A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

still, the Malazans
strained for any telltale sound in the darkness beyond.
    Staying low to the ground, Fiddler made his way along to
rejoin his squad. If something was coming for them, better
he died with his soldiers. As he scrabbled he sensed a
presence catching up from behind, and turned to see
Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas. The warrior held a solid, clublike
piece of wood, too thick to be a branch, more like a
tap-root from some ancient guldindha. 'Where did you find
that?' Fiddler demanded in a hiss.
    A shrug was the only answer.
    Reaching his squad, the sergeant halted and Bottle
crawled over to him. 'Demons,' the soldier whispered, 'out
there—' a jerk of the head indicated the north side of the
road. 'At first I thought it was the pall of evil offshore,
the one that flushed the birds from the salt-marshes
beyond the bay—'
    'The pall of what?' Fiddler asked.
    'But it wasn't that. Something a lot closer. Had a rhizan
wheeling round out there – it came close to a beast. A
damned big beast, Sergeant. Halfway between wolf and
bear, only the size of a bull bhederin. It was headed
west—'
    'You still linked to that rhizan, Bottle?'
    'No, it was hungry enough to break loose – I'm not quite
recovered, Sergeant—'
    'Never mind. It was a good try. So, the bear-wolf or wolfbhederin
was heading west ...'
    'Aye, not fifty paces across from us – no way it didn't
know we were here,' Bottle said. 'It's not like we was sneaking
along, was it?'
    'So it ain't interested in us.'
    'Maybe not yet, Sergeant.'
    'What do you mean by that?'
    'Well, I'd sent a capemoth ahead of us up the road, used
it to test the air – they can sense things when those things
are moving, stirring the air, giving off heat into the night –
that heat is sometimes visible from a long way away,
especially the colder the night gets. Capemoths need all
that to avoid rhizan, although it doesn't always—'
    'Bottle, I ain't no naturalist – what did you see or sense
or hear or whatever through that damned capemoth?'
    'Well, creatures up ahead, closing fast—'
    'Oh, thanks for that minor detail, Bottle! Glad you
finally got round to it!'
    'Shh, uh, Sergeant. Please. I think we should just lie
low – whatever's about to happen's got nothing to do with
us.'
    Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas spoke: 'Are you certain of
that?'
    'Well, no, but it stands to reason—'
    'Unless they're all working together, closing a trap—'
    'Sergeant,' Bottle said, 'we ain't that important.'
    'Maybe you ain't, but we got Kalam and Quick Ben, and
Sinn and Apsalar—'
    'I don't know much about them, Sergeant,' Bottle said,
'but you might want to warn them what's coming, if they
don't know already.'
    If Quick hasn't smelled all this out he deserves to get his tiny
head ripped off. 'Never mind them.' Twisting round, Fiddler
squinted into the darkness south of them. 'Any chance of
moving to better cover? This ditch ain't worth a damned
thing.'
    'Sergeant,' Bottle hissed, his voice tightening, 'we ain't
got time.'
     
    Ten paces apart and moving now parallel along the route of
the old road, one taking the centre of the track, the
flankers in the rough ditches to either side, Dejim Nebrahl
glided low to the ground, tipped leathery ears pricked
forward, eyes scanning the way ahead.
    Something wasn't right. Half a league behind the three
the fourth kin limped along, weak with blood-loss and
exhausted by fear, and if the hunters remained close, they
were now stalking in absolute silence. The kin halted, sinking
low, head swivelling as its sharp eyes searched the
night. Nothing, no movement beyond the flit of rhizan and
capemoths.
    The three on the road caught the scent of humans, not
far, and savage hunger engulfed all other thoughts. They
stank of terror – it would taint their blood when he drank
deep, a taste metallic and sour, a flavour Dejim Nebrahl
had grown to cherish.
    Something lumbered onto the track thirty strides ahead.
    Huge, black, familiar.
    Deragoth. Impossible – they were gone, swallowed by a
nightmare of their own making. This was all wrong.
    A sudden howl from far to the south, well behind the
fourth kin, who spun, snarling at the sound.
    The first three D'ivers spread out, eyes on the lone beast
padding towards them. If but one, then she is doomed —
    The beast surged forward in a charge, voicing a bellowing
roar.
    Dejim Nebrahl sprinted to meet it.
    The flanking D'ivers twisted outward as more huge
shapes pounded to close with them, two to each side. Jaws
spread