A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

time has come.'
    'Fighting,' Gruntle muttered. 'What you enjoy the most.'
    'Yes, but for now, I would ride you.'
    Ride? More like batter me senseless. Ah, well . . . 'What man would say no to such an elegant offer?'
    Collecting her bedroll in both arms, Hetan rose. 'Follow me, and hurry.'
    'Alas,' he replied, slowly gaining his feet, 'I never hurry, as you're about to discover.'
    'Tomorrow night I shall ride your friend.'
    'You're doing so tonight, dear, in his dreams.'
    She nodded seriously. 'He has big hands.'
    'Aye.'
    'So do you.'
    'I thought you were in a hurry, Hetan.'
    'I am. Let's go.'
     
    The Barghast Range crept down from the north as the day slowly passed, from distant mountains to worn, humped-back hills. Many of the hills edging the traders' track to Capustan were sacred sites, their summits displaying the inverted tree trunks that were the Barghast custom of anchoring spirits – or so Hetan explained as she walked alongside Gruntle, who was leading his horse by the reins. While the captain had little interest in things religious, he admitted to some curiosity as to why the Barghast would bury trees upside-down in hills.
    'Mortal souls are savage things,' she explained, spitting to punctuate her words. 'Many must be held down to keep them from ill-wandering. Thus, the oaks are brought down from the north. The shouldermen carve magic into their trunks. The one to be buried is pinned beneath the tree. Spirits are drawn as well, as guardians, and other traps are placed along the edges of the dark circle. Even so, sometimes the souls escape – imprisoned by one of the traps, yet able to travel the land. Those who return to the clans where they once lived are quickly destroyed, so they have learned to stay away – here, in these lowlands. Sometimes, such a sticksnare retains a loyalty to its mortal kin, and will send dreams to our shouldermen, to tell us of danger.'
    'A sticksnare, you called it. What does that mean?'
    'You may well see for yourself,' she replied with a shrug.
    'Was it one of these sticksnares that sent the dreams of demons?'
    'Yes, and other spirits besides. That so many sought to reach us...'
    Added veracity to the threat, aye, I understand. He scanned the empty land before them, wondering what was out there.
    Stormy rode fifty paces ahead. At the moment, Gruntle could not see her, as the trail leaned round a boulder-studded hill and vanished from sight thirty paces on. She had a frustrating knack for ignoring his orders – he'd wanted her to remain in sight at all times. The two Barghast brothers ranged to the sides, flanking the carriage from a distance that varied with the demands of the ground they covered. Cafal had taken the inland side and was jogging up the same hill's rocky slope. Netok walked along the sandy bank of the river, surrounded by a cloud of midges that seemed to grow larger and thicker with every stride. Given the alarmingly thick and rancid greases with which the Barghast covered their bodies, Gruntle suspected those insects were suffering from frustration – drawn close by a warm body but unwilling or unable to alight.
    That grease had been something of a challenge the night just past, Gruntle reflected, but he'd managed none the less, sporting a formidable collection of bruises, scratches and bites as proof. Hetan had been ... energetic—
    A shout from Cafal. At the same moment Stonny reappeared. The slow canter at which she approached eased the captain's nerves somewhat, though it was clear that both she and the Barghast on the hill had spotted something ahead/He glanced over to see Cafal now crouched low, his attention fixed on something further up the trail, but he had not drawn his weapons.
    Stonny reined in, her expression closed. 'Bauchelain's carriage ahead. It's been ... damaged. There's been a fight of some kind. Messy.'
    'See anyone still standing?'
    'No, just the oxen, looking placid enough. No bodies either.'
    Hetan faced her brother on the hill and caught his eye. She made a half-dozen hand gestures, and, drawing forth a lance, Cafal padded forward, dropping down from view.
    'All right,' Gruntle sighed. 'Weapons out – let's go for a look.'
    'Want me to keep back?' Harllo asked from the driver's bench.
    'No.'
    Rounding the hill, they saw that the trail opened out again, the land flattening on both sides. Forty paces on was Bauchelain and Korbal Broach's massive carriage, on its side, the rear spoke torn entirely off and lying shattered nearby. The