A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

sword. 'See what's left of the
Anibar, woman?' His voice was deep in tone, the beat of
words like a drum of war.
    She nodded, refusing to look once more at the row of
prisoners, bound head-down and spreadeagled to wooden
frames along the inland edge of the encampment, their
naked forms painted red in blood, and before each victim a
heap of live embers, filling the air with the stench of burnt
hair and meat. Karsa Orlong, she realized, had been driven
by rage, yet such fury set no tremble in the huge warrior,
the sword was motionless, now, held at the ready, the very
stillness of that blade seeming to vow a tide of destruction.
'I know,' she said. 'But listen to me, Karsa. If you kill them
all – and I see that you mean to do just that – but listen! If
you do, more will come, seeking to find their vanished kin.
More will come, Toblakai, and this will never end – until
you make a mistake, until there are so many of them that
even you cannot hope to prevail. Nor can you be everywhere
at once, so more Anibar will die.'
    'What do you suggest, then, woman?'
    She strode forward, ignoring, for the moment, the greyskinned
warriors and the yellow-haired witch. 'They fear you
now, Karsa, and you must use that fear—' She paused, distracted
by a commotion from among the half-tent-half-huts
near the beached canoes. Two warriors were dragging someone
into view. Another human. His face was swollen by
constant beatings, but he seemed otherwise undamaged.
Samar Dev studied the new arrival with narrowed eyes,
then quickly approached Karsa, lowering her voice to a
harsh whisper. 'They now have an interpreter, Karsa. The
tattoos on his forearms. He is Taxilian. Listen to me.
Quickly. Use that fear. Tell them there are more of your
kind, allies to the Anibar, and that you are but the first of
a horde, coming in answer to a plea for help. Karsa, tell
them to get the Hood off this land.!'
    'If they leave I cannot kill more of them.'
    An argument was going on among the raiders. The
warrior who had issued commands was rejecting – in an
obvious fashion – the frantic pleas of the yellow-haired
human. The Taxilian, held by the arms off to one side, was
clearly following the debate, but his face was too mangled
to reveal any expression. Samar saw the man's eyes flick
over to her and Karsa, then back to her, and, with slow
deliberation, the Taxilian winked.
    Gods below. Good. She nodded. Then, to spare him any
retribution, she averted her gaze, and found herself looking
upon a scene of terrible carnage. Figures lay moaning in
blood-drenched humus. Broken spear-shafts were everywhere
like scattered kindling from an overturned cart. But
mostly, there were motionless corpses, severed limbs,
exposed bones and spilled intestines.
    And Karsa Orlong was barely out of breath.
    Were these tall, unhuman strangers such poor fighters?
She did not believe so. By their garb, theirs was a warrior
society. But many such societies, if stagnant – or isolated –
for a long enough period of time, bound their martial arts
into ritualized forms and techniques. They would have but
one way of fighting, perhaps with a few variations,
and would have difficulty adjusting to the unexpected ... such as a lone Toblakai with an unbreakable flint sword nearly
as long as he is tall – a Toblakai possessing mind-numbing
speed and the cold, detached precision of a natural killer.
    And Karsa had said that he had fought this enemy once
before.
    The commander of the grey-skinned raiders was
approaching, the Taxilian being dragged along in his wake,
the yellow-haired witch hurrying to come up alongside the
leader – who then straight-armed her back a step.
    Samar saw the flash of unbridled hatred the small woman
directed at the commander's back. There was something
dangling from the witch's neck, blackened and oblong – a
severed finger. A witch indeed, of the old arts, the lost ways of
spiritual magic – well, not entirely lost, for I have made of that
my own speciality, atavistic bitch that I am. By her hair and
heart-shaped features – and those blue eyes – she reminded
Samar Dev of the small, mostly subjugated peoples who
could be found near the centre of the subcontinent, in such
ancient cities as Halaf, Guran and Karashimesh; and as far
west as Omari. Some remnant population, perhaps. And
yet, her words earlier had been in a language Samar had not
recognized.
    The commander spoke, clearly addressing the yellow -haired
    witch, who then in turn relayed his