A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

and
snapping branches. Two shot out directly towards Karsa.
    A mistake, Samar Dev realized in that moment, to
assume there was but one male. One was clearly younger
than the other, yet both were huge, eyes red-rimmed with
rage, water exploding round them as they charged their
attacker.
    The Jhag horse, Havok, swerved suddenly, legs gathering
beneath him, then the young stallion launched himself
over the back of the larger bull. But the bhederin was
quicker, twisting and heaving its massive head upward,
horns seeking the horse's exposed underbelly.
    That upward lunge killed the bull, for the beast's head
met the point of Karsa's stone sword, which slid into the
brain beneath the base of the skull, severing most of its
spine in the process.
    Havok landed in a splash and spray of muck on the far
side of the collapsing bull, well beyond the range of the second
male – which now pivoted, stunningly fast, and set off
in pursuit of Karsa.
    The warrior swung his horse to the left, hoofs pounding
as Havok ran parallel to the edge of trees, chasing after the
half-dozen females and calves that had lumbered out into
the clearing. The second bull closed fast behind them.
    The cows and calves scattered once more, one bolting in
a direction different from the others. Havok swerved into
its wake, and a heartbeat later was galloping alongside the
beast. Behind them, the second male had drawn up to flank
the other females – and one and all, this group then crashed
back into the thicket.
    Samar Dev watched Karsa Orlong lean far to one side,
then slash down with his sword, taking the beast in the
spine just above its hips.
    The cow's back legs collapsed under the blow, sluicing
through the muck as the creature struggled to drag them
forward.
    Wheeling round in front of the bhederin, Karsa held his
sword poised until he reached the cow's left side, then he
lunged down, the sword's point driving into the animal's
heart.
    Front legs buckled, and the cow sagged to one side, then
was still.
    Halting his horse, Karsa slid off and approached the dead
cow. 'Make us a camp,' he said to Samar Dev.
    She stared at him, then said, 'Fine, you have shown me
that I am, in fact, unnecessary. As far as you're concerned.
Now what? You expect me to set up camp, and then, I presume,
help you butcher that thing. Shall I lie beneath you
tonight just to round things out?'
    He had drawn a knife and now knelt in the pooling
water beside the cow. 'If you like,' he said.
    Barbarian bastard ... well, I should not have expected anything
else, should I? 'All right, I have been thinking, we will
need this meat – the land of rocks and lakes north of here
no doubt has game, but far less plentiful and far more
elusive.'
    'I shall take the bull's skin,' Karsa said, slicing open the
bhederin's belly. Entrails tumbled out to splash in
the swampy water. Already, hundreds of insects
swarmed the kill-site. 'Do you wish this cow's skin, Samar
Dev?'
    'Why not? If a glacier lands on us we won't freeze, and
that's something.'
    He glanced over at her. 'Woman, glaciers don't jump.
They crawl.'
    'That depends on who made them in the first place,
Karsa Orlong.'
    He bared his teeth. 'Legends of the Jaghut do not impress
me. Ice is ever a slow-moving river.'
    'If you believe that, Karsa Orlong, you know far less than
you think you do.'
    'Do you plan on sitting on that horse all day, woman?'
    'Until I find high ground to make a camp, yes.' And she
gathered the reins.
    Witness, he said. He's said that before, hasn't he? Some kind
of tribal thing, I suppose. Well, I witnessed all right. As did that
savage hiding in the shadows at the far end of the glade. I pray
the locals do not feel proprietary towards these bhederin. Or we
will find excitement unending, which Karsa might well enjoy. As
for me, I'll just likely end up dead.
    Well, too late to worry much about that.
    She then wondered how many of Karsa Orlong's past
companions had had similar thoughts. In those times just
before the Teblor barbarian found himself, once again,
travelling alone.
     
    The rough crags of the ridge cast a maze of shadows along
the ledge just beneath, and in these shadows five sets of serpentine
eyes stared down at the winding wall of dust on the
plain below. A trader's caravan, seven wagons, two
carriages, twenty guards on horses. And three war-dogs.
    There had been six, but three had caught Dejim
Nebrahl's scent and, stupid creatures that they were, had
set off to hunt the T'rolbarahl down. They had