[NefariasBredd]

The damned fools were about to get themselves killed. Lark and Ninetoe, a couple of farm boys from Genabaris, were sneaking out of the camp to see the shifting great wall of sand for themselves. Dusk had just fallen and they should have been either passing out in their bunk or else waiting around the newly sprung fires for the watery soup that was passing for rations these days. It was hard to believe after fourteen hours of a forced march and three hours of setting up camp that they still had the energy to be this foolish.


Choking down a sigh, he watched them negotiate the last of the pickets as they headed toward the ever present whirl of sand and bones in the distance. No rest for the weary. He circled around the edge of the camp, looking for a space between the pickets so that he could follow.


"Quiet Lark, you'll get us caught and the Wickan Crows will string us to their horses by our heels!" Ninetoe quietly chuckled as he watched Lark try to wiggle out of the grasp of the whip plant that had caught his ankle. "I'm already strung up by my heel you bastard, help me." Lark pulled his ankle a few more times until the plant gave up on this too large a meal and curled its branch back into a tight ball by its root. "Besides, who can hear anything with that damned whirlwind thing so near?"


"Good point, now be quiet and stay low." The two friends half crouched as they topped the low dunes between the encampment and the shrieking wall of sand they wanted to see. With each dune they passed, the whirl of sand grew louder. "We have to be close now, I can feel some movement in my bones." Ninetoe suddenly felt it too, "You fool, that's people riding horseback... The crows have found us!"


They lay crouched as low as they could on the edge of the dune, Ninetoe laid face down for a moment, staring at the fine grains of sand and watching them slowly drift down into his leather tunic. Damn this desert and its red sand. He longed for a moment to be back at his pa's farm, with cool dark earth between his toes and a day of fishing in front of him.


The sound of riders drew closer and then closer still, until suddenly it stopped. "Peek over the dune Lark, but keep your head down low and tell me if you see anything." He made eye contact with Lark, and resignalled the command. Lark's eyes widened as comprehension played across his face. After a brief moment of shaking his head Ninetoe watched resolve cross his face and he nodded.


Lark slid like a snake up toward the lip of the dune, the whirl of sand briefly pitching higher as if in anticipation of what he may see. His head crested the ridge for a moment. Ninetoe spat out the acid in his throat and listened to his heartbeat crashing in his ears. He counted, one, two, three, one, two, three. Should he grab his bow from his back or should he be grabbing the falari sword they'd issued him? One, two, three, one, two, three... Lark raised his head up and signalled all clear. One, two.. three, he raised up into a crouch and approached the ridge, leaning down to kneel near Lark.


The two slid over the ridge and continued towards the whirlwind. It's pitch drawing them like a dusty siren's song. Wickans or the holy whirlwind itself was not going to deter them. Tonight they would visit the miracle storm of Ra'raku.



He watched as the horsemen pulled up and dismounted. They counted at seven, with no doubt more hidden in the darkness. Dark skinned, with lean and long horses native to the desert. A mish mash of weapons hung at their sides from blackened scimitars to the long dagger of the northern tribesmen. Each had a bow slung from their backs. Raiders, either scouting the camp behind him or else looking to pick off those that wandered around in the dark. Their clothes were sun bleached to the same color as the desert and once they fanned out and took cover they disappeared into the night sand. Holy warriors of Sha'ik my ass, these men were ambushers, a pack of desert wolves, and they'd found suitable prey.


The two farm boys slid up to the top of the dune and tried to make themselves small. The farm boy named Lark peered his head over the dune and gave away his position, damned fool. He watched as the kid signalled all clear and then the two farm boys, so far from home, crested the dune ridge, heading straight towards the teeth of the ambush. No time to go back and get help. No choice but to try and flank the ambushers. Beru fend.


The first arrow struck Lark right in the middle of the chest with a loud crack. He yelped out in surprise but somehow the arrow fell to the ground at his feet. The arrow had struck the finger bone he'd been wearing around his neck like many of the soldiers did and broke it in two. Turning quickly he barrelled into Ninetoe and half pushed, half flung him over the nearby dune. "Where the hell did that come from?" Ninetoe was choking down his heart which had decided to jump out of his throat and make a break for it. The whirlwind, just a few hundred feet away suddenly pitched down low, implying a sandy dark secret. Lark responded with a hand signal, "just East of us, low."


Lark had an arrow nocked and was peering around them, laying on his back with his head and shoulders up just high enough to see around. He held the bow sideways. Over the low hum of the whirlwind a man cried out in pain. The sound came from one of the higher dunes between them and the storm itself. "... the hill right now." Lark signed to him. What the hell was he on about? "What the hell are you on about?" Ninetoe barked. Lark signed back "Quiet! Two men, circling the hill" ahh, the dune, "East, right now." No reason to stay here and fight over a damn sand storm. "Let's..." how the hell did you say get the fuck out of here in sign again? "Let's run!" There it was. Lark shook his head, "circle, hand across throat" What the fuck did that mean? Ahh, we're surrounded, and we're going to die.



They came over the dune two at a time, slowly, with scimitars blackened against the night sky by some type of ash rubbed on them. Lark rose up to a setting position and pulled his bowstring back as far as it would go. The sandstorm hid the sound of of his release as well as the sound of the arrow taking the first raider full in the face. The force of the impact snapped the raider's head back at an impossible angle and the arrow continued out into the dark of the night. Two more raiders crested the eastern dune and you could barely make out a cry as they began running towards the two, once farmers, now turned Malazan regulars.


Hood's hoary balls. These two were done for. The raiders took positions as the stray regulars walked straight into a semicircle of bowman. I need to find some higher ground, and fast. Jogging along the edge of a dune he headed for its rim. He shouldered his bow and pulled his sword from its scabbard. If anyone was at the top it would be close work, and he had left his best knives at camp. As he topped the rim he heard a loud crack on the other side of the dune. Two raiders kneeled at the top, backs to him. No time for sportsmanship, he drove his short sword through the back of the man to his left. The raider twisted violently, taking his sword with him as he hit the desert sand and rolled down the dune.


Damn the luck, the other raider was carrying two long knives and he appeared to know what to do with them. The raider ducked and rolled backwards. Jumping up face to face with him, his knives describing two small semicircles in a quick rhythm. In a fair fight this might be a tough adversary, but the sand was too loose, the purchase too shifty for agility to win the night. The old Malazan soldier ducked low and bull rushed, the raider back pedaled and coiled for a single perfect strike.


Just before closing to knife range the soldier stopped and hit the raider full in the face with his canteen. Before he could recover he grabbed his wrist and ripped him forward, breaking his arm just below the elbow. The rest was butcher's work but it had to be done. He smothered the stinky bastard in the sand until he stopped writhing around and made for the top of the rim to see how the two kids fared.


So this is how it ends, gutted by some toothless raider that wants to hang my scalp off a pole. Ninetoe swallowed hard. Even over the low din of the whirlwind he could hear his sword rattle in its scabbard as he tugged it out into the night air. An arrow pierced the night and struck his blade just as he brought it forth, knocking it from his hands. He kneeled down to retrieve it just in time to dodge another arrow that stuck into the top of his backpack.


He watched as Lark freed the big two handed sword he'd been dragging around since the campaign had begun and thought about the last time he'd seen him take that stance. It had been on the farm. Lark's family worked for his and he and Lark had been friends since he could remember. His father made it clear that he couldn't make friends with the help but Ninetoe didn't care. Lark had always been a big kid, and strong. Whatever work they had to do Lark could knock out twice as fast as other kids and then they would go swimming, or fishing, or sometimes just lay out in the sun and talk about girls.


When harvest season came around all of the kids would have to grab a sickle and harvest the oats or wheat for that season. Last summer, not long before the Malazans had rode through town promising fame and fortune for anyone with the courage to sign up, a crazed bull had ran through the fields, mauling two kids they'd gone to school with and then heading their way. Lark faced the bull down and cleaved him from shoulder to shoulder in one stroke with that sickle, and still finished his part of the field in time for them to go fishing that afternoon. But a sword wasn't a sickle, he could swing the sword a lot harder.


Swallowing this afternoon's lunch, which seemed determined to escape to the desert floor he raised his sword up and moved to join his friend as the raiders broke the cover of night and charged forward, scimitars waving wildly as they ran.


There were just too many. He watched as the two farm boys formed a makeshift wall and squared off with six raiders that came charging from the low dune. On the eastern ridge six more moved to flank them from the hidden cover of the dune rim. If by some miracle the kids could hold off the men attacking them from the front they'd be tied up long enough for the other raiders to chop them to bits from the rear. Time to make a move, and fast. With all his might he heaved the body of the dead raider off the edge of the dune and into the flanking raider's midst. The poor bastard had shit himself anyway and it was time to be rid of the smell. He could dimly hear the yell that went up as the body struck one of the raiders head first and knocked him reeling, and then shortly after, retching into the sand. He ducked to cover as arrows pierced the place where his outline had stood moments before. He had the high ground, that was something. Now maybe they'd come up the dune one at time, and oh yeah, would one of them please bring me my sword while you're at it? He balanced the two long knives in his hands and strained to hear their ascent over the low hum of Sha'iks cursed sand pet. Below he heard a clash of metal like thunder and some type of warcry that made his legs turn to jelly for just a moment. What the hell is going on down there?


Lark's sword flashed down impossibly fast taking the raider in the neck, then through the shoulder then through the thigh of the next raider and exiting the knee of his other leg. Ninetoe almost lost his head to a wild swing from the raider in front of him when a ribbon of blood flew from Lark's back swing and struck him in the face. He back pedaled and waved his sword in front of him as he tried to clear his eyes. The sound of metal rending pierced the night air like thunder. As he cleared his eyes he saw the chest of the raider in front of him explode as a sword punched a jagged hole through it. Lark reversed his back thrust, twisting the blade to carry the corpse of the still screaming raider and throwing it into two more that were trying to circle around him.


Lark's voice boomed as he bellowed out a battle cry, and then softly another, and then, in a different tone, another. He swiped the scimitar in the next raiders hand, striking just above the hand guard, causing it to unmake itself in the raider's hand. The raider stood paralyzed for a split second, holding a hilt without a blade and then fled to Hood's gate as the backswing caught him across the midsection, the crack of rib bones audible over the song of the sand, and then for a brief grisly moment, visible as jagged grey bones flew through the night air. The war cry had become rhythmic, Lark softly singing to himself as his blade danced in powerful movements, the occasional deathblow hinting at the beat that must thunder in his head.


Ninetoe did his best to stay away from the sweeping strokes that had now become audible every time Lark swung his sword. He grabbed his bow and fired at retreating raiders, at one point watching as Lark struck one raider with another raider's severed head, crushing them both into a gnarly mess. A soldier Ninetoe recognized from camp half ran, half rolled down a dune from the west, a long knife in his hand. He was yelling something but between the rain of sand and the rhythmic crack of bone and steel it was indecipherable.


He closed distance and yelled, "behind me!" but there was nothing behind the fool except sand and more sand. Lark's sword had bent and warped and finally came apart in his hands. He had simply removed a sword from the next raider, arm included, and begun to decimate the remaining attackers with both scimitar and a bony raider arm in his other hand that he was using like a club.


The pitch of the whirlwind rolled higher, and Lark had apparently reached both the end of his song, and the end of the raiders. Somewhere in the near distance was loud cursing, then the sound of horse hooves retreating into the distance. The battle was over.


Lark dropped the scimitar, and then a moment later absent mindedly dropped the raider's arm as well. He sat down in the middle of the sand, a thin sheen of sweat and gore covering his face.


"Look man, we don't need any trouble, we just wanted to see the sand wall." Ninetoe looked the Malazan soldier over, he'd definitely seen him in camp before. The soldier was peering at Lark out of the corner of his eye. "So go see the damn sand wall, it's right over the next couple of dunes." As the two crossed the last couple of dunes, the wail of the whirlwind grew so loud they couldn't speak to each other and the particles so thick in the air they couldn't even sign. Aside from that the base of the sand wall looked no different than the upper half they could see from camp.


As they made their way back to the place where just a while ago blood had flown, and the melody of Lark's song had punctuated the desert air with the clash of steel and the screams of the dying they found the old Malazan soldier waiting, smoking a sweet smelling tobacco from a wooden pipe. "See what you want?" He asked between puffs. "It's just a lot of sand" Ninetoe mourned. "Aye, a bunch of sand without the common decency to stay planted on the ground where it belongs." He took a long pull from his pipe. "Let's get back to camp before anyone notices we're gone."


As they made their way back to camp Lark turned to the old Malazan soldier. "I don't want anyone to hear about what happened this night." The soldier looked at him through a small cloud of blue smoke. "We're going to march right through a pile of dead raider's tomorrow. Someone's going to wonder what happened." Ninetoe grew agitated, "So let them wonder." Lark came to a full stop. "They're going to try and put me with the heavies in the marines along with all of those crazy ass sappers. I want to stay with my friend here. So I need you to promise that we don't talk about what happened here tonight."


They walked the last mile in silence, stopping briefly to drain the contents of their canteens and cleaning themselves up as best as they could. The old Malazan soldier had to borrow water from each of them, mumbling something about losing his canteen somewhere along the way. The last hundred yards from the pickets the old soldier stopped the party. "Fine, I'll keep your secret boys, as long as you return the favor. Promise me you won't go out wandering in the night, not at least, without letting me know."


The two friends looked at each other and nodded. "Fair deal, you have any ideas how we can pull this off?" The old soldier nodded along with them. "Boys, every army needs a hero so long as they never find themselves eating his dust." the soldier tapped his pipe against his boot and cleared out the remaining ash. "I'm no hero sir," Lark hesitated a moment, "when we get into trouble I hear a certain song in my head. I can still hear echoes of it now, always at the edge of my mind, but when we get in trouble it gets clear and loud. I watch the battle... watch it, even though I'm fighting in it and I watch the people I'm fighting. They can't hear the song like I can, they don't understand the rhythm. So... so they're not very good at the dance that goes with it."


The old soldier smiled at this, "Aye, most don't sing Teblor battle songs while they fight either son. Although I'm going to guess you don't even know where you learned that song from." Lark interrupted, "My gramma used to sing that song to me. She said it was my grampa's favorite song. Something from the old country, whatever that means. She sang it to me when I was a little kid." The old soldier finally put away his pipe as they neared the pickets. "Once we get inside I'll help find you a new sword" he hesitated, "something big and heavy, and then I'll be sure and tell everyone the story of Neffarias Bredd, and how he slew eighteen raiders last night, just a mile or so from this very camp, Moak will love that one."


They made their way through the pickets silently, did a slow circle inside the pickets and walked to the edge of camp. "We appreciate the help but we need to get back to our unit before our sergeant figures out we've gone missing and tries to have us hanged." At this the old soldier turned on them with a hard glare and a look of exasperation. "You two dirt for brains farm boys! I am your sergeant!"

[NefaraisBredd]

Interesting username you have there

[NefariasBredd]

Thanks? I chose it because of what I was posting. Also I figured every conceivable variation of Fiddler was taken.

[Whisperzzzzzzz]

Great story! Do we know who their sergeant was, or did you create him just for this tale?

There are some really good lines in this, and the hints of Teblor in Lark's history are cool.

[NefariasBredd]

He's just a generic sergeant in the Malazan army. So imagine a 40 year old man drinking weak tea strained through a dirty sock. I appreciate the read.