A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

I'll see you again, sooner or later. And you'll see me, too. You'll see us all.' A laugh. 'Just not today. Damned shame 'bout your fiddle, though.'
    The weight vanished.
    Fiddler rolled over. The storm was tumbling away, leaving a white haze in its wake. He groped with his hands.
    A terrible, ragged moan ripped from his throat, and he lifted himself onto his knees. 'Hedge!' he screamed. 'Damn you! Hedge!'
    Someone jogged into view, settled down beside him. 'Slamming gates, Fid – you're Hood-damned alive!'
    He stared at the man's battered face, then recognized it. 'Cuttle? He was here. He – you're covered in blood—'
    'Aye. I wasn't as close as you. Luckily. 'Fraid I can't say the same for Ranal. Someone had taken down his horse. He was stumbling around.'
    'That blood—'
    'Aye,' Cuttle said again, then flashed a hard grin. 'I'm wearing Ranal.'
    Shouts, and other figures were closing in. Every one of them on foot.
    '—killed the horses. Bastards went and—'
    'Sergeant! You all right? Bottle, get over here—'
    'Killed the—'
    'Be quiet, Smiles, you're making me sick. Did you hear that blast? Gods below—'
    Cuttle clapped Fiddler on one shoulder, then dragged him to his feet.
    'Where's the lieutenant?' Koryk asked.
    'Right here,' Cuttle answered, but did not elaborate.
    He's wearing Ranal.
    'What just happened?' Koryk asked.
    Fiddler studied his squad. All here. That's a wonder.
    Cuttle spat. 'What happened, lad? We got slapped down. That's what happened. Slapped down hard.'
    Fiddler stared at the retreating storm. Aw, shit. Hedge.
    'Here comes Borduke's squad!'
    'Find your horses, everyone,' Corporal Tarr said. 'Sergeant's been knocked about. Collect whatever you can salvage – we gotta wait for the rest of the company, I reckon.'
    Good lad.
    'Look at that crater,' Smiles said. 'Gods, Sergeant, you couldn't have been much closer to Hood's Gate and lived, could you?'
    He stared at her. 'You've no idea how right you are, lass.'
    And the song rose and fell, and he could feel his heart matching that cadence. Ebb and flow. Raraku has swallowed more tears than can be imagined. Now comes the time for the Holy Desert to weep. Ebb and flow, his blood's song, and it lived on.
    It lives on.
     
    They had fled in the wrong direction. Fatal, but unsurprising. The night had been a shambles. The last survivor of Korbolo Dom's cadre of mages, Fayelle rode a lathered horse in the company of thirteen other Dogslayers down the channel of a long-dead river, boulders and banks high on either side.
    Herself and thirteen battered, bloodied soldiers. All that was left.
    The clash with Leoman had begun well enough, a perfectly sprung ambush. And would have ended perfectly, as well.
    If not for the damned ghosts.
    Ambush turned over, onto its back like an upended tortoise. They'd been lucky to get out with their lives, these few. These last.
    Fayelle well knew what had happened to the rest of Korbolo's army. She had felt Henaras's death. And Kamist Reloe's.
    And Raraku was not finished with them. Oh no. Not at all finished.
    They reached a slope leading out of the defile.
    She had few regrets—
    Crossbow quarrels whizzed down. Horses and soldiers screamed. Bodies thumped onto the ground. Her horse staggered, then rolled onto its side. She'd no time to kick free of the stirrups, and as the dying beast pinned her leg its weight tore the joint from her hip, sending pain thundering through her. Her left arm was trapped awkwardly beneath her as her own considerable weight struck the ground – and bones snapped.
    Then the side of her head hammered against rock.
    Fayelle struggled to focus. The pain subsided, became a distant thing. She heard faint pleas for mercy, the cries of wounded soldiers being finished off.
    Then a shadow settled over her.
    'I've been looking for you.'
    Fayelle frowned. The face hovering above her belonged to the past. The desert had aged it, but it nevertheless remained a child's face. Oh, spirits below. The child. Sinn. My old . . . student.. .
    She watched the girl raise a knife between them, angle the point down, then set it against her neck.
    Fayelle laughed. 'Go ahead, you little horror. I'll wait for you at Hood's Gate ... and the wait won't be long—'
    The knife punched through skin and cartilage.
    Fayelle died.
    Straightening, Sinn swung to her companions. They were, one and all, busy gathering the surviving horses.
    Sixteen left. The Ashok Regiment had fallen on hard times. Thirst and starvation.