The Bonehunters

'Smiles?' Bottle paused at the steps. 'Where is she, by the way?'



'Mooning away with Corabb, I expect,' Tarr said.



Really? 'She shouldn't do that.'



'Why?'



'Corabb's luck doesn't necessarily extend to people around him, that's why.'



'What does that mean?'



It means I talk too much. 'Never mind.'



Koryk called out, 'They'll get that rat, you know, Bottle! Sooner or later.'



Nobody's thinking straight around here. Gods, Koryk, you still think those pups are little helpless pinkies. Alas, they are all now quite capable of getting around all by themselves. So, I haven't got just one extra set of eyes and ears, friends. No. There's Baby Koryk, Baby Smiles, Baby Tarr, Baby… oh, you know the rest…



He was halfway to the hatch when the alarms sounded, drifting like demonic cries across the swollen waves, and on the wind there arrived a scent… no, a stench.



****

Hood take me, I hate not knowing. Kalam swung himself up into the rigging, ignoring the pitching and swaying as the Froth Wolf heeled hard about on a new course, northeast, towards the gap that had – through incompetence or carelessness – opened between two dromons of the escort. As the assassin quickly worked his way upward, he caught momentary glimpses of the foreign ships that had appeared just outside that gap. Sails that might have been black, once, but were now grey, bleached by sun and salt.



Amidst the sudden confusion of signals and alarms, one truth was becoming appallingly evident: they had sailed into an ambush. Ships to the north, forming an arc with killing lanes between each one. Another crescent, this one bulging towards the Malazans, was fast approaching before the wind from the northeast. Whilst another line of ships formed a bristling barrier to the south, from the shallows along the coast to the west, then out in a saw-toothed formation eastward until the arc curled north.



Our escorts are woefully outnumbered. Transports loaded down with soldiers, like bleating sheep trapped in a slaughter pen.



Kalam stopped climbing. He had seen enough. Whoever they are, they've got us in their jaws. He began making his way down once more, an effort almost as perilous as had been the ascent. Below, figures were scrambling about on the decks, sailors and marines, officers shouting back and forth.



The Adjunct's flagship, flanked still to starboard by the Silanda, was tacking a course towards that gap. It was clear that Tavore meant to engage that closing crescent. In truth, they had little choice. With the wind behind those attackers, they could drive like a spear-point into the midst of the cumbersome transports. Admiral Nok was commanding the lead escorts to the north, and they would have to seek to push through the enemy blocking the way, with as many of the transports following as were able – but all the enemy ships have to do is drive them into the coast, onto whatever uncharted reefs lurk in the shallows.



Kalam dropped the last distance to the deck, landed in a crouch. He heard more shouts from somewhere far above as he made his way forward.



Positioned near the pitching prow, the Adjunct and Quick Ben stood side by side, the wind whipping at Tavore's cloak. The High Mage glanced over as Kalam reached them.



'They've shortened their sails, drawn up or whatever it is sailors call slowing down.'



'Now why would they do that?' Kalam asked. 'That makes no sense. Those bastards should be driving hard straight at us.'



Quick Ben nodded, but said nothing.



The assassin glanced over at the Adjunct, but of her state of mind as she stared at the opposing line of ships he could sense nothing. '



Adjunct,' he said, 'perhaps you should strap on your sword.'



'Not yet,' she said. 'Something is happening.'



He followed her gaze.



'Gods below, what is that?'



****

On the Silanda, Sergeant Gesler had made use of the bone whistle, and now banks of oars swept out and back with steady indifference to the heaving swells, and the ship groaned with each surge, easily keeping pace with the Adjunct's dromon. The squads had finished reefing the sails and were now amidships, readying armour and weapons.



Fiddler crouched over a wooden crate, trying to quell his ever-present nausea – gods, I hate the sea, the damned back and forth and up and down. No, when I die I want my feet to be dry. That and nothing more.



No other stipulations. Just dry feet, dammit – as he worked the straps loose and lifted the lid. He stared down at the Moranth munitions nestled in their beds of padding. 'Who can throw?' he demanded, glaring over at his squad, then something cold slithered in his gut.