«We won't be here,» Kalam finished.
«As if Hairlock wasn't enough,» Tattersail muttered, «now you want me nursing this captain of yours.»
Quick Ben rose, brushing the dust from his leather leggings. «Hairlock will be gone for some time. Those Hounds are stubborn. It may be a while before he can shake them. Or, if the worst comes to the worst,» the wizard grinned darkly, «he'll turn on them and give the Shadow Lord something to think about.»
Kalain said to Mallet, «Gather up Hedge. We've got to move.»
Quick Ben's last comment left Tattersail cold. She grimaced at the ashen taste in her mouth, and watched in silence as the squad prepared to leave. They had a mission ahead of them, one that would take them right into the heart of Darujhistan. That city was the next on the Empire's list, the last Free City, the continent's lone gem worthy enough to covet. The squad would infiltrate, prepare the way. They'd be entirely on their own. In a strange way, Tattersail. almost envied the isolation they were about to enter. Almost, but not quite. She feared they would all die.
The Mason's Barrow returned to her thoughts as if raised by her own fears. It was, she realized, big enough to hold them all.
With dawn a blade-thin crimson streak at their backs, the Black Moranth, crouching on the high saddles of their Quorl mounts, glittered like diamonds slick with blood. Whiskeyjack, Fiddler and the High Fist watched the dozen fliers approach. Overhead the rain had lessened, and around the nearby rooftops smudges of grey mist sank down to scuff stone and tile.
«Where's your squad, Sergeant?» Dujek asked.
Whiskeylack nodded at Fiddler, who turned and headed back to the trap-door. «They'll be here,» the sergeant answered.
The sparkling, skin-thin wings of the Quorl, four to each creature, seemed to flip for the briefest of moments, and as one the twelve Moranth descended towards the turret's rooftop. The sharp whirring sound of the wings was punctuated by the clicked commands of the Moranth riders as they called out to each other. They swept over the heads of the two men with a bare five feet to spare, and without ceremony landed behind them.
Fiddler had disappeared into the room below. Dujek, his hand on his hip, glared at the Moranth for a moment before grumbling something inaudible and making his way to the trap-door.
Whiskeyjack walked up to the nearest Moranth. A black chitin visor covered the soldier's face, and it turned towards the sergeant in silent regard. «There was one among you,» Whiskeyjack said, «one-handed. He was five times marked for valour. Does he still live?»
The Black Moranth did not reply.
The sergeant shrugged and turned his attention to the Quorls. Though he had ridden their backs before, they continued to fascinate him. The winged creatures balanced on four thin legs emerging from beneath the saddles. They waited on the rooftop with wings splayed out and quivering fast enough to create a haze of water droplets suspended around them. Their long, oddly segmented tails jutted straight out behind them, multi-hued and twenty feet in length. Whiskeyjack's nostrils twitched as the now familiar acrid scent reached him. The nearest Quorl's enormous, wedge-shaped head was dominated by faceted eyes and articulating mandibles. Two additional limbs-arms, he supposed-were tucked underneath. As he stared the Quorl's head swivelled until its left eye faced him squarely.
The sergeant continued staring, wondering what the Quorl was seeing, wondering what it was thinking-if it thought at all. Curious, he gave the Quorl a nod.
The head cocked, then turned away. Whiskeyjack's eyes widened to see the tip of the Quorl's tail curl up briefly. It was the first time he had seen such a motion.
The alliance between the Moranth and the Empire had changed the face of Imperial war. The Malazan tactics here on Genabackis had twisted into a new shape, one increasingly dependent on transport by air of both soldiers and supplies. Such dependency was dangerous, as far as Whiskeyjack was concerned. We know so little about these Moranth-no one has ever seen their cities in the forest. I can't even tell their sex.
Most scholars held that they were true humans, but there was no way to tell-the Moranth collected their own dead from the battlefields. There would be trouble in the Empire if the Moranth ever exercised a thirst for power. From what he had heard, however, the various colour actions among them marked an ever-changing hierarchy, and the rivalry and competition remained at a fanatical pitch.
High Fist Dujek marched back to Whiskeyjack's side, his hard expression softened slightly with relief. From the trapdoor, voices rose in argument. «They've arrived,» Dujek said. «Giving your new recruit an earful about something-and don't tell me what because I don't want to know.»
Whiskeyjack's momentary relief was shattered by what he only now realized was the secret hope that Sorry had deserted. So his men had found her after all, or she had found them. Either way, his veterans did not sound happy to see her. He couldn't blame them. 14aa she tried to kill Paran? That seemed to be the suspicion of Quick Ben and Kalam.
Kalam was doing most of the bellowing, putting more into his role as corporal than was warranted, and Dujek's searching glance at Whiskeyjack was enough to push him towards the trap-door. He came to the edge and glared down into the room below. Everyone was there, standing in a menacing circle around Sorry, who leaned against the ladder as if bored by the whole proceedings.
«Quiet!» Whiskeyjack roared down. «Check your supplies and get up here, now!» He watched them scamper, then gave a satisfied nod and returned to where the High Fist waited.
Dujek was rubbing the stump of his left arm, frowning distractedly.
«Damn this weather,» he muttered.
«Mallet could ease that,» Whiskeyjack said.
«Not necessary,» Dujek replied. «I'm just getting old.» He scratched his jaw. «All of your heavy supplies have been delivered to the drop point. Ready to fly, Sergeant?»
Whiskeyjack eyed the ridged second saddles on the Quorl where they rose up at the back of the thorax like cowls, then nodded sharply.
They watched as the squad members emerged from the square doorway, each wearing a raincape and burdened with a heavy pack. Fiddler and Hedge were engaged in a whispering argument, the latter casting a glare back at Trotts who'd trodden on his heel. The Barghast had attached his entire collection of charms, trinkets and trophies to various parts of his burly body, looking like a bedecked leadwood tree during the Kanese F&e of the Scorpions. Barghast were known for their odd sense of humour. qUV&%e_n wab, Mtn waiting Quorls. Her satchel was no bigger than a bedroll, and the raincape she wore was more like a cloak-not standard issue-reaching down to her ankles. She'd raised the hood. Despite the dawn's burgeoning light her face remained in shadow. This is all I have left. Whiskeyjack sighed.
Dujek asked quietly, «How is she doing, Sergeant?»
«Still breathing,» Whiskeyjack replied stonily.
The High Fist slowly shook his head. «So damn young these days. .»
A memory returned to Whiskeyjack as he considered Dujek's words.
On a brief attachment to the 5th, away from the siege at Pale, in the midst of the Mott Campaign, Sorry had joined them from the new troops arriving at Nathilog. He'd watched her put a knife to three local mercenaries they'd taken prisoner in Greydog-ostensibly to glean information but, he recalled with a shudder, it had been nothing like that. Not an act of expedience. He had stared aghast, horrified, as Sorry set to work on their loins. He remembered meeting Kalam's gaze, and the desperate gesture that sent the black man surging forward, knives bared. Kalam had pushed past Sorry and with three quick motions had laid open the men's throats. And then came the moment that still twisted Whiskeyjack's heart. In their last, frothing words, the mercenaries had blessed Kalam.