A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

journey quicker. Two
minuscule companions of mine are even now clambering
onto the deck, having ascended via the trees. They will any
moment begin hunting rats and other vermin, which
should occupy them for some time. As for you and me, let
us settle to this meal.'
    He slowly leaned back in his chair. 'We will reach port in
two days. Something tells me those two days will fly past
like a gull in a gale.'
    For me as well, Ganoes Paran.
     
    Ancient memories whispered through Dejim Nebrahl, old
stone walls lit red with reflected fire, the cascade of smoke
down streets filled with the dead and the dying, the
luscious flow of blood in the gutters. Oh, there was a grandness
to the First Empire, that first, rough flowering of
humanity. The T'rolbarahl were, in Dejim's mind, the
culmination of truly human traits, blended with the
strength of beasts. Savagery, the inclination towards vicious
cruelty, the cunning of a predator that draws no boundaries
and would sooner destroy one of its own kind than another.
Feeding the spirit on the torn flesh of children. That
stunning exercise of intelligence that could justify any
action, no matter how abhorrent.
    Mated with talons, dagger-long teeth and the D'ivers gift
of becoming many from one ... we should have survived, we
should have ruled. We were born masters and all humanity were
rightly our slaves. If only Dessimbelackis had not betrayed us.
His own children.
    Well, even among T'rolbarahl, Dejim Nebrahl was
supreme. A creation beyond even the First Emperor's most
dread nightmare. Domination, subjugation, the rise of a
new empire, this is what awaited Dejim, and oh how he
would feed. Bloated, sated by human blood. He would
make the new, fledgling gods kneel before him.
    Once his task was complete, the world awaited him. No
matter its ignorance, its blind disregard. That would all
change, so terribly change.
    Dejim's quarry neared, drawn ever so subtly onto this
deadly track. Not long now.
     
    The seashell vest glimmered white in the morning light.
Karsa Orlong had drawn it from his pack to replace the
shredded remnants of the padded leather he had worn
earlier. He sat on his tall, lean horse, the blood-spattered,
stitched white fur cloak sweeping down from his broad
shoulders. Bare-headed, with a lone, thick braid hanging
down the right side of his chest, the dark hair knotted with
fetishes: finger bones, strips of gold-threaded silk, bestial
canines. A row of withered human ears was sewn onto his
belt. The huge flint sword was strapped diagonally across
his back. Two bone-handled daggers, each as long
and broad-bladed as a short sword, were sheathed in
the high moccasins that reached to just below his knees.
    Samar Dev studied the Toblakai a moment longer, gaze
lifting to fix on his tattooed face. The warrior was facing
west, his expression unreadable. She turned back to check
the tethers of the packhorses once more, then drew herself
up and into the saddle. She settled the toes of her boots
into the stirrups and gathered the reins. 'Contrivances,' she
said, 'that require no food or water, that do not tire or grow
lame, imagine the freedom of such a world as that would
bring, Karsa Orlong.'
    The eyes he set upon her were those of a barbarian,
revealing suspicion and a certain animal wariness. 'People
would go everywhere. What freedom in a smaller world,
witch?'
    Smaller? 'You do not understand—'
    'The sound of this city is an offence to peace,' Karsa
Orlong said. 'We leave it, now.'
    She glanced back at the palace gate, closed with thirty
soldiers guarding it. Hands restless near weapons. 'The
Falah'd seems disinclined for a formal leavetaking. So be it.'
    The Toblakai in the lead, they met few obstacles passing
through the city, reaching the west gate before the morning's
tenth bell. Initially discomforted by the attention they
received from virtually every citizen, on the street and at
windows of flanking buildings, Samar Dev had begun to see
the allure of notoriety by the time they rode past the silent
guards at the gate, enough to offer one of the soldiers a
broad smile and a parting wave with one gloved hand.
    The road they found themselves on was not one of the
impressive Malazan feats of engineering linking the major
cities, for the direction they had chosen led ... nowhere.
West, into the Jhag Odhan, the ancient plains that defied
the farmer's plough, the mythical conspiracy of land, rain
and wind spirits, content only with the deep-rooted natural
grasses, eager to