A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

forward, his mouth suddenly dry, his heart
pounding hard in his chest.
    His free hand, reaching out before him, came into contact
with soft, warm fur. One of his dogs, lying motionless,
still under his probing touch. Near its neck, the fur was wet.
He reached down along it until his fingers sank into torn
flesh where its throat should have been. The wound was
ragged. Wolf. Or one of those striped cats . But of the latter he
had only ever seen skins, and those came from the far
south, near Bolkando Kingdom.
    Truly frightened now, he continued on, and moments
later found his other dog. This one had a broken neck. The
two attacks, he realized, had to have been made simultaneously,
else one or the other of the beasts would have
barked.
    A broken neck . . . but no other wounds, no slather of
saliva on the fur.
    The rodara heaved a half-dozen paces to one side again,
and he could make out, at the very edge of his vision, their
heads lifted on their long necks, their ears upright. Yet no
fear-sounds came from them. So, no dangerous scent, no
panic – someone has their attention. Someone they're used to obeying .
    There was no mistaking this – the herd was being stolen.
Abasard could not believe it. He turned about, retracing his
route. Twenty paces of silent footfalls later, he set out into
a run – back to the camp.
    Redmask's whip snaked out to wrap round the shepherd's
neck – the old Letherii had been standing, outlined well
against the dark, staring mutely at the now-moving herd. A
sharp tug from Redmask and the shepherd's head rolled
from the shoulders, the body – arms jerking momentarily
out to the sides – falling to one side.
    The last of them, Redmask knew, as he moved up.
Barring one, who had been smart enough to flee, although
that would not save him in the end. Well, invaders had to
accept the risks – they were thieves as well, weren't they?
Luxuriating in their unearned wealth, squatting on land
not their own, arrogant enough to demand that it change
to suit their purposes. As good as pissing on the spirits in
the earth – one paid for such temerity and blasphemy.
    He pushed away that last thought as unworthy. The
spirits could take care of themselves, and they would
deliver their own vengeance, in time – for they were as
patient as they were inexorable. It was not for Redmask to
act on behalf of those spirits. No, that form of righteousness
was both unnecessary and disingenuous. The truth was this:
Redmask enjoyed being the hand of Awl vengeance.
Personal and, accordingly, all the more delicious.
    He had already begun his killing of the Letherii, back in
Drene.
    Drawing his knife as he crouched over the old man's
severed head, he cut off the Letherii's face, rolled it up and
stored it with the others in the salt-crusted bag at his hip.
    Most of the herd dogs had submitted to the Awl dray's
challenge – they now followed the larger, nastier beast as it
worked to waken the entire herd, then drive it en masse
eastward.
    Straightening, Redmask turned as the first screams
erupted from the drover camp.
    Abasard was still forty paces from the camp when he saw
one of the tents collapse to one side, poles and guides
snapping, as an enormous two-legged creature thumped
over it, talons punching through to the struggling forms
beneath, and screams tore through the air. Head swivelling
to one side, the fiend continued on in its loping, stiff-tailed
gait. There were huge swords in its hands.
    Another one crossed its path, fast, low, heading for the
foreman's house. Abasard saw a figure dart from this second
beast's path – but not quickly enough, as its head snapped
forward, twisting so that its jaws closed to either side of the
man's head. Whereupon the reptile threw the flailing form
upward in a bone-breaking surge. The limp corpse sailed in
the air, landing hard and rolling into the hearth fire in a
spray of sparks.
    Abasard stood, paralysed by the horror of the slaughter
he saw before him. He had recognized that man. Another
Indebted, a man who had been courting one of his aunts, a
man who always seemed to be laughing.
    Another figure caught his eye. His baby sister, ten years
old, racing out from the camp – away from another tent
whose inhabitants were dying beneath chopping swords – our tent. Father—
    The reptile lifted its head, saw his sister's fleeting form,
and surged after her.
    All at once, Abasard found himself running, straight for
the monstrous creature.
    If it saw him converging, it was