A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

formation
eastward until the arc curled north.
    Our escorts are woefully outnumbered. Transports loaded
down with soldiers, like bleating sheep trapped in a slaughter
pen.
    Kalam stopped climbing. He had seen enough. Whoever
they are, they've got us in their jaws. He began making his
way down once more, an effort almost as perilous as had
been the ascent. Below, figures were scrambling about on
the decks, sailors and marines, officers shouting back and
forth.
    The Adjunct's flagship, flanked still to starboard by the
Silanda, was tacking a course towards that gap. It was clear
that Tavore meant to engage that closing crescent. In truth,
they had little choice. With the wind behind those
attackers, they could drive like a spear-point into the midst
of the cumbersome transports. Admiral Nok was
commanding the lead escorts to the north, and they would
have to seek to push through the enemy blocking the way,
with as many of the transports following as were able – but
all the enemy ships have to do is drive them into the coast, onto
whatever uncharted reefs lurk in the shallows.
    Kalam dropped the last distance to the deck, landed in a
crouch. He heard more shouts from somewhere far above as
he made his way forward. Positioned near the pitching
prow, the Adjunct and Quick Ben stood side by side, the
wind whipping at Tavore's cloak. The High Mage glanced
over as Kalam reached them.
    'They've shortened their sails, drawn up or whatever it is
sailors call slowing down.'
    'Now why would they do that?' Kalam asked. 'That
makes no sense. Those bastards should be driving hard
straight at us.'
    Quick Ben nodded, but said nothing.
    The assassin glanced over at the Adjunct, but of her
state of mind as she stared at the opposing line of ships he
could sense nothing. 'Adjunct,' he said, 'perhaps you
should strap on your sword.'
    'Not yet,' she said. 'Something is happening.'
    He followed her gaze.
    'Gods below, what is that?'
     
    On the Silanda, Sergeant Gesler had made use of the bone
whistle, and now banks of oars swept out and back with
steady indifference to the heaving swells, and the ship
groaned with each surge, easily keeping pace with the
Adjunct's dromon. The squads had finished reefing the sails
and were now amidships, readying armour and weapons.
    Fiddler crouched over a wooden crate, trying to quell his
ever-present nausea – gods, I hate the sea, the damned back
and forth and up and down. No, when I die I want my feet to
be dry. That and nothing more. No other stipulations. Just dry
feet, dammit – as he worked the straps loose and lifted the
lid. He stared down at the Moranth munitions nestled in
their beds of padding. 'Who can throw?' he demanded,
glaring over at his squad, then something cold slithered in
his gut.
    'I can,' both Koryk and Smiles said.
    'Why ask?' said Cuttle.
    Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas sat nearby, knees drawn up,
too sick to move, much less respond to Fiddler's question.
    Tarr said, shrugging, 'If it's right in front of me, maybe I
can hit it, Sergeant.'
    But Fiddler barely heard any of this – his eyes were fixed
on Bottle, who stood, motionless, staring at the enemy line
of ships. 'Bottle? What is it?'
    An ashen face turned to regard him. 'It's bad, Sergeant.
They're ... conjuring.'
     
    Samar Dev shrank away until hard, insensate wood pressed
against her back. Before her, to either side of the main
mast, stood four Tiste Edur, from whom burgeoned
crackling, savage sorcery, whipping like chains between
them, fulminating with blooms and gouts of grey flames –
and, beyond the rocking prow, a tumbling wave was rising,
thrashing as if held taut, lifting skyward—
    Bristling chains of power snapped out from the four
warlocks, arcing left and right, out to conjoin with
identical kin from the ships to either side of Hanradi
Khalag's command ship, and then onward to other ships,
one after another, and the air Samar Dev drew into her
lungs seemed dead, some essential necessity utterly
destroyed. She gasped, sank down to the deck, drawing up
her knees. A cough, then trembles racked through her in
waves—
    Sudden air, life flooding her lungs – someone stood to
her left. She looked over, then up.
    Karsa Orlong, motionless, staring at the billowing, surging
wall of magic. 'What is this?' he demanded.
    'Elder,' she said in a ragged voice. 'They mean to destroy
them. They mean to tear ten thousand souls and more ...
into pieces.'
    'Who is the enemy?'
    Karsa, what is this breath of life you