A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

suddenly,
excruciating in its intensity before easing a fraction –
enough to let him draw breath, and force one foot forward
yet again. Then another.
    He reached a corner, struggled to lift his head. But fire
consumed his eyes, he could make out nothing of the world
beyond. This far ... on instinct, following a map in his
head, a map now torn into ribbons by the pain.
    He was close. He could feel it.
    Kalam Mekhar reached out to steady himself on a wall –
but there was no wall, and he toppled, thudded hard onto
the cobbles, where, unable to prevent it, his limbs drew
inward and he curled up round the seething, lashing agony.
    Lost. There should have been a wall, a corner, right
there. His map had failed him. And now it was too late. He
could feel his legs dying. His arms, his spine a spear of
molten fire.
    He felt one temple resting on the hard, damp stone.
    Well, dying was dying. The assassin's art ever turns on its
wielder. Nothing in the world could be more just, more
proper—
     
    Ten paces away, Shadowthrone bared his teeth. 'Get up,
you fool. You're very nearly there. Get up!'
    But the body did not stir.
    Hissing in fury, the god slipped forward. A gesture and
the three shadow-wraiths in his wake rushed forward,
gathered round the motionless form of Kalam Mekhar.
    One rasped, 'He's dead.'
    Shadowthrone snarled, pushed his servants aside and
crouched down. 'Not yet,' he said after a moment. 'But oh
so very close.' He lurched back a step. 'Pick him up, you
damned idiots! We're going to drag him!'
    'We?' one asked.
    'Careful,' the god murmured. Then watched as
the wraiths reached down, grasped limbs, and lifted the
assassin. 'Good, now follow me, and quickly.'
    To the gate, the barrier squealing as Shadowthrone
pushed it aside.
    Onto the rough path, its tilted stones and snarls of dead
grass.
    Mounds to either side, the humps beginning to steam.
Dawn's arrival? Hardly. No, the ones within ... sensed him.
The god allowed himself a small, dry laugh. Then ducked
as it came out louder than he had intended.
    Approaching the front door.
    Shadowthrone halted, edged as close as he could to one
side of the path, then waved the wraiths forward. 'Quickly!
Drop him there, at the threshold! Oh, and here, you, take
his long-knives. Back in the sheaths, yes. Now, all of you,
get out of here – and stay on the path, you brainless worms!
Who are you trying to awaken?'
    Another step, closer to that dark, dew-beaded door.
Lifting the cane. A single rap with the silver head.
    Then the god turned about and hurried down the path.
    Reaching the gate, then spinning round as that door
groaned open.
    A huge armoured figure filled the portal, looking down.
    Shadowthrone whispered, 'Take him, you oaf! Take him!' Then, with infuriating slowness, the enormous guardian
of the Deadhouse reached down, collected the assassin by
the scruff of the neck, and dragged him across the
threshold.
    The god, crouched at the gate, watched as Kalam's feet
vanished into the gloom.
    Then the door slammed shut.
    In time? 'No way of knowing. Not for a while ... my,
Shadowthrone's collection is most impressive, yes?' And he
turned away, to see his wraiths fleeing down the street,
even as a nearby tavern door thundered open.
    And the god winced, ducking still lower. 'Uh oh, time to
leave, I think.'
    A swirl of shadows.
    And then Shadowthrone was gone.
     
    Master Sergeant Braven Tooth neared the entrance to
Coop's. Not yet dawn. And the damned night was now
quiet as a tomb. He shivered, as if he had just crossed the
path of some hoary ghost, passing invisible yet pausing to
give him a hungry glance.
    Coop's door opened and closed, hard, the object of some
anger, and Braven Tooth slowed.
    An armoured monstrosity ascended into view.
    Braven Tooth blinked, then grunted under his breath
and approached.
    'Evening, Temper.'
    The helmed head turned to him, as if distracted by the
Master Sergeant's sudden presence.
    'Braven Tooth.'
    'What brings you out?'
    Temper seemed to sniff the air, then glanced across at the
old Deadhouse. A softly clattering shrug as he said,
'Thought I'd take a walk.'
    Braven Tooth nodded. 'I see you dressed appropriately.'
    Both men stepped back as a woman emerged from a
nearby alley and came right past them, descended the steps
and vanished into the maw of Coop's.
    'Now that was some swaying walk,' the Master Sergeant
muttered in appreciation. But Temper's attention was on
the cobbles, and Braven Tooth looked down.
    She'd left footprints.