A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

his own memories held impossible images, the conjuring of a fevered brain.
    But he knew he had imagined nothing. He had but witnessed.
    And, somehow, survived.
    The sun was warm, but not hot. The sky overhead was milky white rather than blue. And the seagulls, he now saw, were something else entirely. Reptilian, pale-winged.
    He staggered to his feet. The headache was fading, but shivers now swept through him, and his thirst was a raging demon trying to claw up his throat.
    The cries of the flying lizards changed pitch and he swung to face inland.
    Three creatures had appeared, clambering through the pallid tufts of grass above the tideline. No higher than his hip, black-skinned, hairless, perfectly round heads and pointed ears. Bhoka'ral – he recalled them from his youth, when a Meckros trading ship had returned from Nemil – but these seemed to be muscle-bound versions, at least twice as heavy as the pets the merchants had brought back to the floating city. They made directly for him.
    He looked round for something to use as a weapon, and found a piece of driftwood that would serve as a club. Hefting it, he waited as the bhoka'ral drew closer.
    They halted, yellow-shot eyes staring up at him.
    Then the middle one gestured.
    Come. There was no doubting the meaning of that all-too-human beckoning.
    The man scanned the strand again – none of the bodies he could see were moving, and the crabs were feeding unopposed. He stared up once more at the strange sky, then stepped towards the three creatures.
    They backed away and led him up to the grassy verge.
    Those grasses were like nothing he had ever seen before, long tubular triangles, razor-edged – as he discovered once he passed through them when he found his low legs crisscrossed with cuts. Beyond, a level plain stretched inland, bearing only the occasional tuft of the same grass. The ground in between was salt-crusted and barren. A few chunks of stone dotted the plain, no two alike and all oddly angular, unweathered.
    In the distance stood a lone tent.
    The bhoka'ral guided him towards it.
    As they drew near, he saw threads of smoke drifting out from the peak and the slitted flap that marked the doorway.
    His escort halted and another wave directed him to the entrance. Shrugging, he crouched and crawled inside.
    In the dim light sat a shrouded figure, a hood disguising its features. A brazier was before it, from which heady fumes drifted. Beside the entrance stood a crystal bottle, some dried fruit and a loaf of dark bread.
    'The bottle holds spring water,' the figure rasped in the Meckros tongue. 'Please, take time to recover from your ordeal.'
    He grunted his thanks and quickly took the bottle.
    Thirst blissfully slaked, he reached for the bread. 'I thank you, stranger,' he rumbled, then shook his head. 'That smoke makes you swim before my eyes.'
    A hacking cough that might have been laughter, then something resembling a shrug. 'Better than drowning. Alas, it eases my pain. I shall not keep you long. You are Withal, the Swordmaker.'
    The man started, and his broad brow knotted. 'Aye, I am Withal, of the Third Meckros city – which is now no more.'
    'A tragic event. You are the lone survivor ... through my own efforts, though it much strained my powers to intervene.'
    'What place is this?'
    'Nowhere, in the heart of nowhere. A fragment, prone to wander. I give it what life I can imagine, conjured from memories of my home. My strength returns, although the agony of my broken body does not abate. Yet listen, I have talked and not coughed. That is something.' A mangled hand appeared from a ragged sleeve and scattered seeds onto the brazier's coals. They spat and popped and the smoke thickened.
    'Who are you?' Withal demanded.
    'A fallen god ... who has need of your skills. I have prepared for your coming, Withal. A place of dwelling, a forge, all the raw materials you will need. Clothes, food, water. And three devoted servants, whom you have already met—'
    'The bhoka'ral?' Withal snorted. 'What can—'
    'Not bhoka'ral, mortal. Although perhaps they once were. These are Nachts. I have named them Rind, Mape and Pule. They are of Jaghut fashioning, capable of learning all that you require of them.'
    Withal made to rise. 'I thank you for the salvation, Fallen One, but I shall take my leave of you. I would return to my own world—'
    'You do not understand, Withal,' the figure hissed. 'You will do as I say here, or you will find yourself begging for death. I now