A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

towards
the woman he'd named Scillara. 'The gods are indeed at
war ...'
    Barathol stared after him. He downed half the rum in the
tankard, then joined the High Mage once more. 'The gods,
you say.'
    'Fever already whispers within her – this will not do.' He
closed his eyes and began muttering something under his
breath. After a moment, he stepped back, met Barathol's
eyes. 'This is what comes. The blood of mortals spilled.
Innocent lives ... destroyed. Even here, in this rotted hole
of a village, you cannot hide from the torment – it will find
you, it will find us all.'
    Barathol finished the rum. 'Will you now hunt for the
girl?'
    'And singlehanded wrest her from the Unbound? No.
Even if I knew where to look, it is impossible. The Queen
of Dreams' gambit has failed – likely she already knows
that.' He drew a deep, ragged breath, and Barathol only
now noticed how exhausted the man was. 'No,' he said
again, with a vague, then wretched look. 'I have lost my
familiar ... yet ...' he shook his head, 'yet, there is no pain
– with the severing there should be pain – I do not understand
...'
    'High Mage,' Barathol said, 'there are spare rooms here.
Rest. I'll get Hayrith to find you some food, and Filiad can
stable your horse. Wait here until I return.'
    The blacksmith spoke to Hayrith, then left the hostelry,
returning once more to the west road. He saw Chaur, Fenar
and Urdan stripping saddles and tack from the dead horses.
'Chaur!' he called, 'step away from that one – no, this way,
there, stand still, damn you. There. Don't move.' The girl's
horse. Reaching it, he moved round carefully, seeking
tracks.
    Chaur fidgeted – a big man, he had the mind of a child,
although the sight of blood had never bothered him.
    Ignoring him, Barathol continued reading the scrapes,
furrows and dislodged stones, and finally found a small footprint,
planted but once, and strangely twisting on the ball
of the foot. To either side, larger prints, skeletal yet bound
here and there by leather strips or fragments of hide.
    So. She had leapt clear of the fatally wounded horse, yet,
even as her lead foot contacted the ground, the T'lan Imass
snared her, lifting her – no doubt she struggled, but against
such inhuman, implacable strength, she had been helpless.
    And then, the T'lan Imass had vanished. Fallen to dust.
Somehow taking her with them. He did not think that was
possible. Yet ... no tracks moved away from the area.
    Frustrated, Barathol started back to the hostelry.
    At a whining sound behind him he turned. 'It's all right,
Chaur. You can go back to what you were doing.'
    A bright smile answered him.
     
    As he entered, Barathol sensed that something had
changed. The locals were backed to the wall behind the bar.
L'oric stood in the centre of the chamber, facing the blacksmith
who halted just inside the doorway. The High Mage
had drawn his sword, a blade of gleaming white.
    L'oric, his eyes hard on Barathol, spoke: 'I have but just
heard your name.'
    The blacksmith shrugged.
    A sneer twisted L'oric's pale face. 'I imagine all that rum
loosened their tongues, or they just plain forgot your
commands to keep such details secret.'
    'I've made no commands,' Barathol replied. 'These
people here know nothing of the outside world, and care
even less. Speaking of rum ...' He slid his gaze to the crowd
behind the bar. 'Nulliss, any of it left?'
    Mute, she nodded.
    'On the counter then, if you please,' Barathol said.
'Beside my axe will do.'
    'I would be foolish to let you near that weapon,' L'oric
said, raising the sword in his hand.
    'That depends,' replied Barathol, 'whether you intend
fighting me, doesn't it?'
    'I can think of a hundred names of those who, in my
place right now, would not hesitate.'
    Barathol's brows rose. 'A hundred names, you say. And
how many of those names still belong to the living?'
    L'oric's mouth thinned into a straight line.
    'Do you believe,' Barathol went on, 'that I simply walked
from Aren all those years ago? I was not the only survivor,
High Mage. They came after me. It was damned near one
long running battle from Aren Way to Karashimesh. Before
I left the last one bleeding out his life in a ditch. You may
know my name, and you may believe you know my crime
... but you were not there. Those that were are all dead.
Now, are you really interested in picking up this gauntlet?'
    'They say you opened the gates—'
    Barathol snorted, walked over towards the jug of rum
Nulliss had set on the bar. 'Ridiculous.