A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

outskirts, where
rodara males would gather protectively until the newborn
was able to find its legs. The clan guiding these beasts was
probably small.
    Redmask's guardian K'Chain Che'Malle were nowhere
to be seen, but that was not unusual. The huge reptiles had
prodigious appetites. At this time of year, the wild bhederin
that had wintered in pocket forests – a solitary, larger breed
than those of the plains to the south – ventured out from
cover in search of mates. Massing more than two Letherii
oxen, the bulls were ferocious and belligerent and would
charge anything that approached too close, barring a
female of its own kind. Sag'Churok, the male K'ell Hunter,
delighted in meeting that thundering charge – Redmask
had seen its pleasure, revealed in the slow sinuous lashing
of the tail – as it stood in the bull's path, iron blades lifted
high. As fast as the bhederin was, the K'Chain Che'Malle
was faster. Each time after slaying the beast, Sag'Churok
would yield the carcass to Gunth Mach, until she'd eaten
her fill.
    Redmask rode on through the day, his pace leisurely to
ease the burden on the horse, and when the sun was
descending towards the horizon, igniting distant storm
clouds, he came within sight of the Awl encampment,
situated on an ancient oxbow island between two dry
eroded riverbeds. The herds were massed on the flanks of
the valleys to either side and the sprawl of dome-shaped,
sewn-hide huts huddled amidst the smoke of cookfires
blanketing the valley.
    No outriders. No pickets. And far too large a camp for
the size of the herds.
    Redmask reined in on the ridge line. He studied the
scene below. Here and there, voices rose in ritual mourning.
Few children were visible moving about between the
huts.
    After some time, as he sat motionless on the high
Letherii saddle, someone saw him. Sudden cries, scurrying
motion in the growing shadows, then a half-dozen warriors
set out at a trot towards him.
    Behind them, the camp had already begun a panicked
breaking, sparks flying as hearths were kicked and stamped
out. Hide walls rippled on the huts.
    Herd and dray dogs appeared, racing to join the
approaching warriors.
    The Awl warriors were young, he saw as they drew closer.
Only a year or two past their death nights. Not a single
veteran among them. Where were the Elders? The
shouldermen?
    Halting fifteen paces downslope, the six warriors began
conferring in hissed undertones, then one faced the
encampment and loosed a piercing cry. All activity stopped
below.
    Faces stared up at Redmask. Not a single warrior among
them seemed bold enough to venture closer.
    The dogs were less cowed by the presence of a lone
warrior. Growling, hackles raised, they crept in a half-circle
towards him. Then, catching an unexpected scent, the
beasts suddenly shrank back, tails dipping, thin whines
coming from their throats.
    Finally, one young warrior edged forward a step. 'You
cannot be him,' he said.
    Redmask sighed. 'Where is your war leader?' he demanded.
    The youth filled his chest and straightened. 'I am this
clan's war leader. Masarch, son of Nayrud.'
    'When was your death night?'
    'Those are the old ways,' Masarch said, baring his teeth
in a snarl. 'We have abandoned such foolishness.'
    Another spoke up behind the war leader. 'The old ways
have failed us! We have cast them out!'
    Masarch said, 'Remove that mask; it is not for you. You
seek to deceive us. You ride a Letherii horse – you are one
of the Factor's spies.'
    Redmask made no immediate reply. His gaze slid past the
war leader and his followers, fixing once more on the camp
below. A crowd was gathering at the near edge, watching.
He was silent for another twenty heartbeats, then he said,
'You have set out no pickets. A Letherii troop could line
this ridge and plunge down into your midst, and you would
not be prepared. Your women cry out their distress, a sound
that can be heard for leagues on a still night like this. Your
people are starving, war leader, yet they light an excess of
fires, enough to make above you a cloud of smoke that will
not move, and reflects the light from below. You have been
culling the newborn rodara and myrid, instead of butchering
the ageing males and females past bearing. You must
have no shouldermen, for if you did, they would bury you
in the earth and force upon you the death night, so that you
might emerge, born anew and, hopefully, gifted with new
wisdom – wisdom you clearly lack.'
    Masarch said nothing to that. He had finally