A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

found himself glancing again and again to the north – to Raraku, where the song still rushed out to embrace him, only to fall away, then roll forward once more. The far horizon beyond that vast
basin of sand, he now saw, now held up a bank of white clouds.
    Now that don't look right. . .
    Sand-filled wind gusted suddenly into his face.
    'They've left the road!' Ranal shouted.
    Fiddler squinted westward. The riders had indeed plunged down the south bank, were cutting out diagonally – straight for a fast-approaching sandstorm. Gods, not another sandstorm .. . This one, he knew, was natural. The kind that plagued this desert, springing up like a capricious demon to rage a wild, cavorting path for a bell or two, before vanishing as swiftly as it had first appeared.
    He rose up on his saddle. 'Lieutenant! They're going to ride into it! Use it as cover! We'd better not—'
    'Flap that tongue at me one more time, Sergeant, and I'll tear it out! You hear me?'
    Fiddler subsided. 'Aye, sir.'
    'Full pursuit, soldiers!' Ranal barked. 'That storm'll slow them!'
    Oh, it will slow them, all right...
     
    Gesler glared into the blinding desert. 'Now who,' he wondered under his breath, 'are they?'
    They had drawn to halt when it became obvious that the four strange riders were closing fast on an intercept course. Long-bladed white swords flashing over their heads. Bizarre, gleaming white armour. White horses. White everything.
    'They're none too pleased with us,' Stormy rumbled, running his fingers through his beard.
    'That's fine,' Gesler growled, 'but they ain't renegades, are they?'
    'Sha'ik's? Who knows? Probably not, but even so ...'
    The sergeant nodded. 'Sands, get up here.'
    'I am,' the sapper snapped.
    'What's your range, lad, with that damned thing?'
    'Ain't sure. No chance to try it yet. Fid's is anywhere
from thirty to forty paces with a cusser – which is ugly close—'
    'All right. Rest of you, dismount and drive your horses down the other side. Truth, hold on good to their reins down there – if they bolt we're done for.'
    'Saw Borduke and his squad south of here,' Pella ventured.
    'Aye, as lost as we are – and you can't see 'em now, can you?'
    'No, Sergeant.'
    'Damn that Ranal. Remind me to kill him when we next meet.'
    'Aye, Sergeant.'
    The four attackers were tall bastards. Voicing eerie warcries now as they charged towards the base of the hill.
    'Load up, lad,' Gesler muttered, 'and don't mess up.'
    The lobber had been copied from Fiddler's own. It looked decent, at least as far as lobbers went – which ain't far enough. Thirty paces with a cusser. Hood roast us all...
    And here they came. Base of the slope, horses surging to take them up the hill.
    A heavy thud, and something awkward and grey sailed out and down.
    A cusser – holy f — 'Down! Down! Down!'
    The hill seemed to lift beneath them. Gesler thumped in the dust, coughing in the spiralling white clouds, then, swearing, he buried his head beneath his arms as stones rained down.
    Some time later, the sergeant clambered to his feet.
    On the hill's opposite side, Truth was trying to run in every direction at once, the horses trailing loose reins as they pelted in wild panic.
    'Hood's balls on a skillet!' Gesler planted his hands on his hips and glared about. The other soldiers were picking themselves up, shaken and smeared in dust. Stormy closed on Sands and grabbed him by the throat.
    'Not too hard, Corporal,' Gesler said as Stormy began
shaking the sapper about. 'I want him alive for my turn. And dammit, make sure he ain't got any sharpers on his body.'
    That stopped Stormy flat.
    Gesler walked to the now pitted edge of the hill and looked down. 'Well,' he said, 'they won't be chasing us any more, I'd say.'
    'Wonder who they were?' Pella asked.
    'Armour seems to have weathered the blast – you could go down and scrape out whatever's left inside 'em ... on second thought, never mind. We need to round up our horses.' He faced the others. 'Enough pissing about, lads. Let's get moving.'
     
    Lying on the smoking edge of the crater, sprayed in horseflesh and deafened by the blast, Jorrude groaned. He was a mass of bruises, his head ached, and he wanted to throw up – but not until he pried the helm from his head.
    Nearby in the rubble, Brother Enias coughed. Then said, 'Brother Jorrude?'
    'Yes?'
    'I want to go home.'
    Jorrude said nothing. It would not do, after all, to utter a hasty, heartfelt agreement, despite their present circumstance. 'Check