A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

comes.'
    Udinaas turned onto his back, struggled to raise his head.
    A piercing scream.
    Then a sword ripped through the warrior dragging Udinaas. Cutting it in half. The hand fell away from his ankle and he rolled to one side as iron-shod hoofs thundered past.
    She blazed, blinding white. A sword flickering like lightning in one hand. In the other, a double-bladed axe that dripped something molten in its wake. The horse—
    Naught but bones, bound by fire.
    The huge skeletal beast tossed its head as it wheeled round. The woman was masked in flat, featureless gold. A headdress of arching, gilt scales rose like hackles about her head. Weapons lifted.
    And Udinaas stared into her eyes.
    He flinched away, scrabbling to his feet, then running.
    Hoofs pounded behind him.
    Daughter Dawn. Menandore —
    Before him were sprawled the warriors that had walked alongside the one dragging him. Flames licking along wounds, dull smoke rising from torn flesh. None moved. They keep dying, don't they? Again and again. They keep dying —
    He ran.
    Then was struck. A wall of ridged bone smashing into his right shoulder, spinning him through the air. He hit the ground, tumbled and rolled, limbs flopping.
    His eyes stared up into swirling dust, the sky behind it spinning.
    A shape appeared in its midst, and a hard-soled boot settled on his chest.
    When she spoke, her voice was like the hissing of a thousand snakes. 'The blood of a Locqui Wyval... in the body of a slave. Which heart, mortal, will you ride?'
    He could not draw breath. The pressure of the boot was building, crushing his chest. He clawed at it.
    'Let your soul answer. Before you die.'
    I ride ... that which I have always ridden.
    'A coward's answer.'
    Yes.
    A moment remains. For you to reconsider.'
    Blackness closed around him. He could taste blood in the grit filling his mouth. Wyval! I ride the Wyval!
    The boot slipped to one side.
    A gauntleted hand reached down to the rope he used as a belt. Fingers clenched and he was lifted from the ground, arching, head dangling. Before him, a world turned upside down. Lifted, until his hips pushed up against the inside of her thighs.
    He felt his tunic pulled up onto his belly. A hand tearing his loincloth away. Cold iron fingers clamped round him.
    He groaned.
    And was pushed inside.
    Fire in his blood. Agony in his hips and lower back as, with one hand, she drove him up again and again.
    Until he spasmed.
    The hand released him and he thumped back onto the ground, shuddering.
    He did not hear her walk away.
    He heard nothing. Nothing but the two hearts within him. Their beats drawing closer, ever closer.
    After a time someone settled down beside Udinaas.
    'Debtor.'
    Someone will pay. He almost laughed.
    A hand on his shoulder. 'Udinaas. Where is this place?'
    'I don't know.' He turned his head, stared up into the frightened eyes of Feather Witch. 'What do the tiles tell you?'
    'I don't have them.'
    'Think of them. Cast them, in your mind.'
    'What do you know of such things, Udinaas?'
    He slowly sat up. The pain was gone. No bruises, not even a scratch beneath the layer of ash. He dragged his tunic down to cover his crotch. 'Nothing,' he replied.
    'You do not need divination,' she said, 'to know what has just happened.'
    His smile was bitter. 'I do. Dawn. The Edur's most feared Daughter. Menandore. She was here.'
    'The Letherii are not visited by Tiste Edur" gods—'
    'I was.' He looked away. 'She, uh, made use of me.'
    Feather Witch rose. 'Wyval blood has taken you. You are poisoned with visions, Debtor. Madness. Dreams that you are more than the man everyone else sees.'
    'Look at the bodies around us, Feather Witch. She cut them down.'
    'They are long dead.'
    'Aye, yet they were walking. See this track – one of them dragged me and that is my trail. And there, her horse's hoofs made those.'
    But she was not looking, her gaze instead fixed on Udinaas. 'This is a world of your own conjuring,' she said. 'Your mind is beset by false visions.'
    'Cast your tiles.'
    'No. This is a dead place.'
    'The Wyval's blood is alive, Feather Witch. The Wyval's blood is what binds us to the Tiste Edur.'
    'Impossible. Wyval are spawn of the Eleint. They are the mongrels of the dragons, and even the dragons do not control them. They are of the Hold, yet feral.'
    'I saw a white crow. On the strand. That is what I was coming to tell you, hoping to reach you before you cast the tiles. I sought to banish it, and its answer was laughter. When you were