Too long his self-obsession, the seemingly endless efforts to create his temple-that now struck him as a strange kind of neurotic nesting; he had ignored the world beyond the walls for too long. There had been, he realized with a surge of bitter anger, a host of subtle alterations to his personality, concomitant with the physical gifts he had received.
He had ceased being mindful.
And that, he realized as he studied the two figures in the glade, had permitted a terrible crime.
She’s healed well… but not well enough to disguise the truth of what has happened. Should I reveal myself? No. Neither of them has made a move to expose Bidithal, else they would not be hiding here.
That means they would try to talk me out of what must be done.
But I warned Bidithal. I warned him, and he was… amused. Well, I think that amusement is about to end.
He slowly backed away.
Then, deep in the shadows, Heboric hesitated. There was no clash between his new and old instincts on this matter. Both demanded blood. And this night. Immediately. But something of the old Heboric was reasserting itself. He was new to this role as Destriant. More than that, Treach himself was a newly arrived god. And while Heboric did not believe Bidithal held any position-not any more-within the realm of Shadow, his temple was sanctified to someone .
An attack would draw in their respective sources of power, and there was no telling how swiftly, and how uncontrollably, that clash could escalate.
Better had I just remained old Heboric. With hands of otataral entwined with an unknown being’s immeasurable power… Then I could have torn him limb from limb.
He realized that, instead, he could do nothing. Not this night, in any case. He would have to wait, seeking an opportunity, a moment of distraction. But to achieve that, he would have to remain hidden, unseen-Bidithal could not discover his sudden elevation. Could not learn that he had become Destriant to Treach, the new god of war.
The rage suddenly returned, and he struggled to push it away.
After a moment his breathing slowed. He turned round and edged back onto the trail. This would require more thought. Measured thought. Damn you, Treach. You knew the guise of a tiger. Gift me some of your cunning ways, a hunter’s ways, a killer’s …
He approached the head of the trail, and halted at a faint sound. Singing. Muted, a child’s, coming from the ruins of what had once been a modest building of some sort. Indifferent to the darkness, his eyes caught movement and fixed hard on that spot, until a shape resolved itself.
A girl in rags, carrying a stick that she held in both hands. A dozen or so dead rhizan hung by their tails from her belt. As he watched, he saw her leap up and swing the stick. It struck something and she scrambled in pursuit, jumping about to trap a tiny shape writhing on the ground. A moment later and she lifted the rhizan into view. A quick twist of the neck, then another tiny body was tied to her belt. She bent down and retrieved her stick. And began singing once more.
Heboric paused. He would have difficulty passing by her unnoticed. But not impossible .
Probably an unnecessary caution. Even so. He held to the shadows as he edged forward, moving only when her back was turned, his eyes never leaving her form for a moment.
A short while later and he was past.
Dawn was approaching, and the camp was moments from stirring awake. Heboric increased his pace, and eventually reached his tent, slipping inside.
Apart from the girl, he’d seen no-one.
And when she judged that he was finally gone, the girl slowly turned about, her singing falling away as she peered out into the gloom. ‘Funny man,’ she whispered, ‘do you remember the dark?’
A sixth of a bell before dawn, Leoman and two hundred of his desert warriors struck the Malazan encampment. The infantry stationed at the pickets were at the end of their watch, gathered in weary groups to await the sun’s rise-a lapse in discipline that presented easy targets for the archers who had, on foot, closed to within thirty paces of the line. A whispery flit of arrows, all loosed at the same time, and the Malazan soldiers were down.
At least half of the thirty or so soldiers had not been killed outright, and their screams of pain and fear broke the stillness of the night. The archers had already set their bows down and were darting forward with their kethra knives to finish the wounded sentries, but they had not gone ten paces before Leoman and his horse warriors thundered around them, striking hard through the breach.
And into the camp.
Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas rode at his commander’s side, a long-hafted weapon that was half sword, half axe, in his right hand. Leoman was the centre of a curved sweep of attackers, protecting a knot of additional horse warriors from which a steady whirring sound rose. Corabb knew what that sound signified-his commander had invented his own answer to Moranth munitions, employing a pair of clay balls filled with oil and connected by a thin chain. Lit like lamps, they were swung and thrown in the manner of bolas.
