A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

weapons.
    At ten paces from the first three guardsmen, the whip
lashed out, a blurred sideways figure-eight that spawned
screams and gouts of blood that spilled almost black in the
alley's gloom. Two of the Letherii reeled back.
    The lithe, wiry figure closed on the last man in the front
row. Right hand slid along the haft to run up against a
flange beneath the left-side crescent blade, the haft
slapping parallel to the underside of his forearm as he
brought the weapon up – blocking a desperate slash from
the guard's shortsword. Then, as the Awl threw his elbow
forward, the right-side blade flashed out, cutting at the
man's face, connecting just below the helm's rim, chopping
through the nasal ridge and frontal bone before dipping
into the soft matter of his brain. The tapered, sharp
crescent blade slid back out with ease, as the Awl slipped
past the falling guard, whip returning from an over-the-head
gather to hiss out, wrapping round the neck of the
fourth Letherii – who shrieked, dropping his sword as he
scrabbled at the deadly blades – as the Awl dropped into a
crouch, his right hand sliding the length of the rygtha haft
to abut the flanged base of the right-blade, then slashing
out. The fifth guard jerked his shield upward to block, but
too late – the blade caught him across the eyes.
    A tug on the whip decapitated the fourth guard.
    The Awl released his hold on the cadaran's handle and,
gripping the rygtha at both ends, stepped close to slam the
haft into the last guard's throat, crushing the windpipe.
    Collecting the whip, he moved on.
    A street, the sound of lancers off to the right. The gate,
fifty paces to the left, now knotted with guards – heads
turning his way.
    He raced straight for them.
    Atri-Preda Bivatt took personal command of a troop of
lancers. Twenty riders at her back, she led her horse at a
canter, following the trail of a bloodbath.
    The two Patriotist agents midway down the alley. Five
city guardsmen at the far end.
    Riding out onto the street, she angled her mount to the
left, drawing her longsword as she neared the gate.
    Bodies everywhere, twenty or more, and only two
seemed to be still alive. Bivatt stared from beneath the rim
of her helm, cold sweat prickling awake beneath her
armour. Blood everywhere. On the cobbles, splashed high
on the walls and the gate itself. Dismembered limbs. The
stench of vacated bowels, spilled intestines. One of the
survivors was screaming, head whipping back and forth.
Both his hands had been sliced off.
    Just beyond the gate, Bivatt saw as she reined in, four
horses were down, their riders sprawled out on the road.
Drifting dust indicated that the others from the first troop
to arrive were riding in pursuit.
    The other survivor stumbled up to her. He had taken a
blow to the head, the helm dented on one side and blood
flowing down that side of his face and neck. In his eyes as
he stared up at her, a look of horror. He opened his mouth,
but no words came forth.
    Bivatt scanned the area once more, then turned to her
Finadd. 'Take the troop through, go after them. Get your
weapons out, damn you!' She glared back down at the
guardsman. 'How many were there?'
    He gaped.
    More guardsmen were arriving. A cutter hurried to the
screaming man who had lost his hands.
    'Did you hear my question?' Bivatt hissed.
    He nodded, then said. 'One. One man, Atri-Preda.'
    One? Ridiculous . 'Describe him!'
    'Scales – his face was scales. Red as blood!'
    A rider from her troop returned from the road. 'The first
troop of lancers are all dead, Atri-Preda,' he said, his tone
high and pinched. 'Further down the road. All the horses
but one – sir, should we follow?'
    'Should you follow? You damned fool – of course you
should follow! Stay on his trail!'
    A voice spoke behind her. 'That description, Atri-Preda . . .'
    She twisted round in her saddle.
    Orbyn Truthfinder, sheathed in sweat, stood amidst the
carnage, his small eyes fixed on her.
    Bivatt bared her teeth in a half-snarl. 'Yes,' she snapped.
    Redmask. None other. The commander of the Patriotists in Drene pursed his
lips, glanced down to scan the corpses on all sides. 'It
seems,' he said, 'his exile from the tribes is at an end.'
    Yes.
    Errant save us.
    Brohl Handar stepped down from the carriage and surveyed
the scene of battle. He could not imagine what sort of
weapons the attackers had used, to achieve the sort
of damage he saw before him. The Atri-Preda had taken
charge, as more soldiery appeared, while Orbyn