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Then leave me there and return to Felisin. Assassins are out hunting…
‘ Delightful. ’
Kasanal had been a Semk shaman once, but now he murdered at his new master’s bidding. And he enjoyed it, although, admittedly, he preferred killing Malazans rather than natives. At least his victims this night would not be Semk-to slay those from his own tribe would be a difficult thing to accept. But that did not seem likely. Korbolo Dom had as much as adopted the last survivors of the clans that had fought for him and Kamist Reloe on the Chain of Dogs.
And these two were mere women, both servants of that butcher, Bidithal.
He was now lying motionless on the edge of the glade, watching the two. One was Scillara, and Kasanal knew his master would be pleased when he returned with her severed head. The other one was also familiar-he had seen her in Sha’ik’s company, and Leoman’s.
It was also clear that they were in hiding, and so likely to be principal agents in whatever Bidithal was planning.
He slowly raised his right hand, and two quick gestures sent his four followers out along the flanks, staying within the trees, to encircle the two women’s position. Under his breath, he began murmuring an incantation, a weaving of ancient words that deadened sound, that squeezed lassitude into the victims, dulling their every sense. And he smiled as he saw their heads slowly settle in unison.
Kasanal rose from his place of concealment. The need for hiding had passed. He stepped into the glade. His four Semk kin followed suit.
They drew their knives, edged closer.
Kasanal never saw the enormous blade that cut him in half, from the left side of his neck and out just above his right hip. He had a momentary sense of falling in two directions, then oblivion swallowed him, so he did not hear the cries of his four cousins, as the wielder of the stone sword marched into their midst.
When Kasanal at last opened ethereal eyes to find himself striding towards Hood’s Gate, he was pleased to find his four kinsmen with him.
Wiping the blood from his sword, Karsa Orlong swung to face the two women. ‘Felisin,’ he growled, ‘your scars burn bright on your soul. Bidithal chose to ignore my warning. So be it. Where is he?’
Still feeling the remnants of the strange dullness that had stolen her senses, Felisin could only shake her head.
Karsa scowled at her, then his gaze shifted to the other woman. ‘Has the night stolen your tongue as well?’
‘No. Yes. No, clearly it hasn’t. I believe we were under sorcerous attack. But we are now recovering, Toblakai. You have been gone long.’
‘And I am now returned. Where is Leoman? Bidithal? Febryl? Korbolo Dom? Kamist Reloe? Heboric Ghost Hands?’
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Then leave me there and return to Felisin. Assassins are out hunting…
‘ Delightful. ’
Kasanal had been a Semk shaman once, but now he murdered at his new master’s bidding. And he enjoyed it, although, admittedly, he preferred killing Malazans rather than natives. At least his victims this night would not be Semk-to slay those from his own tribe would be a difficult thing to accept. But that did not seem likely. Korbolo Dom had as much as adopted the last survivors of the clans that had fought for him and Kamist Reloe on the Chain of Dogs.
And these two were mere women, both servants of that butcher, Bidithal.
He was now lying motionless on the edge of the glade, watching the two. One was Scillara, and Kasanal knew his master would be pleased when he returned with her severed head. The other one was also familiar-he had seen her in Sha’ik’s company, and Leoman’s.
It was also clear that they were in hiding, and so likely to be principal agents in whatever Bidithal was planning.
He slowly raised his right hand, and two quick gestures sent his four followers out along the flanks, staying within the trees, to encircle the two women’s position. Under his breath, he began murmuring an incantation, a weaving of ancient words that deadened sound, that squeezed lassitude into the victims, dulling their every sense. And he smiled as he saw their heads slowly settle in unison.
Kasanal rose from his place of concealment. The need for hiding had passed. He stepped into the glade. His four Semk kin followed suit.
They drew their knives, edged closer.
Kasanal never saw the enormous blade that cut him in half, from the left side of his neck and out just above his right hip. He had a momentary sense of falling in two directions, then oblivion swallowed him, so he did not hear the cries of his four cousins, as the wielder of the stone sword marched into their midst.
When Kasanal at last opened ethereal eyes to find himself striding towards Hood’s Gate, he was pleased to find his four kinsmen with him.
Wiping the blood from his sword, Karsa Orlong swung to face the two women. ‘Felisin,’ he growled, ‘your scars burn bright on your soul. Bidithal chose to ignore my warning. So be it. Where is he?’
Still feeling the remnants of the strange dullness that had stolen her senses, Felisin could only shake her head.
Karsa scowled at her, then his gaze shifted to the other woman. ‘Has the night stolen your tongue as well?’
‘No. Yes. No, clearly it hasn’t. I believe we were under sorcerous attack. But we are now recovering, Toblakai. You have been gone long.’
‘And I am now returned. Where is Leoman? Bidithal? Febryl? Korbolo Dom? Kamist Reloe? Heboric Ghost Hands?’
‘An impressive list-you’ve a busy night ahead, I think. Find them where you will, Toblakai. The night awaits you.’
Felisin drew a shaky breath, wrapping her arms about herself as she stared up at the terrible warrior. He had just killed five assassins with five sweeping, almost poetic passes of that enormous sword. The very ease of it horrified her. True, the assassins had intended the same for her and Scillara.
Karsa loosened his shoulders with a shrug, then strode towards the path leading to the city. In moments he was gone.
Scillara moved closer to Felisin and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Death is always a shock,’ she said. ‘The numbness will pass. I promise.’
But Felisin shook her head. ‘Except for Leoman,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘Those he named. He is going to kill them all. Except for Leoman.’
Scillara slowly turned to face the trail, a cool, speculative look stealing across her face.
The last two had taken down four warriors and come within thirty paces of his tent before finally falling. Scowling, Mathok stared down at the arrow-studded, sword-slashed corpses. Six attempted assassinations this night alone, and the first bell had yet to sound.
Enough.
‘T’morol, gather my clan.’
The burly warrior grunted assent and strode off. Mathok drew his furs tighter about himself and returned to his tent.
Within its modest confines, he paused for a long moment, deep in thought. Then he shook himself and walked over to a hide-covered chest near his cot. He crouched, swept aside the covering, and lifted the ornate lid.
The Book of Dryjhna resided within.
Sha’ik had given it into his keeping.
To safeguard.
He closed the lid and locked it, then picked up the chest and made his way outside. He could hear his warriors breaking camp in the darkness beyond. ‘T’morol.’
‘Warchief.’
‘We ride to join Leoman of the Flails. The remaining clans are to guard Sha’ik, though I am confident she is not at risk-she may have need for them in the morning.’
