A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

and
then.
    While the world went mad around them; while it tore
that other ship to pieces—
    Mappo rolled the nearer figure over. Blood-smeared face,
streams from the ears, the nose, the corners of the eyes – yet
he knew this man. He knew him. Crokus, the Daru. Oh,
lad, what has brought you to this?
    Then the young man's eyes opened. Filled with fear and
apprehension.
    'Be at ease,' Mappo said, 'you are safe now.'
    The other figure, a woman, was coughing up seawater,
and there was blood flowing down from her left ear to track
the underside of her jaw before dripping from her chin. On
her hands and knees, she lifted her head and met the Trell's
gaze.
    'Are you all right?' Mappo asked.
    She nodded, crawled closer to Crokus.
    'He will live,' the Trell assured her. 'It seems we all shall
live ... I had not believed—'
    Iskaral Pust screamed.
    Pointed.
    A large, scarred, black-skinned arm had appeared over
the port rail, like some slithering eel, the hand grasping
hard on the slick wood, the muscles straining.
    Mappo clambered over.
    The man he looked down upon was holding onto
another body, a man easily as large as he was, and it was
clear that the former was fast losing his strength. Mappo
reached down and dragged them both onto the deck.
    'Barathol,' the woman gasped.
    Mappo watched as the man named Barathol quickly
rolled his companion over and began pushing the water
from his lungs.
    'Barathol—'
    'Quiet, Scillara—'
    'He was under too long—'
    'Quiet!'
    Mappo watched, trying to remember what such ferocity,
such loyalty, felt like. He could almost recall ... almost. He
has drowned, this one. See all that water? Yet Barathol would
not cease in his efforts, pulling the limp, flopping body
about this way and that, rocking the arms, then, finally,
dragging the head and shoulders onto his lap, where he
cradled the face as if it was a newborn babe.
    The man's expression twisted, terrible in its grief.
'Chaur! Listen to me! This is Barathol. Listen! I want you
to ... to bury the horses! Do you hear me? You have to
bury the horses! Before the wolves come down! I'm not asking,
Chaur, do you understand? I'm telling you!'
    He has lost his mind. From this, there is no recovery. I know,
I know —
    'Chaur! I will get angry, do you understand? Angry ...
with you! With you, Chaur! Do you want Barathol angry at
you, Chaur? Do you want—'
    A cough, gouting water, a convulsion, then the huge
man held so tenderly in Barathol's arms seemed to curl up,
one hand reaching up, and a wailing cry worked its way
through the mucus and froth.
    'No, no my friend,' Barathol gasped, pulling the man
into a tight, rocking embrace. 'I'm not angry. No, I'm not.
Never mind the horses. You did that already. Remember?
Oh, Chaur, I'm not angry.'
    But the man bawled, clutching at Barathol like a child.
    He is a simpleton. Otherwise, this Barathol, he would not
have spoken to him in such a manner. He is a child in a
man's body, this Chaur ...
    Mappo watched. As the two huge men wept in each
other's arms.
    Spite now stood beside the Trell, and as soon as Mappo
became aware of her, he sensed her pain – and then her
will, pushing it away with such ferocity – he dragged his
gaze from the two men on the deck and stared at her.
    Pushing, pushing away all that pain —
    'How? How did you do that?' he demanded.
    'Are you blind, Mappo Runt?' she asked. 'Look – look at
them, Trell. Chaur, his fear is gone, now. He believes
Barathol, he believes him. Utterly, without question. You
cannot be blind to this, to what it means.
    'You are looking upon joy, Mappo Runt. In the face of
this, I will not obsess on my own pain, my own suffering.
Do you understand? I will not.'
    Ah, spirits below, you break my heart, woman. He looked
back at the two men, then across to where Scillara held
Crokus in her arms, stroking the man's hair as he came
round. Broken, by all this. Again.
    I had ... forgotten.
    Iskaral Pust was dancing round Mogora, who watched
him with a sour expression, her face contracting until it
resembled a dried-up prune. Then, in a moment when the
High Priest drew too close, she lashed out with a kick that
swept his feet out from beneath him. He thumped hard
onto the deck, then began swearing. 'Despicable woman!
Woman, did I say woman? Hah! You're what a shedding
snake leaves behind! A sickly snake! With scabs and
pustules and weals and bunions—'
    'I heard you lusting after me, you disgusting creep!'
    'I tried to, you mean! In desperation, but even