Febryl was well pleased. Sha’ik had been isolated, utterly. The Napan’s army of killers were even now streaming from their places of hiding, as panic closed hands around Korbolo Dom’s throat. Kamist Reloe was returning from his secret sojourn through the warrens. And, across the basin, the Malazan army was entrenching, the Adjunct whetting her otataral sword in anticipation of the morning’s battle.
There was but one troubling detail. A strange song, faint yet growing. The voice of Raraku itself. He wondered what it would bring to this fated night. Hood was close-aye, the god himself-and this did much to mask other… presences. But the sands were stirring, awakened perhaps by the Lord of Death’s arrival. Spirits and ghosts, no doubt come to witness the many deaths promised in the hours to come.
A curious thing, but he was not unduly concerned.
There will be slaughter. Yet another apocalypse on Raraku’s restless sands. It is as it should be.
To all outward appearances, L’oric was dead. He had been roughly dragged to one wall in the command tent and left there. The knife had been yanked from his back, and he now lay with his face to the rough fabric of the wall, eyes open and seemingly sightless.
Behind him, the Supreme Commander of the Apocalypse was speaking.
‘Unleash them all, Henaras, barring my bodyguards. I want every one of Bidithal’s cute little spies hunted down and killed-and find Scillara. That bitch has played her last game.
‘You, Duryl, take another and ride out to the Adjunct. Deliver my missive-and make certain you are not seen by anyone. Mathok has his warriors out. Fayelle will work sorcery to aid you. And impress upon Tavore the need to withdraw her killers, lest they do the Whirlwind Goddess’s work for her.’
‘Supreme Commander,’ a voice spoke, ‘what of Leoman of the Flails?’
‘The 4th Company and Fayelle are to leave quietly with the next bell. Leoman will get nowhere near us, or the army. Corporal Ethume, I want you within crossbow range of Febryl-the bastard’s hiding in the usual place. Now, have I missed anything?’
‘My fear is deepening,’ Henaras murmured. ‘Something is happening… in the holy desert. Worse, I feel the approach of terrible powers-’
‘Which is why we need the Adjunct and her damned sword. Are we safe enough in here, Henaras?’
‘I think so-the wards Kamist, Fayelle and I have woven about this tent would confound a god.’
‘That claim might well be challenged,’ Korbolo Dom growled.
He added something more, but a strange gurgling sound, from just beyond the tent wall in front of L’oric, overrode the Napan’s voice. A wetness, spattering the opposite side, then a sigh-audible to L’oric only because he was so close. Talons then raked along the base of the wall, reducing the fabric to ribbons. A four-eyed, immeasurably ugly face peered in through the gap.
‘Brother, you look unwell.’
Appearances deceive, Greyfrog. For example, you have never looked prettier.
The demon reached in and grasped L’oric by one arm. He then began dragging him by increments through the tear. ‘Confident. They are too preoccupied. Disappointed. I have eaten but two guards, the wards sleep and our path of retreat is clear. Things are coming. Suitably ominous. Frankly. I admit to fear, and advise we… hide.’
For a time, yes, we do just that. Find us somewhere, Greyfrog.
‘Assured. I shall.’
Then leave me there and return to Felisin. Assassins are out hunting…
‘Delightful.’
Kasanal had been a Semk shaman once, but now he murdered at his new master’s bidding. And he enjoyed it, although, admittedly, he preferred killing Malazans rather than natives. At least his victims this night would not be Semk-to slay those from his own tribe would be a difficult thing to accept. But that did not seem likely. Korbolo Dom had as much as adopted the last survivors of the clans that had fought for him and Kamist Reloe on the Chain of Dogs.
And these two were mere women, both servants of that butcher, Bidithal.
He was now lying motionless on the edge of the glade, watching the two. One was Scillara, and Kasanal knew his master would be pleased when he returned with her severed head. The other one was also familiar-he had seen her in Sha’ik’s company, and Leoman’s.
It was also clear that they were in hiding, and so likely to be principal agents in whatever Bidithal was planning.
He slowly raised his right hand, and two quick gestures sent his four followers out along the flanks, staying within the trees, to encircle the two women’s position. Under his breath, he began murmuring an incantation, a weaving of ancient words that deadened sound, that squeezed lassitude into the victims, dulling their every sense. And he smiled as he saw their heads slowly settle in unison.
Kasanal rose from his place of concealment. The need for hiding had passed. He stepped into the glade. His four Semk kin followed suit.
They drew their knives, edged closer.
Kasanal never saw the enormous blade that cut him in half, from the left side of his neck and out just above his right hip. He had a momentary sense of falling in two directions, then oblivion swallowed him, so he did not hear the cries of his four cousins, as the wielder of the stone sword marched into their midst.
When Kasanal at last opened ethereal eyes to find himself striding towards Hood’s Gate, he was pleased to find his four kinsmen with him.
Wiping the blood from his sword, Karsa Orlong swung to face the two women. ‘Felisin,’ he growled, ‘your scars burn bright on your soul. Bidithal chose to ignore my warning. So be it. Where is he?’
Still feeling the remnants of the strange dullness that had stolen her senses, Felisin could only shake her head.
Karsa scowled at her, then his gaze shifted to the other woman. ‘Has the night stolen your tongue as well?’
‘No. Yes. No, clearly it hasn’t. I believe we were under sorcerous attack. But we are now recovering, Toblakai. You have been gone long.’
‘And I am now returned. Where is Leoman? Bidithal? Febryl? Korbolo Dom? Kamist Reloe? Heboric Ghost Hands?’
‘An impressive list-you’ve a busy night ahead, I think. Find them where you will, Toblakai. The night awaits you.’
Felisin drew a shaky breath, wrapping her arms about herself as she stared up at the terrible warrior. He had just killed five assassins with five sweeping, almost poetic passes of that enormous sword. The very ease of it horrified her. True, the assassins had intended the same for her and Scillara.
Karsa loosened his shoulders with a shrug, then strode towards the path leading to the city. In moments he was gone.
Scillara moved closer to Felisin and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Death is always a shock,’ she said. ‘The numbness will pass. I promise.’
But Felisin shook her head. ‘Except for Leoman,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘Those he named. He is going to kill them all. Except for Leoman.’
Scillara slowly turned to face the trail, a cool, speculative look stealing across her face.
The last two had taken down four warriors and come within thirty paces of his tent before finally falling. Scowling, Mathok stared down at the arrow-studded, sword-slashed corpses. Six attempted assassinations this night alone, and the first bell had yet to sound.
Enough.
‘T’morol, gather my clan.’
The burly warrior grunted assent and strode off. Mathok drew his furs tighter about himself and returned to his tent.