A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

then crippled another
with a lazy flick of that knife.
    The T'rolbarahl needed to feed. The horse's blood had
barely begun to slake a depthless thirst, yet with it came a
whisper of strength, a return to sanity.
    Dejim Nebrahl was being hunted. An outrage, that such
a thing could be. The stench of the creatures rode the wind,
seeming to gust in from all sides except directly ahead.
Fierce, ancient life and deadly desire, bitter to the
T'rolbarahl's senses. What manner of beasts were these?
    The fourth kin, lagging half a league behind now, could
feel the nearness of the pursuers, loping unseen, seemingly
content to keep pace, almost uninterested in closing, in
finishing off this wounded D'ivers. They had announced
themselves with their howls, but since then, naught but
silence, and the palpable nearness of their presence.
    They were but toying with Dejim Nebrahl. A truth that
infuriated the T'rolbarahl, that burned like acid through
their thumping hearts. Were they fully healed, and seven
once again rather than three and scant more, those
creatures would know terror and pain. Even now, Dejim
Nebrahl contemplated laying an ambush, using the
wounded kin as bait. But the risks were too great – there
was no telling how many of these hunters were out there.
    And so there was little choice. Flee, desperate as hares,
helpless in this absurd game.
    For the first three kin, the scent of the hunters had begun
to fade. It was true – few creatures could keep pace with
Dejim Nebrahl for very long. It seemed, then, that they
would content themselves with the crippled trailer, giving
the D'ivers an opportunity to see them for the first time, to
mark them for the others, until such time as vengeance
could be exacted.
    And yet, the mysterious beasts did not lunge into view,
did not tear into the fourth kin. And even for that one, the
scent was fading.
    It made no sense.
    Dejim Nebrahl slowed his flight, wondering, curious, and not
    yet in the least suspicious.
     
    From cool relief to growing chill, the night descended
among the trudging soldiers, raising a mutter of new complaints.
A sleeping child in his arms, Fiddler walked two
strides behind Kalam and Quick Ben, while in his wake
strode Apsalar, her footfalls the barest of whispers.
    Better than scorching sun and heat ... but not much
better. Burnt and blistered skin on shoulders now radiated
away all the warmth the flesh could create. Among the
worst afflicted, fever awoke like a child lost in the woods,
filling shadows with apparitions. Twice in the past hundred
paces one of the soldiers had cried out in fear – seeing great
moving shapes out in the night. Lumbering, swaggering,
with eyes flashing like embers the hue of murky blood. Or
so Mayfly had said, surprising everyone with the poetic turn
of phrase.
    But like the monsters conjured from the imaginations of
frightened babes, they never came closer, never quite
revealed themselves. Both Mayfly and Galt swore that they
had seen ... something. Moving parallel with the column,
but quicker, and soon past. Fevered minds, Fiddler told
himself again, that and nothing more.
    Yet, he felt in himself a growing unease. As if they did
indeed have company along this broken track, out there in
the darkness, among the trenches and gullies and jumbled
rockfalls. A short time earlier he'd thought he had heard
voices, distant and seeming to descend from the night sky,
but that had since faded. Nonetheless, his nerves were
growing frayed – likely weariness, likely an awakening fever
within his own mind.
    Ahead, Quick Ben's head suddenly turned, stared out to
the right, scanned the darkness.
    'Something?' Fiddler asked in a low voice.
    The wizard glanced back at him, then away again, and
said nothing.
    Ten paces later, Fiddler saw Kalam loosen the longknives
in their scabbards.
    Shit.
    He dropped back until he was alongside Apsalar, and was
about to speak when she cut him off.
    'Be on your guard, sapper,' she said quietly. 'I believe we
have nothing to fear ... but I cannot be certain.'
    'What's out there?' he demanded.
    'Part of a bargain.'
    'What is that supposed to mean?'
    She suddenly lifted her head, as if testing the wind, and
her voice hardened as she said in a loud voice, 'Everyone off
the road – south side only – now.'
    At the command, thin fear whispered along the ancient
road. Unarmed, unarmoured – this was a soldier's worst
nightmare. Crouching down, huddling in the shadows, eyes
wide and unblinking, breaths drawing