The Bonehunters

At Nok's command, sailors rushed over to help the Perish contingent aboard.



First to appear was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, black-cloaked.



Beneath the thick wool was a surcoat of blackened chain that glistened with oil. The longsword at the left hip revealed a silver wolf's-head pommel. The Perish paused, looked round, then approached the Adjunct as others appeared from the rail. Among them was the robed man, who called out something to the one Keneb surmised was the commander. That person halted, half-turned, and the voice that emerged from behind the visored helm startled Keneb, for it was a woman's.



She's a damned giant – even the women heavies in our army would hesitate facing this one.



Her question was short.



The bald man replied with a single word, at which the woman in armour bowed and stepped to one side.



Keneb watched the robed man stride forward, eyes on the Adjunct. '



Mezla,' he said. 'Welcome.'



He speaks Malazan. Well, that should make this easier.



The Adjunct nodded. 'Welcome in return, Perish. I am Adjunct Tavore Paran, and this is Admiral Nok-'



'Ah, yes, that name is known to us, sir.' A low bow towards Nok, who seemed startled for a moment, before replying in kind.



'You speak our language well,' Tavore said.



'Forgive me, Adjunct. I am Destriant Run'thurvian.' He gestured to the huge woman beside him. 'This is the Mortal Sword Krughava.' And then, stepping to one side, he bowed to another soldier standing two steps behind the Mortal Sword. 'Shield Anvil Tanakalian.' The Destriant added something in his own language, and in response both the Mortal Sword and the Shield Anvil removed their helms.



Ah, these are hard, hard soldiers. Krughava, iron-haired, was blueeyed, her weathered face seamed with scars, yet the bones beneath her stern, angular features were robust and even. The Shield Anvil was, in contrast, quite young, and if anything broader of shoulder, although not as tall as the Mortal Sword. His hair was yellow, the colour of stalks of wheat; his eyes deep grey.



'Your ships have seen fighting,' Admiral Nok said to the Destriant.



'Yes sir. We lost four in the engagement.'



'And the Tiste Edur,' the Adjunct asked, 'how many did they lose?'



The Destriant suddenly deferred to the Mortal Sword, bowing, and the woman replied in fluent Malazan, 'Uncertain. Perhaps twenty, once their sorcery was fended aside. Although nimble, the ships were understrength. Nonetheless, they fought well, without quarter.'



'Are you in pursuit of the surviving ships?'



'No, sir,' Krughava replied, then fell silent.



The Destriant said, 'Noble sirs, we have been waiting for you. For the Mezla.'



He turned then and walked to stand at the Shield Anvil's side.



Krughava positioned herself directly opposite the Adjunct. 'Admiral Nok, forgive me,' she said, holding her gaze on Tavore. The Mortal Sword then drew her sword.



As with every other Malazan officer witness to this, Keneb tensed, reaching for his own weapon.



But the Adjunct did not flinch. She wore no weapon at all.



The length of blue iron sliding from the scabbard was etched from tip to hilt, two wolves stretched in full charge, every swirl of fur visible, their fangs polished brighter than all else, gleaming, the eyes blackened smears. The artisanship was superb, yet that blade's edge was notched and battered. Its length gleamed with oil.



The Mortal Sword held the sword horizontally, against her own chest, and there was a formal rigidity to her words as she said, 'I am Krughava, Mortal Sword of the Grey Helms of the Perish, sworn to the Wolves of Winter. In solemn acceptance of all that shall soon come to pass, I pledge my army to your service, Adjunct Tavore Paran. Our complement: thirty-one Thrones of War. Thirteen thousand and seventynine brothers and sisters of the Order. Before us, Adjunct Tavore, awaits the end of the world. In the name of Togg and Fanderay, we shall fight until we die.'



No-one spoke.



The Mortal Sword settled onto one knee, and laid the sword at Tavore's feet.



****

On the forecastle, Kalam stood beside Quick Ben, watching the ceremony on the mid deck. The wizard beside the assassin was muttering under his breath, the sound finally irritating Kalam enough to draw his gaze from the scene below, even as the Adjunct, with a solemnity to match the Mortal Sword's, picked up the sword and returned it to Krughava.



'Will you be quiet, Quick!' Kalam hissed. 'What's wrong with you?'



The wizard stared at him with a half-wild look in his dark eyes. 'I recognize these… these Perish. Those titles, the damned formality and high diction – I recognize these people!'