A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

the tatters of his wings
rapping in the rush of air.
    As he had suspected, the trio had made no effort to hunt
down the lost horses. Assuming, as they would, that the
dragon had simply obliterated the animals.
    Tulas Shorn had known far too much death, however, to
so casually kill innocent creatures. No, instead, the dragon
had taken them, one in each massive clawed foot, ten
leagues to the south, almost within sight of a small, wild
herd of the same species – one of the last such wild herds
on the plain.
    Too many animals were made to bow in servitude to a
succession of smarter, crueller masters (and yes, those two
traits went together). Poets ever wailed upon witnessing
fields of slaughter, armies of soldiers and warriors frozen
in death, but Tulas Shorn – who had walked through
countless such scenes – reserved his sorrow, his sense of
tragedy, for the thousands of dead and dying horses, war
dogs, the oxen trapped in yokes of siege wagons mired in
mud or shattered, the beasts that bled and suffered through
no choice of their own, that died in a fog of ignorance, all
trust in their masters destroyed.
    The horse knows faith in the continuation of care from
its master; that food and water will be provided, that injuries
will be mended, that the stiff brush will stroke its hide at
day's end. And in return it serves as best it can, or at least
as best it chooses. The dog understands that the two-legged
members of its pack cannot be challenged, and believes that
every hunt will end in success. These were truths.
    A master of beasts must be as a parent to a host of unruly
but trusting children. Stolid, consistent, never wanton in
cruelty, never unmindful of the faith in which he or she is
held. Oh, Tulas Shorn was not unaware of the peculiarity
of such convictions, and had been the subject of mockery
even among fellow Tiste Edur.
    Although such mockery had invariably faded when they
had seen what had been achieved by this strange, quiet
warrior with the Eleint-tainted eyes.
    Gliding high above the Lamatath Plain, now scores
of leagues south of the witch and her companions, Tulas
Shorn could taste something in the air, so ancient, so
familiar, that if the dragon had still possessed functioning
hearts, why, they would have thundered. Pleasure, perhaps
even anticipation.
    How long had it been?
    Long.
    What paths did they now wander down?
    Alien ones, to be sure.
    Would they remember Tulas Shorn? The first master,
the one who had taken them raw and half-wild and taught
them the vast power of a faith that would never know betrayal?
    They are close, yes.
    My Hounds of Shadow.
    If he'd had a single moment, a lone instant of unharried
terror, Gruntle might have conjured in his mind a scene
such as might be witnessed from someone in a passing ship
– some craft beyond the raging storm, at the very edge of
this absurd insanity. Hands gripping the ratlines, deck
pitching wild in the midst of a dishevelled sea, and there,
yes . . . something impossible.
    An enormous carriage thrashing through a heaving
road of foam, frenzied horses ploughing through swollen,
whipped waves. And figures, clinging here and there like
half-drowned ticks, and another, perched high on the
driver's bench behind the maddened animals, from whom
endless screams pealed forth, piercing the gale and thunder
and surge. Whilst on all sides the storm raged on, as if in
indignant fury; the winds howled, rain slashing the air
beneath bulging, bruised clouds; and the sea rose up in a
tumult, spray erupting in tattered sheets.
    Yes, the witness might well stare, agape. Aghast.
    But Gruntle had no opportunity for such musing, no
sweet luxury of time to disconnect his mind's eye from this
drenched, exhausted and battered body strapped tight to
the roof of the carriage, this careering six-wheeled island
that seemed ever tottering on the edge of obliteration.
To draw one more breath was the only goal, the singular
purpose of existence. Nothing else was remotely relevant.
    He did not know if he was the last one left – he had not
opened his eyes in an eternity – and even if he was, why,
he knew he would not hold out much longer. He convulsed
yet again, but there was nothing left in his stomach – gods,
he had never felt so sick in all his life.
    The wind tore at his hair – he'd long since lost his helm
– savage as clawed fingers, and he ducked lower. Those
unseen fingers then grabbed a handful and pulled his head
up.
    Gruntle opened his eyes and found himself