A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

not, Brother Enias, but it was a promise of death.'
    'Agreed,' Malachar growled.
    'Our horses are rested enough,' Jorrude pronounced.
    The four Tiste Liosan rode up the slope until they reached the ridge, then swung their mounts southward. Jorrude spared a last glance back over his shoulder, to make certain the stranger had not reversed his route – had not spied them hiding there in that hollow. Hiding. Yes, that is the truth of it, ignoble as the truth often proves to be. He fought off a shiver, squinting into the darkness at the edge of the stone forest.
    But the apparition did not emerge.
    'In the name of Osric, Lord of the Sky,' Jorrude intoned under
    his breath as he led his brothers along the ridge, 'thank you for that...'
     
    At the edge of the glade, Karsa Orlong stared back at the distant riders. He had seen them long before they had seen him, and had smiled at their cautious retreat from his path.
    Well enough, there were enemies aplenty awaiting him in the oasis, and no night lasted for ever.
    Alas.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
    Hear them rattle
These chains of living
Bound to every moment passed
Until the wreckage clamours
In deafening wake
And each stride trails
A dirge of the lost.
    House of Chains
Fisher kel Tath
     
    He sat cross-legged in the darkness, perched in his usual place on the easternmost ridge, his eyes closed, a small smile on his withered face. He had unveiled his warren in the most subtle pattern, an unseen web stretched out across the entire oasis. It would be torn soon, he well knew, but for the moment he could sense every footpad, every tremble. The powers were indeed converging, and the promise of blood and destruction whispered through the night.
    Febryl was well pleased. Sha'ik had been isolated, utterly. The Napan's army of killers were even now streaming from their places of hiding, as panic closed hands around Korbolo Dom's throat. Kamist Reloe was returning from his secret sojourn through the warrens. And, across the basin, the Malazan army was entrenching, the Adjunct whetting her otataral sword in anticipation of the morning's battle.
    There was but one troubling detail. A strange song, faint
yet growing. The voice of Raraku itself. He wondered what it would bring to this fated night. Hood was close – aye, the god himself– and this did much to mask other ... presences. But the sands were stirring, awakened perhaps by the Lord of Death's arrival. Spirits and ghosts, no doubt come to witness the many deaths promised in the hours to come. A curious thing, but he was not unduly concerned.
    There will be slaughter. Yet another apocalypse on Raraku's restless sands. It is as it should be.
     
    To all outward appearances, L'oric was dead. He had been roughly dragged to one wall in the command tent and left; there. The knife had been yanked from his back, and he now lay with his face to the rough fabric of the wall, eyes open and seemingly sightless.
    Behind him, the Supreme Commander of the Apocalypse was speaking.
    'Unleash them all, Henaras, barring my bodyguards. I want every one of Bidithal's cute little spies hunted down and killed – and find Scillara. That bitch has played her last game.
    'You, Duryl, take another and ride out to the Adjunct. Deliver my missive — and make certain you are not seen by anyone. Mathok has his warriors out. Fayelle will work sorcery to aid you. And impress upon Tavore the need to withdraw her killers, lest they do the Whirlwind Goddess's work for her.'
    'Supreme Commander,' a voice spoke, 'what of Leoman of the Flails?'
    'The 4th Company and Fayelle are to leave quietly with the next bell. Leoman will get nowhere near us, or the army. Corporal Ethume, I want you within crossbow range of Febryl – the bastard's hiding in the usual place. Now, have I missed anything?'
    'My fear is deepening,' Henaras murmured. 'Something is happening ... in the holy desert. Worse, I feel the approach of terrible powers—'
    'Which is why we need the Adjunct and her damned sword. Are we safe enough in here, Henaras?'
    'I think so – the wards Kamist, Fayelle and I have woven about this tent would confound a god.'
    'That claim might well be challenged,' Korbolo Dom growled.
    He added something more, but a strange gurgling sound, from just beyond the tent wall in front of L'oric, overrode the Napan's voice. A wetness, spattering the opposite side, then a sigh – audible to L'oric only because he was so close. Talons then raked along the base of the wall,