A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

frown deepened. The
black stain was dead flies, in their thousands. As unpalatable,
then, this demon as the handless man had been.
His steps slowed, then halted, still five paces from the grisly
form. He'd seen it move – there, again, something pushing
up against the blistered hide from within.
    And then a voice spoke in Barathol's head.
    'Impatience. Please, be so kind, a blade slicing with utmost
caution, this infernal hide.'
    The blacksmith unsheathed his knife and stepped forward.
Reaching the demon's side, he crouched down and
ran the finely honed edge along one of the cracks in the
thick, leathery skin. It parted suddenly and Barathol leapt
back, cursing, as a gush of yellow liquid spurted from the
cut.
    Something like a hand, then forearm and elbow pushed
through, widening the slice, and moments later the entire
beast slithered into view, four eyes blinking in the bright
light. Where the carcass had had two limbs missing, there
were now new ones, smaller and paler, but clearly
functional. 'Hunger. Have you food, stranger? Are you food?'
    Sheathing his knife, Barathol turned about and walked
back to where Chaur was dragging free Heboric's body. He
heard the demon following.
    The blacksmith reached the pick he had left beside the
grave pit and collected the tool, turning and hefting it in
his hands. 'Something tells me,' he said to the demon,
'you're not likely to grow a new brain once I drive this pick
through your skull.'
    'Exaggeration. I quake with terror, stranger. Amused.
Greyfrog was but joking, encouraged by your expression of
terror.'
    'Not terror. Disgust.'
    The demon's bizarre eyes swivelled in their sockets and
the head twitched to look past Barathol. 'My brother has
come. He is there, I sense him.'
    'You'd better hurry,' Barathol said. 'He's about to adopt a
new familiar.' The blacksmith lowered the pick and
glanced over at Chaur.
    The huge man stood over the wrapped corpse of
Heboric, staring with wide eyes at the demon.
    'It's all right, Chaur,' said Barathol. 'Now, let's carry the
dead man to the tailings heap back of the smithy.'
    Smiling again, the huge man picked up Heboric's
body. The stench of decaying flesh reached Barathol.
    Shrugging, the blacksmith collected the shovel.
    Greyfrog set off in a loping gait towards the hamlet's
main street.
     
    Dozing, Scillara's eyes snapped open as an exultant voice
filled her mind. 'Joy! Dearest Scillara, time of vigil is at an end!
Stalwart and brave Greyfrog has defended your sanctity, and
the brood even now squirms in Brother L'oric's arms'.'
    'Greyfrog? But they said you were dead! What are you
doing talking to me? You never talk to me!'
    'Female with brood must be sheathed with silence. All slivers
and darts of irritation fended off by noble Greyfrog. And now,
happily, I am free to infuse your sweet self with my undying love!'
    'Gods below, is this what the others had to put up with?'
She reached for her pipe and pouch of rustleaf.
    A moment later the demon squeezed through the doorway,
followed by L'oric, who held in his arms the babe.
    Scowling, Scillara struck spark to her pipe.
    'The child is hungry,' L'oric said.
    'Fine. Maybe that will ease the pressure and stop this
damned leaking. Go on, give me the little leech.'
    The High Mage came closer and handed the infant over.
'You must acknowledge that this girl belongs to you,
Scillara.'
    'Oh she's mine all right. I can tell by the greedy look in
her eyes. For the sake of the world, you should pray, L'oric,
that all she has of her father is the blue skin.'
    'You know, then, who that man was?'
    'Korbolo Dom.'
    'Ah. He is, I believe, still alive. A guest of the Empress.'
    'Do you think I care, L'oric? I was drowning in durhang.
If not for Heboric, I'd still be one of Bidithal's butchered
acolytes. Heboric ...' She looked down at the babe
suckling from her left breast, squinting through the smoke
of the pipe. Then she glared up at L'oric. 'And now some
damned T'lan Imass have killed him – why?'
    'He was a servant of Treach. Scillara, there is war now
among the gods. And it is us mortals who shall pay the
price for that. It is a dangerous time to be a true worshipper
– of anyone or anything. Except, perhaps, chaos itself, for if
one force is ascendant in this modern age, it is surely that.'
    Greyfrog was busy licking itself, concentrating, it
seemed, on its new limbs. The entire demon looked ...
smaller.
    Scillara said, 'So you're reunited with your familiar,
L'oric. Which means you can go now,