'Look well, Cotillion.'
'The Deragoth?'
'No, not the Deragoth.'
'No, I suppose not. Those look like knife cuts.'
'I had him. Then I lost him.'
'Had who?'
'That horrid little thousand-faced wizard, that's who!' A shadowy hand lifted, long fingers curling. 'I had him, here in this very palm, like a melting piece of ice.' A sudden snarl, the god tilting forward on the throne. 'It's all your fault!'
Cotillion blinked. 'Hold on, I didn't attack the Hounds!'
'That's what you think!'
'What is that supposed to mean?' Cotillion demanded.
The other hand joined the first one, hovering, clutching the air in spasmodic, trembling rage. Then another snarl – and the god vanished.
Cotillion looked down at Baran, reached out towards the beast.
At a low growl, he snatched his hand back. 'I didn't!' he shouted.
The Hounds, one and all staring at him, did not look convinced.
Dusk muted the dust in the air above the camp as Captain Ganoes Paran – leading his horse – and the cutter Noto Boil, and the girl – whose name was Naval D'natha – climbed the slope and passed through the first line of pickets.
The entire camp looked as if it had been struck by a freak storm.
Soldiers worked on repairing tents, re-splicing ropes, carrying stretchers. Horses loose from their paddocks still wandered about, too skittish to permit anyone close enough to take their bits.
'The Hounds,' Paran said. 'They came through here. As did, I suspect, the Deragoth. Damned unfortunate – I hope there weren't too many injuries.'
Noto Boil glanced over at him, then sneered. 'Captain Kindly? You have deceived us. Ganoes Paran, a name to be found on the List of the Fallen in Dujek's own logs.'
'A name with too many questions hanging off it, cutter.'
'Do you realize, Captain, that the two remaining Malazan armies in Seven Cities are commanded by brother and sister? For the moment at least. Once Dujek's back on his feet-'
'A moment,' Paran said.
Hurlochel and Sweetcreek were standing outside the command tent. Both had seen Paran and his companions.
Something in the outrider's face…
They reached them. 'Hurlochel?' Paran asked.
The man looked down.
Sweetcreek cleared her throat. 'High Fist Dujek Onearm died two bells ago, Captain Paran.'
'As for suffering, I leave that to you, and through no choice of mine.'
She had known. Soliel had already known.
Sweetcreek was still talking, '… fever broke a short while ago.
They're conscious, they've been told who you are – Ganoes Paran, are you listening to me? They've read Dujek's logs – every officer among us has read them. It was required. Do you understand? The vote was unanimous. We have proclaimed you High Fist. This is now your army.'
She had known.
All he had done here… too late.
Dujek Onearm is dead.
Chapter Sixteen
The privileged waifs are here now, preening behind hired armies, and the legless once-soldier who leans crooked against a wall like a toppled, broken statue writ on his empty palm the warning that even armies cannot eat gold but these civil younglings cannot see so far and for their own children, the future's road is already picked clean, cobbles pried free to build rough walls and decrepit wastrel shelters, yet this is a wealthy world still heaving its blood-streaked treasures at their silken feet – they are here now, the faces of civilization and oh how we fallen fools yearn to be among them, fellow feasters at the bottomless trough.
What is to come of this? I rest crooked, hard stone at my back, and this lone coin settling in my hand has a face some ancient waif privileged in his time, who once hid behind armies, yes, until – until those armies awoke one day with empty bellies – such pride, such hauteur! Look on the road!
From this civil strait I would run, and run – if only I had not fought, defending that mindless devourer of tomorrow, if only I had legs so watch them pass, beneath their parasols and the starving multitudes are growing sullen, now eyeing me in their avid hunger I would run, yes, if only I had legs.
In the Last Days of the First Empire
Sogruntes A single strand of black sand, four hundred paces long, broke the unrelieved basalt ruin of the coastline. That strip was now obscured beneath ramps, equipment, horses and soldiers; and the broad loader skiffs rocked through the shallows on their heavy draw-lines out to the anchored transports crowding the bay. For three days the Fourteenth Army had been embarking, making their escape from this diseased land.
