Dust of Dreams

terrible gods were gathering—she could see it in the high clouds building to the southwest, tumbling down off the mountains. The armies must come together and so stand as one, facing down those gods. Such a moment awaited them! Adjunct Tavore, commander of the Bonehunters; Gall, Warleader of the Khundryl Burned Tears; Krughava, Mortal Sword of the Wolves; and Abrastal, Queen of Bolkando and commander of the Evertine Legion.
Oh, and the Gilk, too. Those Barghast know how to roll in the furs, don’t they just. I won’t cringe with them on one flank, that’s for certain.
    What sought them in the Wastelands? Some pathetic tribe, no doubt—not much else could survive out here. No secret kingdom or empire, that was obvious. The land was dead, after all. Well, they would crush whoever the fools were,and then march on, seeking whatever fate the Adjunct knew awaited them all in distant Kolanse. Rafala only hoped she’d get the chance to bloody her blade.
    The Malazan soldier was slowing her exhausted mount, as if content to let the Khundryl horses do most of the work. Well enough. The Dal Honese did not look very comfortable on that saddle. For decades the Malazans had been clever in building their armies. They used horse-tribes to create their cavalry, mountain-dwellers for their scouts and skirmishers, and farmers for their infantry. City folk for sappers and coastal folk for marines and sailors. But things had since grown confused. The Dal Honese did not belong on horses.
    No matter. I remember the Wickans. I’d barely a month of bleeding then, but I saw them. They humbled us all.
    And now it is the Khundryls’ turn to do the same.
    She gestured to slow the riders behind her and continued ahead to rein in before the Malazan. ‘I am Rafala—’
    ‘Happy for you,’ the woman cut in. ‘Just take me to Gall and Krughava—and switch me to a fresher horse, this one’s done.’
    ‘How many days away?’ Rafala asked as one of her corporals took charge of switching mounts.
    The Malazan dropped down from her horse with some difficulty. ‘Who? Oh, not far, I should think. I got lost the first night—thought I could see the mountains on my right. Turned out those were clouds. I’ve been riding south and west for two days now. Is that fool ready yet?’
    Rafala scowled. ‘He gives you his finest battle-horse, soldier.’
    ‘Well, I ain’t paying.’ Wincing, the woman climbed into the saddle. ‘Gods, couldn’t you do with some decent padding? I’m sitting on bones here.’
    ‘Not my fault,’ drawled Rafala, ‘if you let your muscles get too soft. Let’s ride then, soldier.’
And see if you can keep up with me.
To her Swift she said, ‘Continue on. I will provide her escort and then return to you.’
    And then they were off. The Swift resumed riding northward; Rafala and the Malazan struck southward, and, trailing at ever greater distance behind them, the lone corporal followed on the spent horse.
     
    Well
, thought Kisswhere as she and Rafala approached the vanguard,
this will make it easy.
A forest of banners marked the presence of a clash—an old Malaz Island joke—of commanders. She could say what needed saying once and then be done with it.
    It was obvious to her that disaster awaited them all.
Too many women holding skillets here.
She’d always preferred men to women. As friends, as lovers, as officers. Men liked to keep things simple. None of that absurd oversensitivity, reacting to every damned expression or glance or gesture. None of that stewing over some careless passing comment. And, most importantly, none of that vicious backstabbing and poison cups so smilingly given. No, she’d long since learned all the nasty lessons of her own gender; she’d seen enough eyes crawling up and down her body and judging the clothes she wore, the cut of her hair, the man ather side. She’d seen women carving up others when those ones weren’t looking, eyes like blades—
snip slice snip.
    And wasn’t it true—beyond all challenge—that women who preferred the company of men were the most hated women of all?
    Too many commanders with tits in this mob.
Look at Gall, he’s under siege behind those tattooed tears. And that Barghast, no wonder he’s hiding his face behind all that paint.
    ‘You can go back now, Rafala,’ Kisswhere said. ‘I won’t get lost.’
    ‘I need your horse, Malazan.’
    ‘So I am to walk from now on?’
    The young Khundryl looked surprised. ‘Walk where?’
    Kisswhere