Light, shadow and dark-This is a war unending.
GLISTENING SILVER, THE ARMOUR LAY OVER A T-SHAPED STAND. OIL had dripped down from the ragged knee-length tassels to form a pool on the flagstoned floor beneath. The sleeves were not loose, but appeared intended to be worn almost skin-tight. It had seen much use, and where mended the rings appeared to be a darker, carbon-stained iron.
Beside it, on a free-standing iron frame with horizontal hooks, waited a two-handed sword, the scabbard parallel directly beneath it on another pair of hooks. The sword was extraordinarily thin, with a long, tapered tip, edges on both sides, twin-fluted. Its surface was a strangely mottled oily blue, magenta and silver. The grip was round instead of flat, banded in gut, the pommel a single, large oblong sphere of polished haematite. The scabbard was of black wood, banded at the point and at the mouth in silver but otherwise unadorned. The harness belt attached to it was of small, almost delicate, black chain links.
Chain gauntlets waited on a wooden shelf on the wall behind the armour. The dull iron helm beside them was little more than a skullcap within a cage of studded bars, the bars reaching down like a massive hand, the gnarled fingers curving down to bridge nose, cheeks and jaw lines. A lobster tail of chain depended from the slightly flared neck rim.
Standing just within the entrance to the modest, low-ceilinged room, Cutter watched as Darist began preparations for donning his martial accoutrements. The Daru youth was finding it difficult to convince himself that such beautiful weapons and armour-which had clearly seen decades, if not centuries, of use-could belong to this silver-haired man, who carried himself like an absent-minded scholar, whose amber eyes seemed to hold a perpetual look of confused distraction beneath the glowing sheen. Who moved slowly as if protecting brittle bones-
Yet I have experienced the old Tiste Andu’s strength. And there is a mindfulness to his every movement which I should recognize-for I last saw it on another Tiste Andu, an ocean away. A racial trait? Perhaps, but it whispers like a song of threat, sunk deep in the marrow of my bones.
Darist stood facing his suit of armour, as if frozen in some startled contemplation-as if he’d forgotten how to put it on.
‘These Tiste Edur, Darist,’ Cutter said. ‘How many are there?’
‘Will we survive the coming attack, is your question? Unlikely, is my answer. At least five ships survived the storm. Two have reached our shore and managed landing. There would have been more, but they were engaged by a Malazan fleet that happened upon them by chance. We witnessed the clash from the Cliffs of Purahl…’ The Tiste Andu slowly glanced back at Cutter. ‘Your human kin did well-far better than the Edur no doubt anticipated.’
‘A sea battle between the Malazans and the Tiste Edur? When was this?’
‘Perhaps a week ago. There were but three Malazan war dromons, yet each managed to find company before plunging to the deep. There was a skilled mage among the humans-the exchange of sorcery was impressive-’
‘You and your kin watched! Why didn’t you help? You must have known the Edur were seeking this island!’
Darist stepped towards the armour, lifted it seemingly effortlessly from its frame. ‘We no longer leave this island. For many decades now, we hold to our decision to remain isolated.’
‘Why?’
The Tiste Andu gave no answer. He slipped the mail suit over his shoulders. The sound it made as it flowed down was like liquid. He then reached for the sword.
‘That looks as if it would snap with the first block of a heavier weapon.’
‘It will not. There are many names for this particular sword.’ Darist lifted it free of the hooks. ‘Its maker named it Vengeance. T’an Arcs, in our language. But I call it K’orladis.’
‘Which means?’
‘Grief.’
A faint chill rippled through Cutter. ‘Who was its maker?’
‘My brother.’ He sheathed the sword, slipped his arms through the chain harness. Then he reached for the gauntlets. ‘Before he found one more suited to his nature.’ Darist turned, his gaze travelling the length of Cutter, head to toe, then back again. ‘Do you have skill with those knives hidden about your person?’
‘Some, though I draw no pleasure from spilling blood.’
‘What else are they for?’ the Tiste Andu asked as he donned the helm. Cutter shrugged, wishing he had an answer to that question. ‘Do you intend to fight the Edur?’
‘Since they are seeking the throne, yes.’
Darist slowly cocked his head. ‘Yet this is not your battle. Why would you choose to borrow this cause?’
‘On Genabackis-my homeland-Anomander Rake and his followers chose to fight against the Malazan Empire. It wasn’t their battle, but they have now made it so.’
He was surprised to see a wry smile twist the Tiste Andu’s weathered features beneath the crooked iron fingers of the guards.
‘That is interesting. Very well, Cutter, join me-though I tell you now it will prove your final fight.’
‘I hope not.’
Darist led him from the room, out into the broad hallway once more, then through a narrow, black-wood-framed archway. The passage within appeared to be a tunnel through a single piece of wood, like the hollowed core of a massive, toppled tree trunk. It stretched on into the gloom, inclining slightly upward.
Cutter walked behind the Tiste Andu, the sound of the man’s armour soft as the hiss of rain on a beach. The tunnel ended abruptly with an upward turn, the ceiling opening to reveal a vertical shaft. A rough ladder of roots climbed towards a small, pale disc of light.
Darist’s ascent was slow and measured, Cutter impatient on the rungs directly beneath until the thought that he might soon die struck him, at which point a dull lassitude settled into his muscles, and it became a struggle to keep up with the ancient Tiste Andu.
They eventually emerged onto a leaf-cluttered floor of flagstones. Sunlight speared shafts of dust from slitted windows and gaps in the roof overhead-the storm seemed to have missed this place entirely. One wall had mostly collapsed and it was towards this that Darist strode.
Cutter followed. ‘Some sort of upkeep might well have made this defensible,’ he muttered.
‘These surface structures are not Andu-they are Edur, and were in ruin when we first arrived.’
‘How close are they?’
‘They range through the forest, working inland. Cautious. They know they are not alone.’
‘How many can you sense?’
‘This first party numbers perhaps a score. We shall meet them in the courtyard, permitting us sufficient room for swordplay yet allowing us a wall to which we can set our backs in the last few moments.’
‘Hood’s breath, Darist, if we drive them back you’ll likely die of shock.’
The Tiste Andu glanced back at the Daru, then gestured. ‘Follow me.’
A half-dozen similarly ruined chambers were traversed before they came to the courtyard. The vine-latticed walls were twice the height of a human, ragged-topped. Faded frescoes were hinted at beneath the overgrowth. Opposite the inner entrance through which they strode was an arched gateway, beyond which a trail of pine needles, snaking roots and moss-covered boulders wound into the shadows of enormous trees.
Cutter judged the yard to be twenty paces wide, twenty-five deep. ‘There’s too much room here, Darist,’ he said. ‘We’ll get flanked-’
‘I will command the centre. You remain behind, for those who might indeed try to get past me.’
Cutter recalled Anomander Rake’s battle with the demon on the Darujhistan street. The two-handed fighting style the Son of Darkness had employed demanded plenty of room, and it now appeared that Darist would fight in a similar manner-but the sword’s blade was, to Cutter’s mind, far too thin for such fierce, wheeling swings. ‘Is there sorcery invested in that blade of yours?’ he asked.
‘Not as investment is commonly known,’ the Tiste Andu replied, drawing the weapon and wrapping both hands about the grip, one high under the hilt, the other just above the pommel. ‘The power of Grief lies in the focused intent in its creation. The sword demands a singular will in its wielder. With such a will, it cannot be defeated.’
‘And have you that singular will?’
Darist slowly lowered the tip to the ground. ‘Had I, human, this would not be your last day this side of Hood’s gate. Now, I suggest you draw your weapons. The Edur have discovered the path and now approach.’
Cutter found his hands were trembling as he drew out his leading knives. He possessed four others, two under each arm, sheathed in leather and peace-looped by thongs-which he now pulled clear. These four were weighted for throwing. Once done, he adjusted his grip on the knives in his hands, then had to dry his palms and repeat the task.
A soft whisper of sound made him look up, to see that Darist had slipped into a fighting stance, though the tip of the sword still rested on the flagstones.
And Cutter saw something else. The leaf clutter and detritus on the flagstones was in motion, crawling as if pushed by an unseen wind, gathering towards the gate’s end of the courtyard, and out to heap against the walls to either side.
‘Keep your eyes slitted,’ Darist said in a low tone.
Slitted?
There was movement in the gloom beyond the gateway, furtive, then three figures stepped into view beneath the arch.
As tall as Darist, their skin a dusky pallor. Long brown hair, knotted and snarled with fetishes. Necklaces of claws and canines competed with the barbarity of their roughly tanned leather armour that was stitched with articulating strips of bronze. Their helms, also bronze, were shaped like bear or wolf skulls.
Among them, there was nothing of the natural majesty evident in Darist-or in Anomander Rake. A far more brutal cast, these Edur. Tip-heavy black-bladed scimitars were in their hands, sealskin-covered round shields on their forearms.
They hesitated before Darist, then the one in the centre snarled something in a language Cutter could not understand.
The silver-haired Tiste Andu shrugged, said nothing.
The Edur shouted something that was clearly a demand. Then they readied their weapons and swung their shields around.
Cutter could see more of the savage warriors gathered on the trail beyond the gate.
The three stepped from the archway, spread out to form a slight pincer position-the centre Edur a step further away than his companions on either side.
‘They don’t know how you will do this,’ Cutter murmured. ‘They’ve never fought against-’
The flankers moved forward in perfect unison.
Darist’s sword snapped upward, and with that motion, a fierce gust of wind lifted in the courtyard, and the air around the three Edur was suddenly filled with skirling leaves and dust.
Cutter watched as the Tiste Andu attacked. The blade tipped horizontal, point threatening the Edur on the right, but the actual attack was with the pommel, against the warrior on the left. A blurring sideways dip to close, then the pommel struck the swiftly upraised shield, splitting it clean in half. Darist’s left hand slipped off the pommel and slapped the warrior’s sword away even as the Tiste Andu dropped into a squat, drawing the edge of Grief down his opponent’s front.
It seemed there was no contact at all, yet blood gushed from a rent that began above the Edur’s left collar bone and descended in a straight line down to his crotch.
The squat became a backward springing motion that landed Darist two paces back, his blade already hissing to fend off the other two warriors, both of whom leapt away in alarm.
The wounded Edur crumpled in a pool of his own blood, and as he fell Cutter saw that Grief had cut through the collar bone and every rib in the cage down the left side.
The warriors beyond the archway screamed battlecries and surged into the wind-whipped courtyard.
Their only chance of success lay in closing on Darist, inside the man’s reach, closing and fouling that whispering blade, and the Edur lacked nothing in courage.
Cutter saw another cut down, then a third took the pommel on the side of his helm, and the bronze collapsed inward far too deep-the warrior’s limbs flailed in strange jerking motions as he fell to the flagstones.
Both leading knives were in the Daru’s left hand, and his right reached to a throwing knife. He sent the weapon darting out with a back-handed throw, saw it sink to the hilt in an Edur’s eye socket-and knew the tip had snapped against the inside of the man’s skull at the back. He threw the second one and swore as a shield lifted to take it.
In the storm of spinning leaves Darist’s sword seemed to be everywhere at once, blocking attack after attack, then an Edur flung himself forward to grapple, and managed to wrap both arms around the Tiste Andu’s legs.
A scimitar lashed in. There was a spray of blood from Darist’s right shoulder. Grief’s pommel dented the helm of the grappling warrior, and the Edur sagged. Another swing chopped into the Tiste Andu’s hip, the blade bouncing back out from the bone. Darist staggered.
Cutter rushed forward as the remaining Edur closed. Through spinning, clattering leaves, into the calmed air at the centre. The Daru had already learned that direct, head-on confrontation was not an ideal tactic when fighting with knives. He chose an Edur whose attention was fixed solely on Darist and was therefore turned slightly away-the warrior caught sight of him peripherally, and was quick to react.
A back-handed slash of the scimitar, followed by the shield swinging round.
Cutter punched his left knife at the blade, to intercept a third of the way down from the tip. Simultaneously, he stop-hit the swing with his other knife, midway along the man’s forearm-the point of his weapon punching through leather and stabbing between the bones with both edges on. The hilt of his other weapon then contacted the scimitar-and knocked the weapon from a numbed hand.
The Edur’s grunt was loud, and he swore as, yanking on the knife, Cutter moved past him. The blade was reluctant to pull free and dragged the impaled arm after it. The warrior’s legs tangled and he fell to one knee.
Even as he lifted his shield, Cutter’s free knife darted in over it, spearing him through the throat.
The shield’s rim cracked hard against the Daru’s out-thrust wrist, nearly springing the knife loose, but he managed to retain his grip.
Another tug and the other knife tore free of the Edur’s forearm.
A shield struck him a body blow from his left, lifting Cutter upward, his moccasins leaving the flagstones. He twisted and slashed out at the attacker, and missed. The shield’s impact had turned his left side into a mass of thrumming pain. He hit the ground and folded into a roll.
Something thumped in pursuit, bounced once, then twice, and as the Daru regained his feet an Edur’s decapitated head cracked hard against his right shin.
The agony of this last blow-absurdly to his mind-overwhelmed all else thus far. He screamed a curse, hopped backward one-legged.
An Edur was rushing him.
A fouler word grated out from Cutter. He flung the knife from his left hand. Shield surged up to meet it, the warrior ducking from view.
Grimacing, Cutter lunged after the weapon-while the Edur remained blind-and stabbed overhand above the shield. The knife sank down behind the man’s left collarbone, sprouting a geyser of blood as he pulled it back out.
There were shouts now in the courtyard-and suddenly it seemed the fighting was everywhere, on all sides. Cutter reeled back a step to see that other Tiste Andu had arrived-and, in their midst, Apsalar.
Three Edur were on the ground in her wake, all writhing amidst blood and bile.
The rest, barring their kin who had fallen to Apsalar, Cutter and Darist, were retreating, back through the archway.
Apsalar and her Tiste Andu companions pursued only so far as the gate.
Slowly, the spinning wind dwindled, the leaf fragments drifting down like ash.
Cutter glanced over to see Darist still standing, though he leaned against a side wall, his long, lean frame sheathed in blood, helm gone, his hair matted and hanging down over his face, dripping. The sword Grief remained in his two hands, point once more on the flagstones.
One of the new Tiste Andu moved to the three noisily dying Edur and unceremoniously slit their throats. When finished, she raised her gaze to study Apsalar for a long moment.
Cutter realized that all of Darist’s kin were white-haired, though none were as old-indeed, they appeared very young, in appearance no older than the Daru himself. They were haphazardly armed and armoured, and none held their weapons with anything like familiarity. Quick, nervous glances were thrown at the gateway-then over to Darist.
Sheathing her Kethra knives, Apsalar strode up to Cutter. ‘I am sorry we were late.’
He blinked, then shrugged. ‘I thought you’d drowned.’
‘No, I made shore easily enough-though everything else went with you. There was sorcerous questing, then, but I evaded that.’ She nodded to the youths. ‘I found these camped a fair distance inland. They were… hiding.’
‘Hiding. But Darist said-’
‘Ah, so that is Darist. Andarist, to be more precise.’ She turned a thoughtful gaze on the ancient Tiste Andu. ‘It was by his command. He didn’t want them here… because I imagine he expected they would die.’
‘And so they shall,’ Darist growled, finally lifting his head to meet her eyes. ‘You have condemned them all, for the Edur will now hunt them down in earnest-the old hatreds, rekindled once more.’
She seemed unaffected by his words. ‘The throne must be protected.’
Darist bared red-stained teeth, his eyes glittering in the half-shadows. ‘If he truly wants it protected, then he can come here and do it himself.’
Apsalar frowned. ‘Who?’
Cutter answered, ‘His brother, of course. Anomander Rake.’
It had been a guess, but Darist’s expression was all the affirmation needed. Anomander Rake’s younger brother. In his veins, nothing of the Son of Darkness’s Draconian blood. And in his hands, a sword that its maker had judged insufficient, when compared to Dragnipur. But this knowledge alone was barely a whisper-the twisted, dark storm of all that existed between the two siblings was an epic neither man was ever likely to orate, or so Cutter suspected.
And the skein of bitter grievances proved even more knotted than the Daru had first imagined, for it was then revealed that the youths were, one and all, close kin to Anomander-grandchildren. Their parents had inherited their sire’s flaw, the hunger for wandering, for vanishing into the mists, for shaping private worlds in forgotten, isolated places. ‘The search for loyalty and honour’, Darist had said, with a sneer, whilst Phaed-the young woman who had shown mercy to Apsalar’s victims-bound his wounds.
A task not done quickly. Darist-Andarist-had been slashed at least a dozen times, each time the heavy scimitar parting chain then flesh down to the bone, in various places on his body. How he had managed to stand upright, much less continue fighting, belied his earlier claim that his will was not of sufficient purity to match the sword, Grief. Now that the skirmish had been suspended, however, the force that had fired the old warrior fast dissipated. His right arm was incapacitated; the wound on his hip dragged him onto the flagstones-and he could not rise again without help.
There were nine dead Tiste Edur. Their retreat had probably been triggered by a desire to regroup rather than being hard-pressed.
Worse, they were but an advance party. The two ships just off the shore were massive: each could easily hold two hundred warriors. Or so Apsalar judged, having scouted the inlet where they were moored.
‘There is plenty of wreckage in the water,’ she added, ‘and both Edur ships have the look of having been in a fight-’
‘Three Malazan war dromons,’ Cutter said. ‘A chance encounter. Darist says the Malazans gave a good account of themselves.’
They were seated on some tumbled rubble a dozen paces from the Tiste Andu, watching the youths hover and fuss over Darist. Cutter’s left side ached, and though he did not look beneath his clothes he knew that bruises were spreading. He struggled to ignore the discomfort and continued eyeing the Tiste Andu.
‘They are not what I expected,’ he said quietly. ‘Not even schooled in the art of fighting-’
‘True. Darist’s desire to protect them could prove a fatal one.’
‘Now that the Edur know they exist. Not a part of Darist’s plan.’
Apsalar shrugged. ‘They were given a task.’
He fell silent, pondering that brusque statement. He’d always believed that a singular capacity to inflict death engendered a certain wisdom-of the fragility of the spirit, of its mortality-as he had known, and experienced first-hand, with Rallick Nom in Darujhistan. But Apsalar revealed nothing of such wisdom; her words were hard with judgement, often flatly dismissive. She had taken focus and made of it a weapon… or a means of self-defence.
She had not intended any of the three Edur she had taken down to die swiftly. Yet it seemed she drew no pleasure, as a sadist might. It is more as if she was trained to do so… trained as a torturer. Yet Cotillion-Dancer-was no torturer. He was an assassin. So where does the vicious streak come from? Does it belong to her own nature? An unpleasant, disturbing thought.
He lifted his left arm, gingerly, wincing. Their next fight would likely be a short one, even with Apsalar at their side.
‘You are in no condition to fight,’ she observed.
‘Nor is Darist,’ Cutter retorted.
‘The sword will carry him. But you will prove a liability. I would not be distracted by protecting you.’
‘What do you suggest? I kill myself now so I’m not in your way?’
She shook her head-as if the suggestion had been, on its face, entirely reasonable, just not what she had in mind-and spoke in a low voice. ‘There are others on this island. Hiding well, but not well enough to escape my notice. I want you to go to them. I want you to enlist their help.’
‘Who are these others?’
‘You yourself identified them, Cutter. Malazans. Survivors, I would assume, from the three war dromons. There is one of power among them.’
Cutter glanced over at Darist. The youths had moved the old man so that he sat with his back against the wall beside the inside doorway, opposite the gate. His head was lowered, bearded chin to chest, and only the faint rise and fall of his chest indicated that he still lived. ‘All right. Where will I find them?’
The forest was filled with ruins. Crumbled, moss-covered, often little more than overgrown heaps, but it was evident to Cutter as he padded along the narrow, faint trail Apsalar had described for him that this forest had risen from the heart of a dead city-a huge city, dominated by massive buildings. Pieces of statuary lay scattered here and there, figures of enormous stature, constructed in sections and fixed together with a glassy substance he did not recognize. Although mostly covered in moss, he suspected the figures were Edur.
An oppressive gloom suffused all that lay beneath the forest canopy. A number of living trees showed torn bark, and while the bark was black, the smooth, wet wood underneath was blood red. Fallen companions revealed that the fierce crimson turned black with death. The wounded upright trees reminded Cutter of Darist-of the Tiste Andu’s black skin and the deep red cuts slashing through it.
He found he was shivering in the damp air as he padded along. His left arm was now entirely useless, and though he had retrieved his knives-including the broken-tipped one-he doubted that he would be able to put up much of a fight should the need arise.
He could make out his destination directly ahead. A mound of rubble, pyramidal and particularly large, its summit sunbathed. There were trees on its flanks, but most were dead in the strangling grip of vines. A gaping hole of impenetrable darkness yawned from the side nearest Cutter.
He slowed, then, twenty paces from the cave, halted. What he was about to do ran against every instinct. ‘Malazans!’ he called out, then winced at his own loudness. But the Edur are closing on the Throne-no-one nearby to hear me. I hope. ‘I know you are within! I would speak with you!’
Figures appeared at the flanking edges of the cave, two on each side, crossbows cocked and trained on Cutter. Then, from the centre, emerged three more, two women and a man. The woman on the left gestured and said, ‘Come closer, hands out to your sides.’
Cutter hesitated, then stretched out his right hand. ‘My left arm won’t lift, I’m afraid.’
‘Come ahead.’ He approached.
The speaker was tall, muscular. Her hair was long, stained red. She wore tanned leathers. A longsword was scabbarded at her hip. Her skin was a deep bronze in hue. Cutter judged she was ten or more years older than him, and he felt a shiver run through him when he lifted his gaze and met her tilted, gold-hued eyes.
The other woman was unarmed, older, and her entire right side, head, face, torso and leg, was horrifically burned-the flesh fused with wisps of clothing, mangled and melted by the ravages of a sorcerous attack. It was a wonder that she was standing-or even alive.
Hanging back a step from these two was the man. Cutter guessed that he was Dal Honese, dusky-skinned, grey-shot black curled hair on his head cut short-though his eyes were, incongruously, a deep blue. His features were even enough, though crisscrossed with scars. He wore a battered hauberk, a plain longsword at his belt, and an expression so closed he could be Apsalar’s brother.
The flanking marines were in full armour, helmed and visored. ‘Are you the only survivors?’ Cutter asked. The first woman scowled.
‘I have little time,’ the Daru went on. ‘We need your help. The Edur are assailing us-’
‘Edur?’
Cutter blinked, then nodded. ‘The seafarers you fought. Tiste Edur. They are seeking something on this island, something of vast power and we’d rather it not fall into their hands. And why should you help? Because if it does fall into their hands, the Malazan Empire is likely finished. In fact, so is all of humanity-’
The burned woman cackled, then broke into a fit of coughing that frothed her mouth with red bubbles. After a long moment, the woman recovered. ‘Oh, to be young again! All of humanity, is it? Why not the whole world?’
‘The Throne of Shadow is on this island,’ Cutter said.
At this, the Dal Honese man started slightly.
The burned woman was nodding. ‘Yes yes yes, true words. The sense of things arrives-in a flood! Tiste Edur, Tiste Edur, a fleet set out on a search, a fleet from far away, and now they’ve found it. Ammanas and Cotillion are about to be usurped, and what of it? The Throne of Shadow-we fought the Edur for that? Oh, what a waste-our ships, the marines-my own life, for the Throne of Shadow?’ She spasmed into coughing once more.
‘Not our battle,’ the other woman growled. ‘We weren’t even looking for a fight, but the fools weren’t interested in actually talking, in exchanging emissaries-Hood knows, this is not our island, not within the Malazan Empire. Look elsewhere-’
‘No,’ the Dal Honese rumbled.
The woman turned in surprise. ‘We were clear enough, Traveller, in our gratitude to you for saving our lives. But that hardly permits you to assume command-’
‘The Throne must not be claimed by the Edur,’ the man named Traveller said. ‘I have no desire to challenge your command, Captain, but the lad speaks without exaggeration when he describes the risks… to the empire and to all of humanity. Like it or not, the Warren of Shadow is now human-aspected…’ he smiled crookedly, ‘and it well suits our natures.’ The smile vanished. ‘This battle is ours-we face it now or we face it later.’
‘You claim this fight in the name of the Malazan Empire?’ the captain asked.
‘More than you know,’ Traveller replied.
The captain gestured to one of her marines. ‘Gentur, get the others out here, but leave Mudslinger with the wounded. Then have the squads count quarrels-I want to know what we have.’
The marine named Gentur uncocked his crossbow then slipped back into the cave. A few moments later more soldiers emerged, sixteen in all when counting those who had originally come out.
Cutter walked up to the captain. ‘There is one of power among [missing text] at the burned woman-who was leaning over and spitting out murky blood. ‘Is she a sorceress?’
The captain followed his gaze and frowned. ‘She is, but she is dying. The power you-’
The air reverberated to a distant concussion and Cutter wheeled. ‘They’ve attacked again! With magic this time-follow me!’ Without a backward look, the Daru set off down the trail. He heard a faint curse behind him, then the captain began shouting orders.
The path led directly to the courtyard, and from the thundering detonations pounding again and again, Cutter judged the troop would have no difficulty in finding the place of battle-he would not wait for them. Apsalar was there, and Darist, and a handful of untrained Tiste Andu youths-they would have little defence against sorcery. But Cutter believed he did.
He sprinted on through the gloom, his right hand closed about his aching left arm, seeking to hold it in place, though each jostling stride lanced pain into his chest.
The nearest wall of the courtyard came into view. Colours were playing wildly in the air, thrashing the trees to all sides, deep reds and magenta and blues, a swirling chaos. The waves of concussions were increasing in frequency, pounding within the courtyard. There were no Edur outside the archway-an ominous sign. Cutter raced for the opening. Movement to his right caught his attention, and he saw another company of Edur, coming up from a coast trail but still sixty paces distant. The Malazans will have to deal with those… Queen of Dreams help them. The gate was before him, and he caught first sight of what was happening in the courtyard.
Four Edur stood in a line in the centre, their backs to him. A dozen or more Edur warriors waited on each flank, scimitars held ready. Waves of magic rolled out from the four, pulsing, growing ever stronger-and each one flowed over the flagstones in a tumbling storm of colours, to hammer into Darist.
Who stood alone, at his feet a dead or unconscious Apsalar. Behind him, the scattered bodies of Anomander Rake’s grandchildren. Somehow, Darist still held his sword upright-though he was a shredded mass of blood, bones visible through the wreckage of his chest. He stood before the crashing waves, yet would not take a single step back, even as they tore him apart. The sword Grief was white hot, the metal singing a terrible, keening note that grew louder and more piercing with every moment that passed.
‘Blind,’ Cutter hissed as he closed, ‘I need you now!’
Shadows blossomed around him, then four heavy paws thumped onto the flagstones, and the Hound’s looming presence was suddenly at his side.
One of the Edur spun round. Unhuman eyes widened on seeing Blind, then the sorcerer snapped out something in a harsh, commanding tone.
Blind’s forward rush halted in a skid of claws. And the Hound cowered.
‘Beru fend!’ Cutter swore, scrabbling to draw a knife-
The courtyard was suddenly filled with shadows, a strange crackling sound ripping through the air-
And a fifth figure was among the four Edur sorcerers now, grey-clad, gloved, face hidden in a rough hood. In its hands, a rope, that seemed to writhe with a life of its own. Cutter saw it snap out to strike a sorcerer in one eye, and when the rope whipped back out, a stream of blood and minced brains followed. The sorcerer’s magic winked out and the Edur toppled.
The rope was too fast to follow, as its wielder moved among the three remaining mages, but in its twisting wake a head tumbled from shoulders, intestines spilled out from a gaping rip, and whatever felled the last sorcerer happened in a blur that left no obvious result, except that the Edur was dead before he hit the ground.
There were shouts from the Edur warriors, and they converged from both sides.
It was then that the screams began. The rope lashed out from Cotillion’s right hand; a long-knife was in his left, seeming to do little but lick and touch everyone it came close to-but the result was devastating. The air was a mist of suspended blood around the patron god of assassins, and before Cutter drew his fourth breath since the battle began, it was over, and around Cotillion there was naught but corpses.
A final snap of the rope whipped blood across a wall, then the god threw back his hood and wheeled to face Blind. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it once more. An angry gesture, and shadows swept out to engulf the trembling Hound. When they dissipated a moment later Blind was gone.
There was the sound of fighting beyond the courtyard and Cutter turned. ‘The Malazans need help!’ he shouted to Cotillion.
‘No they don’t,’ the god growled.
Both spun at a loud clatter, to see Darist lying motionless beside Apsalar, the sword lying nearby, its heat igniting the leaves it lay on.
Cotillion’s face fell, as if with a sudden, deep sorrow. ‘When he’s done out there,’ he said to Cutter, ‘guide him to this sword. Tell him its names.’
‘He?’
A moment later, with a final survey of the mayhem surrounding him, Cotillion vanished.
Cutter rushed over to Apsalar. He knelt down beside her. Her clothes were crisped, smoke rising in tendrils in the now still air. Fire had swept through her hair, but only momentarily, it seemed, for she had plenty left; nor was her face burned, although a long red welt, already blistering, was visible in a diagonal slash down her neck. Faint jerks of her limbs-the after-effects of the sorcerous attack-showed him she still lived.
He tried to wake her, failed. A moment later he looked up, listened. The sounds of fighting had ceased and now a single set of boots slowly approached, crunching on scorched ground.
Cutter slowly rose and faced the archway.
Traveller stepped into view. A sword broken three-quarters of the way up the blade was in one gauntleted hand. Though spattered with blood, he seemed unwounded. He paused to study the scene in the courtyard.
Somehow, Cutter knew without asking that he was the last left alive. Yet he moved none the less to look out through the archway. The Malazans were all down, motionless. Surrounding them in a ring were the corpses of half a hundred or more Tiste Edur. Quarrel-studded others lay on the trail approaching the clearing.
I called those Malazans to their deaths. That captain-with the beautiful eyes… He returned to where Traveller walked among the fallen Tiste Andu. And the question he asked came from a constricted throat. ‘Did you speak true, Traveller?’
The man glanced over.
‘This battle,’ Cutter elaborated. ‘Was it truly a Malazan battle?’
Traveller’s answering shrug chilled the Daru. ‘Some of these are still alive,’ he said, gesturing at the Tiste Andu.
‘And there are wounded in the cave,’ Cutter pointed out.
He watched as the man walked over to where lay Apsalar and Darist. ‘She is a friend,’ Cutter said.
Traveller grunted, then he flung his broken sword aside and stepped over Darist. He reached down for the sword.
‘Careful-’
But the man closed his gauntleted hand on the grip and lifted the weapon.
Cutter sighed, closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them and said, ‘It is named Vengeance… or Grief. You can choose which best suits you.’
Traveller turned, met Cutter’s eyes. ‘Do you not wish it for yourself?’
The Daru shook his head. ‘It demands its wielder possess a singular will. I am not for that sword, nor, I think, will I ever be.’
Traveller studied the blade in his hand. ‘Vengeance,’ he murmured, then nodded and crouched down to retrieve the scabbard from Darist’s body. ‘This old man, who was he?’
Cutter shrugged. ‘A guardian. He was named Andarist. And now he’s gone, and so the Throne is without a protector-’
Traveller straightened. ‘I will abide here a time. As you said, there are wounded to tend to… and corpses to bury.’
‘I’ll help-’
‘No need. The god who strode through this place has visited the Edur ships-there are small craft aboard, and supplies. Take your woman and leave this island. If more Edur chance upon this location, your presence will only impede me.’
‘How long will you plan on staying here, in Andarist’s role?’
‘Long enough to do him honour.’
A groan came from Apsalar, drawing Cutter to her. She began thrashing, as if fevered.
‘Carry her from this place,’ Traveller said. ‘The sorcery’s effects linger.’
He looked up, met those eyes-and saw sorrow there, the first emotion yet to be revealed from the man. ‘I would help you bury-’
‘I need no help. It will not be the first time I have buried companions. Go. Take her.’
He lifted her in his arms. Her thrashing stilled and she sighed as if sinking into deep, peaceful sleep. Then he stood studying Traveller for a moment.
The man turned away. ‘Thank your god, mortal,’ he growled, his back still to Cutter, ‘for the sword…’
An elongated mass of the stone floor had fallen away, down to the black rushing water of the subterranean river. Athwart the gaping hole lay a bundle of spears, around which was tied a rope that reached down into the water, snaking about as the current tugged at it. The air of the rough-hewn chamber was chill and damp.
Kalam crouched at the edge and studied the swirling water below for a long moment.
‘The well,’ Sergeant Cord said from where he stood beside the assassin.
Kalam grunted, then asked, ‘What in Hood’s name inspired the captain and lieutenant to climb down there?’
‘If you look long enough, with the torches gone from this room, you’ll see a glow. There’s something lying on the bottom, maybe twice a man’s height in depth.’
‘Something?’
‘Looks like a man… all in armour. Lying spread-eagled.’
‘So take the torches out. I want to see this.’
‘Did you say something, Corporal? Your demon friend has disappeared, remember-vanished.’
Kalam sighed. ‘Demons will do that, and in this case you should be thankful for that. Right now, Sergeant, I am of the opinion that you’ve all been cooped up in this mountain for far too long. I’m thinking maybe you’ve lost your minds. And I have also reconsidered your words about my position in your company, and I’ve reached a decision and it’s this.’ He turned his head and fixed his gaze on Cord’s eyes. ‘I’m not in your company, Cord. I’m a Bridgeburner. You’re Ashok Regiment. And if that’s not enough for you, I am resurrecting my old status… as a Claw, a Leader of a Hand. And as such, I’m only outranked in the field by Clawmaster Topper, the Adjunct, and the Empress herself. Now, take the damned torches out of here!’
Cord suddenly smiled. ‘You want to take command of this company? Fine, you can have it. Though we want to deal with Irriz ourselves.’ He reached up to collect the first of the sputtering torches on the wall behind him.
The sudden alteration of attitude from Cord startled Kalam, then filled him with suspicion. Until I sleep, that is. Gods below, I was far better off on my own. Where did that damned demon go, anyway? ‘And when you’ve done that, Sergeant, head back up to the others and begin preparations-we’re leaving this place.’
‘What about the captain and the lieutenant?’
‘What about them? They were swept away and they either drowned or were sprung loose in some watering hole. Either way, they’re not with us now, and I doubt they’re coming back-’
‘You don’t know that-’
‘They’ve been gone too long, Cord. If they didn’t drown they would have had to reach the surface somewhere close. You can hold your breath only so long. Now, enough with this discussion-get going.’
‘Aye… sir.’
A torch in each hand, Cord headed up the stairs. Darkness swiftly engulfed the chamber.
Kalam waited for his eyes to adjust, listening to the sergeant’s boot-steps growing ever fainter.
And there, finally, far below, the glowing figure, indistinct, rippling beneath the rushing water.
The assassin retrieved the rope and coiled it to one side. About twenty arm-lengths had been played out, but the bundle of spears held a lot more. Then he pried a large chunk of stone from the ragged edge and tied the sodden, icy-cold end of the rope to it.
With Oponn’s luck, the rock was sufficiently heavy to sink more or less straight down. He checked the knots once more, then pushed it from the ledge.
It plummeted, dragging the coiled rope down with it. The spears clacked tight, and Kalam peered down. The stone was suspended the full length of the rope-a distance that Kalam, and, no doubt, the captain and the lieutenant, had judged sufficient to make contact with the figure. But it hadn’t, though it looked close. Meaning he’s a big bastard. All right… let’s see how big. He grasped the spears and began lifting and rolling the bundle, playing out ever greater lengths.
A pause to study the stone’s progress, then more playing out of rope.
It finally reached the figure-given the sudden bowing of the line as the current took the slack. Kalam looked down once more. ‘Hood’s breath!’ The rock lay on the figure’s chest… and the distance made that stone look small.
The armoured figure was enormous, three times a man’s height at least. The captain and the lieutenant had been deceived by the scale. Probably fatally so.
He squinted down at it, wondering at the strange glow, then grasped the rope to retrieve the stone-
And, far below, a massive hand flashed up and closed on it-and pulled.
Kalam shouted as he was pulled down into the torrent. As he plunged into the icy water, he reached up in an attempt to grasp the bundle of spears.
There was a fierce tug, and the spears snapped with an explosive splintering sound directly overhead.
The assassin still held on to the rope, even as the current swept him along. He felt himself being pulled down.
The cold was numbing. His ears popped.
Then he was drawn close by a pair of massive chain-clad fists-close, and face to face with the broad grille of the creature’s helm. In the swirling darkness beneath that grille, the glimmer of a rotted, bestial visage, most of the flesh in current-fluttering strips. Teeth devoid of lips-
And the creature spoke in Kalam’s mind. ‘The other two eluded me… but you I will have. I am so hungry-’
Hungry? Kalam answered. Try this.
He drove both long-knives into the creature’s chest.
A thundering bellow, and the fists shot upward, pushing Kalam away-harder and faster than he had thought possible. Both weapons yanked-almost breaking the grip of his hands, but he held on. The current had no time to grasp him as he was thrown upward, shooting back through the hole in an exploding geyser of water. The ledge caught one of his feet and tore the boot off. He struck the chamber’s low stone ceiling, driving the last of his breath from his lungs, then dropped.
He landed half on the pit’s ledge, and was nearly swept back into the river, but he managed to splay himself, clawing to regain the floor, moving clear of the hole. Then he lay motionless, numbed, his boot lying beside him, until he was able to draw in a ragged lungful of bitter cold air.
He heard feet on the stairs, then Cord burst into the chamber and skidded to a halt directly above Kalam. The sergeant’s sword was in one hand, a torch flaring in the other. He stared down at the assassin. ‘What was that noise? What happened? Where are the damned spears-’
Kalam rolled onto his side, looked down over the ledge.
The frothing torrent was impenetrable-opaqued red with blood. ‘Stop,’ the assassin gasped.
‘Stop what? Look at that water! Stop what?’
‘Stop… drawing… from this well…’
It was a long time before the shivers left his body, to be replaced with countless aches from his collision with the chamber’s ceiling. Cord had left then returned with others from his company, as well as Sinn, carrying blankets and more torches.
There was some difficulty in prying the long-knives from Kalam’s hands. The separation revealed that the grips had somehow scorched the assassin’s palms and fingerpads.
‘Cold,’ Ebron muttered, ‘that’s what did that. Burned by cold. What did you say that thing looked like?’
Kalam, huddled in blankets, looked up. ‘Like something that should nave been dead a long time ago, Mage. Tell me, how much do you know of B’ridys-this fortress?’
‘Probably less than you,’ Ebron replied. ‘I was born in Karakarang. It was a monastery, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye. One of the oldest cults, long extinct.’ A squad healer crouched beside him and began applying a numbing salve to the assassin’s hands. Kalam leaned his head against the wall and sighed. ‘Have you heard of the Nameless Ones?’
Ebron snorted. ‘I said Karakarang, didn’t I? The Tanno cult claims a direct descent from the cult of the Nameless Ones. The Spiritwalkers say their powers, of song and the like, arose from the original patterns that the Nameless Ones fashioned in their rituals-those patterns supposedly crisscross this entire subcontinent, and their power remains to this day. Are you saying this monastery belonged to the Nameless Ones? Yes, of course you are. But they weren’t demons, were they-’
‘No, but they were in the habit of chaining them. The one in the pool is probably displeased with its last encounter, but not as displeased as you might think.’
Ebron frowned, then paled. ‘The blood-if anyone drinks water tainted with that…’
Kalam nodded. ‘The demon takes that person’s soul… and makes the exchange. Freedom.’
‘Not just people, either!’ Ebron hissed. ‘Animals, birds-insects! Anything!’
‘No, I think it will have to be big-bigger than a bird or insect. And when it does escape-’
‘It’ll come looking for you,’ the mage whispered. He suddenly wheeled to Cord. ‘We have to get out of here. Now! Better still-’
‘Aye,’ Kalam growled, ‘get as far away from me as you can. Listen-the Empress has sent her new Adjunct, with an army-there will be a battle, in Raraku. The Adjunct has little more than recruits. She could do with your company, even as beaten up as it is-’
‘They march from Aren?’
Kalam nodded. ‘And have likely already started. That gives you maybe a month… of staying alive and out of trouble-’
‘We can manage,’ Cord grated.
Kalam glanced over at Sinn. ‘Be careful, lass.’
‘I will. I think I’ll miss you, Kalam.’
The assassin spoke to Cord. ‘Leave me my supplies. I will rest here a while longer. So we don’t cross paths, I will be heading due west from here, skirting the north edge of the Whirlwind… for a time. Eventually, I will try to breach it, and make my way into Raraku itself.’
‘Lady’s luck to you,’ Cord replied, then he gestured. ‘Everyone else, let’s go.’ At the stairway, the sergeant glanced back at the assassin. ‘That demon… did it get the captain and the lieutenant, do you think?’
‘No. It said otherwise.’
‘It spoke to you?’
‘In my mind, aye. But it was a short conversation.’
Cord grinned. ‘Something tells me, with you, they’re all short.’
A moment later and Kalam was alone, still racked with waves of uncontrollable shivering. Thankfully, the soldiers had left a couple of torches. It was too bad, he reflected, that the azalan demon had vanished. Seriously too bad.
It was dusk when the assassin emerged from the narrow fissure in the rock, opposite the cliff, that was the monastery’s secret escape route. The timing was anything but pleasant. The demon might already be free, might already be hunting him-in whatever form fate had gifted it. The night ahead did not promise to be agreeable.
The signs of the company’s egress were evident on the dusty ground in front of the fissure, and Kalam noted that they had set off southward, preceding him by four or more hours. Satisfied, he shouldered his pack and, skirting the outcropping that was the fortress, headed west. Wild bhok’arala kept pace with him for a time, scampering along the rocks and voicing their strangely mournful hooting calls as night gathered. Stars appeared overhead through a blurry film of dust, dulling the desert’s ambient silver glow to something more like smudged iron. Kalam made his way slowly, avoiding rises where he would be visible along a skyline.
He froze at a distant scream to the north. An enkar’al. Rare, but mundane enough. Unless the damned thing recently landed to drink from a pool of bloody water. The bhok’arala had scattered at that cry, and were nowhere to be seen. There was no wind that Kalam could detect, but he knew that sound carried far on nights like these, and, worse, the huge winged reptiles could detect motion from high above… and the assassin would make a good meal.
Cursing to himself, Kalam faced south, to where the Whirlwind’s solid wall of whirling sand rose, three and a half, maybe four thousand paces distant. He tightened the straps of his pack, then gingerly reached for his knives. The effects of the salve were fading, twin throbbing pulses of pain slowly rising. He had donned his fingerless gloves and gauntlets-risking the danger of infection-but even these barriers did little to lessen the searing pain as he closed his hands on the weapons and tugged them loose.
Then he set off down the slope, moving as quickly as he dared. A hundred heartbeats later he reached the blistered pan of Raraku’s basin. The Whirlwind was a muted roar ahead, steadily drawing a flow of cool air towards it. He fixed his gaze on that distant, murky wall, then began jogging.
Five hundred paces. The pack’s straps were abrading the telaba on his shoulders, wearing through to the lightweight chain beneath. His supplies were slowing him down, but without them, he knew, he was as good as dead here in Raraku. He listened to his breathing grow harsher.
A thousand paces. Blisters had broken on his palms, soaking the insides of his gauntlets, making the grips of the long-knives slippery, uncertain. He was drawing in great lungfuls of night air now, a burning sensation settling into his thighs and calves.
Two thousand paces left, in so far as he could judge. The roar was fierce, and sheets of sand whipped around him from behind. He could feel the rage of the goddess in the air.
Fifteen hundred remaining-
A sudden hush-as if he’d entered a cave-then he was cartwheeling through the air, the contents of his pack loose and spinning away from the shredded remains on his back. Filling his ears, the echoes of a sound-a bone-jarring impact-that he had not even heard. Then he struck the ground and rolled, knives flying from his hands. His back and shoulders were sodden, covered in warm blood, his chain armour shredded by the enkar’al’s talons.
A mocking blow, for all the damage inflicted. The creature could more easily have ripped his head off.
And now a familiar voice entered his skull, ‘Aye, I could have killed you outright, but this pleases me more. Run, mortal, to that saving wall of sand.’
‘I freed you,’ Kalam growled, spitting out blood and grit. ‘And this is your gratitude?’
‘You delivered pain. Unacceptable. I am not one to feel pain. I only deliver it.’
‘Well,’ the assassin grated as he slowly rose to his hands and knees, ‘it comforts me to know in these, my last moments, that you’ll not live long in this new world with that attitude. I’ll wait for you other side of Hood’s gate, Demon.’
Enormous talons snapped around him, their tips punching through chain-one in his lower back, three others in his abdomen-and he was lifted from the ground.
Then flung through the air once more. This time he descended from a distance of at least three times his own height, and when he struck blackness exploded in his mind.
Consciousness returned, and he found himself lying sprawled on the cracked pan, the ground directly beneath him muddy with his own blood. The stars were swimming wildly overhead, and he was unable to move. A deep thrumming reverberation rang in the back of his skull, coming up from his spine.
‘Ah, awake once more. Good. Shall we resume this game?’
‘As you like, Demon. Alas, I’m no longer much of a plaything. You broke my back.’
‘Your error was in landing head first, mortal.’
‘My apologies.’ But the numbness was fading-he could feel a tingling sensation, spreading out through his limbs. ‘Come down and finish it, Demon.’
He felt the ground shake as the enkar’al settled on the ground somewhere to his left. Heavy thumping steps as the creature approached.
‘Tell me your name, mortal. It is the least I can do, to know the name of my first kill after so many thousands of years.’
‘Kalam Mekhar.’
‘And what kind of creature are you? You resemble Imass…’
‘Ah, so you were imprisoned long before the Nameless Ones, then.’
‘I know nothing of Nameless Ones, Kalam Mekhar.’ He could sense the enkar’al at his side now, a massive, looming presence, though the assassin kept his eyes shut. Then he felt its carnivore’s breath gust down on him, and knew the reptile’s jaws were opening wide.
Kalam rolled over and drove his right fist down into the creature’s throat.
Then released the handful of blood-soaked sand, gravel and rocks it had held.
And drove the dagger in his other hand deep between its breast bones.
The huge head jerked back, and the assassin rolled in the opposite direction, then regained his feet. The motion took all feeling from his legs and he toppled to the ground once more-but in the interval he had seen one of his long-knives, lying point embedded in the ground about fifteen paces distant.
The enkar’al was thrashing about now, choking, talons ripping into the bleached earth in its frenzied panic.
Sensation ebbed back into his legs, and Kalam began dragging himself across the parched ground. Towards the long-knife. The serpent blade, I think. How appropriate.
Everything shuddered and the assassin twisted around to see that the creature had leapt, landing splay-legged directly behind him-where he had been a moment ago. Blood was weeping from its cold eyes, which flashed in recognition-before panic overwhelmed them once more. Blood and gritty froth shot out from between its serrated jaws.
He resumed dragging himself forward, and was finally able to draw his legs up and manage a crawl.
Then the knife was in his right hand. Kalam slowly turned about, his head swimming, and began crawling back. ‘I have something for you,’ he gasped. ‘An old friend, come to say hello.’
The enkar’al heaved and landed heavily on its side, snapping the bones of one of its wings in the process. Tail lashing, legs kicking, talons spasming open and shut, head thumping repeatedly against the ground.
‘Remember my name, Demon,’ Kalam continued, crawling up to the beast’s head. He drew his knees under him, then raised the knife in both hands. The point hovered over the writhing neck, rose and fell until in time with its motion. ‘Kalam Mekhar… the one who stuck in your throat.’ He drove the knife down, punching through the thick pebbled skin, and the blood of a severed jugular sprayed outward.
Kalam reeled back, barely in time to avoid the deadly fount, and dropped into another roll.
Three times over, to end finally on his back once more. Paralysis stealing through him once again.
He stared upward at the spinning stars… until the darkness devoured them.
In the ancient fortress that had once functioned as a monastery for the Nameless Ones, but had been old even then-its makers long forgotten-there was only darkness. On its lowermost level there was a single chamber, its floor rifted above a rushing underground river.
In the icy depths, chained by Elder sorcery to the bedrock, lay a massive, armoured warrior, Thelomen Toblakai, pure of blood, that had known the curse of demonic possession, a possession that had devoured its own sense of self-the noble warrior had ceased to exist long, long ago.
Yet now, the body writhed in its magical chains. The demon was gone, fled with the outpouring of blood-blood that should never have existed, given the decayed state of the creature, yet existed it had, and the river had swept it to freedom. To a distant waterhole, where a bull enkar’al-a beast in its prime-had been crouching to drink.
The enkar’al had been alone for some time-not even the spoor of others of its kind could be found anywhere nearby. Though it had not sensed the passage of time, decades had in fact passed since it last encountered its own kind. Indeed, it had been fated-given a normal course of life-to never again mate. With its death, the extinction of the enkar’al anywhere east of the Jhag Odhan would have been complete.
But now its soul raged in a strange, gelid body-no wings, no thundering hearts, no prey-laden scent to draw from the desert’s night air. Something held it down, and imprisonment was proving a swift path to mindless madness.
Far above, the fortress was silent and dark. The air was motionless once more, barring the faint sighs from draughts that flowed in from the outer chambers.
Rage and terror. Unanswered, except by the promise of eternity.
Or so it would have remained.
Had the Beast Thrones stayed unoccupied.
Had not the reawakened wolf gods known an urgent need… for a champion.
Their presence reached into the creature’s soul, calmed it with visions of a world where there were enkar’al in the muddy skies, where bull males locked jaws in the fierce heat of the breeding season, the females banking in circles far above. Visions that brought peace to the ensnared soul-though with it came a deep sorrow, for the body that now clothed it was… wrong.
A time of service, then. The reward-to rejoin its kin in the skies of another realm.
Beasts were not strangers to hope, nor unmindful of such things as rewards.
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!’
Kalam shrugged. ‘Look, I’m hungry-’
‘Do I look appetising?’ she snapped. A quick, appraising glance at Kalam. ‘Mind you, you do!’ She began searching the small room, sniffing at corners, crouching to peer into the jug. ‘I know every room, every hiding place,’ she muttered, shaking her head. ‘And why not? When veered, I was everywhere-’
‘You’re a Soletaken? Ah, spiders…’
‘Oh, aren’t you a clever and long one!’
‘Why not veer again? Then you could search-’
‘If I veered, I’d be the one hunted! Oh no, old Mogora’s not stupid, she won’t fall for that! I’ll find him! You watch!’ She scurried from the room. Kalam sighed. With luck, his stay with these two would be a short one.
Iskaral Pust’s voice whispered in his ear. ‘That was close!’
Cheekbone and orbital ridge were both shattered, the pieces that remained held in place by strips of withered tendon and muscle. Had Onrack possessed anything more than a shrunken, mummified nugget for an eye, it would have been torn away by the Tiste Liosan’s ivory scimitar.
There was, of course, no effect on his vision, for his senses existed in the ghostly fire of the Tellann Ritual-the unseen aura hovering around his mangled body, burning with memories of completeness, of vigour. Even so, the severing of his left arm created a strange, queasy sense of conflict, as if the wound bled in both the world of the ritual ghost-shape and in the physical world. A seeping away of power, of self, leaving the T’lan Imass warrior with vaguely confused thoughts, a malaise of ephemeral… thinness.
He stood motionless, watching his kin prepare for the ritual. He was outside them, now, no longer able to conjoin his spirit with theirs. From this jarring fact there was emerging, in Onrack’s mind, a strange shifting of perspective. He saw only their physicality now-the ghost-shapes were invisible to his sight.
Withered corpses. Ghastly. Devoid of majesty, a mockery of all that was once noble. Duty and courage had been made animate, and this was all the T’lan Imass were, and had been for hundreds of thousands of years. Yet, without choice, such virtues as duty and courage were transformed into empty, worthless words. Without mortality, hovering like an unseen sword overhead, meaning was without relevance, no matter the nature-or even the motivation behind-an act. Any act.
Onrack believed he was finally seeing, when fixing his gaze upon his once-kin, what all those who were not T’lan Imass saw, when looking upon these horrific, undead warriors.
An extinct past refusing to fall to dust. Brutal reminders of rectitude and intransigence, of a vow elevated into insanity.
And this is how I have been seen. Perhaps how I am still seen. By Trull Sengar. By these Tiste Liosan. Thus. How, then, shall I feel? What am I supposed to feel? And when last did feelings even matter?
Trull Sengar spoke beside him. ‘Were you anyone else, I would hazard to read you as being thoughtful, Onrack.’ He was seated on a low wall, the box of Moranth munitions at his feet.
The Tiste Liosan had pitched a camp nearby, a picket line paced out and bulwarks of rubble constructed, three paces between each single-person tent, horses within a staked-out rope corral-in all, the precision and diligence verging on the obsessive.
‘Conversely,’ Trull continued after a moment, his eyes on the Liosan, ‘perhaps your kind are indeed great thinkers. Solvers of every vast mystery. Possessors of all the right answers… if only I could pose the right questions. Thankful as I am for your companionship, Onrack, I admit to finding you immensely frustrating.’
‘Frustrating. Yes. We are.’
‘And your companions intend to dismantle what’s left of you once we return to our home realm. If I was in your place, I’d be running for the horizon right now.’
‘Flee?’ Onrack considered the notion, then nodded. ‘Yes, this is what the renegades-those we hunt-did. And yes, now I understand them.’
‘They did more than simply flee,’ Trull said. ‘They found someone or something else to serve, to avow allegiance to… while at the moment, at least, that option is not available to you. Unless, of course, you choose those Liosan.’
‘Or you.’
Trull shot him a startled look, then grinned. ‘Amusing.’
‘Of course,’ Onrack added, ‘Monok Ochem would view such a thing as a crime, no different from that which has been committed by the renegades.’
The T’lan Imass had nearly completed their preparations. The bonecaster had inscribed a circle, twenty paces across, in the dried mud with a sharpened bhederin rib, then had scattered seeds and dust-clouds of spores within the ring. Ibra Gholan and his two warriors had raised the equivalent of a sighting stone-an elongated chunk of mortared fired bricks from a collapsed building wall-a dozen paces outside the circle, and were making constant adjustments beneath the confusing play of light from the two suns, under Monok Ochem’s directions.
‘That won’t be easy,’ Trull observed, watching the T’lan Imass shifting the upright stone, ‘so I suppose I can expect to keep my blood for a while longer.’
Onrack slowly swung his misshapen head to study the Tiste Edur. ‘It is you who should be fleeing, Trull Sengar.’
‘Your bonecaster explained that they needed only a drop or two.’
My bonecaster… No longer. ‘True, if all goes well.’
‘Why shouldn’t it?’
‘The Tiste Liosan. Kurald Thyrllan-this is the name they give their warren. Seneschal Jorrude is not a sorcerer. He is a warrior-priest.’
Trull frowned. ‘It is the same for the Tiste Edur, for my people, Onrack-’
‘And as such, the seneschal must kneel before his power. Whereas a sorcerer commands power. Your approach is fraught, Trull Sengar. You assume that a benign spirit gifts you that power. If that spirit is usurped, you may not even know it. And then, you become a victim, a tool, manipulated to serve unknown purposes.’
Onrack fell silent, and watched the Tiste Edur… as a deathly pallor stole the life from Trull’s eyes, as the expression became one of horrified revelation. And so I give answer to a question you were yet to ask. Alas, this does not make me all-knowing. ‘The spirit that grants the seneschal his power may be corrupted. There is no way to know… until it is unleashed. And even then, malign spirits are highly skilled at hiding. The one named Osseric is… lost. Osric, as humans know him. No, I do not know the source of Monok Ochem’s knowledge in this matter. Thus, the hand behind the seneschal’s power is probably not Osseric, but some other entity, hidden behind the guise and the name of Osseric. Yet these Tiste Liosan proceed unawares.’
It was clear that Trull Sengar was, for the moment, unable to offer comment, or pose questions, so Onrack simply continued-wondering at the sudden extinction of his own reticence-‘The seneschal spoke of their own hunt. In pursuit of trespassers who crossed through their fiery warren. But these trespassers are not the renegades we hunt. Kurald Thyrllan is not a sealed warren. Indeed, it lies close to our own Tellann-for Tellann draws from it. Fire is life and life is fire. Fire is the war against the cold, the slayer of ice. It is our salvation. Bonecasters have made use of Kurald Thyrllan. Probably, others have as well. That such incursions should prove cause for enmity among the Liosan was never considered. For it seemed there were no Tiste Liosan.
‘Monok Ochem considers this, now. He cannot help but consider this. Where are these Liosan from? How distant-how remote-their home? Why are they now awakened to resentment? What does the one hidden behind the guise of Osseric now seek? Where-’
‘Stop! Please, Onrack, stop! I need to think-I need-’ Trull rose suddenly, flinging a dismissive gesture at the T’lan Imass, then strode off.
‘I think,’ Onrack said quietly to himself as he watched the Tiste Edur storm away, ‘that I will revert to reticence.’
A small chunk of mortared brick had now been positioned in the centre of the ring; its top was being inscribed with slashes and grooves by the bonecaster, and Onrack realized that Monok Ochem had already discerned the celestial patterns of the two suns and the numerous moons that wheeled overhead.
Colours played constantly over this landscape in sullen blood hues, occasionally overwhelmed by deep blues that limned everything in a cold, almost metallic sheen. At the moment, magenta dominated, a lurid tone as of reflected conflagration. Yet the air remained still and damp, eternally pensive.
A world aswarm in shadows. The hounds that Onrack had inadvertently freed from their stone prisons had cast scores of them. The battered warrior wondered where the two beasts had gone. He was fairly certain that they were no longer in this realm, in this place known as the Nascent.
Shadow and spirit reunited… the beasts had possessed something… unusual. As if each was shaped of two distinct powers, two aspects chained together. Onrack had unleashed those hounds, yet, on second consideration, perhaps not freed them. Shadow from Dark. That which is cast… from that which has cast it. The warrior lowered his gaze to study his own multiple shadows. Was there tension between him and them? Clearly, there was a binding. But he was the master and they his slaves.
Or so it seemed… Silent kin of mine. You precede. You follow. You strive on my flanks. Huddle beneath me. Your world finds its shape from my bone and flesh. Yet your breadth and length belong to Light. You are the bridge between worlds, yet you cannot be walked. No substance, then. Only perception.
‘Onrack, you are closed to us.’
He lifted his gaze. Monok Ochem stood before him. ‘Yes, Bonecaster. I am closed to you. Do you doubt me?’
‘I would know your thoughts.’
‘They are… insubstantial.’
Monok Ochem cocked his head. ‘None the less.’
Onrack was silent for a long moment. ‘Bonecaster. I remain bound to your path.’
‘Yet you are severed.’
‘The renegade kin must be found. They are our… shadows. I now stand between you and them, and so I can guide you. I now know where to look, the signs to seek. Destroy me and you shall lose an advantage in your hunt.’
‘You bargain for… persistence?’
‘I do, Bonecaster.’
‘Tell us, then, the path the renegades have taken.’
‘I shall… when it becomes relevant.’
‘Now.’
‘No.’
Monok Ochem stared down at the warrior, then swung away and returned to the circle.
Tellann commanded that place now. Tundra flowers had erupted from the mud, along with lichen and mosses. Blackflies swarmed at ankle height. A dozen paces beyond stood the four Tiste Liosan, their enamel armour glowing in the strange magenta light.
Trull Sengar watched from a position fifteen paces to Onrack’s left, his arms tightly crossed about himself, a haunted expression on his lean face.
Monok Ochem approached the seneschal. ‘We are ready, Liosan.’
Jorrude nodded. ‘Then I shall begin my prayers, Undead Priest. And there shall be proof that our Master, Osric, is far from lost to us. You shall know his power.’
The bonecaster said nothing.
‘And when,’ Trull asked, ‘shall I start spraying blood around? Which one of you has the pleasure of wounding me?’
‘The choice is yours,’ Monok Ochem replied.
‘Good. I choose Onrack-he’s the only one here I’m prepared to trust. Apologies to those of you who might take offence at that.’
‘That task should be mine,’ Seneschal Jorrude said. ‘Blood lies at the heart of Osric’s power-’
Onrack was alone noting the slight start from the bonecaster at that, and the warrior nodded to himself. Much answered with those words. ‘-and indeed,’ Jorrude continued, ‘I shall have to spill some of my own as well.’
But Trull Sengar shook his head. ‘No. Onrack… or no-one.’ And he then uncrossed his arms, revealing a clay ball in each hand.
There was a snort from Jorrude, and the Liosan named Enias growled, ‘Grant me leave to kill him, Seneschal. I shall ensure that there is no shortage of Edur blood.’
‘Do so, and I guarantee the same lack of shortage,’ Trull responded, ‘concerning Liosan blood. Bonecaster, do you recognize these munitions?’
‘They are known by the Malazans as cussers,’ answered Ibra Gholan, the clan leader. ‘One will suffice, given our collective proximities.’
Trull grinned over at the T’lan Imass warrior. ‘Even that dhenrabi skin on your shoulders won’t help much, will it?’
‘True,’ Ibra Gholan replied. ‘While armour is not entirely ineffectual, such value invariably proves wanting.’
Monok Ochem turned to the seneschal. ‘Agree to the stipulation,’ he said. ‘Begin your prayers, Liosan.’
‘Such commands are not for you to utter,’ Jorrude snarled. He glared at Trull. ‘You, Edur, have much to learn. We shall create this gate, and then there will come a reckoning.’
Trull Sengar shrugged. ‘As you like.’
Adjusting his bloodstained cloak, the seneschal strode into the centre of the circle. Then he lowered himself onto his knees, chin settling onto his chest, closing his gleaming, silver eyes.
Blackflies formed a humming cloud around him. Whatever link existed between Jorrude and his god proved both strong and swift. Gold fire flickered into life here and there beyond the circumference of the circle. The remaining three Tiste Liosan returned to their own camp and began packing.
Monok Ochem strode into the circle, followed by the two clansmen Haran Epal and Olar Shayn. The clan leader faced Onrack and said, ‘Guard your companion close, if you would he survive. Cleave to that singular concern, Onrack. No matter what you might witness.’
‘I shall,’ Onrack replied. In many essential matters, the warrior realized, he had no need for a binding of souls with his kin… to know their minds. He strode to Trull Sengar. ‘Follow me,’ he instructed. ‘We must now enter the circle.’
The Tiste Edur scowled, then nodded. ‘Take the box of munitions, then. My hands are full.’
Trull had fixed straps to the box. Onrack collected it then led his companion into the circle.
The three Liosan had completed breaking their camp and were now saddling their white horses.
The fires continued flickering in and out of existence around the periphery, none large enough to pose a threat. But Onrack could sense the approach of the Liosan god. Or at least the outermost layers of its disguise. Cautious, mistrustful-not of the seneschal, of course-but for this to work, the hidden spirit would have to come to this realm’s very edge.
And when Jorrude offered up his own blood, the bridge of power between him and his god would be complete.
The thud of horse hoofs announced the arrival of the other three Liosan, the four mounts in tow.
Onrack drew forth from beneath rotted furs a small crescent-shaped obsidian knife, single-edged on the inward-curving line, and held it out to Trull. ‘When I so instruct you, Trull Sengar, cut yourself. A few drops will suffice.’
The Tiste Edur frowned. ‘I thought you were-’
‘I would not be distracted, in the moment of crossing.’
‘Distracted?’
‘Say nothing. Attend to yourself.’
His frown deepening, Trull crouched to return the two cussers to the box, affixed the lid once more and slung the contrivance over a shoulder, then straightened and accepted the stone blade.
The flames were now growing, unbroken immediately beyond the inscribed ring. Kurald Thyrllan, but the ascendant shaping it remained unseen. Onrack wondered at its nature. If these Liosan were any indication, it found sustenance from purity, as if such a thing was even possible. Intransigence. Simplicity.
The simplicity of blood, a detail whispering of antiquity, of primeval origins. A spirit, then, before whom a handful of savages once bowed. There had been many such entities, once, born of that primitive assertion of meaning to object, meaning shaped by symbols and portents, scratchings on rock-faces and in the depths of caves.
No shortage… but tribes died out, were winnowed out, were devoured by more powerful neighbours. The secret language of the scratchings, the caves with their painted images that came alive to the pounding of drums-those most mysterious cathedrals of thunder… all lost, forgotten. And with that fading away of secrets, so too the spirits themselves dwindled, usually into oblivion.
That some lingered was not surprising to Onrack. Even unto usurping the faith of a new tribe. What was new to the warrior, rising like a tightness into his desiccated throat, was the sense of… pathos.
In the name of purity, the Liosan worship their god. In the name of… of nostalgia, the god worships what was and shall never again return.
The spilling of blood was the deadliest of games.
As is about to be seen.
A harsh cry from the seneschal, and the flames rose into a wall on all sides, raging with unbridled power. Jorrude had laid open his left palm. Within the circle, a swirling wind rose, laden with the smells of a thaw-of spring in some northern clime.
Onrack turned to Trull. ‘Now.’
The Tiste Edur slashed the obsidian blade across the edge of his left hand, then stared down disbelieving at the gash-clear, the flesh neatly parted, frighteningly deep.
The blood emerged a moment later, welling forth, red roots racing and branching down his grey-skinned forearm.
The gate seemed to tear itself open, surrounding the group within the circle. Spiralling tunnels reached outward from it, each seeming to lead on into eternity. A roar of chaos on the flanks, miasmic grey fire in the spaces between the portals. Onrack reached out to catch a reeling Trull Sengar. The blood was spraying out from his left hand, as if the Edur’s entire body was being squeezed by some unseen, but unrelenting pressure.
Onrack glanced over-to see Monok Ochem standing alone, head tilted back as the winds of Tellann whipped the silver-tipped fur around his unhelmed head. Beyond the bonecaster, a momentary glimpse of Ibra Gholan, Olar Shayn and Haran Epal vanishing down a tunnel of fire.
The seneschal’s companions were now running towards their master’s prone, unconscious body.
Satisfied that the others were occupied-temporarily unmindful-Onrack dragged Trull close until their bodies made contact, the T’lan Imass managing a one-armed embrace. ‘Hold on to me,’ he rasped. ‘Trull Sengar, hold on to me-but free your left hand.’
Fingers clutched at Onrack’s ragged cloak, began dragging with growing weight. The T’lan Imass relinquished his one-armed hug and snapped out his hand-to close on Trull’s. The blood bit like acid into flesh that had forgotten pain. Onrack almost tore his grip free in the sudden, overwhelming agony, but then he tightened his hold and leaned close to the Tiste Edur. ‘Listen! I, Onrack, once of the Logros but now stranger to the Ritual, avow service to Trull Sengar of the Tiste Edur. I pledge to defend your life. This vow cannot be sundered. Now, lead us from here!’
Their hands still locked together, sealed for the moment by a slowing flow of blood, Onrack pulled Trull around until they faced one of the spiralling tunnels. Then they plunged forward.
Onrack saw the bonecaster wheel to face them. But the distance was too great, and the ritual had already begun tearing itself apart.
Then Monok Ochem veered into his Soletaken form. A blur, then a massive, hulking beast was thundering in pursuit.
Onrack sought to tear his grip from Trull to reach for his sword, to block the Soletaken and so ensure Trull’s escape-but the Edur had turned, had seen, and would not let go. Instead, he pulled, hard. Onrack stumbled back.
Knuckles pounded on the ground-the ape that Monok Ochem had become was, despite being gaunt with death, enormous. Patched grey and black skin, tufts of silver-tipped black hair on the broad shoulders and the nape of the neck, a sunken-eyed, withered face, jaws stretching wide to reveal canines-voicing a deep, grating roar.
Then Monok Ochem simply vanished. Swallowed by a surge of chaos.
Onrack stumbled over something, crashed down onto hard-packed ground, gravel skidding under him. Beside him, on his knees, was Trull Sengar.
The fall had broken their grip, and the Tiste Edur was staring down at his left hand-where only a thin, white scar remained.
A single sun blazed down on them, and Onrack knew they had returned to his native realm.
The T’lan Imass slowly climbed to his feet. ‘We must leave this place, Trull Sengar. My kin shall pursue. Perhaps only Monok Ochem remains, but he will not relent.’
Trull raised his head. ‘Remains? What do you mean? Where did the others go?’
Onrack looked down on the Tiste Edur. ‘The Liosan were too late to realize. The turning of Tellann succeeded in driving all awareness from the seneschal. They were entirely unprepared. Ibra Gholan, Olar Shayn and Haran Epal walked into the warren of Kurald Thyrllan.’
‘Walked into? Why?’
Onrack managed a one-sided shrug. ‘They went, Trull Sengar, to kill the Liosan god.’
Little more than bones and scraps of armour, what had once been an army lay in the thick grey ash, encircling a steeply sloped pit of some kind. There was no way to tell whether the army had faced outward-defending some sort of subterranean entrance-or inward, seeking to prevent an escape.
Lostara Yil stood ankle-deep in the trail’s ashes. Watching Pearl walk gingerly among the bones, reaching down every now and then to drag some item free for a closer look. Her throat was raw, her hatred of the Imperial Warren deepening with every passing moment.
‘The scenery is unchanging,’ Pearl had noted, ‘yet never the same. I have walked this path before-this very path. There were no ruins, then. And no heap of bones or hole in the ground.’
And no winds to shift the ashes.
But bones and other larger objects had a way of rising to the surface, eventually. Or so it was true in the sands-why should ashes be any different? None the less, some of those ruins were massive. Vast expanses of flagstones, unstained, devoid even of dust. Tall, leaning towers-like the rotted stubs of fangs. A bridge spanning nothing, its stones so precisely set that a knife-tip could not be slipped between them.
Slapping the dust from his gloved hands, Pearl strode up. ‘Curious indeed.’
Lostara coughed, hacked out grey sputum. ‘Just find us a gate and get us out of here,’ she rasped.
‘Ah, well, as to that, my dear, the gods are smiling down upon us. I have found a gate, and a lively one it is.’
She scowled at him, knowing he sought the inevitable question from her, but she was in no mood to ask it.
‘Alas, I know your thoughts,’ Pearl continued after a moment, with a quick wry grin. He pointed back towards the pit. ‘Down there… unfortunately. Thus, we are left with a dire choice. Continue on-and risk you spitting out your lungs-in search of a more easily approachable gate. Or take the plunge, as it were.’
‘You’re leaving the choice to me?’
‘Why not? Now, I’m waiting. Which shall it be?’
She drew the scarf over her mouth and nose once more, tightened the straps on her pack, then marched off… towards the pit.
Pearl fell in step. ‘Courage and foolishness, the distinction so often proves problematic-’
‘Except in hindsight.’ Lostara kicked herself free of a rib cage that had fouled her stride, then swore at the resultant clouds of ash and dust. ‘Who were these damned soldiers? Do you know?’
‘I may possess extraordinary powers of observation and unfathomable depths of intelligence, lass, but I cannot read when there is nothing to be seen. Corpses. Human, in so far as I can tell. The only detail I can offer is that they fought this battle knee-deep in this ash… meaning-’
‘That whatever crisped this realm had already happened,’ Lostara cut in. ‘Meaning, they either survived the event, or were interlopers… like us.’
‘Very possibly emerging from the very gate we now approach.’
‘To cross blades with whom?’
Pearl shrugged. ‘I have no idea. But I have a few theories.’
‘Of course you do,’ she snapped. ‘Like all men-you hate to say you don’t know and leave it at that. You have an answer to every question, and if you don’t you make one up.’
‘An outrageous accusation, my dear. It is not a matter of making up answers, it is rather an exercise in conjecture. There is a difference-’
‘That’s what you say, not what I have to listen to. All the time. Endless words. Does a man even exist who believes there can be too many words?’
‘I don’t know,’ Pearl replied.
After a moment she shot him a glare, but he was studiously staring ahead.
They came to the edge of the slope and halted, looking down. The descent would be treacherous, jumbled bones, swords jagged with decay, and an unknown depth of ash and dust. The hole at the base was perhaps ten paces across, yawning black.
‘There are spiders in the desert,’ Lostara muttered, ‘that build such traps.’
‘Slightly smaller, surely.’
She reached down and collected a thigh bone, momentarily surprised at its weight, then tossed it down the slope. A thud.
Then the packed ash beneath their boots vanished. And down they went, amidst explosions of dust, ashes and splinters of bone. A hissing rush-blind, choking-then they were falling through a dry downpour. To land heavily on yet another slope that tumbled them down a roaring, echoing avalanche.
It was a descent through splintered bones and bits of iron, and it seemed unending.
Lostara was unable to draw breath-they were drowning in thick dust, sliding and rolling, sinking then bursting free once more. Down, down through absolute darkness. A sudden, jarring collision with something-possibly wood-then a withered, rumpled surface that seemed tiled, and down once more.
Another thump and tumble.
Then she was rolling across flagstones, pushed on by a wave of ash and detritus, finally coming to a crunching halt, flat on her back, a flow of frigid air rising up on her left side-where she reached out, groping, then down, to where the floor should have been. Nothing. She was lying on an edge, and something told her that, had she taken this last descent, Hood alone would greet her at its conclusion.
Coughing from slightly further up the slope on her right. A faint nudge as the heaped bones and ashes on that side shifted.
Another such nudge, and she would be pushed over the edge. Lostara rolled her head to the left and spat, then tried to speak. The word came out thin and hoarse. ‘Don’t.’
Another cough, then, ‘Don’t what?’
‘Move.’
‘Oh. That doesn’t sound good. It’s not good, is it?’
‘Not good. Another ledge. Another drop… this one I think for ever.’
‘Judicious use of my warren seems appropriate at this point, don’t you think?’
‘Yes.’
‘A moment, then.’ A dull sphere of light emerged, suspended above them, its illumination struggling in the swirling clouds of dust.
It edged closer-grew larger. Brightened.
Revealing all that was above them.
Lostara said nothing. Her chest had contracted as if unwilling to take another breath. Her heart thundered. Wood. An X-shaped cross, tilting over them, as tall as a four-storey building. The glint of enormous, pitted spikes.
And nailed to the cruciform-
– a dragon.
Wings spread, pinned wide. Hind limbs impaled. Chains wrapped about its neck, holding its massive wedge-shaped head up, as if staring skyward-
– to a sea of stars marked here and there with swirls of glowing mist.
‘It’s not here…’ Pearl whispered.
‘What? It’s right above-’
‘No. Well, yes. But… look carefully. It’s enclosed in a sphere. A pocket warren, a realm unto itself-’
‘Or the entranceway,’ she suggested. ‘Sealing-’
‘A gate. Queen of Dreams, I think you’re right. Even so, its power doesn’t reach us… thank the spirits and gods and demons and ascendants and-’
‘Why, Pearl?’
‘Because, lass-that dragon is aspected.’
‘I thought they all were.’
‘Aye. You keep interrupting me, Lostara Yil. Aspected, I was saying. But not to a warren. Gods! I cannot fathom-’
‘Damn you, Pearl!’
‘Otataral.’
‘What?’
‘Otataral. Her aspect is otataral, woman! This is an otataral dragon.’
Neither spoke for a time. Lostara began edging herself away from the ledge, shifting weight incrementally, freezing at every increase in the stream of dust slipping away beneath her.
Turning her head, she could make out Pearl. He had unveiled enough of his warren to draw himself upward, hovering slightly above the slope. His gaze remained fixed on the crucified dragon.
‘Some help down here…’ Lostara growled.
He started, then looked down at her. ‘Right. My deepest apologies, lass. Here, I shall extend my warren…’
She felt herself lifted into the air.
‘Make no struggle, lass. Relax, and you’ll float up beside me, then pivot upright.’
She forced herself to grow still, but the result was one of rigid immobility.
Pearl chuckled. ‘Lacks grace, but it will do.’
A half-dozen heart-beats later she was beside him, hovering upright.
‘Try to relax again, Lostara.’
She glared at him, but he was staring upward once more. Reluctantly, she followed his gaze.
‘It’s still alive, you know,’ Pearl whispered.
‘Who could have done this?’
‘Whoever it was, we have a lot for which to thank him, her… or them. This thing devours magic. Consumes warrens.’
‘All the old legends of dragons begin with the statement that they are the essence of sorcery. How, then, could this thing even exist?’
‘Nature always seeks a balance. Forces strive for symmetry. This dragon answers every other dragon that ever existed, or ever will.’
Lostara coughed and spat once more, then she shivered. ‘The Imperial Warren, Pearl. What was it before it was… turned to ash?’
He glanced over at her, eyes narrowing. He shrugged and began brushing dust from his clothes. ‘I see no value in lingering in this horrendous place-’
‘You said there was a gate down here-not that one, surely-’
‘No. Beyond that ledge. I suspect the last time it was used was by whoever or whatever nailed this dragon onto the cross. Surprisingly, they didn’t seal the gate behind them.’
‘Careless.’
‘More like supremely confident, I would think. We’ll make our descent a little more orderly this time, agreed? You need not move-leave this to me.’
‘I despise that suggestion in principle, Pearl, but what I hate more is that I see no choice.’
‘Haven’t you had your fill of bared bones yet, lass? A simple sweet smile would have sufficed.’
She fixed him with a look of steel.
Pearl sighed. ‘A good try, lass. We’ll work on it.’
As they floated out over the ledge, Lostara looked up one last time, but not at the dragon, rather at the starscape beyond. ‘What do you make of that night sky, Pearl? I do not recognize the constellations… nor have I ever before seen those glowing swirls in any night sky I’ve looked at.’
He grunted. ‘That’s a foreign sky-as foreign as can be. A hole leading into alien realms, countless strange worlds filled with creatures unimaginable-’
‘You really don’t know, do you?’
‘Of course I don’t!’ he snapped.
‘Then why didn’t you just say so?’
‘It was more fun conjecturing creatively, of course. How can a man be the object of a woman’s interest if he’s always confessing his ignorance?’
‘You want me to be interested in you? Why didn’t you say so? Now I will hang on your every word, of course. Shall I gaze adoringly into your eyes as well?’
He swung on her a glum look. ‘Men really have no chance, do they?’
‘Typical conceit to have thought otherwise, Pearl.’
They were falling gently through darkness. The sorcerous globe of light followed, but at some distance, smudged and faint behind the suspended dust.
Lostara looked downward, then snapped her head up and closed her eyes, fighting vertigo. Through gritted teeth she asked, ‘How much farther do we sink, do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You could’ve given a better answer than that!’ When he made no reply she glanced over at him through slitted eyes. He looked positively despondent. ‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘If these are the depths of despair, lass, we’re almost there.’
As it turned out, another hundred heartbeats passed before they reached the dust-laden floor. The sphere of light arrived a short while later, illuminating the surrounding area.
The floor was solid rock, uneven and littered with still more bones. No walls were in sight.
The magic that had slowly lowered them dissipated. Pearl took two strides then gestured, and, as if he had flung aside an invisible current, the glimmering outlines of a gate appeared before them. The Claw grunted.
‘Now what?’ Lostara asked.
‘Thyr. Or, to be more precise, the Elder Warren from which Thyr derived. I can’t recall its name. Kurald something. Tiste. Not Edur, not Andu, but the other one. And…’ he added in a low voice, ‘the last things to use it left tracks.’
Lostara stared down at the threshold. Somewhat obscured, but discernible none the less. Dragons. ‘I can make out at least three sets,’ she said after a moment.
‘More like six, maybe more. Those two sets’-he pointed-‘were the last to leave. Big bastards. Well, that answers the question of who, or what, was capable of subduing the Otataral Dragon. Other dragons, of course. Even so, it could not have been easy.’
‘Thyr, you said. Can we use it?’
‘Oh, I imagine so.’
‘Well, what are we waiting for?’
He shrugged. ‘Follow me, then.’
Staying close, she fell in step behind him.
They strode through the gate.
And stumbled into a realm of gold fire.
Wild storms on all horizons, a raging, blinding sky.
They stood on a scorched patch of glittering crystals, the past passage of immense heat having burnished the sharp-edged stones with myriad colours. Other such patches were visible here and there.
Immediately before them rose a pillar, shaped like an elongated pyramid, withered and baked, with only the surface facing them dressed smooth. Words in an unknown language had been carved on it.
The air was searing in Lostara’s lungs, and she was sodden with sweat.
But it was, for the moment, survivable.
Pearl walked up to the pillar.
‘We have to get out of here!’ Lostara shouted.
The firestorms were deafening, but she was certain he heard her, and chose to ignore it.
Lostara rarely tolerated being ignored. She strode after him. ‘Listen to me!’
‘Names!’ He spun to her. ‘The names! The ones who imprisoned the Otataral Dragon! They’re all here!’
A growing roar caught her attention, and she turned to face right-to see a wall of flame rolling towards them. ‘Pearl!’
He looked, visibly blanched. Stepped back-and his foot skidded out from beneath him, dropping him hard onto his backside. Blankly, he reached down under him, and when he brought his gloved hand back up, it was slick with blood.
‘Did you-’
‘No!’ He clambered upright-and now they both saw the blood-trail, cutting crossways over the patch, vanishing into the flames on the other side.
‘Something’s in trouble!’ Pearl said.
‘So are we if we don’t get moving!’
The firestorm now filled half the sky-the heat-
He grasped her arm and they plunged around the pillar-
– into a glittering cavern. Where blood had sprayed, gouted out to paint walls and ceiling, and where the shattered pieces of a desiccated warrior lay almost at their feet.
A T’lan Imass.
Lostara stared down at it. Rotted wolf fur the colour of the desert, a broken bone-hafted double-bladed axe of reddish-brown flint almost entirely obscured beneath a pool of blood. Whatever it had attacked had struck back. The warrior’s chest was crushed flat. Both arms had been torn off at the shoulders. And the T’lan Imass had been decapitated. A moment’s search found the head, lying off to one side.
‘Pearl-let’s get out of here.’
He nodded. Then hesitated.
‘Now what?’
‘Your favourite question,’ he muttered. Then he scrambled over to collect the severed head. Faced her once more. ‘All right. Let’s go.’
The strange cave blurred, then vanished.
And they were standing on a sun-bleached rock shelf, overlooking a stony basin that had once known a stream.
Pearl grinned over at her. ‘Home.’ He held up the ghastly head before him and spoke to it. ‘I know you can hear me, T’lan Imass. I’ll find for you the crotch of a tree for your final resting place, provided I get some answers.’
The warrior’s reply was strangely echoing, the voice thick and halting. ‘What is it you wish to know?’
Pearl smiled. ‘That’s better. First off, your name.’
‘Olar Shayn, of the Logros T’lan Imass. Of Ibra Gholan’s clan. Born in the Year of the Two-Headed Snake-’
‘Olar Shayn. What in Hood’s name were you doing in that warren? Who were you trying to kill?’
‘We did not try; we succeeded. The wounds delivered were mortal. It will die, and my kin pursue to witness.’
‘It? What, precisely?’
‘A false god. I know no more than that. I was commanded to kill it. Now, find for me a worthy place of rest, mortal.’
‘I will. As soon as I find a tree.’
Lostara wiped sweat from her brow, then went over to sit on a boulder. ‘It doesn’t need a tree, Pearl,’ she said, sighing. ‘This ledge should do.’
The Claw swung the severed head so that it faced the basin and the vista beyond. ‘Is this pleasing enough, Olar Shayn?’
‘It is. Tell me your name, and you shall know my eternal gratitude.’
‘Eternal? I suppose that’s not an exaggeration either, is it? Well, I am Pearl, and my redoubtable companion is Lostara Yil. Now, let’s find a secure place for you, shall we?’
‘Your kindness is unexpected, Pearl.’
‘Always is and always will be,’ he replied, scanning the ledge.
Lostara stared at her companion, surprised at how thoroughly her sentiments matched those of the T’lan Imass. ‘Pearl, do you know precisely where we are?’
He shrugged. ‘First things first, lass. I’d appreciate it if you allowed me to savour my merciful moment. Ah! Here’s the spot, Olar Shayn!’
Lostara closed her eyes. From ashes and dust… to sand. At least it was home. Now, all that remained was finding the trail of a Malazan lass who vanished months ago. ‘Nothing to it,’ she whispered.
‘Did you say something, lass?’
She opened her eyes and studied him where he crouched anchoring stones around the undead warrior’s severed head. ‘You don’t know where we are, do you?’
He smiled. ‘Is this a time, do you think, for some creative conjecture?’
Thoughts of murder flashed through her, not for the first time.