A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

free once again. Find a High Denul healer and make
your hand look and work like new again.'
    'Yes, sir. And until then, since it's my shield hand, I
should be able to—'
    'Then why in Hood's name are you taking up this cot,
Lieutenant?'
    'Ah, well, I just need to find some clothes, then, sir, and
I'll be right with you.'
    Kindly looked down the row of cots. 'Half this hospital is
filled with bleating lambs – you up to being a wolf,
Lieutenant? We march tonight. There's not enough wagons
and, even more outrageous, not enough palanquins and no
howdahs to speak of – what is this army coming to, I wonder?'
    'Shameful, sir. How does Fist Tene Baralta fare, sir?'
    'Lost that arm, but you don't hear him whining and fussing
and moaning.'
    'No?'
    'Of course not, he's still unconscious. Get on your feet,
soldier. Wear that blanket.'
    'I lost my arm torc, sir—'
    'You got the burn mark where it was, though, haven't
you? They see that and they'll know you for an officer. That
and your ferocious comportment.'
    'Yes, sir.'
    'Good, now enough of wasting my time. We've work to
do, Lieutenant.'
    'Yes, sir.'
    'Lieutenant, if you remain lying there another heartbeat,
I will fold that cot up with you in it, do you understand me?'
    'Yes, sir!'
     
    She sat unmoving, limbs limp as a doll's, while an old
Wickan woman washed her down and another cut away
most of her hair, and did not look up as Captain Faradan
Sort entered the tent.
    'That will do,' she said, gesturing for the two Wickans to
leave. 'Get out.'
    Voicing, in tandem, strings of what the captain took to
be curses, the two women left.
    Faradan Sort looked down on the girl. 'Long hair just
gets in the way, Sinn. You're better off without it. I don't
miss mine at all. You're not talking, but I think I know
what is going on. So listen. Don't say anything. Just listen
to me ...'
     
    The dull grey, drifting ash devoured the last light of the
sun, while dust-clouds from the road drifted down into
the cut banks to either side. Remnant breaths of the dead
city still rolled over the Fourteenth Army – all that
remained of the firestorm, yet reminder enough for the
mass of soldiers awaiting the horn blasts that would
announce the march.
    Fist Keneb lifted himself into the saddle, gathered the
reins. All round him he could hear coughing, from human
and beast alike, a terrible sound. Wagons, burdened with
the cloth-swathed wounded, were lined up on the road like
funeral carts, smoke-stained, flame-blackened and reeking
of pyres. Among them, he knew, could be found Fist Tene
Baralta, parts of his body burned away and his face horribly
scarred – a Denul healer had managed to save his eyes, but
the man's beard had caught fire, and most of his lips and
nose were gone. The concern now was for his sanity,
although he remained, mercifully, unconscious. And there
were others, so many others ...
    He watched Temul and two riders cantering towards
him. The Wickan leader reined in, shaking his head.
'Nowhere to be found, Fist. It's no surprise – but know this:
we've had other desertions, and we've tracked them all
down. The Adjunct has issued the command to kill the
next ones on sight.'
    Keneb nodded, looked away.
    'From now on,' Temul continued, 'my Wickans will not
accept counter-orders from Malazan officers.'
    The Fist's head turned back and he stared at Temul. 'Fist,
your Wickans are Malazans.'
    The young warrior grimaced, then wheeled his horse.
'They're your problem now, Fist. Send out searchers if you
like, but the Fourteenth won't wait for them.'
    Even as he and his aides rode away, the horns sounded,
and the army lurched into motion.
    Keneb rose in his saddle and looked around. The sun was
down, now. Too dark to see much of anything. And somewhere
out there were Captain Faradan Sort and Sinn. Two
deserters. That damned captain. I thought she was ... well, I
didn't think she'd do something like this.
    Y'Ghatan had broken people, broken them utterly – he
did not think many would recover. Ever.
    The Fourteenth Army began its march, down the
western road, towards the Sotka Fork, in its wake dust and
ash, and a destroyed city.
     
    Her head was serpentine, the slitted, vertical eyes lurid
green, and Balm watched her tongue slide in and out with
fixed, morbid fascination. The wavy, ropy black tendrils of
her hair writhed, and upon the end of each was a tiny
human head, mouth open in piteous screams.
    Witch Eater, Thesorma Raadil, all bedecked in zebra
skins, her four arms lifting this