A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

beneath his right shoulder blade to draw short a finger's breadth from his spine. The third, arriving from the opposite direction, took him high on his left shoulder with enough force to spin him round, so that he tumbled back-ward over the corpse.
    Scillara scrabbled down beside him. 'Old man? Do you live?'
    'Bastards,' he growled. 'That hurts.'
    'They're coming—'
    'To finish me off, aye. Flee, lass. To the stone forest. Go!'
    He felt her leave his side, heard her light steps patter away.
    Heboric sought to rise, but agony ripped up from his broken hip, left him gasping and blinded.
    Approaching footsteps, three sets, moccasined, two from the right and one from the left. Knives whispered from sheaths. Closing . . . then silence.
    Someone was standing over Heboric. Through his blurred vision, he could make out dust-smeared boots, and from them a stench, as of musty, dry death. Another set of boots scuffed the ground beyond the Destriant's feet.
    'Begone, wraiths,' a voice hissed from a half-dozen paces away.
    'Too late for that, assassin,' murmured the figure above Heboric. 'Besides, we've only just arrived.'
    'In the name of Hood, Hoarder of Souls, I banish you from this realm.'
    A soft laugh answered the killer's command. 'Kneel
before Hood, do you? Oh yes, I felt the power in your words. Alas, Hood's out of his depth on this one. Ain't that right, lass?'
    A deep, grunting assent from the one standing near Heboric's feet.
    'Last warning,' the assassin growled. 'Our blades are sanctioned – they will bleed your souls—'
    'No doubt. Assuming they ever reach us.'
    'There are but two of you ... and three of us.'
    'Two?'
    Scuffing sounds, then, sharp and close, the spray of blood onto the ground. Bodies thumped, long breaths exhaled wetly.
    'Should've left one alive,' said another woman's voice.
    'Why?'
    'So we could send him back to that fly-blown Napan bastard with a promise for the morrow.'
    'Better this way, lass. No-one appreciates surprise any more – that's what's gone wrong with the world, if you ask me—'
    'Well, we wasn't asking you. This old man going to make it, you think?'
    A grunt. 'I doubt Treach will give up on his new Destriant with nary a meow. Besides, that sweet-lunged beauty is on her way back.'
    'Time for us to leave, then.'
    'Aye.'
    'And from now on we don't surprise no-one, 'til come the dawn. Understood?'
    'Temptation got the better of us. Won't happen again.'
    Silence, then footsteps once more. A small hand settled on his brow.
    'Scillara?'
    'Yes, it's me. There were soldiers here, I think. They didn't look too good—'
    'Never mind that. Pull the quarrels from me. Flesh wants to heal, bone to knit. Pull 'em out, lass.'
    'And then?'
    'Drag me back to my temple ... if you can.'
    'All right.'
    He felt a hand close on the quarrel buried in his left shoulder. A flash of pain, then nothing.
     
    Elder Sha'ik's armour was laid out on the table. One of Mathok's warriors had replaced the worn straps and fittings, then polished the bronze plates and the full, visored helm. The longsword was oiled, its edges finely honed. The iron-rimmed hide-covered shield leaned against one table leg.
    She stood, alone in the chamber, staring down at the accoutrements left by her predecessor. The old woman reputedly had skill with the blade. The helm seemed strangely oversized, its vented cheek guards flared and full length, hinged to the heavy brow-band. Fine blackened chain hung web-like across the eye-slits. A long, wide lobster-tail neck guard sprawled out from the back rim.
    She walked over to the quilted under-padding. It was heavy, sweat-stained, the laces beneath the arms and running the length of the sides. Boiled leather plates covered her upper thighs, shoulders, arms and wrists. Working methodically, she tightened every lace and strap, shifting about to settle the weight evenly before turning to the armour itself.
    Most of the night remained, stretching before her like infinity's dark road, but she wanted to feel the armour encasing her; she wanted its massive weight, and so she affixed the leg greaves, footplates and wrist vambraces, then shrugged her way into the breastplate. Sorcery had lightened the bronze, and its sound as it rustled was like thin tin. The design allowed her to cinch the straps herself, and moments later she picked up the sword and slid it into its scabbard, then drew the heavy belt about her waist, setting the hooks that held it to the cuirass so that its weight did not drag at