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

He struck the muddy ground on one shoulder, skidded, then rolled to a halt-and onto his feet, straightening, even as Sag’Churok slashed its second blade, taking him above the knees. Blood fountained as he toppled onto his back, and found himself staring at his severed legs, still standing upright in the mud.

Gunth Mach loomed over him, the talons of a hind foot plunging down to close round his chest. The talons punched deep, ribs crushing in that embrace, and Redmask was lifted then thrown through the air-where he intersected the path of one of Sag’Churok’s swords. It chopped through his right shoulder, sending the arm spinning away-still gripping the crescent axe.

Redmask thumped onfo the ground once more, already dead.

Three hundred paces to the east, Toc Anaster rose on his stirrups, ignoring Torrent’s shrieks of horror, and watched as the two K’Chain Che’Malle padded once more towards what was left of Redmask. The female one kicked at the body, lightly nudging it, then stepped back.

A moment later and the two creatures were thumping away, northeast, heads stretched out, tails horizontal and stiff as spears behind them.

‘He failed them,’ Toe whispered. What other reason could there be for such a thing? Perhaps, many reasons. Only Redmask could have answered all the mysteries surrounding the K’Chain Che’Malle. Their presence here, their alliance-an alliance now at an end. Because he failed.

The suddenness of the execution remained within him, reverberating, a shock.

Beyond, the last of the Awl-no more than a few hun-dred now-were surrounded, and were dying in their cemetery of mud.

A score of skirmishers had moved out and were drawing nearer-they had seen this last remnant. Toe Anaster on his horse. Torrent. Twenty-odd children deemed too young to die with a weapon in hand-so now they would die anyway.

Still ignoring Torrent’s screams of anguish, Toc turned in his saddle, in his mind the thought of killing these children with his own hands-quick thrusts, with his hand over the eyes-and instead he saw, to the southeast, an odd, seething line-bhederin?

No. That is an army.

Lone eye squinting, he watched that line drawing closer-yes, they were coming here. Not Letherii-1 see no standards, nothing at all. No, not Letherii.

Toc glanced back at the skirmishers now jogging towards them. Still a hundred paces away.

One final look, down at the huddled, crying or mute children, and then he untied from his saddle the leather satchel containing his poems. ‘Torrent!’ he snapped, flinging the bag to the warrior-who caught it, his rash-mottled face streaked with mud and tears, his eyes wide and uncomprehending.

Toc pointed to the distant line. ‘See? An army-not Letherii. Was there not word of the Bolkando and allies? Torrent, listen to me, damn you! You’re the last-you and these children. Take them, Torrent-take them and if there’s a single guardian spirit left to your people, then this need not be the last day of the Awl. Do you understand?’

‘But-’

‘Torrent-just go, damn you!’ Toe Anaster, last of the Grey Swords of Elingarth, a Mezla, drew out his bow and nocked the first stone-tipped arrow on the gut string. ‘I can buy you some time-but you have to go now!’

And he looped the reins round the saddle horn, delivering pressure with his knees as he leaned forward, and he rode-for the Letherii skirmishers.

Mud flew out as the horse stretched out into a gallop. Hood’s breath, this won’t be easy.

Fifty paces away from the foot soldiers, he rose on his stirrups, and began loosing arrows.

The seabed that Torrent guided the children along was a nentle, drawn-out slope, rising to where that army was, the mass of dark figures edging ever closer. No standards, nothing to reveal who they were, but he saw that they did not march in ordered ranks. Simply a mass, as the Awl might march, or the Ak’ryn or D’rhasilhani plains tribes of the south.

If this army belonged to either of those two rival tribes, then Torrent was probably leading these children to their deaths. So be it, we are dead anyway.

Another ten slogging paces, then he slowed, the children drawing in round him. One hand settling on the head of one child, Torrent halted, and turned about.

Toc Anaster deserved that much. A witness. Torrent had not believed there was courage left in the strange man. He had been wrong.

The horse was unhappy. Toe was unhappy. He had been a soldier, once, but he was no longer. He had been young-had felt young-and that had fed the fires of his soul. Even a shard of burning stone stealing his handsome face, not to mention an eye, had not proved enough to tear away his sense of invulnerability.

Prisoner to the Domin had changed all of that. The repeated destruction delivered upon his bones and flesh, the twisted healing that followed each time, the caging of his soul until even his own screams sounded like music-this had taken his youthful beliefs, taken them so far away that even nostalgia triggered remembrances of nothing but agony.