'I can,' both Koryk and Smiles said.
'Why ask?' said Cuttle.
Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas sat nearby, knees drawn up, too sick to move, much less respond to Fiddler's question.
Tarr said, shrugging, 'If it's right in front of me, maybe I can hit it, Sergeant.'
But Fiddler barely heard any of this – his eyes were fixed on Bottle, who stood, motionless, staring at the enemy line of ships. 'Bottle?
What is it?'
An ashen face turned to regard him. 'It's bad, Sergeant. They're… conjuring.'
Samar Dev shrank away until hard, insensate wood pressed against her back. Before her, to either side of the main mast, stood four Tiste Edur, from whom burgeoned crackling, savage sorcery, whipping like chains between them, fulminating with blooms and gouts of grey flames – and, beyond the rocking prow, a tumbling wave was rising, thrashing as if held taut, lifting skywardBristling chains of power snapped out from the four warlocks, arcing left and right, out to conjoin with identical kin from the ships to either side of Hanradi Khalag's command ship, and then onward to other ships, one after another, and the air Samar Dev drew into her lungs seemed dead, some essential necessity utterly destroyed. She gasped, sank down to the deck, drawing up her knees. A cough, then trembles racked through her in wavesSudden air, life flooding her lungs – someone stood to her left. She looked over, then up.
Karsa Orlong, motionless, staring at the billowing, surging wall of magic. 'What is this?' he demanded.
'Elder,' she said in a ragged voice. 'They mean to destroy them. They mean to tear ten thousand souls and more… into pieces.'
'Who is the enemy?'
Karsa, what is this breath of life you deliver? 'The Malazan Imperial Fleet,' Samar heard the Taxilian answer, and she saw that he had appeared on deck, along with Feather Witch and the Preda, Hanradi Khalag, and all were staring upward at the terrible, chained storm of power.
The Toblakai crossed his arms. 'Malazans,' he said. 'They are not my enemy.'
In a harsh, halting accent, Hanradi Khalag turned to Karsa Orlong and said, 'Are they Tiste Edur?'
The giant's eyes thinned to slits as he continued studying the conjuration, from which there now came a growing roar, as of a million enraged voices. 'No,' he said.
'Then,' replied the Preda, 'they are enemy.'
'If you destroy these Malazans,' Karsa said, 'more of them will come after you.'
'We do not fear.'
The Toblakai warrior finally glanced over at the Preda, and Samar Dev could read, with something fluttering inside her, his contempt. Yet he said nothing, simply turned about and crouched down at Samar Dev's side.
She whispered, 'You were going to call him a fool. I'm glad you didn't – these Tiste Edur don't manage criticism too well.'
'Which makes them even bigger fools,' the giant rumbled. 'But we knew that, Samar Dev. They believe their Emperor can defeat me.'
'Karsa-'
A strange chorus of cries erupted from the warlocks, and they all convulsed, as if some fiery hand had reached into their bodies, closed tight and cruel about their spines – Samar Dev's eyes widened – this ritual, it twists them, oh – such painThe enormous wall lifted free of the sea's suddenly becalmed surface.
Rose higher, then higher still – and in the space beneath it, a horizontal strip mocking normality, the Malazan ships were visible, their sails awry, each one losing way as panic raced through the poor bastards – except for those two, in the lead, a dromon warship, and on its seaward flank, a black-hulled craft, its oars flashing to either side.
What?
Hanradi Khalag had stepped forward upon seeing that odd black ship, but from where Samar sat curled up she could not see his expression, only the back of his head – the suddenly taut posture of his tall form.
And then, something else began to happen…
The wall of magic was pulling free from the surface, drawing with it spouts of white, churning water that fragmented and fell away like toppling spears as the grey-shot, raging manifestation lifted ever higher. The roar of sound rolled forward, loud and fierce as a charging army.
The Adjunct's voice was low, flat. 'Quick Ben.'
'Not warrens,' the wizard replied, as if awed. 'Elder. Not warrens.
Holds, but shot through with Chaos, with rot-'
'The Crippled God.'
Both the wizard and Kalam looked over at her.
'You're full of surprises, Adjunct,' Quick Ben observed.