A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

'This damned hole is filled with dead
flies!'
    'You will not save him,' Barathol said, walking to the bar
counter and setting down his axe on the battered, dusty
surface, the weapon making a heavy clunking sound on the
wood. He began removing his gauntlets, glancing over at
Hayrith. 'Has she given birth?' he asked.
    'Aye. A girl.' Hayrith was washing her hands in a basin,
but she nodded towards a small bundled shape lying on the
woman's chest. 'Already suckling. I'd thought things were
gone bad, blacksmith. Bad. The baby came out blue. Only
the cord weren't knotted and weren't round its neck.'
    'So why was it blue?'
    'Was? Still is. Napan father, I'd say.'
    'And the mother's fate?'
    'She'll live. I didn't need Nulliss. I know how to clean
and sear a wound. Why, I followed the Falah'd of Hissar's
Holy Army, seen plenty a battlefields in my day. Cleaned
plenty a wounds, too.' She flung water from her hands,
then dried them on her grubby tunic. 'She'll have fever, of
course, but if she survives that, she'll be fine.'
    'Hayrith!' called out Nulliss. 'Get over here and rinse out
these rags! Then toss 'em back in the boiling water – gods
below, I'm losing him – his heart, it's fading.'
    The door swung open. Heads turned to stare at L'oric,
who slowly stepped inside.
    'Who in Hood's name is that?' Hayrith asked.
    Barathol unstrapped his helm as he said, 'High Mage
L'oric, a refugee from the Apocalypse.'
    Hayrith cackled. 'Well, ain't he found the right place!
Welcome, L'oric! Grab yourself a tankard a dust an' a plate
of ashes an' join us! Fenar, stop staring and go find Chaur
an' Urdan – there's horse meat out there needs butchering
–we don't want none a them wolves in the hills comin'
down an' gettin' it first.'
    Barathol watched as L'oric strode over to where Nulliss
knelt above the youth on the table. She was pushing in rags
then pulling them out again – there was far too much blood
–no wonder the heart was fading.
    'Move aside,' L'oric said to her. 'I do not command High
Denul, but at the very least I can clean and seal the wound,
and expunge the risk of infection.'
    'He's lost too much blood,' Nulliss hissed.
    'Perhaps,' L'oric conceded, 'but let us at least give his
heart a chance to recover.'
    Nulliss backed away. 'As you like,' she snapped. 'I can do
no more for him.'
    Barathol went behind the bar, crouched opposite a panel
of wood, which he rapped hard. It fell away, revealing three
dusty jugs. Retrieving one, he straightened, setting it down
on the counter. Finding a tankard, he wiped it clean, then,
tugging free the stopper, poured the tankard full.
    Eyes were on him – all barring those of L'oric himself,
who stood beside the youth, hands settling on the chest.
Hayrith asked, in a tone of reverence. 'Where did that
come from, blacksmith?'
    'Old Kulat's stash,' Barathol replied. 'Don't expect he'll
be coming back for it.'
    'What's that I smell?'
    'Falari rum.'
    'Blessed gods above and below!'
    Suddenly the locals present in the room were one and all
crowding the bar. Snarling, Nulliss pushed Filiad back. 'Not
you – too young—'
    'Too young? Woman, I've seen twenty-six years!'
    'You heard me! Twenty-six years? Ain't enough to
'predate Falari rum, you scrawny whelp.'
    Barathol sighed. 'Don't be greedy, Nulliss. Besides,
there's two more jugs on the shelf below.' Collecting his
tankard, he moved away from them, Filiad and Jhelim both
fighting as they scrabbled round the counter.
    A livid scar was all that remained of the sword slash
across the youth's belly, apart from splashes of drying blood.
L'oric still stood beside him, hands motionless on the chest.
After a moment, he opened his eyes, stepping back. 'It's a
strong heart ... we'll see. Where's the other one?'
    'Over there. Shoulder wound. It's been seared, but I can
guarantee sepsis will set in and probably end up killing her,
unless you do something.
    L'oric nodded. 'She is named Scillara. The young man I
do not know.' He frowned. 'Heboric Ghost Hands—' he
rubbed at his face – 'I would not have thought ...'
He glanced over at Barathol. 'When Treach chose him to
be his Destriant, well, there was so much ... power. T'lan
Imass? Five broken T'lan Imass?'
    Barathol shrugged. 'I myself did not see the ambush. The
Imass first showed up months past, then it seemed that
they'd left. After all, there was nothing here that they
wanted. Not even me.'
    'Servants of the Crippled God,' L'oric said. 'The
Unbound, of High House of Chains.' He headed