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'Yet you claim you and your Lord as our rivals, Rath'Trake,' Brukhalian growled.

The mask hinged into a fierce smile. 'It only seems that way, right now, Mortal Sword. I shall take my leave of you, for the moment. Farewell, friends.'Advertisement

A long moment of silence passed whilst the three Grey Swords watched the Rath' priest stride away, then Brukhalian shook himself. 'Be on your way, Shield Anvil. Destriant, I would have a few more words with you …'

Shaken, Itkovian swung about and set off after the two Barghast warriors. The earth has shifted beneath our feet. Unbalanced, moments from drawing blood, and peril now besets us from all sides. Tusked One, deliver us from uncertainty. I beg you. Now is not the time.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Malazan military's vaunted ability to adapt to

whatever style of warfare the opposition offered

was in fact superficial. Behind the illusion of

malleability there remained a hard certainty in the

supremacy of the Imperial way. Contributing to

that illusion of flexibility was the sheer resiliency

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of the Malazan military structure, and a

foundation bolstered by profound knowledge, and

insightful analysis, of disparate and numerous

styles of warfare.

Abstract (Part XXVII, Book VII, Vol. IX)

on Temul's thirteen-page treatise, 'Malazan Warfare'

Enet Obar (the Lifeless)

Spindle's hairshirt had caught fire. Eyes watering and coughing at the foul stench, Picker watched the scrawny mage rolling back and forth on the dusty ground beside the firepit. Smoke snaked from smouldering hair, curses rode sparks up into the night air. Since everyone else was too busy laughing, the corporal reached over to collect a water skin, which she wedged between her knees. Unstoppering the spout and pressing her thighs together, she tracked Spindle with the lone stream of water until she heard hissing sounds.

'All right all right!' the mage shrieked, smudged hands waving about. 'Stop! I'm drowning!'

Convulsed in his own fits, Hedge had rolled perilously close to the flames. Picker stretched out one booted foot and kicked the sapper. 'Everyone calm down,' she snapped. 'Before the whole squad gets burnt crispy. Hood's breath!'

In the gloom at her side, Blend spoke. 'We're dying of boredom, Corporal, that's the problem.'

'If boredom was fatal there wouldn't be a soldier alive on this whole world, Blend. Feeble excuse. The problem's simple: starting with the sergeant writhing around over there, the whole Oponn-cursed squad is insane.'

'Except for you, of course-'

'You kissing my dung-stained boots, lass? Wrong move. I'm crazier than the rest of you. If I wasn't, I'd have run off long ago. Gods, look at these idiots. Got a mage wearing his dead mother's hair and every time he opens his warren we get attacked by snarling ground squirrels. Got a sapper with permanent flashburns whose bladder must be a warren unto itself since I ain't seen him wander off once and it's three days running now at this camp. Got a Napan woman being stalked by a rogue bhederin bull that's either blind or sees more than we do when he looks at her. And then there's a healer who went and got himself so badly sunburned he's running a fever.'

'Don't bother mentioning Antsy,' Blend murmured. 'The sergeant would top anyone's list as a wall-eyed lunatic-'

'I wasn't done. Got a woman who likes sneaking up on her friends. And finally,' she added in a low growl, 'dear old Antsy. Nerves of cold iron, that one. Convinced the gods themselves have snatched Quick Ben and it's all Antsy's own fault. Somehow.' Picker reached up and slipped a finger under the torcs on her arm, her scowl deepening. 'As if the gods care a whit about Quick Ben, never mind the sergeant himself. As if they take note of any of us no matter what we do.'

'Treach's torcs bothering you, Corporal?'

'Careful, Blend,' Picker murmured. 'I ain't in the mood.'

Sodden and miserable, Spindle was climbing to his feet. 'Evil spark!' he hissed. 'Finger-flicked like a burning booger — there's malevolent spirits lurkin' about, mark my words.'

'Mark 'em!' Picker snorted. 'I'll carve 'em in your gravestone, Spindle, and that's a Hood-blown promise!'

'Gods, what a stink!' Hedge swore. 'I doubt even a grease-smeared Barghast will come near you! I say we should vote — the whole squad, I mean. Vote to tear that disgusting shirt off of Spindle's pimply back and bury it somewhere — ideally under a few tons of rubble. What say you, Sergeant? Hey, Antsy?' pqdm.com