A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

wide, lips peeling back, the Deragoth reached Dejim
Nebrahl, giving voice to thunder. Massive canines sank
down into the kin, slicing through muscle, crushing bone.
Limbs snapped, ribs splintered and tore into view through
ruptured flesh and hide.
    Pain – such pain – the centre D'ivers sprang into the air
to meet the charge of the Deragoth ahead. And his right leg
was caught in huge jaws, jolting Dejim Nebrahl to a halt in
mid-flight. Joints popped even as the leg bones were
crunched into shards.
    Flung hard to the ground, Dejim sought to spin round,
talons lashing out at his attacker's broad head. He tore into
one eye and ripped it loose, sending it whirling off into the
darkness.
    The Deragoth flinched back with a squeal of agony.
    Then a second set of jaws closed round the back of the
kin's neck. Blood sprayed as the teeth ground and cut
inward, crushing cartilage, then bone.
    Blood filled Dejim Nebrahl's throat.
    No, it cannot end like this —
    The other two kin were dying as well, as the Deragoth
tore them to pieces.
    Far to the west, the lone survivor crouched, trembling.
    The Hounds attacked, three appearing in front of the
last D'ivers. Moments before they closed, all three twisted
away – a feint – which meant—
    Wolf jaws ripped into the back of Dejim Nebrahl's neck,
and lifted the D'ivers from the ground.
    The T'rolbarahl waited for the clenching, the killing,
but it never came. Instead, the beast that held it was running
fast over the ground, others of its kind to either side.
West, and north, then, eventually, swinging southward, out
into the wastes.
    Untiring, on and on through the cold night.
    Helpless in the grip of those jaws, the last D'ivers of
Dejim Nebrahl did not struggle, for struggle was pointless.
There would be no quick death, for these creatures had
some other purpose in mind for him. Unlike the Deragoth,
he realized, these Hounds possessed a master.
    A master who found reason to keep Dejim Nebrahl alive.
    A curious, fraught salvation – but I still live, and that is
enough. I still live.
     
    The fierce battle was over. Kalam, lying near Quick Ben,
narrowed his gaze, just barely making out the huge shapes
of the demons as they set off, without a backward glance,
westward along the track.
    'Looks like their hunt's not yet over,' the assassin
muttered, reaching up to wipe the sweat that had been
stinging his eyes.
    'Gods below,' Quick Ben said in a whisper.
    'Did you hear those distant howls?' Kalam asked, sitting
up. 'Hounds of Shadow – I'm right, aren't I, Quick? So, we
got lizard cats, and giant bear-dogs like the one Toblakai
killed in Raraku, and the Hounds ... wizard, I don't want
to walk this road no more.'
    'Gods below,' the man at his side whispered again.
     
    Lieutenant Pores's cheerful embrace with the Lady went
sour with an ambush of a patrol he'd led inland from the
marching army, three days west of Y'Ghatan. Starving
bandits, of all things. They'd beaten them off, but he had
taken a crossbow quarrel clean through his upper left arm,
and a sword-slash just above his right knee, deep enough to
sever muscle down to the bone. The healers had mended
the damage, sufficient to roughly knit torn flesh and close
scar tissue over the wounds, but the pain remained
excruciating. He had been convalescing on the back of a
crowded wagon, until they came within sight of the north
sea and the army encamped, whereupon Captain Kindly
had appeared.
    Saying nothing, Kindly had clambered into the bed of
the wagon, grasped Pores by his good arm, and dragged him
from the pallet. Down off the back, the lieutenant nearly
buckling under his weak leg, then staggering and stumbling
as the captain tugged him along.
    Gasping, Pores had asked, 'What's the emergency,
Captain? I heard no alarms—'
    'Then you ain't been listening,' Kindly replied.
    Pores looked round, somewhat wildly, but he could see
no-one else rushing about, no general call to arms – the
camp was settling down, cookfires lit and figures huddled
beneath rain-capes against the chill carried on the sea
breeze. 'Captain—'
    'My officers don't lie about plucking nose hairs,
Lieutenant. There's real injured soldiers in those wagons,
and you're just in their way. Healers are done with you.
Time to stretch out that bad leg. Time to be a soldier again
– stop limping, damn you – you're setting a miserable
example here, Lieutenant.'
    'Sorry, sir.' Sodden with sweat, Pores struggled to keep up
with his captain. 'Might I ask, where