Reaper's Gale

When it heaved forward, all illusion of control vanished.



The commander, with Sirryn Kanar cowering beside him, saw all seven of his mages plucked from the ground, dragged up into the air, into the wake of that charging wall. Screaming, flailing, then streaks of whipping blood as they were torn apart moments before vanishing into the dark storm.



The sorcery lurched, then plunged down upon the killing field.



Detonation.



Soldiers were thrown from their feet. Horses were flung onto their sides, riders tumbling or pinned as the terrified beasts rolled onto their backs. The entire ridge seemed to ripple, then buckle, and sudden slumping pulled soldiers from the edge, burying them in slides racing for the field below. Mouths were open, screams unleashed in seeming silence, the horror in so many eyes-



The collapsing wave blew apart-



Beak was driven down by the immense weight, the horrible hunger. Yet he would not retreat. Instead, he let the fire within him lash out, devouring every candle, igniting everything.



His friends, yes, the only ones he had ever known.



Survival, he realized, could only be found through purity. Of his love for them all-how so many of them had smiled at him, laughed with him. How hands clapped him on the shoulder and even, now and then, tousled his hair.



He would have liked to see the captain one last time, and maybe even kiss her. On the cheek, although of course he would have liked something far more… brave. But he was Beak, after all, and he could hold on to but one thing at a time.



Arms wrapped tight, even as the fire began to burn the muscles of his arms. His shoulders and neck. His legs.



He could hold on, now, until they found him.’



Those fires were so hot, now, burning-but there was no pain. Pain had been scoured away, cleansed away. Oh, the weight was vast, getting heavier still, but he would not let go. Not of his brothers and his sisters, the ones he so loved.



My friends.



The Letherii sorcery broke, bursting into clouds of white fire that corkscrewed skyward before vanishing. Fragments crashed down to either side of the incandescent dome, ripped deep into the earth in black spewing clouds. And, everywhere, it died.



The commander struggled back onto his feet, stared uncomprehending at the scene on the killing field.



To either side his soldiers were stumbling upright once again. Runners appeared, one nearly colliding with him as he careened off a still-kneeling Sirryn Kanar, the woman trying to tell him something. Pointing southward.



‘-landing! Another Malazan army, sir! Thousands more! From the river!’



The veteran commander frowned at the woman, whose face was smeared with dirt and whose eyes were brittle with panic.



He looked back down at the killing field. The dome was flickering, dying. But it had held. Long enough, it had held. ‘Inform my officers,’ he said to the runner. ‘Prepare to wheel and fast march to the river-how far? Have they managed a beach-head?’



‘If we march straight to the river, sir, we will meet them. And yes, as I was saying, they have landed. There are great warships in the river-scores of them! And-^’



‘Go, damn you! To my officers!’



Sirryn was now on his feet. He rounded on the commander. ‘But sir-these ones below!’



‘Leave them to the damned Edur, Sirryn! You wanted them mauled, then you shall have your wish! We must meet the larger force, and we must do so immediately!’



Sword and shield, at last, a battle in which a soldier could die with honour.



Captain Faradan Sort had, like so many other soldiers relatively close to where Beak had sat, been driven to the ground by the ferocity of his magic. She was slow to recover, and even as the silver glow pulsed in fitful death, she saw… white.



Gleaming armour and weapons. Hair white as snow, faces devoid of all scars. Figures, picking themselves up in a half-daze, rising like perfect conjurations from the brilliant green shoots of some kind of grass that now snarled everything and seemed to be growing before her eyes.



And, turning, she looked upon Beak.



To burn, fire needed fuel.



To save them all, Beak had used all the fuel within him.



In horror, Faradan Sort found herself staring at a collapsed jumble of ashes and scorched bone. But no, there was pattern within that, a configuration, if she could but focus through her tears. Oh. The bones of the arms seemed to be hugging the knees, the crumpled skull settled on them.



Like a child hiding in a closet, a child seeking to make himself small, so small…



Beak. Gods below… Beak.



‘Plan on returning to your weapons?’ Fiddler asked the Edur war leader. ‘If you’re wanting to start again, that is, we’re willing.’