A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

Stayandi.
    The four-legged people were as mute as she was, until
they began their mournful cries, when night was at its
deepest; crying – she knew – to summon the sun.
    They stayed with her, guardians with their gifts of
warmth and food. After the milk, there was meat. Crushed,
mangled carcasses – mice, shrews, a headless snake – she
ate all they gave her, tiny bones crunching in her mouth,
damp fur and chewy skin.
    This too seemed timeless, a foreverness . The grown-ups
came and went. The children grew burlier, and she now
crawled with them when it was time to wander.
    When the bear appeared and rushed towards them, she
was not afraid. It wanted the children, that much was
obvious, but the grown-ups attacked and drove it off. Her
people were strong, fearless. They ruled this world.
    Until one morning she awoke to find herself alone.
Forcing herself to her hind legs, helpless whimpering
coming from her throat in jolts of pain, she scanned the
land in all directions—
    And saw the giant. Bare above the waist, the deep hue of
sun-darkened skin almost entirely obscured beneath white
paint – paint that transformed his chest, shoulders and face
into bone. His eyes, as he walked closer, were black pits in
the caked mask skull. He carried weapons: a long spear, a
sword with a broad, curved blade. The fur of the four-legged
people was wrapped about his hips, and the small but
deadly knives strung in a necklace about the warrior's neck,
they too belonged to her people.
    Frightened, angry, she bared her teeth at the stranger,
even as she cowered in the fold of a small hummock –
nowhere to run, knowing he could catch her effortlessly.
Knowing that yet another of her worlds had shattered. Fear
was her bronze box, and she was trapped, unable to move.
    He studied her for a time, cocking his head as she
snapped and snarled. Then slowly crouched down until his
eyes were level with her own.
    And she fell silent.
    Remembering . . . things.
    They were not kind eyes, but they were – she knew – like
her own. As was his hairless face beneath that deathly
paint.
    She had run away, she now recalled, until it seemed her
fleeing mind had outstripped her flesh and bone, had
darted out into something unknown and unknowable.
    And this savage face, across from her, was slowly bringing
her mind back. And she understood, now, who the
four-legged people were, what they were. She remembered
what it was to stand upright, to run with two legs instead of
four. She remembered an encampment, the digging of cellar
pits, the first of the sod-walled houses. She remembered her
family – her brother – and the night the demons came to steal
it all away.
    After a time of mutual silent regard, he straightened,
settled the weapons and gear about himself once more,
then set out.
    She hesitated, then rose.
    And, at a distance, she followed.
    He walked towards the rising sun.
    Scratching at the scarred, gaping hole where one eye had
been, Toc watched the children running back and forth as
the first cookfires were lit. Elders hobbled about with iron
pots and wrapped foodstuffs – they were wiry, weathered
folk, but days of marching had dulled the fire in their eyes,
and more than a few snapped at the young ones who passed
too close.
    He saw Redmask, trailed by Masarch and Natarkas and
another bearing the red face-paint, appear near the area laid
out for the war leader's yurt. Seeing Toc, Redmask
approached.
    'Tell me, Toc Anaster, you flanked our march on the
north this day – did you see tracks?'
    'What sort do you mean?'
    Redmask turned to Natarkas's companion. 'Torrent rode
to the south. He made out a trail that followed an antelope
track – a dozen men on foot—'
    'Or more,' the one named Torrent said. 'They were
skilled.'
    'Not Letherii, then,' Toc guessed.
    'Moccasined,' Redmask replied, his tone betraying slight
irritation at Torrent's interruption. 'Tall, heavy.'
    'I noted nothing like that,' said Toc. 'Although I admit I
was mostly scanning horizon lines.'
    'This place shall be our camp,' Redmask said after a
moment. 'We will meet the Letherii three leagues from
here, in the valley known as Bast Fulmar. Toc Anaster,
will you stay with the elders and children or accompany
us?'
    'I have had my fill of fields of battle, Redmask. I said I'd
found myself a soldier again, but even an army's train needs
guards, and that is about all I am up to right now.' He
shrugged. 'Maybe from now on.'
    The eyes in that scaled mask held on Toc for a