eye swollen shut. Treat's clothes tattered, his limbs black with crusted blood mixed with dirt. Sept's ear and neck sliced in a gash that had soaked his front in blood. Nait pointed to Tourmaline. ‘Take her out of here!’
Ho arched a brow, mouthed,
Ho agreed then straightened, stung.
Already turned away, Nait gave a curt bob of his head. Dust floated up around him, sifting straight up in the gathering current. He felt the flow plucking at his surcoat. He lay on his side, face lowered, and fought to ignore the yammering oblivion just over his shoulder.
From his bag he drew a wood dowelling about the width of his littlest finger. This he pushed into the mounded earth. Quickly at first, then slowing, tapping, tapping, until it struck something firm. Then he carefully withdrew it, leaving a hole. He gathered up a handful of the grey topsoil, spat into it, squeezed and moulded it in his hands into a ball.
He took a long breath then, exhaling, watched the twitching of his cut and battered hands.
He gave the dowelling one last press, eased it out and threw it aside — it spun upwards, whipped from sight.
Right. One… maybe two. Yeah. Two — best be sure. He tilted further. A second drip swelled, fell. He threw the fuse away and ran. But in his rush he mistakenly straightened fully and something grabbed him from behind, pulling him backwards. He threw himself down again. His helmet was torn from his head. He grasped at handholds of the grass, pulled himself along. His feet kicked in the air behind him. A sandal was sucked from one foot.
He pulled and pulled, sliced his palms open on the sharp crisp grass blades until he fell again and rolled, came up running. He pelted it, arms pumping, one sandal flapping. As he ran he imagined the heavy acid fluid permeating the saliva, increasing its concentration next to the casing of whichever munition he'd touched. Six per cent, seventeen, twenty-eight, fifty. Until a reaction began, irreversible, that started eating that casing until soon… soon…
Nait slowed, stopped, turned. The black and grey moiling maw of the rift had touched down — or so it appeared. A reverberating roar ten times louder than that which had been afflicting him struck his chest and face like a mallet blow, knocking him backwards. Enraged, he stood again, waving his arms at it. Dirt like an avalanche in reverse was speeding up into the void of its black mouth.
Light. A blow kicked him into the air and he flew, arms pinwheel-ing, to tumble, rolling, amid falling earth and clumps of roots and stones. He lay staring at the clear bright-blue sky.
Something nearby was making an Abyss of a racket — loud enough to penetrate the ringing in his ears. Loud enough to annoy Nait into raising his head. The rift itself was now turning in a great sweep, but bent, irregular. Nait watched as its border region rotated, revealing a great warp or bite that turned itself forming its own spiral within the larger. And that rotating was speeding up.
He tried to stand, failed, sat heavily, arms limp on his lap, gazed at the rift. Blood dripped anew from his nose to pat the back of one hand. Even to his layman's eye the mar was clearly in trouble. It appeared to be diminishing in size overall, yet the smaller inner spiral was growing — it seemed to be feeding on the larger which was thinning, fast eroding. Like a snake eating its own tail. While he watched, the spinning accelerated to a blur and the rift shrank to a fraction of itself. The rotating and contraction continued, each becoming faster and faster, feeding each other perhaps, until the rift appeared to wrap itself out of existence to disappear without a sound.
Hunh. Nait spat out a mouthful of grit. Well, there you go. He tried to stand again, failed. Fine. Maybe he'd just sit here awhile. Enjoy the glow. Yeah, that's it. Job well done and all that shit. He wondered where Tourmaline had gone off to. Maybe it was time to find out how those Moranth got out of their armour.
CHAPTER IV
Mysteries intrigue us. That which we cannot easily understand or explain away holds our attention; we return to it repeatedly. Conversely, the simple and easily grasped is quickly consumed and dismissed. So it is that she remains. She defies all explanation, refuses to conform to our human, craven, self-serving need to explain ourselves. To be liked. To be ‘understood’. And so of course we are all mortally offended and hate her.
Possum maintained his veils of distraction and deflection summoned from Mockra, though that Warren was not his strength. He walked its twisted paths only in as much as they intersected and complemented the penchant in Meanas for trickery, illusion and misperception.
He remained hidden because his instincts told him it was not over. No, not yet. Though soldiers laughed and celebrated in nearby hastily dug trenches here in the centre of the field of battle; though Laseen now walked in the open, apparently completely unguarded. The soldiers paid her hardly any attention at all. They obviously thought her just another cadre mage, or Claw. She'd even approached a common Malazan sergeant for a cloth and been given a dirty rag with which she then wiped her sweaty face and blood-caked hands. For his part, Possum was troubled. What
She walked the blasted and burnt field, untying her wrappings as she went, throwing its tattered remains aside. Beneath, she wore a silk short-sleeved shirt soaked to a dark green by sweat. Her muscular arms revealed the bruising and cuts of her night's hunt — having slain, what, five, six Avowed? The wraps at her legs came next, kicked off from silk trousers, tight at the ankle, likewise sweat-soaked. Her short brown hair glistened, pressed flat like an animal's pelt.
She came to the edge of the crater blasted from the plain and there she stopped. Smoke still threaded from the blackened bare dirt after its astounding explosion. She raised her face to peer up for a time into the clear, so deceptively peaceful, pale-blue sky and suddenly Possum understood. Ah, yes. The last. With Tayschrenn now gone. Choss dead, Toc reported dead, Amaron missing, and Urko reported fled before he could be arrested, or, perhaps, pardoned. Leaving Surly/Laseen. The last survivor; single remaining representative of that generation that had built so grandly. And victor. Now un-contested ruler. Empress.
Was she providing the final irresistible bait to end everything now for ever and for good… herself? Possum now knew he was not alone in his watching. She had told him who also watched. Another, even more carefully hidden presence waited. And had been waiting for some time now. He was poised for the appearance of one man and one only — such was the price of Laseen.
Of course he would.
