On the third hill overlooking the fallen city of Pale, Tattersail stood alone. Scattered around the sorceress the curled remains of burnt armour-greaves, breastplates, helms and weapons-lay heaped in piles. An hour earlier there had been men and women wearing that armour, but of them there was no sign. The silence within those empty shells rang like a dirge in Tattersail's head.
Her arms were crossed, tight against her chest. The burgundy cloak with its silver emblem betokening her command of the 2nd Army's wizard cadre now hung from her round shoulders stained and scorched.
Her oval, fleshy face, usually parading an expression of cherubic humour, was etched with deep-shadowed lines, leaving her cheeks flaccid and pale.
For all the smells and sounds surrounding Tattersail, she found herself listening to a deeper silence. In some ways it came from the empty armour surrounding her, an absence that was in itself an accusation. But there was another source of the silence. The sorcery that had been unleashed here today had been enough to fray the fabric between the worlds. Whatever dwelt beyond, in the Warrens of Chaos, felt close enough to reach out and touch.
She'd thought her emotions spent, used up by the terror she had just been through, but as she watched the tight ranks of a legion of Moranth Black marching into the city a frost of hatred slipped over her heavylidded eyes.
Allies. They're claiming their hour of blood. At the end of that hour there would be a score thousand fewer survivors among the citizens of Pale. The long savage history between the neighbouring peoples was about to have the scales of retribution balanced. By the sword.
Shedunul's mercy, hasn't there been enough?
A dozen fires raged unchecked through the city. The siege was over, finally, after three long years. But Tattersail knew that there was more to come. Something hid, and waited, in the silence. So she would wait as well. The deaths of this day deserved that much from her-after all, she had failed in all the other ways that mattered.
On the plain below, the bodies of Malazan soldiers covered the ground, a rumpled carpet of dead. Limbs jutted upward here and there, ravens perching on them like overlords. Soldiers who had survived the slaughter wandered in a daze among the bodies, seeking fallen comrades.
Tattersail's eyes followed them achingly.
“They're coming,” said a voice, a dozen feet to her left. Slowly she turned. The wizard Hairlock lay sprawled on the burnt armour, the pate of his shaved skull reflecting the dull sky. A wave of sorcery had destroyed him from the hips down. Pink, mud-spattered entrails billowed out from under his ribcage, webbed by drying fluids. A faint penumbra of sorcery revealed his efforts at staying alive.
“Thought you were dead,” Tattersail muttered.
“Felt lucky today.”
“You don't look it.”
Hairlock's grunt released a gout of dark thick blood from below his heart. “They're coming,” he said. “See them yet?”
She swung her attention to the slope, her pale eyes narrowing. Four soldiers approached. “Who are they?”
The wizard didn't answer.
Tattersail faced him again and found his hard gaze fixed on her, intent in the way a dying person achieves in those last moments. “Thought you'd take a wave through the gut, huh? Well, I suppose that's one way to get shipped out of here.”
His reply surprised her. “The tough fa?ade ill fits you, “Sail. Always has.” He frowned and blinked rapidly, fighting off darkness, she supposed. “There's always the risk of knowing too much. Be glad I spared you.” He smiled, unveiling red-stained teeth. “Think nice thoughts. The flesh fades.”
She eyed him steadily, wondering at his sudden: humanity. Maybe dying did away with the usual games, the pretences of the living dance.
Maybe she just wasn't prepared to see the mortal man in Hairlock finally showing itself. Tattersail prised her arms from the dreadful, aching hug she had wrapped around herself, and sighed shakily. “You're right. It's not the time for facades, is it? I never liked you, Hairlock, but I'd never question your courage-I never will.” She studied him critically, a part of her astonished that the horror of his wound didn't so much as make her flinch. “I don't think even Tayschrenn's arts are enough to save you, Hairlock.”
Something cunning flashed in his eyes and he barked a pained laugh.
“Dear girl,” he gasped, “your naivete never fails to charm me.”
“Of course,” she snapped, stung at falling for his sudden ingenuousness. “One last joke on me, just for old times sake.”
“You misunderstand.”