Besides, this champion would taste blood… and soon.
For the moment, however, there was a skein of sorcerous bindings to unravel…
Limbs stiff as death. But the heart laboured on.
A shadow slipping over Kalam’s face awakened him. He opened his eyes.
The wrinkled visage of an old man hovered above him, swimming behind waves of heat. Dal Honese, hairless, jutting ears, his expression twisted into a scowl. ‘I was looking for you!’ he accused, in Malazan. ‘Where have you been? What are you doing lying out here? Don’t you know it’s hot ?’
Kalam closed his eyes again. ‘Looking for me?’ He shook his head. ‘No-one’s looking for me,’ he continued, forcing his eyes open once more despite the glare lancing up from the ground around the two men. ‘Well, not any more, that is-’
‘Idiot. Heat-addled fool. Stupid-but maybe I should be crooning, encouraging even? Will that deceive him? Likely. A change in tactics, yes. You! Did you kill this enkar’al? Impressive! Wondrous! But it stinks. Nothing worse than a rotting enkar’al, except for the fact that you’ve fouled yourself. Lucky for you your urinating friend found me, then led me here. Oh, and it’s marked the enkar’al, too-what a stench! Sizzling hide! Anyway, it’ll carry you. Yes, back to my haunted abode-’
‘Who in Hood’s name are you?’ Kalam demanded, struggling to rise.
Though the paralysis was gone, he was crusted in dried blood, the puncture wounds burning like coals, his every bone feeling brittle.
‘Me? You do not know? You do not recognize the very famosity exuding from me? Famosity? There must be such a word. I used it! The act of being famous. Of course. Most devoted servant of Shadow! Highest Archpriest Iskaral Pust! God to the bhok’arala, bane of spiders, Master Deceiver of all the world’s Soletaken and D’ivers! And now, your saviour! Provided you have something for me, that is, something to deliver. A bone whistle? A small bag, perchance? Given to you in a shadowy realm, by an even shadowier god? A bag, you fool, filled with dusky diamonds?’
‘You’re the one, are you?’ Kalam groaned. ‘The gods help us. Aye, I have the diamonds-’ He tried to sit up, reaching for the pouch tucked under his belt-and caught a momentary glimpse of the azalan demon, flowing amidst shadows behind the priest, until oblivion found him.
When he awoke once more he was lying on a raised stone platform that suspiciously resembled an altar. Oil lamps flickered from ledges on the walls. The room was small, the air acrid.
Healing salves had been applied-and likely sorcery as well-leaving him feeling refreshed, though his joints remained stiff, as if he had not moved for some time. His clothing had been removed, a thin blanket stiff with grime laid over him. His throat ached with a raging thirst.
The assassin slowly sat up, looking down at the purple weals where the enkar’al’s talons had plunged, then almost jumped at a scurrying sound across the floor-a bhok’aral, casting a single, absurdly guilty, glance over a knobby shoulder a moment before darting out through the doorway.
A dusty jug of water and a clay cup lay on a reed mat on the stone floor. Flinging the blanket aside, Kalam moved towards it.
A bloom of shadows in one corner of the chamber caught his attention as he poured a cup, so he was not surprised to see Iskaral Pust standing there when the shadows faded.
The priest was hunched down, looking nervously at the doorway, then tiptoeing up to the assassin. ‘All better now, yes?’
‘Is there need to whisper?’ Kalam asked.
The man flinched. ‘Quiet! My wife!’
‘Is she sleeping?’
Iskaral Pust’s small face was so like a bhok’aral’s that the assassin was wondering at the man’s bloodlines- no, Kalam, don’t be ridiculous- ‘Sleeping?’ the priest sputtered. ‘She never sleeps! No, you fool, she hunts! ’
‘Hunts? What does she hunt?’
‘Not what. Who. She hunts for me, of course.’ His eyes glittered as he stared at Kalam. ‘But has she found me? No! We’ve not seen each other for months! Hee hee!’ He jutted his head closer. ‘It’s a perfect marriage. I’ve never been happier. You should try it.’
Kalam poured himself another cup. ‘I need to eat-’ But Iskaral Pust was gone. He looked around, bemused.
Sandalled feet approached from the corridor without, then a wild-haired old woman leapt in through the doorway. Dal Honese-not surprisingly. She was covered in cobwebs. She glared about. ‘Where is he? He was here, wasn’t he? I can smell him! The bastard was here!’