Midnight Tides & The Bonehunters - By Steven Erikson Page 0,686

voices. 'No,' he said.

'Then,' replied the Preda, 'they are enemy.'

'If you destroy these Malazans,' Karsa said, 'more of them will come after you.'

'We do not fear.'

The Toblakai warrior finally glanced over at the Preda, and Samar Dev could read, with something fluttering inside her, his contempt. Yet he said nothing, simply turned about and crouched down at Samar Dev's side.

She whispered, 'You were going to call him a fool. I'm glad you didn't – these Tiste Edur don't manage criticism too well.'

'Which makes them even bigger fools,' the giant rumbled. 'But we knew that, Samar Dev. They believe their Emperor can defeat me.'

'Karsa—'

A strange chorus of cries erupted from the warlocks, and they all convulsed, as if some fiery hand had reached into their bodies, closed tight and cruel about their spines – Samar Dev's eyes widened – this ritual, it twists them, oh – such pain—

The enormous wall lifted free of the sea's suddenly becalmed surface. Rose higher, then higher still – and in the space beneath it, a horizontal strip mocking normality, the Malazan ships were visible, their sails awry, each one losing way as panic raced through the poor bastards – except for those two, in the lead, a dromon warship, and on its seaward flank, a black-hulled craft, its oars flashing to either side.

What?

Hanradi Khalag had stepped forward upon seeing that odd black ship, but from where Samar sat curled up she could not see his expression, only the back of his head – the suddenly taut posture of his tall form.

And then, something else began to happen ...

The wall of magic was pulling free from the surface, drawing with it spouts of white, churning water that fragmented and fell away like toppling spears as the grey-shot, raging manifestation lifted ever higher. The roar of sound rolled forward, loud and fierce as a charging army.

The Adjunct's voice was low, flat. 'Quick Ben.'

'Not warrens,' the wizard replied, as if awed. 'Elder. Not warrens. Holds, but shot through with Chaos, with rot—'

'The Crippled God.'

Both the wizard and Kalam looked over at her.

'You're full of surprises, Adjunct,' Quick Ben observed.

'Can you answer it?'

'Adjunct?'

'This Elder sorcery, High Mage – can you answer it?'

The glance that Quick Ben cast at Kalam startled the assassin, yet it matched his reply perfectly: 'If I cannot, Adjunct, then we are all dead.'

You bastard – you've got something—

'You do not have long,' the Adjunct said. 'If you fail,' she added as she turned away, 'I have my sword.'

Kalam watched her make her way down the length of the ship. Then, heart pounding hard in his chest, he faced the tumbling, foaming conjuration that filled the north sky. 'Quick, you ain't got long here, you know – once she comes back with her sword—'

'I doubt it'll be enough,' the wizard cut in. 'Oh, maybe for this ship and this ship alone. As for everybody else, forget it.'

'Then do something!'

And Quick Ben turned on Kalam a grin the assassin had seen before, hundreds of times, and that light in his eyes – so familiar, so—

The wizard spat on his hands and rubbed them together, facing the Elder sorcery once more. 'They want to mess with Holds ... so will I.'

Kalam bared his teeth. 'You've got some nerve.'

'What?'

'"Full of surprises", you said to her.'

'Yes, well, best give me some room. It's been a while. I may be a little ... rusty.' And he raised his arms.

So familiar ... so ... alarming.

On the Silanda four reaches to seaward, Bottle felt something jolt all his senses. His head whipped round, to fix his eyes on the forecastle of the Froth Wolf. Quick Ben, alone, standing tall at the prow, arms stretched out to the sides, like some damned offering—

—and around the High Mage, fire the colour of goldflecked mud billowed awake, rushed outward, upward, fast – so fast, so fierce – gods take me – no, more patience, you fool! If they—

Whispering a prayer, Bottle flung all his will at the High Mage's conjuration – slower, you fool. Slower! Here, deepen the hue, thicker, fling it out to the sides, it's just a reverse mudslide, yes, all going back up the slope, flames like rain, tongues of gold nastiness, yes, like that—

No, stop fighting me, damn you. I don't care how terrified you are – panic will ruin everything. Pay attention!

Suddenly, filling Bottle's head, a scent ... of fur. The soft brush of not-quite-human hands – and Bottle's flailing efforts to quell Quick Ben's manic enthusiasm all at once ceased