A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

He hefted the short javelin in
one hand. 'I'll skewer him first – then let's see him fight
with a shaft of wood impaling him. I skewer him from
six paces, right? Then I close with my cutlass and chop him
into pieces.'
    Samar Dev stopped listening, since she had heard
Puddy's boasts before, and held her gaze on the woman the
Meckros warrior had called a Seguleh. First Empire word,
that. The Anvil . Strange name for a people – probably some
remnant clan from the colonial period of Dessimbelackis's
empire. A fragment of an army, settled on some pleasant
island as their reward for some great victory – those armies
were each named, and 'the Anvil' was but a variation on a
theme common among the First Empire military. The
mask, however, was a unique affectation. Gadalanak said
all Seguleh were so attired, and something in the glyphs
and scratches on those enamel masks indicated rank. But if those marks are writing, it's not First Empire. Not even close. Curious. Too bad she never says anything.
    Cradling his shield arm, Gadalanak used the wall to
lever himself upright, then set off in search of a healer.
    There had been events in the palace, sending tremors far
enough to reach the challengers' compound. Perhaps the
List had been formalized, the order of the battles decided.
A rumour to please the idiotic warriors gathered here –
although Karsa's only response to the possibility was a sour
grunt. Samar Dev was inclined to agree with him – she was
not convinced that the rumour was accurate. No, something
else had happened, something messy. Factions sniping like mongrels at a feast all could share had they any brains. But that's always the way, isn't it? Enough is never enough.
    She felt something then, a shivering along the strands –
the bones – buried beneath the flesh of this realm. This realm . . . and every other one. Gods below . . . The witch
found she was on her feet. Blinking. And in the compound's
centre she saw Karsa now facing her, a fierce regard
in his bestial eyes. The Toblakai bared his teeth.
    Shaking her gaze free of the terrible warrior, she walked
quickly into the colonnaded hallway, then through to the
passage lined by the cells where the champions were
quartered. Down the corridor.
    Into her modest room.
    She closed the door behind her, already muttering the
ritual of sealing. Trouble out there, blood spilled and
sizzling like acid. Dreadful events, something old beyond
belief, exulting in new power—
    Her heart stuttered in her chest. An apparition was
rising from the floor in the centre of the room. Shouldering
through her wards.
    She drew her knife.
    A damned ghost. The ghost of a damned mage, in fact.
    Luminous but faint eyes fixed on her. ' Witch ,' it
whispered, ' do not resist, I beg you .'
    'You are not invited,' she said. 'Why would I not resist?'
    'I need your help.'
    'Seems a little late for that.'
    'I am Ceda Kuru Qan.'
    She frowned, then nodded. 'I have heard that name. You
fell at the Edur conquest.'
    'Fell? A notion worth consideration. Alas, not now. You must heal someone. Please. I can lead you to her.'
    'Who?'
    'A Letherii. She is named Feather Witch—'
    Samar Dev hissed, then said, 'You chose the wrong
person, Ceda Kuru Qan. Heal that blonde rhinazan? If she's
dying, I am happy to help her along. That woman gives
witches a bad name.'
    Another tremor rumbled through the unseen web binding
the world.
    She saw Kuru Qan's ghost flinch, saw the sudden terror
in its eyes.
    And Samar Dev spat on her knife blade, darted forward
and slashed the weapon through the ghost.
    The Ceda's shriek was short-lived, as the iron weapon
snared the ghost, drew it inward, trapped it. In her hand the
knife's hilt was suddenly cold as ice. Steam slithered from
the blade.
    She quickly added a few words under her breath,
tightening the binding.
    Then staggered back until her legs bumped against her
cot. She sank down, shivering in the aftermath of the
capture. Her eyes fell to the weapon in her hand. 'Gods
below,' she mumbled. 'Got another one.'
    Moments later the door swung open. Ducking, Karsa
Orlong entered.
    Samar Dev cursed at him, then said, 'Must you do that?'
    'This room stinks, witch.'
    'You walk through my wards as if they were cobwebs.
Toblakai, it would take a damned god to do what you just
did – yet you are no god. I would swear to that on the bones
of every poor fool you've killed.'
    'I care nothing for your damned wards,' the huge warrior
replied, leaning his sword against a wall