A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

Chaur's head and upper
body on to his thighs. The rest of the world, the explosions,
the screams, the thunder of battle, all fell away, and
it was some time before Barathol realized that someone
was clambering out of the rubble that was the gaol. A staccato
cascade of curses in Falari, Malazan, Dobri and Daru.
Blinking, the blacksmith lifted his gaze.
    'Antsy – here, please, I need your help! Please. He's
hurt.'
    The ex-Bridgeburner was covered in dust but otherwise
unscathed. 'I lost my damned sword. I lost my damned
crossbow. I lost my damned sharpers. I lost my—'
'Antsy! Hood's breath, please help me – we need to find
a healer. High Denul – there must be one in the city. There
must be!'
    'Well, there's Mallet, but he's – shit, he's dead. I forgot.
Can't believe I forgot.' Antsy crouched down and studied
Chaur for a moment, and then he shook his head. 'He's
done for, Barathol. Cracked skull, bleeding into his
brain – you can always tell, when one side of the face
goes—'
    'I know all that, damn you. We need a healer! Think,
Antsy – there must be someone.'
    'Maybe, but not close – we got to cross half the city,
Barathol, and with them Hounds—'
    'Never mind the Hounds.' The blacksmith gathered
Chaur up into his arms and straightened.
    Antsy stared. 'You can't carry him—'
    'Then help me!'
    'I'm trying! Let me think.'
    At that moment they both heard the clumping of hoofs,
the clack of wooden wheels on cobbles. And they turned
to the alley mouth.
    Behold, the ox. Too weary to run. Even the cart in its
wake clumped in exhaustion. Stolid legs trembled. Mucus
slathered down in a gleaming sheet that dragged dusty
tendrils between the beast's front hoofs. The painful clarity
of panic was fading, dulling its eyes once more, and when
the two man-things arrived and set down a third body on
the bed of the cart, why, this was old business as far as
the ox was concerned. At last, the world had recovered its
sanity. There were tasks to be done, journeys to complete.
Salvation sweeter than mam's milk.
    Tired but content, the beast fell in step beside the manthings.
    The two cousins stood on the rooftop, looking out over
the city. Conflagrations lit the night sky. A section of the
Gadrobi District was aflame, with geysers of burning gas
spouting high into the air. A short time earlier a strange
atmospheric pressure had descended, driving down the
fires – nothing was actually spreading, as far as could
be determined, and the detonations had grown more
infrequent. Even so, there was no one fighting the flames,
which was, all things considered, hardly surprising.
    In the courtyard below, Studious Lock was fussing about
over the fallen compound guards, both of whom had been
dragged out on to pallets. Miraculously, both still lived,
although, having survived the assassins, there remained
the grave chance that they would not survive Studlock's
ministrations. Scorch and Leff had set themselves the task
of patrolling outside the estate, street by alley by street by
alley, round and round, crossbows at the ready and in states
of high excitement.
    'These Hounds,' said Rallick, 'are most unwelcome.'
    'It seems walls don't stop them either. Any idea why
they're here?'
    When Rallick did not reply, Torvald glanced over
and saw that his cousin was staring up at the shattered
moon.
    Torvald did not follow his gaze. That mess unnerved
him. Would those spinning chunks now begin raining
down? Rallick had noted earlier that most of the fragments
seemed to be heading the other way, growing ever smaller.
There was another moon that arced a slower path that
seemed to suggest it was farther away, and while it appeared
tiny its size was in fact unknown. For all anyone knew, it
might be another world as big as this one, and maybe now
it was doomed to a rain of death. Anyway, Torvald didn't
much like thinking about it.
    'Rallick—'
    'Never mind, Tor. I want you to stay here, within the
walls. I doubt there will be any trouble – the Mistress has
reawakened her wards.'
    'Tiserra—'
    'Is a clever woman, and a witch besides. She'll be fine,
and mostly will be worrying about you. Stay here, cousin,
until the dawn.'
    'What about you?'
    Rallick turned about then, and a moment later Torvald
sensed that someone else had joined them, and he too
swung round.
    Vorcan stood, wrapped in a thick grey cloak. 'The High
Alchemist,' she said to Rallick, 'suggested we be close by . . .
in case we are needed. The time, I believe, has come.'
    Rallick