A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

drew out his axe.
    Months had passed since the T'lan Imass had appeared –
he'd thought them long gone, gone even before old Kulat
wandered off in his newfound madness. He had not realized
– none of them had – that the terrible, undead creatures
had never left.
    The party of travellers had been slaughtered, the ambush
so swiftly executed that Barathol had not even known of its
occurrence – until it was far too late. Jhelim and Filiad had
suddenly burst into the smithy, screaming of murder just
beyond the hamlet. He had collected his weapon and run
with them to the western road, only to find the enemy already
departed, their task done, and upon the old road, dying horses
and motionless bodies sprawled about as if they had dropped
from the sky.
    Sending Filiad to find the old woman Nulliss – who
possessed modest skill as a healer – Barathol had returned
to his smithy, ignoring Jhelim who trailed behind him like
a lost pup. He had donned his armour, taking his time. The
T'lan Imass, he suspected, would have been thorough.
They would have had leisure to ensure that they had made
no mistakes. Nulliss would find that nothing could be done
for the poor victims.
    Upon returning to the west road, however, he was
astonished to see the ancient Semk woman shouting orders
at Filiad from where she knelt at the side of one figure. It
seemed to Barathol's eyes as he hurried forward, that she
had thrust her hands into the man's body, her scrawny arms
making motions as if she was kneading bread dough. Even
as she did this, her gaze was on a woman lying nearby, who
had begun moaning, legs kicking furrows in the dirt. From
her, blood had spilled out everywhere.
    Nulliss saw him and called him over.
    Barathol saw that the man she knelt beside had been
eviscerated. Nulliss was pushing the intestines back inside.
'For Hood's sake, woman,' the blacksmith said in a growl,
'leave him be. He's done. You've filled his cavity with
dirt—'
    'Boiling water is on the way,' she snapped. 'I mean to
wash it out.' She nodded towards the thrashing woman.
'That one is stabbed in the shoulder, and now she's in
labour.'
    'Labour? Gods below. Listen, Nulliss, boiling water won't
do, unless you mean to cook his liver for supper tonight—'
    'Go back to your damned anvil, you brainless ape! It was
a clean cut – I've seen what boars can do with their tusks
and that was a whole lot worse.'
    'Might've started clean—'
    'I said I mean to clean it! But we can't carry him back
with his guts trailing behind us, can we?'
    Nonplussed, Barathol looked round. He wanted to kill
something. A simple enough desire, but he already knew it
would be thwarted and this soured his mood. He walked
over to the third body. An old man, tattooed and handless
– the T'lan Imass had chopped him to pieces. So. He was
their target. The others were simply in the way. Which is why
they cared nothing whether they lived or died. Whereas this
poor bastard couldn't be more dead than he was.
    After a moment, Barathol made his way towards the last
victim in sight. From the hamlet, more people were on the
way, two of them carrying blankets and rags. Storuk, Fenar,
Hayrith, Stuk, all looking somehow small, diminished and
pale with fear. Nulliss began screaming orders once more.
    Before him was sprawled a demon of some kind. Both
limbs on one side had been sliced away. Not much blood,
he noted, but something strange appeared to have afflicted
the creature upon its death. It looked ... deflated, as if the
flesh beneath the skin had begun to dissolve, melt away
into nothing. Its odd eyes had already dried and cracked.
    'Blacksmith! Help me lift this one!'
    Barathol walked back.
    'On the blanket. Storuk, you and your brother on
that end, one corner each. Fenar, you're with me on the
other end—'
    Hayrith, almost as old as Nulliss herself, held in her arms
the rags. 'What about me?' she asked.
    'Go sit by the woman. Stuff a cloth into the wound –
we'll sear it later, unless the birth gives her trouble—'
    'With the blood loss,' Hayrith said, eyes narrowing, 'she
probably won't survive it.'
    'Maybe. For now, just sit with her. Hold her damned
hand and talk, and—'
    'Yes, yes, witch, you ain't the only one round here who
knows about all that.'
    'Good. So get going.'
    'You've just been waiting for this, haven't ya?'
    'Be quiet, you udderless cow.'
    'Queen Nulliss, High Priestess of Bitchiness!'
    'Blacksmith,' Nulliss growled, 'hit her with that axe, will
you?'
    Hissing, Hayrith