Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7)

‘I noted nothing like that,’ said Toc. ‘Although I admit 1 was mostly scanning horizon lines.’

‘This place shall be our camp,’ Redmask said after a moment. ‘We will meet the Letherii three leagues from here, in the valley known as Bast Fulmar. Toc Anaster, will you stay with the elders and children or accompany us?’

‘I have had my fill of fields of battle, Redmask. I said I’d found myself a soldier again, but even an army’s train needs guards, and that is about all I am up to right now.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe from now on.’

The eyes in that scaled mask held on Toe for a half-dozen heartbeats, then slowly turned away. ‘Torrent, you too will stay here.’

The warrior stiffened in surprise. ‘War Leader-’

‘You will begin training those children who are close to their death nights. Bows, knives.’

Torrent bowed, stiffly. ‘As you command.’

Redmask left them, trailed by Natarkas and Masarch.

Torrent glanced over at Toc. ‘My courage is not broken,’ he said.

‘You’re young still,’ he replied.

‘You will oversee the younger children, Toc Anaster. That and nothing more. You will keep them and yourself out of my way.’

Toe had had enough of this man. ‘Torrent, you rode at your old war leader’s side when you Awl abandoned us to the Letherii army. Be careful of your bold claims of courage. And when I came to you and pleaded for the lives of my soldiers, you turned away with the rest of them. I believe Redmask has just taken your measure, Torrent, and if I hear another threat from you I will give you reason to curse me-with what will be your last breath.’

The warrior bared his teeth in a humourless smile. ‘All I see in that lone eye, Toe Anaster, tells me you are already cursed.’ He pivoted and walked away.

Well, the bastard has a point. So maybe I’m not as good at this give and take as I imagined myself to be. For these Awl, it is a way of life, after all. Then again, the Malazan armies are pretty good at it, too-no wonder I never really fit.

A half-dozen children hurried past, trailed by a mud-smeared toddler struggling to keep up. Seeing the chattering mob vanish round a tent, the toddler halted, then let out a wail.

Toc grunted. Aye, you and me both.

He made a rude sound and the toddler looked over, eyes wide. Then laughed.

Eye socket fiercely itching once more, Toe scratched for a moment, then headed over, issuing yet another rude noise. Oh, look at that-innocent delight. Well, Toc, take your rewards where and when you can.

Redmask stood at the very edge of the sprawling encampment, studying the horizon to the south. ‘Someone is out there,’ he said in a low voice.

‘So it seems,’ Natarkas said. ‘Strangers-who walk our land as if they owned it. War Leader, you have wounded Torrent-’

‘Torrent must learn the value of respect. And so he will, as weapon master to a score of restless adolescents. When next he joins us, he will be a wiser man. Do you challenge my decisions, Natarkas?’

‘Challenge? No, War Leader. But at times I will probe them, if I find the need to understand them better.’

Redmask nodded, then said to the warrior standing a short distance away, ‘Heed those words, Masarch.’

‘So I shall,’ the young warrior replied.

‘Tomorrow,’ said Redmask, ‘I lead my warriors to war. Bast Fulmar.’

Natarkas hissed, then said, ‘A cursed valley.’

‘We will honour the blood spilled there three hundred years ago, Natarkas. The past will die there, and from there on we shall look only to a new future. New in every way.’

‘This new way of fighting, War Leader, I see little honour in it.’

‘You speak true. There is none to be found. Such is necessity.’

‘Must necessity be surrender?’

Redmask looked across at the warrior whose face was painted in the likeness of his own mask. ‘When the ways surrendered hold naught but the promise of failure, then yes. It must be done. They must be cast away.’

‘The elders will find that difficult to accept, War Leader.’

‘I know. You and I have played this game before. This is not their war. It is mine. And I mean to win it.’

They were silent then, as the wind, a dirge through dead grasses, moaned ghostly across the land.

Chapter Eleven

Sea without water spreads white bones crumbled flat and bleached like parchment where I walked.

But this scrawl scratching my wake is without history bereft of raiment to clothe my fate.

Sky has lost its clouds to some ragged wind that never runs aground these shoals revealed on paths untrod.