A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

the long-knife in his right hand. Punching the tip into the man's lower belly.
    A gush of fluids, the edge gouging along the spine, the point then plunging out the other side.
    The parry and trap had torn the long-knife in his left hand from its grasp, flinging it to one side.
    But the Talon was already sagging, folding over the belly wound and the weapon impaling him.
    Kalam leaned closer. 'No,' he growled. 'I don't.'
    He tugged his knife free and let the dying man fall to the layered rugs of the tent floor.
    'A damned shame,' mused a voice near the back wall.
    Kalam slowly turned. 'Kamist Reloe. I've been looking for you.'
    The High Mage smiled. He was flanked by the other two Talons, one of whom held Kalam's second long-knife and was examining it curiously. 'We've been expecting a strike by the Claws,' Kamist Reloe said. 'Although an attack by long-dead ghosts was, I admit, not among our expectations. It is Raraku, you understand. This damned land is . . . awakening. Well, never mind that. Soon, there will be ... silence.'
    'He holds an otataral weapon,' the assassin on Kamist's right said.
    Kalam glanced down at the blood-smeared long-knife in his right hand. 'Ah, well, that.'
    'Then,' the High Mage sighed, 'you two shall have to take him in the, uh, mundane way. Will you suffice?'
    The one holding the long-knife flung it behind him and nodded. 'We've watched. He has patterns ... and skill. Against either one of us singly we'd be in trouble. But against both of us?'
    Kalam had to agree with the man's assessment. He stepped back, and sheathed his weapon. 'He's probably right,' he rumbled. With his other hand he drew out the acorn and tossed it on the floor. All three men flinched back as it bounced then rolled towards them. The innocuous object came to a halt.
    One of the Talons snorted. Kicked it to one side.
    Then the two assassins stepped forward, knives flickering.
    Kalam raised both arms, twisted his wrists outward, then flexed them hard.
    Both Talons grunted, then staggered backward, each impaled by a quarrel.
    'Careless of you,' Kalam muttered.
    Kamist shrieked, unveiling his warren.
    The wave of sorcery that struck the High Mage caught him entirely unawares, coming from one side. Death-magic closed around him in a sizzling, raging web of black fire.
    His shriek escalated. Then Kamist Reloe sprawled, the sorcery still flickering over his twitching, burned body.
    A figure slowly emerged from where the Talon had kicked the acorn moments earlier, and crouched down beside Kamist Reloe. 'It's disloyalty that bothers us the most,' he said to the dying High Mage. 'We always answer it. Always have. Always will.'
    Kalam recovered his second long-knife, eyes on the closed flaps on the chamber's back wall. 'He's through there,' he said, then paused and grinned. 'Good to see you, Quick.'
    Quick Ben glanced over and nodded.
    The wizard was, Kalam saw, looking older. Worn down. Scars not written on his skin, but on his heart. He will, I suspect, have nothing good to tell me when all this is done. 'Did you,' he asked Quick Ben, 'have anything to do with the diversion?'
    'No. Nor did Hood, although the hoary bastard's arrived. This is all Raraku.'
    'So Kamist said, not that I understand either of you.'
    'I'll explain later, friend,' Quick Ben said, rising. He faced the back flap. 'He has that witch Henaras with him, I think. She's behind some fierce wards that Kamist Reloe raised.'
    Kalam approached the doorway. 'Leave those to me,' he growled, unsheathing his otataral long-knife.
    The room immediately beyond was small, dominated by a map table, on which was sprawled the corpse of Henaras. Blood was still flowing in streams down the table's sides.
    Kalam glanced back at Quick Ben and raised his brows.
    The wizard shook his head.
    The assassin gingerly approached, and his eyes caught something glimmering silver-white on the woman's chest.
    A pearl.
    'Seems the way is clear,' Kalam whispered.
    Another flap slashed the wall opposite.
    Using the points of his knives, Kalam prised it open.
    A large high-backed chair filled the next chamber, on which was seated Korbolo Dom.
    His blue skin was a ghastly grey, and his hands shook where they rested on the chair's ornate arms. When he spoke his voice was high and tight, jittery with fear. 'I sent an emissary to the Adjunct. An invitation. I am prepared to attack Sha'ik and her tribes – with my Dogslayers.'
    Kalam grunted. 'If you think we've come with her answer, you'd be wrong,