A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

those?
    The sea seemed to tremble around them, the waves
choppy, clashing in confusion. The air felt brittle, hot, and
all wind had fallen away. And there, above the mass of land
to the east that was Otataral Island ... Mappo looked back
at Iskaral Pust. The High Priest, crouching now, had his
hands covering his head. Bhoka'rala were converging
around him, mewling and whimpering, reaching out to
touch the shivering old man. As he babbled, 'We didn't
plan for this, did we? I don't remember – gods, I don't
remember anything! Mogora, my dear hag, where are you?
This is my moment of greatest need. I want sex! Even with
you! I'll drink the white paralt later – what choice? It's that,
or the memory of most regrettable weakness on my part!
There is only so much I can suffer. Stop touching me, you
vile apes! Shadowthrone, you miserable insane shade –
where are you hiding and is there room for me, your most
devoted servant, your Magus? There'd better be! Come get
me, damn you – never mind anyone else! Just me! Of
course there's room! You mucus-smeared knee-in-the-groin
fart-cloud! Save me!'
    'Spirits below,' Mogora muttered at Mappo's side, 'listen
to that pathetic creature! And to think, I married him!'
    Spite suddenly wheeled and ran back to the bow,
bhok'arala scattering from her path. Once there, she spun
round and shouted. 'I see them! Make for them, fools!
Quickly!'
    And then she veered, rising above the wallowing, rocking
ship, silver-etched wings spreading wide. Swirling
mists, writhing, growing solid, until an enormous dragon
hovered before the ship, dwarfing the craft in its immensity.
    Lambent eyes flared like quicksilver in the eerie, emerald
light. The creature's long, sinuous tail slithered down,
snake-like, and coiled round the upthrust prow. The dragon
then twisted in the air, a savage beat of the wings—
    —and with an alarming jolt the ship lunged forward.
    Mappo was flung back into the cabin wall, wood
splintering behind him. Gasping, the Trell regained his feet
and clambered towards the bows.
    She sees them? Who?
    The sky was filling with spears of green fire, plunging
towards them.
    Iskaral Pust screamed.
     
    Over a thousand leagues away, westward, Bottle stood with
the others and stared at the eastern horizon – where darkness
should have been, crawling heavenward to announce the
unending cycle of day's death and night's birth. Instead they
could see distinctly a dozen motes of fire, descending, filling a
third of the sky with a lurid, incandescent, greenish glow.
    'Oh,' Bottle whispered, 'this is bad.'
    Fiddler clutched at his sleeve, pulled him close. 'Do you
understand this?' the sergeant demanded in a harsh
whisper.
    Bottle shook his head.
    'Is this – is this another Crippled God?'
    Bottle stared at Fiddler, eyes widening. Another? 'Gods
below!'
    'Is it?'
    'I don't know!'
    Swearing, Fiddler pushed him away. Bottle staggered
back, shouldering into Sergeant Balm – who barely reacted
– then he twisted through the press, stumbling as he made
his way clear, looked across the waters. To the south, the
Nemil ships – war biremes and supply transports – had
every sheet to the wind as they raced back towards their
homeland, the former swiftly outdistancing the latter,
many of the transports still half-filled with cargo – the
resupply abandoned.
    Aye, it's every fool for himself now. But when those things
hit, that shock wave will roll fast. It will smash us all into
kindling. Poor bastards, you'll never make it. Not even those
ugly biremes.
    The unceasing wind seemed to pause, as if gathering
breath, then returned with redoubled force, sending everyone
on deck staggering. Sailcloth bucked, mast and spars
creaking – the Silanda groaned beneath them.
    Quick Ben? Best make your escape now, and take whoever
you can with you. Against what's coming ... there is no illusion
that will dissuade it. As for those Tiste Edur, well, they're as
finished as we are. I will accept that as consolation.
    Well, Grandma, you always said the sea will be the death of
me.
     
    Sergeant Hellian wandered across the deck, marvelling at
the green world she had found. This Nemil brandy packed
a punch, didn't it just? People were screaming, or just
standing, as if frozen in place, but that's how things usually
were, those times she accidentally – oops – slipped over that
blurry line of not-quite drunk. Still, this green was making
her a little sick.
    Hood-damned Nemil brandy – what idiots drank this
rubbish?