A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

no, that was
in her mind, a hint of something hovering there behind
her memory of his face, his eyes and all that she had seen
there.
    Mother Dark, hear me. Heed me. You did not understand
your son then. You do not understand him now.
    Don't you see? This was all Draconus's doing.
    'This ain't right,' gasped Reccanto Ilk, each word spraying
blood. 'When it comes to screaming women, they should
be leaving the bar, not trying to get in!'
    The ragged hole the shrieking, snarling, jaw-snapping
women had torn through the tavern's door was jammed
with arms stretching, fingers clutching, all reaching inward
in a desperate attempt to tear through the barrier. Claws
stabbed into the Trell's tattooed shoulders and he ducked
his head lower, grunting as the demons battered at the door,
planks splintering – but that Trell was one strong bastard,
and he was holding 'em back, as he had been doing since
that first rush that nearly saw Reccanto's precious head get
torn off.
    Thank whatever gods squatted in the muck of this
damned village that these demons were so stupid. Not
one had tried either of the shuttered windows flanking
the entrance, although with that barbed hulk, Gruntle,
waiting at one of 'em with his cutlasses at the ready, and
Faint and the Bole brothers at the other, at least if them
demons went and tried one of 'em they'd be cut to pieces in
no time. Or so Reccanto hoped, since he was hiding under
a table and a table wasn't much cover, or wouldn't be if
them demons was nasty enough to tear apart Gruntle and
Faint and the Boles and the Trell, and Sweetest Sufferance,
too, for that matter.
    Master Quell and that swampy witch, Precious Thimble,
were huddled together at the back, at the barred cellar
door, doing Hood knew what. Glanno Tarp was missing
– he'd gone with the horses when they went straight and
the carriage went left, and Reccanto was pretty sure that
the idiot had gone and killed himself bad. Or worse.
    As for that corpse, Cartographer, why, the last Ilk had
seen of it it was still lashed to a wheel, spinning in a blur
as the damned thing spun off its axle and bounded off into
the rainy night. Why couldn't the demons go after it? A
damned easier fight—
    Repeated blows were turning the door into a shattered
wreck, and one of the arms angled down to slash deep
gouges across Mappo's back, making the Trell groan and
groaning wasn't good, since it meant Mappo might just give
up trying to hold 'em back and in they'd come, straight for
the man hiding under the table. It wasn't fair. Nothing was
fair and what was fair about that, dammit?
    He drew out his rapier and clutched the grip in one
shaky hand. A lunge from the knees – was such a thing
possible? He was about to find out. Oh, yes, he'd skewer
one for its troubles, just watch. And if the other two (he
was pretty sure there were three of 'em) ripped him up then
fine, just fine. A man could only do so much.
    Gruntle was shouting something at Mappo, and the
Trell bellowed a reply, drawing his legs up under himself as
if about to dive to one side – thanks a whole lot, you ogre!
– and then all at once Mappo did just that, off to the right,
slamming into the legs of the Boles and Faint and taking
all three down with him.
    An explosion of wood splinters and thrashing arms,
clacking fangs, unclean hair and terribly unreasonable expressions,
and the three screeching women plunged in.
    Two were brought up short pretty fast, as their heads
leapt up in gouts of greenish uck and their bodies sprawled
in a thrashing mess.
    Even as this was happening, the third woman charged
straight for Reccanto. He shrieked and executed his lunge
from the knees, which naturally wasn't a lunge at all. More
like a flèche, a forward flinging of his upper body, arm and
point extended, and as he overbalanced and landed with a
bone-creaking thump on the floorboards the rapier's point
snagged on something and the blade bowed alarmingly
and so he let go, so that it sprang up, then back down, the
pommel crunching the top of Reccanto's head, not once,
but twice, each time driving his face into the floor, nose
crackling in a swirl of stinging tears and bursting into his
brain the horrid stench of mouse droppings and greasy dirt
– immediately replaced by a whole lot of flowing blood.
    It was strangely quiet, and, moaning, Reccanto rolled on
to his side and lifted himself up on one elbow.
    And found himself staring into the blank, horrible
eyes of the woman who'd charged him. The rapier