A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Meckros city. You are here – wherever here is – because my master wills it.' He rose with a grunt. 'Can you stand? He awaits you inland – not far.'
    The eyes shifted away, focused on the three Nachts at the edge of the verge. 'What are those things? What's that one doing?'
    'Bhoka'ral. Nachts. Name them as you will. As I have. The one making the nest is Pule, a young male. This particular nest has taken almost a week – see how he obsesses over it, adjusting twigs just so, weaving the seaweed, going round and round with a critical eye. The older male, over there and watching Pule, is Rind. He's moments from hilarity, as you'll see. The female preening on the rock is Mape. You've arrived at a propitious time, lad. Watch.'
    The nest-builder, Pule, had begun backing away from the intricate construct on the verge, black tail flicking from side to side, head bobbing. Fifteen paces from the nest, it suddenly sat, arms folded, and seemed to study the colourless sky.
    The female, Mape, ceased preening, paused a moment, then ambled casually towards the nest.
    Pule tensed, even as it visibly struggled to keep its gaze on the sky.
    Reaching the nest, Mape hesitated, then attacked. Driftwood, grasses and twigs flew in all directions. Within moments, the nest had been destroyed in a wild frenzy, and Mape was squatting in the wreckage, urinating.
    Nearby, Rind was rolling about in helpless mirth.
    Pule slumped in obvious dejection.
    'This has happened more times than I'd care to count,' Withal said, sighing.
    'How is it you speak my language?'
    'I'd a smattering, from traders. My master has, it seems, improved upon it. A gift, you might say, one of a number of gifts, none of which I asked for. I suspect,' he continued, 'you will come to similar sentiments, lad. We should get going.'
    Withal watched the young man struggle to his feet. 'Tall,' he observed, 'but I've seen taller.'
    Pain flooded the youth's features once more and he doubled over. Withal stepped close and supported him before he toppled.
    'It's ghost pain, lad. Ghost pain and ghost fear. Fight through it.'
    'No! It's real! It's real, you bastard!'
    Withal strained as the youth's full weight settled in his arms. 'Enough of that. Stand up!'
    'It's no good! I'm dying!'
    'On your feet, dammit!'
    A rough shake, then Withal pushed him away.
    He staggered, then slowly straightened, drawing in deep, ragged breaths. He began shivering. 'It's so cold ...'
    'Hood's breath, lad, it's blistering hot. And getting hotter with every day.'
    Arms wrapped about himself, the young man regarded Withal. 'How long have you lived ... lived here?'
    'Longer than I'd like. Some choices aren't for you to make. Not for you, not for me. Now, our master's losing patience. Follow me.'
    The youth stumbled along behind him. 'You said "our".'
    'Did I?'
    'Where are my clothes? Where are my – no, never mind – it hurts to remember. Never mind.'
    They reached the verge, withered grasses pulling at their legs as they made their way inland. The Nachts joined them, clambering and hopping, hooting and snorting as they kept pace.
    Two hundred paces ahead squatted a ragged tent, the canvas sun-bleached and stained. Wafts of grey-brown smoke drifted from the wide entrance, where most of one side had been drawn back to reveal the interior.
    Where sat a hooded figure.
    'That's him?' the youth asked. 'That's your master? Are you a slave, then?'
    'I serve,' Withal replied, 'but I am not owned.'
    'Who is he?'
    Withal glanced back. 'He is a god.' He noted the disbelief writ on the lad's face, and smiled wryly. 'Who's seen better days.'
    The Nachts halted and huddled together in a threesome.
    A last few strides across withered ground, then Withal stepped to one side. 'I found him on the strand,' he said to the seated figure, 'moments before the lizard gulls did.'
    Darkness hid the Crippled God's features, as was ever the case when Withal had been summoned to an attendance. The smoke from the brazier filled the tent, seeping out to stream along the mild breeze. A gnarled, thin hand emerged from the folds of a sleeve as the god gestured. 'Closer,' he rasped. 'Sit.'
    'You are not my god,' the youth said.
    'Sit. I am neither petty nor overly sensitive, young warrior.'
    Withal watched the lad hesitate, then slowly settle onto the ground, cross-legged, arms wrapped about his shivering frame. 'It's cold.'
    'Some furs for our guest, Withal.'
    'Furs? We don't have any—' He stopped when he noticed the bundled bearskin