Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) 54

Considering what might fall into their laps, those protections could come in handy.

The Barghast stared at the wizard with flat, expressionless eyes, unwavering in the dim light.

Quick Ben shook out the kinks in his hands, then bent forward to study the array of tied sticks. “Hairlock's crouching inside his Warren,” he said. “Not moving. Seems to be waiting.” He sat back and withdrew his dagger, which he jammed point first into the packed earth. “So we wait, too. And watch.”

Trotts asked, “Watch what?”

“Never mind.” Quick Ben sighed. “You have that scrap of bedroll?”

Trotts removed from a sleeve a torn piece of cloth. He came forward, giving the sticks more room than was necessary, and pushed the scrap into the wizard's hand.

Quick Ben set it down on his left. He muttered a few words and passed his hand over it. “Resume your seat,” he said. “And keep your weapon ready in case things go bad.”

He closed his eyes then, reaching into his Warren. Before him an image formed that made him jerk with surprise. “What,” he whispered, “is Hairlock doing on Rhivi Plain?”

Paran could feel nothing but the white fire of vengeance, filling his mind, coruscating through his body. Oponn had chosen to use him. Now he would use Oponn, the Twins” power, that horrifying edge of destruction that came with Ascendancy. And like the gods, he could be cold-blooded in that use, even if it meant pulling Oponn kicking and screaming on to this plain to face whatever lay ahead.

A hiss of warning that might have been his conscience reached through to him. Toc the Younger was his friend, perhaps the only friend he had.

Unprotected by any god, his chance of surviving what was coming was slim. Would there be another death to lay at his feet? Paran pushed aside the possibility. He was here to answer for Tattersail's murder. The Adjunct had taught him the value of being singleminded. But what did Tattersail teach you?

“If things get too hot,” he said, “pull out, Toc. Ride for Darujhistan. Find Whiskeyjack.”

The scout nodded.

“If I go down-”

“I heard you, Captain.”

“Good.”

Silence fell between them, the only sounds remaining the thump of hoofs and the hot west wind that blew like sand whispering across stone.

Vague anticipations crowded Paran's head. Was the Adjunct waiting for them? If she recognized him and Toc, she'd have no reason to attack them. For all she knew, the captain had been killed. And Toc was a Claw.

There'd be no ambush. The Adjunct would simply step out into the open and hail him, no doubt shocked by his appearance but hardly suspicious.

And when she came close, Chance would sing. It would be done, and if necessary they'd deal with the Imass afterwards. He hoped that the Imass would simply leave with the mission's collapse. Without the Adjunct, everything would fall through.

At least, so he hoped. Chance might be a gifted sword, but the T'lan Imass were Elder creations, born of sorceries that made Oponn less than a child.

Paran's grip on the sword's handle was tight. His hand ached, and he could feel sweat between his fingers. Chance felt no different from any other weapon. Should he be expecting something more? He couldn't recall much of the time he'd last used it, against the Hound. But if there was power in the weapon, should he not be able to sense it? As it was, Chance felt cold, as if he clutched a shard of ice that refused to melt in his grip. If anything, Chance felt awkward, as if he was a novice and held it wrongly.

What had triggered this sudden crumpling of confidence? Pulling an Ascendant into the fray: how precisely do I do that? Of course, if Oponn's as eager as last time: Maybe it was no more than just the tension that came with waiting for something to happen. Was Toc mistaken? He turned to the man beside him and opened his mouth to speak.

A loud, manic cackle stopped him. Paran pulled savagely on the reins.

His horse screamed and reared. The air seemed to rip and a cold wind gusted against them. The captain raised his sword and cursed. The horse screamed again, this time in pain. It crumpled beneath him, as if its bones had been turned to dust. Paran sprawled, the sword flying from his hand as the ground rose up to meet him. The horse's fall had the sound of a bag filled with rocks and lamp oil, landing beside him and rolling over his legs.

Toc's bowstring twanged and an arrow shattered against something hard.

Paran pushed himself on to his side and looked up.

The puppet Hairlock floated above the ground twenty feet ahead. A second arrow struck as the captain watched, also shattering.