A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

has burned away is what tempered his soul. Now, there
is only malice, a mottled collection of stains, fused impurities.
    And I am his captain once more, by his own command. What
does he want with me? What does he expect?
    Tene Baralta had ceased speaking. And now she could
sleep, if only her mind would cease its frantic racing.
    Oh Cotillion, you knew, didn't you? You knew this would
come. Yet, you left the choice to me. And now freedom feels like
a curse.
    Cotillion, you never play fair.
     
    The western coast of the Catal Sea was jagged with fjords,
high black cliffs and tumbled boulders. The mountains
rising almost immediately behind the shoreline were thick
with coniferous trees, their green needles so dark as to be
almost black. Huge red-tailed ravens wheeled overhead,
voicing strange, harsh laughter as they banked and pitched
towards the fleet of ominous ships that approached the
Malazans, swooping low only to lift with heavy, languid
beats of their wings.
    The Adjunct's flagship was now alongside Nok's own,
and the Admiral had just crossed over to join Tavore as
they awaited the arrival of the Perish.
    Keneb stared with fascination at the massive warships
drawing ever nearer. Each was in fact two dromons linked
by arching spans, creating a catamaran of Cyclopean proportions.
The sudden dying of the wind had forced oars
into the becalmed waters, and this included a double bank
of oars on the inward side of each dromon, foreshortened
by the spans.
    The Fist had counted thirty-one of the giant craft,
arrayed in a broad, flattened wedge. He could see ballistae
mounted to either side of the wolf-head prows, and
attached to the outer rails along the length of
the ships was a double row of overlapping rectangular
shields, their bronze facings polished and glinting in the
muted sunlight.
    As the lead ship closed, oars were lifted, shipped.
    One of Nok's officers said, 'Look beneath the surface
between the hulls, Admiral. The spans above are matched
by ones below the waterline ... and those possess rams.'
    'It would be unwise indeed,' Nok said, 'to invite battle
with these Perish.'
    'Yet someone had done just that,' the Adjunct said.
'Mage-fire damage, there, on the one flanking the flagship.
Admiral, what do you imagine to be the complement of
soldiers aboard each of these catamarans?'
    'Could be as many as two hundred marines or the equivalent
for each dromon. Four hundred per craft – I wonder if
some of them are at the oars. Unless, of course, there are
slaves.'
    The flag visible beneath the crow's nest on the lead ship's
mainmast showed a wolf's head on a black field bordered in
grey.
    They watched as a long craft resembling a war canoe was
lowered between the flagship's two hulls, then armoured
soldiers descended, taking up paddles. Three more figures
joined them. All but one wore iron helms, camailed at the
back, with sweeping cheek-guards. Grey cloaks, leather
gauntlets. The lone exception was a man, tall, gaunt and
bald, wearing a heavy woollen robe of dark grey. Their skins
were fair, but all other characteristics remained unseen
beneath armour.
    'That's a whole lot of chain weighing down that canoe,'
    the same officer muttered. 'If she rolls, a score lumps rusting
on the bottom ...'
    The craft slid over the submerged ram, swiftly propelled
by the paddlers whose blades flashed in perfect unison.
Moments later a soft-voiced command triggered a withdrawal
of the paddles, barring that of the soldier at the very
stern, who ruddered, bringing the canoe around to draw up
alongside the Malazan flagship.
    At Nok's command, sailors rushed over to help the
Perish contingent aboard.
    First to appear was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, blackcloaked.
Beneath the thick wool was a surcoat of blackened
chain that glistened with oil. The longsword at the left hip
revealed a silver wolf's-head pommel. The Perish paused,
looked round, then approached the Adjunct as others
appeared from the rail. Among them was the robed man,
who called out something to the one Keneb surmised was
the commander. That person halted, half-turned, and the
voice that emerged from behind the visored helm startled
Keneb, for it was a woman's.
    She's a damned giant – even the women heavies in our army
would hesitate facing this one.
    Her question was short.
    The bald man replied with a single word, at which
the woman in armour bowed and stepped to one side.
    Keneb watched the robed man stride forward, eyes on
the Adjunct. 'Mezla,' he said.