeed you have already achieved it, back in your homeland.'
    'I think not. No doubt I am believed dead, and nothing of what I did is known to my family or my tribe.'
    Cynnigig cut off a haunch and threw it on the flames. A cloud of smoke rose from the hissing, spitting fire. 'So you might think, but I would hazard otherwise. Word travels,
no matter what the barriers. The day you return, you will see.'
    'I care not for fame,' Karsa said. 'I did once ...'
    'And then?'
    'I changed my mind.'
    Cynnigig laughed once again, louder this time. 'I have brought wine, my young friend. In