A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

'Reach of Woe is war ye are.
Seen the toower? It's war the Provost leeves. Yull wan the
Provost, ah expeect.'
    Quell turned away, rubbed at his eyes, then edged close
to Precious Thimble. 'We're agreed, then, it's witchery, this
curse.'
    'Witch or warlock,' she said, nodding.
    'We're on the Reach of Woe, a wrecker coast. I'd wager
it's the arrival of strangers that wakes up the daughters
– they won't eat their kin, will they?'
    'When the frenzy's on them,' said Precious Thimble,
'they'll eat anything that moves.'
    'That's why the locals bolted, then, right. Fine, Witch,
go collect Mappo – and this time, tell him he needs to arm
himself. This could get messy.'
    Precious Thimble looked over at the last body the Trell
was now dragging outside. 'Right,' she said.
    Flanked by the Boles, Jula on his right, Amby on his
left, Gruntle walked back down to the main street, boots
squelching in the mud. The last spits of rain cooled his
brow. Oh, he'd wanted a nastier fight. The problem with
mindless attackers was their mindlessness, which made
them pathetically predictable. And only three of the
damned things—
    'I was going first,' said Amby.
    'No, I was,' said Jula.
    Gruntle scowled. 'Going where? What are you two talking
about?'
    'That window back there,' said Jula, 'at the tavern. If'n
the girlies got in through the door, I was goin' out through
the window – only we couldn't get the shutters pulled
back—'
    'That was your fault,' said Amby. 'I kept lifting the latch
and you kept pushing it back down.'
    'The latch goes down to let go, Amby, you idiot.'
    'No it goes up – it went up, I saw it—'
    'And then back down—'
    'Up.'
    'Then down.'
    Gruntle's sudden growl silenced them both. They were
now following the hoof prints and various furrows of
things being dragged in the wake of the animals. In the
squat houses to either side, muted lights flickered through
thick-glassed windows. The sound of draining water surrounded
them, along with the occasional distant rumble
of thunder. The air mocked with the freshness that came
after a storm.
    'There they are,' said Amby, pointing. 'Just past that low
wall. You see them, Gruntle? You see them?'
    A corral. The wreckage of the carriage high bench was
scattered along the base of the stone wall.
    Reaching it, they paused, squinted at the field of
churned-up mud, the horses huddled at the far end – eyeing
them suspiciously – and there, something sprawled near the
middle. A body. Far off to the left was one of the carriage
wheels.
    Gruntle leading the way, they climbed the wall and set
out for Glanno Tarp.
    As they drew closer, they could hear him talking.
    '. . . and so she wasn't so bad, compared to Nivvy, but
it was years before I surrealized not all women talked that
way, and if I'd a known, well, I probably would never have
agreed to it. I mean, I have some decency in me, I'm sure
of it. It was the way she carried on pretending she was nine
years old, eyes so wide, all those cute things she did which,
when you think about it, was maybe cute some time, long
ago, but now – I mean, her hair was going grey, for Hood's
sake – oh, you found me. Good. No, don't move me just
yet, my legs is broke and maybe a shoulder too, and an
arm, wrist, oh, and this finger here, it's sprained. Get Quell
– don't go moving me without Quell, all right? Thanks.
Now, where was I? Nivvy? No, that stall keeper, Luft, now
she didn't last, for the reasons I experplained before. It was
months before I found me a new woman – well, before
Coutre found me, would be more reaccurate. She'd just lost
all her hair . . .'
    The carriage wheel had moved slightly. Gruntle had
caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and, leaving
Glanno babbling on to the Boles, who stood looking down
with mouths hanging open, he set out for it.
    He sheathed his cutlasses and heaved at the wheel. It
resisted until, with a thick slurping sound, it lifted clear of
the mud and Gruntle pushed it entirely upright.
    Cartographer was a figure seemingly composed entirely
of clay, still bound by the wrists and ankle to the spokes.
The face worked for a time, pushing out lumps of mud from
its mouth, and then the corpse said, 'It's the jam-smeared
bread thing, isn't it?'
    'Look at that,' Quell said.
    Precious Thimble made a warding gesture and then spat
thrice, up, down, straight ahead. 'Blackdog Swamp,' she
said. 'Mott Wood. This was why I left, dammit! That's the
problem with Jaghut, they show up everywhere.'
    Behind them,