A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

like being pushed.
    He lifted his sword clear of his harness rings and closed both hands about the grip, lowering the point to hover just above the ground, then forced himself to turn about and face the oasis.
    A thousand ghostly chains stretched taut behind him, then began pulling.
    The Teblor growled under his breath and leaned forward. I am the master of these chains. I, Karsa Orlong, yield to none. Not gods, not the souls I have slain. I will walk forward now, and either resistance shall end, or the chains will be snapped.
    Besides, I have left my horse tethered in the stone forest.
    Twin howls tore the night air above the oasis, sudden and fierce as cracks of lightning.
    Karsa Orlong smiled. Ah, they have arrived.
    He lifted his sword's point slightly higher, then surged forward.
    It would not do – it turned out – to have the chains sundered. The tension suddenly vanished, and, for this night at least, all resistance to Toblakai's will had ended.
    He left the ridge and descended the slope, into the gloom once more.
     
    Fist Gamet was lying on his cot, struggling to breathe as a tightness seized his throat. Thunder filled his head, in thrumming waves of pain radiating out from a spot just above and behind his right eye.
    Pain such as he had never felt before, driving him onto his side, the cot creaking and pitching as nausea racked him, the vomit spraying onto the floor. But the emptying of his stomach offered no surcease from the agony in his skull.
    His eyes were open but he was blind.
    There had been headaches. Every day, since his fall from his horse. But nothing like this.
    The barely healed knife-slash in his palm had reopened during his contortions, smearing sticky blood across his face and brow when he sought to claw the pain out from his head, and the wound now felt as if it was afire, scorching his veins.
    Groaning, he clambered sideways from the cot and then halted, on his hands and knees, head hanging down, as waves of trembling shivered through him.
    I need to move. I need to act. Something. Anything.
    I need —
    A time of blankness, then he found himself standing near the tent flap. Weighted in his armour, gauntlets
covering his hands, helm on his head. The pain was fading, a cool emptiness rising in its wake.
    He needed to go outside. He needed his horse.
    Gamet strode from the tent. A guard accosted him but he waved the woman away and hurried towards the corrals.
    Ride. Ride out. It's time.
    Then he was cinching the saddle of his horse, waiting for the beast to release its breath, then drawing it a notch tighter. A clever horse. Paran stables, of course. Fast and of almost legendary endurance. Impatient with incompetence, ever testing the rider's claim to being in charge, but that was to be expected from such a fine breed.
    Gamet swung himself into the saddle. It felt good to be riding once more. On the move, the ground whispering past as he rode down the back ramp, then round the jagged island and towards the basin.
    He saw three figures ahead, standing at the ridge, and thought nothing strange as to their presence. They are what will come. These three.
    Nil. Nether. The lad, Grub.
    The last turned as Gamet reined in beside them. And nodded. 'The Wickans and Malazans are on the flanks, Fist. But your assault will be straight up the Dogslayers' main ramp.' And he pointed.
    Footsoldiers and cavalry were massing in the basin, moving through the thick gloom. Gamet could hear the whisper of armour, feel the thud of countless horse hoofs. He saw banners and standards, hanging limp and ragged.
    'Ride to them, Fist,' Grub said.
    And he saluted the child and set heels to his mount's flanks.
    Black and rust-red armour, visored helms with ornate cheek-guards, short thrusting javelins and kite shields, the rumble of countless booted feet – he rode alongside one column, casting an appraising eye over the companies of infantry.
    Then a wing of cavalry swept round to engulf him. One
rider rode close. A dragon-winged helm swivelled to face him. 'Ride with us, soldier?'
    'I cannot,' Gamet replied. 'I am the Fist. I must command.'
    'Not this night,' the warrior replied. 'Fight at our sides, as the soldier you are. Remember the old battles? When all that was required was the guarding of the companions flanking you. Such will be this night. Leave the commanding to the lords. Ride with us in freedom. And glory.'
    A surge of exultation swept through Gamet. The pain in his head was gone. He could feel his