A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

experienced a moment
of confusion as the quarry vanished, then they sensed a
presence at their side. Their heads snapped round, but too
late, as a wave of sorcery hammered into them. Shadowwrought
power cracked like lightning, and the creatures
were batted into the air, leaving in their wakes misty clouds
of blood. Writhing, they both struck the ground fifteen
paces away, skidding then rolling.
    The two flanking D'ivers attacked. And, as Iskaral Pust
vanished, they collided, chests reverberating like heavy
thunder, teeth and talons raking through hide. Hissing and
snarling, they scrambled away from each other.
    Reappearing twenty paces behind the T'rolbarahl,
Iskaral Pust unleashed another wave of sorcery, watched it
strike each of the five beasts in turn, watched blood spray
and the bodies tumble away, kicking frenziedly as the magic
wove flickering nets about them. Stones popped and
exploded on the ground beneath them, sand shot upward in
spear-like geysers, and everywhere there was blood,
whipping out in ragged threads.
    The T'rolbarahl vanished, fleeing the warren of Shadow
– out into the world, where they scattered, all thoughts of
the caravan gone as panic closed on their throats with
invisible hands.
    The High Priest of Shadow brushed dust from his
clothes, then walked over to where stood the mule. 'Some
help you were! We could be hunting each one down right
now, but oh no, you're tired of running. Whoever thought
mules deserved four legs was an idiot! You are most useless!
Bah!' He paused, then, and lifted a gnarled finger to his
wrinkled lips. 'But wait, what if they got really angry? What
if they decided to make a fight to the finish? What then?
Messy, oh, very messy. No, best leave them for someone else
to deal with. I must not get distracted. Imagine, though!
Challenging the High Priest of Shadow of all Seven Cities!
Dumber than cats, that T'rolbarahl. I am entirely without
sympathy.'
    He climbed back onto the mule. 'Well, that was fun,
wasn't it? Stupid mule. I think we'll have mule for supper
tonight, what do you think of that? The ultimate sacrifice
is called for, as far as you're concerned, don't you think?
Well, who cares what you think? Where to now? Thank the
gods at least one of us knows where we're going. That way,
mule, and quickly now. Trot, damn you, trot!'
    Skirting the caravan, where dogs still barked, Iskaral Pust
began shifting shadows once more.
     
    Dusk had arrived in the world beyond when he reached his
destination, reining in the plodding mule at the foot of a
cliff.
    Vultures clambered amongst the tumbled rocks, crowding
a fissure but unable or, as yet, unwilling to climb down
into it. One edge of that crevasse was stained with dried
blood, and among rocks to one side were the remains of a
dead beast – devoured to bones and ragged strips by the
scavengers, it was nonetheless easy to identify. One of the
T'rolbarahl.
    The vultures voiced a chorus of indignation as the High
Priest of Shadow dismounted and approached. Spitting
curses, he chased away the ugly, Mogora-like creatures,
then eased himself down into the fissure. Deep, the close
air smelling of blood and rotting meat.
    The crevasse narrowed a little more than a man's height
down, and into this was wedged a body. Iskaral Pust
settled down beside it. He laid a hand on the figure's broad
shoulder, well away from the obvious breaks in that arm.
'How many days, friend? Ah, only a Trell would survive
this. First, we shall have to get you out of here, and for that
I have a stalwart, loyal mule. Then, well, then, we shall see,
won't we?'
     
    Neither stalwart nor particularly loyal, the mule's disinclination
towards cooperation slowed down the task of
extracting Mappo Runt considerably, and it was full dark by
the time the Trell was pulled from the fissure and dragged
onto a flat patch of wind-blown sand.
    The two compound fractures in the left arm were the
least of the huge Trell's injuries. Both legs had broken, and
one edge of the fissure had torn a large flap of skin and flesh
from Mappo's back – the exposed meat was swarming with
maggots, and the mostly hanging flap of tissue was clearly
unsalvageable, grey in the centre and blackening round the
edges, smelling of rot. Iskaral Pust cut that away and tossed
it back into the fissure.
    He then leaned close and listened to the Trell's breathing.
Shallow, yet slow – another day without attention and
he would have died. As it was, the possibility remained
distinct. 'Herbs, my