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.
Sorry had merely sheathed her weapon, then walked away.
Though the woman had been with the squad for two years, still his men called her a recruit, and they would probably do so until the day they died. There was a meaning there, and Whiskeyjack understood it well. Recruits were not Bridgeburners. The stripping away of that label was an earned thing, a recognition brought by deeds. Sorry was a recruit because the thought of having her inextricably enfolded within the Bridgeburners burned like a hot knife in the throat of everyone in his squad. And that was something to which the sergeant himself was not immune.
As all of this flashed through Whiskeyjack's thoughts, his usually impassive expression failed him. In his head, he replied: Young? No, you can forgive the young, you can answer their simple needs, and you can look in their eyes and find enough there that is recognizable. But her?
No. Best to avoid those eyes, in which there was nothing that was young-nothing at all.
«Let's get you moving,» Dujek growled. «Mount everyone up.» The High Fist turned to say a few last words to the sergeant, but what he saw in Whiskeyjack's face killed those words in his throat.
Two muted thunderclaps sounded in the city as the east spread its crimson cloak skyward, the first report followed scant minutes later by the second. The last of the night's tears churned down gunnels and swirled along street gutters. Muddy puddles filled potholes, reflecting the thinning clouds overhead with an opaque cast. Among the narrow crooked alleys of Pale's Krael Quarter, the chill and damp of the night clung to the dark spaces with tenacity. Here, the mould-laden bricks and worn cobbles had swallowed the second thunderclap, leaving no echo to challenge the patter of water droplets. Down one aisle, winding south along the outer wall, loped a dog the size of a mule. Its massive head was slung low forward in front of the broad, bunched muscles of its shoulders. That it had seen a night without rain was marked by its dusty, dry, mottled grey and black fur.
The animal's muzzle was speckled with grey, and its eyes glowed amber.
The Hound, marked Seventh among Shadowthrone's servants and called Gear, hunted. The quarry was elusive, cunning, and swift in its flight. Yet Gear felt close. He knew that it was no human he tracked-no mortal man or woman could have escaped his jaws for so long. Even more astonishing, Gear had yet to catch a glimpse of the quarry. But it had trespassed, with impunity it had entered the Shadow Realm, trailing Shadowthrone himself and strumming all the webs Gear's lord had spun.
The only answer to such an affront was death.
Soon, the Hound knew, he would be the hunted one, and if those hunters came in numbers and in strength Gear would be hard pressed to continue his search. There were those within the city who had felt the savage partings of the fabric. And less than a minute after passing through the Warren's gate Gear's hackles had stiffened, telling him of nearby magic's burgeoning. Thus far the Hound had eluded detection, but that would not last.
He moved silent and cautiously through the maze of shanties and lean-tos crouching against the city wall, ignoring the occasional denizen come out to taste the dawn's rain-cleansed air. He stepped over the beggars sprawled in his path. Local dogs and ratters gave him one glance then slunk away, ears flattened and tail sweeping the muddy ground.
As Gear rounded the corner of a sunken stone house the morning breeze brought his head round. He paused, eyes searching down the street opposite him. Mist drifted here and there, and the first carts of the lesser merchants were being pulled out by figures wrapped warm against the chill-the Hound was running out of time.
Gear's eyes travelled down the length of the street, focusing on a large, walled estate at the far end. Four soldiers lounged before its gate, watching passers-by with little interest and talking among themselves. Gear's head lifted, his study finding a shuttered window on the estate's second floor.
Anticipation and pleasure surged through the Hound. He had found the trail's end. Lowering his head again, he moved, his gaze unwavering on the four guards.
The shift had ended. As the new marines approached they both noticed that the gate was unlocked, ajar.
«What's this?» one asked, eyeing the two drawn faces of the soldiers who stood against the wall.
«It's been that kind of night,» the elder responded. «The kind where you don't ask questions.»
The two new men exchanged glances, then the one who had spoken gave the older man a nod and a grin. «I know the kind. Well, get on, then. Your cots are waiting.»
The older man shifted his pike and seemed to sag. His gaze flicked to his partner, but the young man had his attention on something up the street. «I'd guess it's too late now,» the older man said to the newcomers, meaning it won't happen and so it don't matter, but if a woman shows up, a Bridgeburner, you let her through and keep your eyes on the walls.»
«Look at that dog,» the younger soldier said.
«We hear you,» said the new man. «Life in the Second-»
«Look at that dog,» the young marine repeated.
The others turned to look up the street. The old guard stared, his eyes widening, then he hissed a curse and fumbled with his pike. None of the others managed even that much before the Hound was upon them.
Sleepless, Tattersail lay flat on her back on the bed in the outer room.
Her exhaustion had reached a point where even sleep eluded her so she stared at the ceiling, her thoughts wandering in a disordered review of the past seven days. Despite her initial anger at being embroiled in the Bridgeburners» schemes, she had to acknowledge the excitement she felt.
The desire to collect her possessions and open a Warren, away from the Empire, away from Hairlock's madness and hunger, away from the field of an endless war, now seemed an ancient one, born of a desperation she no longer felt.
But it was more than just a renewed sense of humanity that compelled her to stay to see it through-the Bridgeburners, after all, had shown again and again that they could take care of their own affairs. No, she wanted to see Tayschrenn pulled down. It was a truth that frightened her.
