'Hood take us,' Korlat muttered to the High Fist, 'you got under his skin after all.'
Dujek's answering grin was an expression of perfect satisfaction.
Whiskeyjack angled his horse well to one side of the columns, then drew rein to await the rearguard. There were Rhivi everywhere in sight, moving singly or in small groups, their long spears balanced on their shoulders. Brown-skinned beneath the sun, they strode with light steps, seemingly immune to the heat and the leagues passing under their feet. The bhederin herd was being driven parallel to the armies, a third of a league to the north. The intervening gap revealed a steady stream of Rhivi, returning from the herd or setting off towards it. The occasional wagon joined the to-and-fro, unladen on its way north, burdened with carcasses on the way back.
The rearguard came within sight, flanked by outriders, the Malazan companies in sufficient strength to blunt a surprise attack long enough for the main force to swing round and come to their relief. The commander lifted the water-bladder from his saddle and filled his mouth, eyes narrowed as he studied the disposition of his soldiers.
Satisfied, he urged his mount into a walk, squinting into the trailing clouds of dust at the rearguard's tail-end.
She walked in that cloud as if seeking obscurity, her stride so like Tattersail's that Whiskeyjack felt a shiver dance up his spine. Twenty paces behind her marched a pair of Malazan soldiers, crossbows slung over their shoulders, helms on and visors lowered.
The commander waited until the trio had passed, then guided his horse into their wake. Within moments he was alongside the two marines.
The soldiers glanced up. Neither saluted, following standard procedure for battlefields. The woman closest to Whiskeyjack offered a curt nod. 'Commander. Here to fill your quota of eating dust, are ya?'
'And how did you two earn the privilege?'
'We volunteered, sir,' the other woman said. 'That's Tattersail up there. Yeah, we know, she calls herself Silverfox now, but we ain't fooled. She's our Cadre Mage, all right.'
'So you've elected to guard her back.'
'Aye. Fair exchange, sir. Always.'
'And are the two of you enough?'
The first woman grinned beneath her half-visor. 'We're Hood-damned killers, me and my sister, sir. Two quarrels every seventy heartbeats, both of us. And when time's run out for that, why, then, we switch to longswords, one for each hand. And when they're all busted, it's pig-stickers-'
'And,' the other growled, 'when we're outa iron we use our teeth, sir.'
'How many brothers did you two grow up with?'
'Seven, only they all ran away as soon as they was able. So did Da, but Mother was better off without 'im and that wasn't just bluster when she said so, neither.'
Whiskeyjack edged closer, rolling up his left sleeve. He leaned down and showed the two marines his forearm. 'See those scars — no, these ones here.'
'A nice even bite,' the nearest woman observed. 'Pretty small, though.'
'She was five, the little banshee. I was sixteen. The first fight I ever lost.'
'Did the lass grow up to be a soldier, Commander?'
He straightened, lowering his sleeve. 'Hood, no. When she was twelve, she set off to marry a king. Or so she claimed. That was the last any of us ever saw or heard of her.'
'I'd bet she did just that, sir,' the first woman said. 'If she was anything like you.'
'Now I'm choking on more than just dust, soldier. Carry on.'
Whiskeyjack trotted ahead until he reached Silverfox.
'They'll die for you now,' she said as soon as he came alongside. 'I know,' she continued, 'you don't do it on purpose. There's nothing calculated when you're being human, old friend. That's what makes you so deadly.'
'No wonder you're walking here on your own,' he replied.
Her smile was sardonic. 'We're very much alike, you know. All we need do is cup our hands and ten thousand souls rush in to fill them. And every now and then one of us recognizes that fact, and the sudden, overwhelming pressure hardens us a little more deep down inside. And what was soft gets a little smaller, a little weaker.'
'Not weaker, Silverfox. Rather, more concentrated, more selective. That you feel the burden at all is proof that it remains alive and well.'
'There is a difference, now that I think on it,' she said. 'For you, ten thousand souls. For me, a hundred thousand.'
He shrugged.
She was about to continue, but a sharp crack filled the air behind them. They spun to see a savage parting in their wake, a thousand paces away, from which poured a crimson river. The two marines backpedalled as the torrent tumbled towards them.
