A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

warriors hardly represents a
significant threat to the Host. This rebellion is over –
there's no-one left to rebel, after all. And little left to fight
over.' She gestured forward with one gauntleted hand.
'Even these pilgrims keep falling to the wayside.'
    A low mound of stones was visible to one side of the
rough track – another sad victim of this pilgrimage – and
from this one rose a staff bedecked in crow feathers.
    'That's eerie, too,' Sweetcreek said. 'All these Coltaine
worshippers ...'
    'This land breeds cults like maggots in a corpse, Captain.'
    Sweetcreek grunted. 'A most appropriate image, Fist, in
this instance.'
    Rythe Bude grunted. Aye, I stumble on those every now
and then.
    Behind the two riders, Corporal Futhgar said, 'Sirs, what
are those?'
    They twisted round in their saddles, then looked to
where the man was pointing. The eastern sky. Voices were
rising among the soldiers now, invoked prayers, a few
shouts of surprise.
    A string of suns, a dozen in all, each small but bright
enough to burn blinding holes in the blue sky. From two
stretched tails of fiery mist. The row of suns curved like a
longbow, the ends higher, and above it was the blurred,
misshapen face of the moon.
    'An omen of death!' someone shouted.
    'Captain,' Rythe Bude snapped, 'get that fool to shut his
mouth.'
    'Aye, sir.'
     
    'The sky falls,' Noto Boil said as he fell back in beside the
High Fist.
    Scowling, Paran continued studying the strange appearance
in the eastern sky, seeking some sense of what it was
they were witnessing. Whatever it is, I don't tike it.
    'You doubt me?' the healer asked. 'High Fist, I have
walked the lands of Korel. I have seen the craters left
behind by all that descended from the sky. Have you ever
perused a map of Korel? The entire northern subcontinent
and its host of islands? Fling a handful of gravel into
mud, then wait whilst water fills the pocks. That is
Korel, sir. The people still tell tales of the countless fires
that fell from the sky, in the bringing down of the Crippled
God.'
    'Ride to the head of the column, Noto Boil,' Paran said.
    'Sir?'
    'Call a halt. Right now. And get me Hurlochel and his
outriders. I need a sense of the surrounding area. We may
need to find cover.'
    For once, the healer made no complaint.
    Paran stared at the string of fires, growing like a salvo
from the Abyss. Damn, where's Ormulogun? I need to find
him, and he'd better have that Deck ready – or at least the cards
etched out, preferably scribed and ready for the threads of paint.
Gods below, he'd better have something, because I don't have
time to ... his thoughts trailed away.
    He could feel them now, coming ever closer – he could
feel their heat – was that even possible?
    The damned moon – I should have paid attention. I should
have quested, found out what has happened up there, to that
forlorn world. And then another thought struck him, and he
went cold.
    War among the gods.
    Is this an attack? A salvo in truth?
    Paran bared his teeth. 'If you're out there,' he whispered,
glaring at the eastern sky as his horse shied nervously
beneath him, 'you're not playing fair. And ... I don't like
that.' He straightened, stood in his stirrups, and looked about.
    'Ormulogun! Where in Hood's name are you!'
     
    'Against this,' Iskaral Pust muttered, 'I can do nothing.' He
hugged himself. 'I think I should start gibbering, now. Yes,
that would be highly appropriate. A crazed look in my eyes.
Drool, then froth, yes. Who could blame me? We're all going
to die!'
    These last words were a shriek, sufficient to shake Mappo
from his insensate lethargy. Lifting his head, he looked across
at the High Priest of Shadow. The Dal Honese was huddled
beside his mule, and both were bathed in a strange light,
green-hued – no, the Trell realized, that light was everywhere.
    Spite descended from the forecastle, and Mappo saw in
her expression cold rage. 'We are in trouble,' she said in a
grating voice. 'Out of time – I had hoped ... never
mind—' Suddenly her head snapped round and she stared
southwestward. Her eyes narrowed. Then she said, 'Oh ...
who in Hood's name are you? And what do you think you
are up to?' Falling silent once more, her frown deepening.
    Blinking, Mappo Runt pushed himself upright, and saw
that the sky was on fire – almost directly above them. As if
the sun had spawned a host of children, a string of
incandescent pearls, their flames wreathed in haloes
of jade. Growing ... descending. What are