A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

Korbolo.'
    The Napan's eyes darted to Quick Ben. 'We assumed you were either dead with the rest of the Bridgeburners, or still on Genabackis.'
    The wizard shrugged. 'Tayschrenn sent me ahead. Even so, he's brought the fleet across on mage-driven winds. Dujek Onearm and his legions reached Ehrlitan a week past—'
    'What's left of those legions, you mean—'
    'More than enough to complement the Adjunct's forces, I should think.'
    Kalam stared between the two men. The Bridgeburners . . . dead? Whiskeyjack? Onearm's Host – gods below, what happened over there?
    'We can salvage this,' Korbolo Dom said, leaning forward. 'All of Seven Cities, returned to the Empire. Sha'ik brought in chains before the Empress—'
    'And for you and your soldiers a pardon?' Quick Ben asked. 'Korbolo Dom, you have truly lost your mind—'
    'Then die!' the Napan shrieked, leaping forward, hands reaching for the wizard's throat.
    Kalam stepped in and, knife reversed, struck Korbolo Dom hard against the side of the head.
    The Napan staggered.
    A second fist shattered his nose and sent him sprawling.
    Quick Ben stared down at the man. 'Truss him up, Kalam. That diversion's over, from the silence outside – I'll find us a way out.'
    Kalam began tying the unconscious man's hands. 'Where are we taking him?'
    'I've a thought to that.'
    The assassin glanced up at his friend. 'Quick? The Bridgeburners? Whiskeyjack?'
    The hard, dark eyes softened. 'Dead. Barring Picker and a handful of others. There's a tale there, and I promise I will tell it in full ... later.'
    Kalam stared down at Korbolo Dom. 'I feel like cutting throats,' he rasped.
    'Not him. Not now.'
    Hold back on the feelings, Kalam Mekhar. Hold back on everything. Quick's right. In time. In time . . .
    Oh, Whiskeyjack ...
     
    There was time for ... everything. This night and for the day to come, Bidithal needed Sha'ik. And the Whirlwind Goddess. And perhaps, if all went well, there would be the opportunity for bargaining. Once the goddess's rage has cooled, annealed into beauty by victory – we can still achieve this.
    But I know now what Febryl has done. I know what Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe plan for the dawn.
    They could be stopped. The knives could be turned.
    He hobbled as quickly as he could towards Sha'ik's palace. Ghosts flitted about on the edges of his vision, but his shadows protected him. In the distance he heard screams, detonations and sorcery – coming, he realized, from the Dogslayers' camp. Ah, so that Claw's made it that far, has he? Both good and . . . troubling. Well, at the very least he'll keep Kamist occupied.
    Of course, the danger posed by the roving assassins still existed, though that was diminishing the closer he got to Sha'ik's abode.
    Still, the streets and alleys were disturbingly deserted.
    He came within sight of the sprawling palace, and saw with relief the pools of torchlight surrounding it.
    Counter the Napan's gambit – awaken the goddess to the threat awaiting her. Then hunt down that gnarled bhok'aral Febryl and see his skin stripped from his writhing flesh. Even the goddess — yes, even the goddess will have to recognize me. My power. When flanked by my new pets —
    A hand shot out of the darkness and closed about Bidithal's neck. He was lifted into the air – flailing – then thrown hard to the ground. Blinded. Choking.
    His shadow-servants swarmed to defend him.
    A growl, the hissing swing of something massive that cut a sweeping path – and suddenly the wraiths were gone.
    Slowly, Bidithal's bulging eyes made out the figure crouched above him.
    Toblakai —
    'You should have left her alone,' Karsa Orlong said quietly, his voice devoid of inflection. Behind and around the giant were gathering ghosts, chained souls.
    We are both servants of the same god! You fool! Let me speak! I would save Sha'ik!
    'But you didn't. I know, Bidithal, where your sick desires come from. I know where your pleasure hides – the pleasure you would take from others. Witness.'
    Karsa Orlong set down his stone sword, then reached between Bidithal's legs.
    A hand closed indiscriminately around all that it found.
    And tore.
    Until, with a ripping of tendons and shreds of muscle, a flood of blood and other fluids, the hand came away with its mangled prize.
    The pain was unbearable. The pain was a rending of his soul. It devoured him.
    And blood was pouring out, hot as fire, even as deathly cold stole across his skin, seeped into his limbs.
    The scene above him