A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

are we going?'
    'To look at the sea,' Kindly replied. 'Then you're taking
charge of the inland pickets, first watch, and I strongly
suggest you do a weapons and armour inspection,
Lieutenant, since there is the chance that I will take a walk
along those posts.'
    'Yes, sir.'
    Up ahead, on a rise overlooking the grey, white-capped
sea, stood the Fourteenth's command. The Adjunct, Nil
and Nether, Fists Blistig, Temul and Keneb, and, slightly
apart and wrapped in a long leather cloak, T'amber. Just
behind them stood Warleader Gall and his ancient aide
Imrahl, along with captains Ruthan Gudd and Madan'Tul
Rada. The only one missing was Fist Tene Baralta, but
Pores had heard that the man was still in a bad way, onearmed
and one-eyed, his face ravaged by burning oil, and
he didn't have Kindly in charge of him either, which
meant he was being left to heal in peace.
    Ruthan Gudd was speaking in a low voice, his audience
Madan'Tul Rada and the two Khundryl warriors, '... just
fell into the sea – those breakers, that tumult in the middle
of the bay, that's where the citadel stood. A tier of raised
land surrounded it – the island itself – and there was a
causeway linking it to this shore – nothing left of that but
those pillars just topping the sands above the tideline. It's
said the shattering of a Jaghut enclave far to the north was
responsible—'
    'How could that sink this island?' Gall demanded. 'You
make no sense, Captain.'
    'The T'lan Imass broke the Jaghut sorcery – the ice lost
its power, melted into the seas, and the water levels rose.
Enough to eat into the island, deluging the tier, then
devouring the feet of the citadel itself. In any case, this was
thousands of years ago—'
    'Are you an historian as well as a soldier?' the Warleader
asked, glancing over, his tear-tattooed face bathed red like
a mask in the setting sun's lurid light.
    The captain shrugged. 'The first map I ever saw of Seven
Cities was Falari, a sea-current map marking out the
treacherous areas along this coast – and every other coastline,
all the way to Nemil. It had been copied countless
times, but the original dated from the days when the only
metals being traded were tin, copper, lead and gold. Falar's
trade with Seven Cities goes back a long way, Warleader
Gall. Which makes sense, since Falar is halfway between
Quon Tali and Seven Cities.'
    Captain Kindly observed, 'It's odd, Ruthan Gudd, you do
not look Falari. Nor is your name Falari.'
    'I am from the island of Strike, Kindly, which lies against
the Outer Reach Deeps. Strike is the most isolated of all
the islands in the chain, and our legends hold that we are
all that remains of the original inhabitants of Falar – the
red- and gold-haired folk you see and think of as Falari were
in fact invaders from the eastern ocean, from the other side
of Seeker's Deep, or some unknown islands well away from
the charted courses across that ocean. They themselves do
not even recall their homelands, and most of them believe
they have always lived in Falar. But our old maps show
different names, Strike names for all the islands and the
kingdoms and peoples, and the word "Falar" does not
appear among them.'
    If the Adjunct and her retinue were speaking, Pores
could hear nothing. Ruthan Gudd's words and the stiff
wind drowned out all else. The lieutenant's leg throbbed
with pain; there was no angle at which he could hold his
injured arm comfortably. And now he was chilled, the old
sweat like ice against his skin, thinking only of the warm
blankets he had left behind.
    There were times, he reflected morosely, when he
wanted to kill Captain Kindly.
     
    Keneb stared out at the heaving waters of the Kokakal Sea.
The Fourteenth had circumvented Sotka and were now
thirteen leagues west of the city. He could make out
snatches of conversation from the officers behind them, but
the wind swept enough words away to make comprehension
a chore, and likely not worth the effort. Among
the foremost line of officers and mages, no-one had spoken
in some time.
    Weariness, and, perhaps, the end of this dread, miserable
chapter in the history of the Fourteenth.
    They had pushed hard on the march, first west and then
northward. Somewhere in the seas beyond was the transport
fleet and its escort of dromons. Gods, an intercept
must be possible, and with that, these battered legions
could get off this plague-ridden continent.
    To sail away ... but where?
    Back home, he hoped. Quon Tali, at least for a time. To
regroup,