A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

deliver?
    'The Malazan Imperial Fleet,' Samar heard the Taxilian
answer, and she saw that he had appeared on deck, along
with Feather Witch and the Preda, Hanradi Khalag, and all
were staring upward at the terrible, chained storm of power.
    The Toblakai crossed his arms. 'Malazans,' he said. 'They
are not my enemy.'
    In a harsh, halting accent, Hanradi Khalag turned to
Karsa Orlong and said, 'Are they Tiste Edur?'
    The giant's eyes thinned to slits as he continued studying
the conjuration, from which there now came a growing
roar, as of a million enraged voices. 'No,' he said.
    'Then,' replied the Preda, 'they are enemy.'
    'If you destroy these Malazans,' Karsa said, 'more of them
will come after you.'
    'We do not fear.'
    The Toblakai warrior finally glanced over at the Preda,
and Samar Dev could read, with something fluttering
inside her, his contempt. Yet he said nothing, simply turned
about and crouched down at Samar Dev's side.
    She whispered, 'You were going to call him a fool. I'm glad
you didn't – these Tiste Edur don't manage criticism too well.'
    'Which makes them even bigger fools,' the giant rumbled.
'But we knew that, Samar Dev. They believe their
Emperor can defeat me.'
    'Karsa—'
    A strange chorus of cries erupted from the warlocks, and
they all convulsed, as if some fiery hand had reached into
their bodies, closed tight and cruel about their spines –
Samar Dev's eyes widened – this ritual, it twists them,
oh – such pain —
    The enormous wall lifted free of the sea's suddenly
becalmed surface. Rose higher, then higher still – and in the
space beneath it, a horizontal strip mocking normality,
the Malazan ships were visible, their sails awry, each one
losing way as panic raced through the poor bastards – except
for those two, in the lead, a dromon warship, and on its seaward
flank, a black-hulled craft, its oars flashing to either side.
    What?
    Hanradi Khalag had stepped forward upon seeing that
odd black ship, but from where Samar sat curled up she
could not see his expression, only the back of his head – the
suddenly taut posture of his tall form.
    And then, something else began to happen ...
     
    The wall of magic was pulling free from the surface, drawing
with it spouts of white, churning water that fragmented
and fell away like toppling spears as the grey-shot, raging
manifestation lifted ever higher. The roar of sound rolled
forward, loud and fierce as a charging army.
    The Adjunct's voice was low, flat. 'Quick Ben.'
    'Not warrens,' the wizard replied, as if awed. 'Elder. Not
warrens. Holds, but shot through with Chaos, with rot—'
    'The Crippled God.'
    Both the wizard and Kalam looked over at her.
    'You're full of surprises, Adjunct,' Quick Ben observed.
    'Can you answer it?'
    'Adjunct?'
    'This Elder sorcery, High Mage – can you answer it?'
    The glance that Quick Ben cast at Kalam startled the
assassin, yet it matched his reply perfectly: 'If I cannot,
Adjunct, then we are all dead.'
    You bastard – you've got something —
    'You do not have long,' the Adjunct said. 'If you fail,' she
added as she turned away, 'I have my sword.'
    Kalam watched her make her way down the length of the
ship. Then, heart pounding hard in his chest, he faced
the tumbling, foaming conjuration that filled the north sky.
'Quick, you ain't got long here, you know – once she comes
back with her sword—'
    'I doubt it'll be enough,' the wizard cut in. 'Oh, maybe
for this ship and this ship alone. As for everybody else,
forget it.'
    'Then do something!'
    And Quick Ben turned on Kalam a grin the assassin had
seen before, hundreds of times, and that light in his eyes –
so familiar, so—
    The wizard spat on his hands and rubbed them together,
facing the Elder sorcery once more. 'They want to mess
with Holds ... so will I.'
    Kalam bared his teeth. 'You've got some nerve.'
    'What?'
    '"Full of surprises", you said to her.'
    'Yes, well, best give me some room. It's been a while. I
may be a little ... rusty.' And he raised his arms.
    So familiar ... so ... alarming.
     
    On the Silanda four reaches to seaward, Bottle felt something
jolt all his senses. His head whipped round, to fix his
eyes on the forecastle of the Froth Wolf. Quick Ben, alone,
standing tall at the prow, arms stretched out to the sides,
like some damned offering—
    —and around the High Mage, fire the colour of goldflecked
mud billowed awake, rushed outward, upward, fast
– so fast, so fierce – gods take me – no, more patience, you