A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

peril.'
    The High King halted.
    'It would appear,' Rake continued, 'that my arrival has been anticipated, with the collective desire that I adjudicate what is clearly a complex situation—'
    'Appearances deceive,' Caladan Brood said from where he stood outside the command tent – and the Mhybe now saw that Silverfox was at the warlord's side. 'Decide what you will, Rake, but I will not countenance Dragnipur's unsheathing in my camp.'
    There was silence, as explosive as any the Rhivi woman had ever felt. By the Abyss, this could go very, very wrong. . . She glanced over at the Malazans. Dujek had drawn his soldier's expressionless mask over his features, but his taut stance revealed his alarm. The standard-bearer Artanthos was a step behind and slightly to the right of Onearm, a marine's rain cape drawn about him, hiding his hands. The young man's eyes glittered. Is that power swirling from the man? No, I am mistaken – I see nothing now ...
    Anomander Rake slowly faced the warlord. 'I see that the lines have been drawn,' he said quietly. 'Korlat?'
    'I side with Caladan Brood in this, Master.'
    Rake eyed Kallor. 'It seems you stand alone.'
    'It was ever thus.'
    Oh, a sharp reply, that.
    Anomander Rake's expression tightened momentarily. 'I am not unfamiliar with that position, High King.'
    Kallor simply nodded.
    Horse hooves sounded then, and the Tiste Andii lining the southeast side of the ring parted. Whiskeyjack rode into the clearing, slowing his mount to a walk, then to a perfect square-stanced halt. It was unclear what the commander had heard, yet he acted none the less. Dismounting, he strode towards Silverfox, stopping directly before her. His sword slid smoothly from its scabbard. Whiskeyjack faced Rake, Kallor and the others in the centre of the clearing, then planted his sword in the ground before him.
    Caladan Brood stepped to the Malazan's side. 'With what you might face, Whiskeyjack, it would be best if you—'
    'I stand here,' the commander growled.
    Sorcery flowed from Anomander Rake, grainy grey, rolling in a slow wave across the clearing, passing through Whiskeyjack effortlessly, then swallowing Silverfox in an opaque, swirling embrace.
    The Mhybe cried out, lurched forward, but Korlat's hand closed on her arm. 'Fear not,' she said, 'he but seeks to understand her – understand what she is . . .'
    The sorcery frayed suddenly, flung away in tattered fragments to all sides. The Mhybe hissed. She knew enough of her daughter to see, in her reappearance, that she was furious. Power, twisting like taut ropes, rose around her, knotting, bunching.
    Oh, spirits below, I see Nightchill and Tattersail both . . . a shared rage. And, by the Abyss, another! A stolid will, a sentience slow to anger . . . so much like Brood – who? Is this – oh! – is this Bellurdan? Gods! We are moments from tearing ourselves apart. Please . . .
    'Well,' Rake drawled, 'I have never before had my hand slapped in such a fashion. Impressive, though perilously impertinent. What is it, then, that the child does not wish me to discover?' He reached over his left shoulder for Dragnipur's leather-wrapped handle.
    Grunting a savage curse, Brood unlimbered his hammer.
    Whiskeyjack shifted his stance, raising his own blade.
    Gods no, this is wrong —
    'Rake,' Kallor rasped, 'do you wish me on your left or right?'
    Snapping tent poles startled everyone. A loud yelp from the
    command tent was followed by a massive, awkward, flying shape exploding out
    from the tent's entrance. Cavorting, spinning wildly in the air, the huge
    wooden table the Mhybe had last seen emerging from the Shroud now rose above
    the clearing, and from one leg dangled Kruppe, sweetcakes fluttering away
    from him. He yelped again, kicking the air with his slippered feet. 'Aai!
    Help! Kruppe hates flying!'
     
    As the Bridgeburners completed assembling their gear, the sentries positioned to the east shouting out the news that the Black Moranth had been seen and now approached on their winged quorls, Captain Paran, plagued by a growing unease, strode among the gathered soldiers.
    Off to one side, an exhausted Picker sat watching him, her expression a strange mixture of dismay and admiration, and thus she was the only one to see him taking yet another forward step, then simply vanishing.
    The corporal bolted to her feet. 'Oh, Hood's balls! Spindle! Get Quick Ben!'
    A few paces away, the hairshirted mage glanced up. 'Why?'
    'Someone's just snatched Paran – find