Corabb held on, even as he continued slipping down, then around, until his body was being pummelled by both front legs. The encumbrance proved sufficient to slow the animal as it reached the slope, and Corabb, one leg dangling, his heel bouncing over the hard ground, managed to pull himself up under his horse’s head.
Another quarrel cracked into the ground and skittered away off to the left.
The horse halted halfway up the slope.
Corabb brought his other leg down, then pivoted around to the opposite side and vaulted onto the animal once more. He’d lost the reins, but closed both fingers in the horse’s mane as he drove his heels into the beast’s flanks.
Yet another quarrel caromed from the rocks, then hooves were thudding on sand, and sudden sunlight bathed them.
Directly ahead lay the oasis, and the cover of trees.
Corabb leaned onto the mount’s neck and urged it ever faster.
They plunged onto a trail between the guldindhas. Glancing back, he saw a deep rip running down his horse’s left flank, leaking blood. And then he caught sight of his lance, dangling loose now from his back. There were two quarrels embedded in the shaft. Each had struck at a different angle, and the impact must have been nearly simultaneous, since the splits had bound against each other, halting the momentum of both quarrels.
Corabb lifted the ruined weapon clear and flung it away.
He rode hard down the trail.
‘A tiger’s barbs,’ she murmured, her eyes veiled behind rust-leaf smoke, ‘painted onto a toad. Somehow, it makes you look even more dangerous.’
‘Aye, lass, I’m pure poison,’ Heboric muttered as he studied her in the gloom. There was life in her gaze once more, a sharpness that went beyond the occasional cutting remark, hinting at a mind finally cleared of durhang’s dulling fog. She still coughed as if her lungs were filled with fluid, although the sage mixed in with the rust-leaf had eased that somewhat.
She was returning his regard with an inquisitive-if slightly hard-expression, drawing steadily on the hookah’s mouthpiece, smoke tumbling down from her nostrils.
‘If I could see you,’ Heboric muttered, ‘I’d conclude you’ve improved some.’
‘I have, Destriant of Treach, though I would have thought those feline eyes of yours could pierce every veil.’
He grunted. ‘It’s more that you no longer slur your words, Scillara.’
‘What do we do now?’ she asked after a moment.
‘Dusk will soon arrive. I would go out to find L’oric, and I would that you accompany me.’
‘And then?’
‘Then, I would lead you to Felisin Younger.’
‘Sha’ik’s adopted daughter.’
‘Aye.’
Scillara glanced away, meditative as she drew deep on the rust-leaf.
‘How old are you, lass?’
She shrugged, ‘As old as I have to be. If I am to take Felisin Younger’s orders, so be it. Resentment is pointless.’
An awkward conversation, progressing in leaps that left Heboric scrambling. Sha’ik was much the same. Perhaps, he reflected with a grimace, this talent for intuitive thinking was a woman’s alone-he admittedly had little experience upon which he could draw, despite his advanced years. Fener’s temple was predominantly male, when it came to the holy order itself, and Heboric’s life as a thief had, of necessity, included only a handful of close associations. He was, once more, out of his depth. ‘Felisin Younger has, I believe, little interest in commanding anyone. This is not an exchange of one cult for another, Scillara-not in the way you seem to think it is, at any rate. No-one will seek to manipulate you here.’
‘As you have explained, Destriant.’ She sighed heavily and sat straighter, setting down the hookah’s mouthpiece. ‘Very well, lead me into the darkness.’
His eyes narrowed on her. ‘I shall… as soon as it arrives…’
The shadows were drawing long, sufficient to swallow the entire basin below their position. Sha’ik stood at the crest of the northernmost ramp, studying the distant masses of Malazan soldiery on the far rises as they continued digging in. Ever methodical, was her sister.
She glanced to her left and scanned Korbolo Dom’s positions. All was in readiness for the morrow’s battle, and she could see the Napan commander, surrounded by aides and guards, standing at the edge of the centre ramp, doing as she herself was doing: watching Tavore’s army.
We are all in place. Suddenly, the whole thing seemed so pointless. This game of murderous tyrants, pushing their armies forward into an inevitable clash. Coldly disregarding of the lives that would be lost in the appeasement of their brutal desires. What value this mindless hunger to rule? What do you want with us, Empress Laseen? Seven Cities will never rest easy beneath your yoke. You shall have to enslave, and what is gained by that? And what of her own goddess? Was she any different from Laseen? Every claw was outstretched, eager to grasp, to rend, to soak the sand red with gore.
But Raraku does not belong to you, dear Dryjhna, no matter how ferocious your claims. I see that now. This desert is holy unto itself. And now it rails-feel it, goddess! It rails! Against one and all.
Standing beside her, Mathok had been studying the Malazan positions in silence. But now he spoke. ‘The Adjunct has made an appearance, Chosen One.’
Sha’ik dragged her gaze from Korbolo Dom and looked to where the desert warchief pointed.
Astride a horse from the Paran stables. Of course. Two Wickans on foot nearby. Her sister was in full armour, her helm glinting crimson in the dying light.
Sha’ik’s eyes snapped back to Korbolo’s position. ‘Kamist Reloe has arrived… he’s opened his warren and now quests towards the enemy. But Tavore’s otataral sword defies him… so he reaches around, into the army itself. Seeking High Mages… unsuspected allies…’ After a moment she sighed. ‘And finds none but a few shamans and squad mages.’
Mathok rumbled, ‘Those two Wickans with the Adjunct. They are the ones known as Nil and Nether.’
‘Yes. Said to be broken of spirit-they have none of the power that their clans once gave them, for those clans have been annihilated.’
‘Even so, Chosen One,’ Mathok muttered, ‘that she holds them within the fog of otataral suggests they are not as weak as we would believe.’
‘Or that Tavore does not want their weakness revealed.’
‘Why bother if such failure is already known to us?’
‘To deepen our doubt, Mathok,’ she replied.
He curtly gestured, adding a frustrated growl. ‘This mire has no surface, Chosen One-’
‘Wait!’ Sha’ik stared once again at Tavore. ‘She has sent her weapon away-Kamist Reloe has withdrawn his questing-and now… ah!’ The last word was a startled cry, as she felt the muted unveiling of power from both Nil and Nether-a power far greater than it had any right to be.
Sha’ik then gasped, as the goddess within her flinched back-as if stung-and loosed a shriek that filled her skull.
For Raraku was answering the summons, a multitude of voices, rising in song, rising with raw, implacable desire-the sound, Sha’ik realized, of countless souls straining against the chains that bound them.
Chains of shadow. Chains like roots. From this torn, alien fragment of warren. This piece of shadow, that has risen to bind their souls and so feeds upon the life-force. ‘Mathok, where is Leoman?’ We need Leoman.
‘I do not know, Chosen One.’
She turned once more and stared at Korbolo Dom. He stood foremost on the ramp, his stance squared, thumbs hitched into his sword-belt, studying the enemy with an air of supreme confidence that made Sha’ik want to scream.
Nothing-nothing was as it seemed.