A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

grunted, flinched
back. Tavore chopped down onto the knee of his lead leg,
cutting in two the patella. He shrieked and fell.
    To her left, T'amber cut, slashed, parried and lunged, and
bodies were falling all around her. Even as swords sank into
the woman – and she staggered.
    Tavore cried out, twisting to move towards T'amber—
    And saw, less than twenty paces away, a score or more
Claws, rushing to join the fray.
    A sword burst from T'amber's back, between the
shoulder-blades, and the soldier gripping the weapon
pushed close to the woman and heaved her from her feet,
throwing her backward, where she slid off the length of
iron, landing hard on the cobbles, her own sword leaving
her hand, clattering away.
    Six paces between the Adjunct and a dozen Guards –
and behind them and closing fast, the Claws. Tavore
backed away – faces turned to her, faces twisted in blind
rage, eyes cold and hard, inhuman. The Adjunct raised her
sword, both hands on the grip now, took a step back—
    The Guards rushed forward—
    Then, a blinding flash, immediately behind them, and
that rush became a mass of torn bodies, severed limbs,
sheets of blood – the roar of the detonation seemed to
ignite in the centre of Tavore's skull. The world pitched,
she saw night sky, wheeling, stars seeming to race outward
in all directions – her head cracking on the cobbles, dislodging
her helm, and she was on her back, staring up,
confused by the tumbling smoke, the red mist, the
thundering protest of every muscle and bone in her
body.
    A second explosion lifted her from the cobbles, pounded
her back down on a surface suddenly heaved askew. More
blood rained down—
Someone skidded up against her, a hand reaching down
to rest lightly on her sternum, a face, blurred, looming
close. She watched the mouth move but heard nothing.
    A flash, recognition. Sergeant Fiddler.
    What? What are you doing?
    And then she was being dragged along, boots pulling
loose at the ends of senseless legs. The right one dislodging,
left behind. She stared at her cloth-wrapped foot, soaked in
river-slime and blood.
    She could now see behind her as the sergeant continued
pulling her towards the jetty. Two more marines, covering
their retreat with strange, oversized crossbows in their
hands. But no-one was coming after them – they were busy
dying beneath a stone sword in the desiccated hands of a
T'lan Imass – the creature punched at by virulent sorcery,
yet pushing ever forward, killing, killing.
    What was happening? Where had the marines come
from? She saw another one, struggling with a prisoner – he
wasn't trying to escape, however, just stay on his feet. They're drunk, the both of them – well, on this night, I think I'll
let it pass.
    Oh, T'amber ...
    More figures surrounding them now. Bloodied soldiers.
The Perish. People were shouting – she could see that – but
the roaring in her head was unabated, drowning out all else.
She half-lifted one arm, stared at her gauntleted hand – my
sword. Where is my sword?
    Never mind. Just sleep, now. Sleep.
     
    Grub led her into the alley, to where a body was lying,
curled up, racked with spasms and voicing a dreadful moaning.
As she drew closer, Lostara recognized him. Anguish
rose up within her and she lunged past Grub, fell to her
knees.
    Pearl was covered in wounds, as if he had been systematically
tortured. And pain was consuming him. 'Oh, my
love ...'
    Grub spoke behind her. 'The poison has him, Lostara Yil.
You must take his life.'
    What?
    'He thought you were dead,' the boy continued. 'He'd
given up. On everything. Except revenge. Against the
Adjunct.'
    'Who did this?'
    'I won't tell you,' Grub said. 'Pearl hungered for
vengeance, and vengeance was repaid him. That's all.'
    That's all.
    'Kill him now, Lostara. He can't hear you, he can't see
you. There's only the pain. It's the spiders, you see, they
breathe the blood of their victims, they need it rich, bright
red. And so the venom, it doesn't let go. And then, there's
the acid in the stomach, leaking out, eating everything up.'
    Numbed, she drew out her knife.
    'Make the heart stop.'
    Yes, there, behind and beneath the shoulder-blade. Push deep,
work the edges. Pull it loose, look, how the body stills, how the
muscles cease their clenching. It's quiet, now. He's gone.
    'Come along, there's more. Quickly.'
    He set off, and she rose and followed. You've left me. You
were there, in Mock's Hold, but I didn't know. You didn't know.
    Past a tumbled mass of corpses