Reaper's Gate & Toll the Hounds - By Steven Erikson Page 0,387

this one wrinkled with pierced everything – ears, nose, wattle, cheeks – the gold ornaments a startling contrast to his dark scowling face. A damned shaman.

Fiddler approached, his eyes on the sergeant. There was fighting still going on, but nowhere close. 'How many of you?'

'Seventeen to start,' the man replied. He paused to look down at the barbaric tusk-sword in his hands. 'Just took off an Edur's head with this,' he said, then looked up. 'My first kill.'

Fiddler gaped. 'How in Hood's name did you get this far from the damned coast, then? What are you all, Soletaken bats?'

The Dal Honese grimaced. 'We stole a fisher boat and sailed up.'

The woman at his side spoke. 'We were the southmost squads, moving east till we hit the river, then it was either wading waist-deep in swamp muck or taking to the water. Worked fine until a few nights ago, when we ran straight into a Letherii galley. We lost a few that night,' she added.

Fiddler stared at her a moment longer. All round and soft-looking, except for those eyes. Hood take me, this one could pluck the skin off a man one tiny strip at a time with one hand while doing herself with the other. He looked away, back to the sergeant. 'What company?'

'Third. I'm Badan Gruk, and you're Fiddler, aren't you?'

'Yeggetan,' muttered the shaman with a warding gesture.

Badan Gruk turned to the pale woman. 'Ruffle, take Vastly and Reliko and work west until you meet up with Primly. Then back here.' He faced Fiddler again. 'We caught 'em good, I think.'

'Thought I heard a cusser a while back.'

A nod. 'Primly had the sappers. Anyway, the Edur pulled back, so I suppose we scared 'em.'

'Moranth munitions will do that.'

Badan Gruk glanced away again. He seemed strangely skittish. 'We never expected to run into any squads this far east,' he said. 'Not unless they took to the water like we did.' He met Fiddler's eyes. 'You're barely a day from Letheras, you know.'

Seven Edur had turned the game on Koryk and Smiles, pushing them into a less than promising lane between decrepit, leaning tenements, that then led to a most quaint killing ground blocked by stacks of timber on all sides but the one with the alley mouth.

Pushing Smiles behind him as he backed away from the Edur – who crowded the alley, slowly edging forward – Koryk readied his sword. Hand-and-a-half fighting now that he'd lost his shield. If the bastards threw lances, he'd be in trouble.

The thought made him snort. Him against seven Tiste Edur and all he had behind him was a young woman who'd used up all her throwing knives and was left with a topheavy gutter that belonged in the hands of a butcher. Trouble? Only if they threw lances.

But these Edur weren't interested in skewering them from a distance. They wanted to close, and Koryk was not surprised by that. Like Seti, these grey gaunts. Face to face, aye. That is where true glory is found. As they reached the mouth of the alley, Koryk lifted the tip of his sword and waved them forward.

'Stay right back,' he said to Smiles who crouched behind him. 'Give me plenty of room—'

'To do what, you oaf? Die in style? Just cut a few and I'll slide in low and finish 'em.'

'And get a pommel through the top of your head? No, stay back.'

'I ain't staying back t'get raped by all the ones you were too incompetent to kill before dying yourself, Koryk.'

'Fine! I'll punch my pommel through your thick skull, then!'

'Only time you're ever gettin' inside of me, so go ahead and enjoy it.'

'Oh, believe me, I will—'

They might have gone on, and on, but the Edur had fanned out, four in front and three behind, and now they rushed forward.

Koryk and Smiles argued often, later, about whether their saviour descended on wings or just had a talent for leaping extraordinary distances, for he arrived in a blur, sailing right across the path of the first four Tiste Edur, and in that silent flight he seemed to writhe, amidst flashing heavy iron blades. A flurry of odd snicking sounds and then the man was past – and should have collided badly with a stack of rough-barked wood. Instead, one of those tulwars touched down tip first on a log, and pivoting on that single point of contact the man twisted round to land in a cat-like crouch against the slope of timbers – at an impossible to