A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

scurried off.
    'Help me,' Nulliss said to him, 'we've got to lift him now.'
    It seemed a pointless task, but he did as she asked, and
was surprised to hear her pronounce that the young man
still lived after they'd set him on the blanket.
    As Nulliss and the others carried him away, Barathol
strode back to the dismembered corpse of the old, tattooed
man. And crouched at his side. It would be an unpleasant
task, but it was possible that Barathol could learn something
of him from his possessions. He rolled the body over,
then halted, staring down into those lifeless eyes. A cat's
eyes. He looked with renewed interest at the pattern of
tattoos, then slowly sat back.
    And only then noticed all the dead flies. Covering the
ground on all sides, more flies than he had ever seen before.
Barathol straightened, walked back to the dead demon.
    Staring down thoughtfully, until distant motion and the
sound of horse hoofs snared his attention. Behind him,
villagers had returned to retrieve the pregnant woman.
    And now he watched as the rider rode directly towards
him.
    On a lathered horse the colour of sun-bleached bone.
Wearing dust-sheathed armour lacquered white. The man's
face pale beneath the rim of his helm, drawn with grief.
Reining in, he slipped down from the saddle and, ignoring
Barathol, staggered over to the demon, where he fell to his
knees.
    'Who – who did this?' he asked.
    T'lan Imass. Five of them. A broken lot, even as T'lan
Imass go. An ambush.' Barathol pointed towards the body
of the tattooed man. 'They were after him, I think. A
priest, from a cult devoted to the First Hero Treach.'
    'Treach is now a god.'
    To that, Barathol simply grunted. He looked back at the
ramshackle hovels of the hamlet he had come to think of
as home. 'There were two others. Both still alive, although
one will not last much longer. The other is pregnant and
even now gives birth—'
    The man stared up at him. 'Two? No, there should have
been three. A girl ...'
    Barathol frowned. 'I'd thought the priest was their target
–they were thorough with him – but now I see that
they struck him down because he posed the greatest
threat. They must have come for the girl – for she is not
here.'
    The man rose. He matched Barathol in height, if not
breadth. 'Perhaps she fled ... into the hills.'
    'It's possible. Although,' he added, pointing at a dead
horse nearby, 'I'd wondered at that extra mount, saddled
like the others. Cut down on the trail.'
    'Ah, yes. I see.'
    'Who are you?' Barathol asked. 'And what was this missing
girl to you?'
    Shock was still writ deep into the lines of his face, and
he blinked at the questions, then nodded. 'I am named
L'oric. The child was ... was for the Queen of Dreams. I
was coming to collect her – and my familiar.' He looked
down once more at the demon, and anguish tugged at his
features yet again.
    'Fortune has abandoned you, then,' Barathol said. A
thought occurred to him. 'L'oric, have you any skill in
healing?'
    'What?'
    'You are one of Sha'ik's High Mages, after all—'
    L'oric looked away, as if stung. 'Sha'ik is dead. The
rebellion is crushed.'
    Barathol shrugged.
    'Yes,' L'oric said, 'I can call upon Denul, if required.'
    'Is the life of that girl all that concerns you?' He gestured
down at the demon. 'You can do nothing for your familiar
–what of their companions? The young man will die – if he
has not already done so. Will you stand here, dwelling only
on what you have lost?'
    A flash of anger. 'I advise caution,' L'oric said in a low
voice. 'You were once a soldier – that much is obvious – yet
here you have hidden yourself away like a coward, whilst
the rest of Seven Cities rose up, dreaming of freedom. I will
not be chastised by one such as you.'
    Barathol's dark eyes studied L'oric a moment longer, then
he turned away and began walking towards the buildings.
'Someone will come,' he said over his shoulder, 'to dress the
dead for burial.'
     
    Nulliss had chosen the old hostelry to deposit her charges.
A cot was dragged out from one of the rooms for the
woman, whilst the eviscerated youth was laid out on the
communal dining table. A cookpot filled with water
steamed above the hearth, and Filiad was using a prod to
retrieve soaked strips of cloth and carry them over to where
the Semk woman worked.
    She had drawn out the intestines once more but seemed
to be ignoring that pulsing mass for the moment, both of
her hands deep in the cavity of his gut. 'Flies!' she hissed as
Barathol entered.