‘There is no death in light.’
Anarmann,
‘MEZLA ONE AND ALL,’ FEBRYL MUTTERED AS HE HOBBLED along the worn, dusty path, his breath growing harsher. There was little in this world that much pleased him any more. Malazans. His failing body. The blind insanity of power so brutally evinced in the Whirlwind Goddess. In his mind, the world was plunging into chaos, and all that it had been-all that he had been-was trapped in the past.
But the past was not dead. It merely slept. The perfect, measured resurrection of old patterns could achieve a rebirth. Not a rebirth such as had taken Sha’ik-that had been nothing more than the discarding of one, badly worn vessel for a new one not nearly so battered. No, the rebirth Febryl imagined was far more profound.
He had once served the Holy Falah’d Enqura. The Holy City of Ugarat and its host of tributary cities had been in the midst of a renaissance. Eleven great schools of learning were thriving in Ugarat. Knowledge long lost was being rediscovered. The flower of a great civilization had turned to face the sun, had begun to open.
The Mezla and their implacable legions had destroyed… everything. Ugarat had fallen to Dassem Ultor. The schools were assailed by soldiers, only to discover, to their fury, that their many riches and texts had, along with philosophers and academics, vanished. Enqura had well understood the Mezla thirst for knowledge, the Emperor’s lust for foreign secrets, and the city’s Holy Protector would give them nothing. Instead, he had commanded Febryl, a week before the arrival of the Malazan armies, to shut down the schools, to confiscate the hundred thousand scrolls and bound volumes, the ancient relics of the First Empire, and the teachers and scholars themselves. By the Protector’s decree, Ugarat’s coliseum became the site of a vast conflagration, as everything was burned, destroyed. The scholars were crucified-those that did not fling themselves on the pyre in a fit of madness and grief-and their bodies dumped into the pits containing the smashed relics just outside the city wall.
Febryl had done as he had been commanded. His last gesture of loyalty, of pure, unsullied courage. The terrible act was necessary. Enqura’s denial was perhaps the greatest defiance in the entire war. One for which the Holy Protector paid with his life, when the horror that was said to have struck Dassem Ultor upon hearing of the deed transformed into rage.
Febryl’s loss of faith had come in the interval, and it had left him a broken man. In following Enqura’s commands, he had so outraged his mother and father-both learned nobles in their own right-that they had disowned him to his face. And Febryl had lost his mind that night, recovering his sanity with dawn staining the horizon, to find that he had murdered his parents. And their servants. That he had unleashed sorcery to flay the flesh from the guards. That such power had poured through him as to leave him old beyond his years, wrinkled and withered, his bones brittle and bent.
The old man hobbling out through the city gate that day was beneath notice. Enqura searched for him, but Febryl succeeded in evading the Holy Protector, in leaving the man to his fate.
Unforgivable.
A hard word, a truth harder than stone. But Febryl was never able to decide to which crime it applied. Three betrayals, or two? Was the destruction of all that knowledge-the slaying of all those scholars and teachers-was it, as the Mezla and other Falad’han later pronounced-the foulest deed of all? Fouler even than the T’lan Imass rising to slaughter the citizens of Aren? So much so that Enqura’s name has become a curse for Mezla and natives of Seven Cities alike? Three, not two?
And the bitch knew. She knew his every secret. It had not been enough to change his name; not enough that he had the appearance of an old man, when the High Mage Iltara, most trusted servant to Enqura, had been young, tall and lusted after by both men and women? No, she had obliterated, seemingly effortlessly, his every barricade, and plundered the pits of his soul.
Unforgivable.
No possessor of his secrets could be permitted to live. He refused to be so… vulnerable. To anyone. Even Sha’ik. Especially Sha’ik.
And so she must be removed. Even if it means dealing with Mezla. He had no illusions about Korbolo Dom. The Napan’s ambitions-no matter what claims he made at present-went far beyond this rebellion. No, his ambitions were imperial. Somewhere to the south, Mallick Rel, the Jhistal priest of Elder Mael, was trekking towards Aren, there to surrender himself. He would, in turn, be brought before the Empress herself.
And then what? That snake of a priest would announce an extraordinary reversal of fortunes in Seven Cities. Korbolo Dom had been working in her interests all along. Or some such nonsense. Febryl was certain of his suspicions. Korbolo Dom wanted a triumphant return into the imperial fold. Probably the title of High Fist of Seven Cities as well. Mallick Rel would have twisted his part in the events at the Fall and immediately afterwards. The dead man, Pormqual, would be made the singular focus for the debacle of Coltaine’s death and the slaying of the High Fist’s army. The Jhistal would slip through, somehow, or, if all went awry, he would somehow manage to escape. Korbolo Dom, Febryl believed, had agents in the palace in Unta-what was being played out here in Raraku was but a tremble on a much vaster web.
But I shall defeat it in the end. Even if I must appear to acquiesce right now. He has accepted my conditions, after all-a lie, of course-and I in turn accept his-another lie, naturally.
He had walked through the outskirts of the city and now found himself in the wilder region of the oasis. The trail had the appearance of long disuse, covered in crackling, dried palm fronds and gourd husks, and Febryl knew his careless passage was destroying that illusion, but he was indifferent to that. Korbolo’s killers would repair the mess, after all. It fed their self-deceptions well enough.
He rounded a bend in the path and entered a clearing ringed in low stones. There had once been a well here, but the sands had long since filled it. Kamist Reloe stood near the centre, hooded and vulpine, with four of Korbolo’s assassins positioned in a half-circle behind him.
‘You’re late,’ Kamist Reloe hissed.
Febryl shrugged. ‘Do I look like a prancing foal? Now, have you begun the preparations?’
‘The knowledge here is yours, Febryl, not mine.’
Febryl hissed, then waved one claw-like hand. ‘No matter. There’s still time. Your words only remind me that I must suffer fools-’
‘You’re not alone in that,’ Kamist Reloe drawled.
Febryl hobbled forward. ‘The path your… servants would take is a long one. It has not been trod by mortals since the First Empire. It has likely grown treacherous-’
‘Enough warnings, Febryl,’ Kamist Reloe snapped, his fear showing through. ‘You need only open the path. That is all we ask of you-all we have ever asked.’
‘You need more than that, Kamist Reloe,’ Febryl said with a smile. ‘Would you have these fools stride in blind? The goddess was a spirit, once-’
‘That is no secret.’
‘Perhaps, but what kind of spirit? One that rides the desert winds, you might think. But you are wrong. A spirit of stone? Sand? No, none of these.’ He waved one hand. ‘Look about you. Raraku holds the bones of countless civilizations, leading back to the First Empire, the empire of Dessimbelackis. And still further-aye, the signs of that are mostly obliterated, yet some remain, if one has the eyes to see… and understand.’ He limped over to one of the low stones ringing the clearing, struggling to hide the wince of pain from his overworked bones. ‘Were you to dig down through this sand, Kamist Reloe, you would discover that these boulders are in fact menhirs, stones standing taller than any of us here. And their flanks are pitted and grooved in strange patterns…’
Kamist swung in a slow circle, studying the protruding rocks with narrowed eyes. ‘T’lan Imass?’
Febryl nodded. ‘The First Empire of Dessimbelackis, Kamist Reloe, was not the first. That belonged to the T’lan Imass. There was little, it is true, that you or I might recognize as being… imperial. No cities. No breaking of the ground to plant crops or irrigate. And its armies were undead. There was a throne, of course, upon which was meant to sit a mortal-the progeny race of the T’lan Imass. A human. Alas, humans viewed empire… differently. And their vision did not include T’lan Imass. Thus, betrayal. Then war. An unequal contest, but the T’lan Imass were reluctant to annihilate their mortal children. And so they left-’
‘Only to return with the shattering of the warren,’ Kamist Reloe muttered, nodding. ‘When the chaos erupted with the ritual of Soletaken and D’ivers.’ He faced Febryl once more. ‘The goddess spirit is… was… T’lan Imass?’
Febryl shrugged. ‘There were once texts-inscribed on fired clay-from a cult of the First Empire, copies of which survived until the fall of Ugarat. The few T’lan Imass the humans managed to destroy when they rebelled were each buried in sacred sites. Sites such as this one, Kamist Reloe.’
But the other mage shook his head. ‘She is a creature of rage. Such fury does not belong to T’lan Imass-’
‘Unless she had reason. Memories of a betrayal, perhaps, from her mortal life. A wound too deep to be eradicated by the Ritual of Tellann.’ Febryl shrugged. ‘It does not matter. The spirit is T’lan Imass.’
‘It is rather late in the day for you to be revealing this to us,’ Kamist Reloe growled, turning his head to spit. ‘Does the Ritual of Tellann still bind her?’
‘No. She broke those chains long ago and has reclaimed her soul-Raraku’s secret gifts are those of life and death, as primal as existence itself. It returned to her all that she had lost-perhaps even the rebirth of her rage. Raraku, Kamist Reloe, remains the deepest mystery of all, for it holds its own memories… of the sea, of life’s very own waters. And memories are power.’
Kamist Reloe drew his cloak tighter about his gaunt form. ‘Open the path.’
And when I have done this for you and your Mezla friends, High Mage, you will be indebted to me, and my desires. Seven Cities shall be liberated. The Malazan Empire will withdraw all interests, and our civilization shall flower once more…
He stepped to the centre of the ring of stones and raised his hands.
Something was coming. Bestial and wild with power. And with each passing moment, as it drew ever nearer, L’oric’s fear grew. Ancient wars… such is the feel of this, as of enmity reborn, a hatred that defies millennia. And though he sensed that no one mortal in the oasis city was the subject of that wrath, the truth remained that… we are all in the way.
He needed to learn more. But he was at a loss as to which path he should take. Seven Cities was a land groaning beneath unseen burdens. Its skin was thick with layers, weathered hard. Their secrets were not easily prised loose, especially in Raraku.
He sat cross-legged on the floor of his tent, head lowered, thoughts racing. The Whirlwind’s rage had never before been so fierce, leading him to suspect that the Malazan army was drawing close, that the final clash of wills was fast approaching. This was, in truth, a convergence, and the currents had trapped other powers, pulling them along with relentless force.
And behind it all, the whispers of a song…
He should flee this place. Take Felisin-and possibly Heboric as well-with him. And soon. Yet curiosity held him here, at least for the present. Those layers were splitting, and there would be truths revealed, and he would know them. I came to Raraku because I sensed my father’s presence… somewhere close. Perhaps here no longer, but he had been, not long ago. The chance of finding his trail…
The Queen of Dreams had said Osric was lost. What did that mean? How? Why? He hungered for answers to such questions.
Kurald Thyrllan had been born of violence, the shattering of Darkness. The Elder Warren had since branched off in many directions, reaching to within the grasp of mortal humans as Thyr. And, before that, in the guise of life-giving fire, Tellann.
Tellann was a powerful presence here in Seven Cities, obscure and buried deep perhaps, but pervasive none the less. Whereas Kurald Thyrllan had been twisted and left fraught by the shattering of its sister warren. There were no easy passages into Thyrllan, as he well knew.
Very well, then. I shall try Tellann.
He sighed, then slowly climbed to his feet. There were plenty of risks, of course. Collecting his bleached telaba in the crook of one arm, he moved to the chest beside his cot. He crouched, passing a hand over it to temporarily dispel its wards, then lifted back the lid.
Liosan armour, the white enamel gouged and scarred. A visored helm of the same material, the leather underlining webbed over eyes and cheeks by black iron mail. A light, narrow-bladed longsword, its point long and tapering, scabbarded in pale wood.
He drew the armour on, including the helm, then pulled his telaba over it, raising the hood as well. Leather gauntlets and sword and belt followed.
Then he paused.
He despised fighting. Unlike his Liosan kin, he was averse to harsh judgement, to the assertion of a brutally delineated world-view that permitted no ambiguity. He did not believe order could be shaped by a sword’s edge. Finality, yes, but finality stained with failure.
Necessity was a most bitter flavour, but he saw no choice and so would have to suffer the taste.
Once more he would have to venture forth, through the encampment, drawing ever so carefully on his powers to remain unseen by mortals yet beneath the notice of the goddess. The ferocity of her anger was his greatest ally, and he would have to trust in that. He set out.
The sun was a crimson glare behind the veil of suspended sand, still a bell from setting, when L’oric reached the Toblakai’s glade. He found Felisin sleeping beneath the shade they had rigged between three poles on the side opposite the carved trees, and decided he would leave her to her rest. Instead, sparing a single bemused glance at the two Teblor statues, he strode over to stand before the seven stone faces.
Their spirits were long gone, if they had ever been present. These mysterious T’lan Imass who were Toblakai’s gods. And the sanctification had been wrested from them, leaving this place sacred to something else. But a fissure remained, the trail, perhaps, from a brief visitation. Sufficient, he hoped, for him to breach a way into the Warren of Tellann.
He unveiled power, forcing his will into the fissure, widening it until he was able to step through-
Onto a muddy beach at the edge of a vast lake. His boots sank to the ankles. Clouds of insects flitted up from the shoreline to swarm around him. L’oric paused, stared upward at an overcast sky. The air was sultry with late spring.
I am in the wrong place… or the wrong time. This is Raraku’s most ancient memory.
He faced inland. A marshy flat extended for another twenty paces, the reeds waving in the mild wind, then the terrain rose gently onto savanna. A low ridge of darker hills marked the horizon. A few majestic trees rose from the grasslands, filled with raucous white-winged birds.
A flash of movement in the reeds caught his attention, and his hand reached for the hilt of his sword as a bestial head appeared, followed by humped shoulders. A hyena, such as could be found west of Aren and, more rarely, in Karashimesh, but this one was as large as a bear. It lifted its wide, stubby head, nose testing the air, eyes seeming to squint.
The hyena took a step forward.
L’oric slid the sword from the scabbard.
At the blade’s hiss the beast reared up, lunging to its left, and bolted into the reeds.
He could mark its flight by the waving stalks, then it appeared once more, sprinting up the slope.
L’oric resheathed his weapon. He strode from the muddy bank, intending to take the trail the hyena had broken through the reeds, and, four paces in, came upon the gnawed remains of a corpse. Far along in its decay, limbs scattered by the scavenger’s feeding, it was a moment before the High Mage could comprehend its form. Humanoid, he concluded. As tall as a normal man, yet what remained of its skin revealed a pelt of fine dark hair. The waters had bloated the flesh, suggesting the creature had drowned. A moment’s search and he found the head.
He crouched down over it and was motionless for some time.
Sloped forehead, solid chinless jaw, a brow ridge so heavy it formed a contiguous shelf over the deep-set eye sockets. The hair still clinging to fragments of scalp was little longer than what had covered the body, dark brown and wavy.
More ape-like than a T’lan Imass… the skull behind the face is smaller, as well. Yet it stood taller by far, more human in proportion. What manner of man was this?
There was no evidence of clothing, or any other sort of adornment. The creature-a male-had died naked.
L’oric straightened. He could see the hyena’s route through the reeds, and he set out along it.
The overcast was burning away and the air growing hotter and, if anything, thicker. He reached the sward and stepped onto dry ground for the first time. The hyena was nowhere to be seen, and L’oric wondered if it was still running. An odd reaction, he mused, for which he could fashion no satisfactory explanation.
He had no destination in mind; nor was he even certain that what he sought would be found here. This was not, after all, Tellann. If anything, he had come to what lay beneath Tellann, as if the Imass, in choosing their sacred sites, had been in turn responding to a sensitivity to a still older power. He understood now that Toblakai’s glade was not a place freshly sanctified by the giant warrior; nor even by the T’lan Imass he had worshipped as his gods. It had, at the very beginning, belonged to Raraku, to whatever natural power the land possessed. And so he had pushed through to a place of beginnings. But did I push, or was I pulled?
A herd of huge beasts crested a distant rise on his right, the ground trembling as they picked up speed, stampeding in wild panic.
L’oric hesitated. They were not running towards him, but he well knew that such stampedes could veer at any time. Instead, they swung suddenly the other way, wheeling as a single mass. Close enough for him to make out their shapes. Similar to wild cattle, although larger and bearing stubby horns or antlers. Their hides were mottled white and tan, their long manes black.
He wondered what had panicked them and swung his gaze back to the place where the herd had first appeared.
L’oric dropped into a crouch, his heart pounding hard in his chest.
Seven hounds, black as midnight, of a size to challenge the wild antlered cattle. Moving with casual arrogance along the ridge. And flanking them, like jackals flanking a pride of lions, a score or more of the half-human creatures such as the one he had discovered at the lakeshore. They were clearly subservient, in the role of scavengers to predators. No doubt there was some mutual benefit to the partnership, though L’oric could imagine no real threat in this world to those dark hounds.
And, there was no doubt in his mind, those hounds did not belong here.
Intruders. Strangers to this realm, against which nothing in this world can challenge. They are the dominators… and they know it.
And now he saw that other observers were tracking the terrible beasts. K’Chain Che’Malle, three of them, the heavy blades at the end of their arms revealing that they were K’ell Hunters, were padding along a parallel course a few hundred paces distant from the hounds. Their heads were turned, fixed on the intruders-who in turn ignored them.
Not of this world either, if my father’s thoughts on the matter are accurate. He was Rake’s guest for months in Moon’s Spawn, delving its mysteries. But the K’Chain Che’Malle cities lie on distant continents. Perhaps they but recently arrived here, seeking new sites for their colonies… only to find their dominance challenged.
If the hounds saw L’oric, they made no sign of it. Nor did the half-humans.
The High Mage watched them continue on, until they finally dipped into a basin and disappeared from sight.
The K’ell Hunters all halted, then spread out cautiously and slowly closed to where the hounds had vanished.
A fatal error.
Blurs of darkness, launching up from the basin. The K’ell Hunters, suddenly surrounded, swung their massive swords. Yet, fast as they were, in the span of a single heartbeat two of the three were down, throats and bellies torn open. The third one had leapt high, sailing twenty paces to land in a thumping run.
The hounds did not pursue, gathering to sniff at the K’Chain Che’Malle corpses whilst the half-humans arrived with hoots and barks, a few males clambering onto the dead creatures and jumping up and down, arms waving.
L’oric thought he now understood why the K’Chain Che’Malle had never established colonies on this continent.
He watched the hounds and the half-humans mill about the kill site for a while longer, then the High Mage began a cautious retreat, back to the lake. He was nearing the edge of the slope down to the reeds when his last parting glance over one shoulder revealed the seven beasts all facing in his direction, heads raised.
Then two began a slow lope towards him. A moment later the remaining five fanned out and followed.
Oh…
Sudden calm descended upon him. He knew he was as good as already dead. There would be no time to open the warren to return to his own world-nor would he, in any case, since to do so would give the hounds a path to follow-and I’ll not have their arrival in the oasis a crime staining my soul. Better to die here and now. Duly punished for my obsessive curiosity.
The hounds showed nothing of the speed they had unveiled against the K’ell Hunters, as if they sensed L’oric’s comparative weakness.
He heard water rushing behind him and spun round.
A dragon filled his vision, low over the water-so fast as to lift a thrashing wave in its wake-and the talons spread wide, the huge clawed hands reaching down.
He threw his arms over his face and head as the enormous scaled fingers closed like a cage around him, then snatched him skyward.
A brief, disjointed glimpse of the hounds scattering from the dragon’s shadow-the distant sound of half-human yelps and shrieks-then naught before his eyes but the glistening white belly of the dragon, seen between two curled talons.
He was carried far, out onto a sea, then towards an island where stood a squat tower, its flat roof broad and solid enough for the dragon, wings spreading to thunder against the air, to settle.
The claws opened, tumbling L’oric onto the gouged and scraped stones. He rolled up against the platform’s low wall, then slowly sat up.
And stared at the enormous gold and white dragon, its lambent eyes fixed upon him with, L’oric knew instinctively, reproach. The High Mage managed a shrug.
‘Father,’ he said, ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
Osric was not one for furnishings and decor. The chamber beneath the platform was barren, its floor littered with the detritus left by nesting swallows, the air pungent with guano.
L’oric leaned against a wall, arms crossed, watching his father pace.
He was pure Liosan in appearance, tall and pale as snow, his long, wavy hair silver and streaked with gold. His eyes seemed to rage with an inner fire, its tones a match to his hair, silver licked by gold. He was wearing plain grey leathers, the sword at his belt virtually identical to the one L’oric carried.
‘Father. The Queen of Dreams believes you lost,’ he said after a long moment.
‘I am. Or, rather, I was. Further, I would remain so.’
‘You do not trust her?’
He paused, studied his son briefly, then said, ‘Of course I trust her. And my trust is made purer by her ignorance. What are you doing here?’
Sometimes longing is to be preferred to reality. L’oric sighed. ‘I am not even sure where here is. I was… questing for truths.’
Osric grunted and began pacing once more. ‘You said earlier you were looking for me. How did you discover my trail?’
‘I didn’t. My searching for you was more of a, ah, generalized sort of thing. This present excursion was an altogether different hunt.’
‘That was about to see you killed.’
L’oric nodded. He looked around the chamber. ‘You live here?’
His father grimaced. ‘An observation point. The K’Chain Che’Malle skykeeps invariably approach from the north, over water.’
‘Skykeeps… such as Moon’s Spawn?’
A veiled glance, then a nod. ‘Yes.’
‘And it was in Rake’s floating fortress that you first embarked on the trail that took you here. What did you discover that the Tiste Andu Lord of Darkness didn’t?’
Osric snorted. ‘Only that which was at his very feet. Moon’s Spawn bore signs of damage, of breaching. Then slaughter. None the less, a few survived, at least long enough to begin it on its journey home. North, out over the icefields. Of course, it never made it past those icefields. Did you know that the glacier that held Moon’s Spawn had travelled a thousand leagues with its prize? A thousand leagues, L’oric, before Rake and I stumbled upon it north of Laederon Plateau.’
‘You are saying Moon’s Spawn was originally one of these skykeeps that arrived here?’
‘It was. Three have come in the time that I have been here. None survived the Deragoth.’
‘The what?’
Osric halted and faced his son once more. ‘The Hounds of Darkness. The seven beasts that Dessimbelackis made pact with-and oh, weren’t the Nameless Ones shaken by that unholy alliance? The seven beasts, L’oric, that gave the name to Seven Cities, although no memory survives of that particular truth. The Seven Holy Cities of our time are not the original ones, of course. Only the number has survived.’
L’oric closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the damp stone wall. ‘Deragoth. What happened to them? Why are they here and not there?’
‘I don’t know. Probably it had something to do with the violent collapse of the First Empire.’
‘What warren is this?’
‘Not a warren at all, L’oric. A memory. Soon to end, I believe, since it is… shrinking. Fly northward and by day’s end you will see before you a wall of nothingness, of oblivion.’
‘A memory. Whose memory?’
Osric shrugged. ‘Raraku’s.’
‘You make that desert sound as if it is alive, as if it is an entity.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘You’re saying it is?’
‘No, I’m not saying that. I was asking you-have you not just come from there?’
L’oric opened his eyes and regarded his father. You are a frustrating man. No wonder Anomander Rake lost his temper. ‘What of those half-humans that ran with these Deragoth?’
‘A quaint reversal, wouldn’t you say? The Deragoth’s only act of domestication. Most scholars, in their species-bound arrogance, believe that humans domesticated dogs, but it may well have been the other way round, at least to start. Who ran with whom?’
‘But those creatures aren’t humans. They’re not even Imass.’
‘No, but they will be, one day. I’ve seen others, scampering on the edges of wolf packs. Standing upright gives them better vision, a valuable asset to complement the wolves’ superior hearing and sense of smell. A formidable combination, but the wolves are the ones in charge. That will eventually change… but not for those serving the Deragoth, I suspect.’
‘Why?’
‘Because something is about to happen. Here, in this trapped memory. I only hope that I will be privileged to witness it before the world fades entirely.’
‘You called the Deragoth “Hounds of Darkness”. Are they children of Mother Dark, then?’
‘They are no-one’s children,’ Osric growled, then he shook his head. ‘They have that stench about them, but in truth I have no idea. It just seemed an appropriate name. “Deragoth” in the Tiste Andu tongue.’
‘Well,’ L’oric muttered, ‘actually, it would be Dera’tin’jeragoth.’
Osric studied his son. ‘So like your mother,’ he sighed. ‘And is it any wonder we could not stand each other’s company? The third day, always by the third day. We could make a lifetime of those three days. Exaltation, then comfort, then mutual contempt. One, two, three.’
L’oric looked away. ‘And for your only son?’
Osric grunted. ‘More like three bells.’
Climbing to his feet, L’oric brushed dust from his hands. ‘Very well. I may require your help in opening the path back to Raraku. But you might wish to know something of the Liosan and Kurald Thyrllan. Your people and their realm have lost their protector. They pray for your return, Father.’
‘What of your familiar?’
‘Slain. By T’lan Imass.’
‘So,’ Osric said, ‘find yourself another.’
L’oric flinched, then scowled. ‘It’s not as easy as that! In any case, do you hold no sense of responsibility for the Liosan? They worship you, dammit!’
‘The Liosan worship themselves, L’oric. I happen to be a convenient figurehead. Kurald Thyrllan may appear vulnerable, but it isn’t.’
‘And what if these Deragoth are servants of Darkness in truth? Do you still make the same claim, Father?’
He was silent, then strode towards the gaping entranceway. ‘It’s all her fault,’ he muttered as he passed.
L’oric followed his father outside. ‘This… observation tower. Is it Jaghut?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, where are they?’
‘West. South. East. But not here-I’ve seen none.’
‘You don’t know where they are, do you?’
‘They are not in this memory, L’oric. That is that. Now, stay back.’
The High Mage remained near the tower, watching his father veer into his draconic form. The air suddenly redolent with a sweet, spicy aroma, a blurring of shape before L’oric’s eyes. Like Anomander Rake, Osric was more dragon than anything else. They were kin in blood, if not in personality. I wish I could understand this man, this father of mine. Queen take me, I wish I could even like him. He strode forward.
The dragon lifted one forelimb, talons opening.
L’oric frowned. ‘I would rather ride your shoulders, Father-’
But the reptilian hand reached out and closed about him.
He resolved to suffer the indignity in silence.
Osric flew westward, following the coastline. Before too long forest appeared, and the land reached around northward. The air whipping between the dragon’s scaled fingers grew cold, then icy. The ground far below began climbing, the forests flanking mountain sides shifting into conifers. Then L’oric saw snow, reaching like frozen rivers in crevasses and chasms.
He could recall no mountains from the future to match this ancient scene. Perhaps this memory, like so many others, is flawed.
Osric began to descend-and L’oric suddenly saw a vast white emptiness, as if the mountain rearing before them had been cut neatly in half. They were approaching that edge.
A vaguely level, snow-crusted stretch was the dragon’s destination.
Its southern side was marked by a sheer cliff. To the north… opaque oblivion.
Wings pounding, raising clouds of powdery white, Osric hovered for a moment, then released L’oric.
The High Mage landed in waist-deep snow. Cursing, he kicked his way onto firmer footing, as the enormous dragon settled with a shuddering crunch off to one side.
Osric quickly sembled into Liosan form, the wind whipping at his hair, and strode over.
There were… things near the faded edge of the memory. Some of them moving about feebly. Osric stomped through the deep snow towards them, speaking as he went. ‘Creatures stumble out. You will find such all along the verge. Most of them quickly die, but some linger.’
‘What are they?’
‘Demons, mostly.’
Osric changed direction slightly, closing on one such creature, from which steam was rising. Its four limbs were moving, claws scraping through the slush surrounding it.
Father and son halted before it.
Dog-sized and reptilian, with four hands, similar to an ape’s. A wide, flat head with a broad mouth, two slits for nostrils, and four liquid, slightly protruding eyes in a diamond pattern, the pupils vertical and, in the harsh glare of the snow and sky, surprisingly open.
‘This one might suit Kurald Thyrllan,’ Osric said.
‘What kind of demon is it?’ L’oric asked, staring down at the creature.
‘I have no idea,’ Osric replied. ‘Reach out to it. See if it is amenable.’
‘Assuming it has any mind at all,’ L’oric muttered, crouching down.
Can you hear me? Can you comprehend?
The four eyes blinked up at him. And it replied. ‘Sorcerer. Declaration. Recognition. We were told you’d come, but so soon? Rhetorical.’
I am not from this place, L’oric explained. You are dying, I think.
‘Is that what this is? Bemused.’
I would offer you an alternative. Have you a name?
‘A name? You require that. Observation. Of course. Comprehension. A partnership, a binding of spirits. Power from you, power from me. In exchange for my life. Uneven bargain. Position devoid of clout.’
No, I will save you none the less. We will return to my world… to a warmer place.
‘Warmth? Thinking. Ah, air that does not steal my strength. Considering. Save me, Sorcerer, and then we will talk more of this alliance.’
L’oric nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘It’s done?’ Osric asked.
His son straightened. ‘No, but it comes with us.’
‘Without the binding, you will have no control over the demon, L’oric. It could well turn on you as soon as you return to Raraku. Best we resume our search, find a creature more tractable.’
‘No. I will risk this one.’
Osric shrugged. ‘As you like, then. We must proceed now to the lake, where you first appeared.’
L’oric watched his father walk away, then halt and veer once more into his dragon form.
‘Eleint!’ the demon cried in the High Mage’s mind. ‘Wonder. You have an Eleint for a companion!’
My father.
‘Your father! Excited delight! Eager. I am named Greyfrog, born of Mirepool’s Clutch in the Twentieth Season of Darkness. Proudly. I have fathered thirty-one clutches of my own-’
And how, Greyfrog, did you come here?
‘Sudden moroseness. One hop too far.’
The dragon approached.
Greyfrog dragged itself onto the warm sand. L’oric turned about, but the gate was already closing. So, he had found his father, and the parting had been as blunt as the meeting. Not precisely indifference. More like… distraction. Osric’s interest was with Osric. His own pursuits.
Only now did a thousand more questions rise in L’oric’s thoughts, questions he should have asked.
‘Regret?’
L’oric glanced down at the demon. ‘Recovering, Greyfrog? I am named L’oric. Shall we now discuss our partnership?’
‘I smell raw meat. I am hungry. Eat. Then talk. Firm.’
‘As you wish. As for raw meat… I will find you something that is appropriate. There are rules, regarding what you can and cannot kill.’
‘Explain them to me. Cautious. Not wishing to offend. But hungry.’
‘I shall…’
Vengeance had been her lifeblood for so long, and now, within days, she would come face to face with her sister, to play out the game’s end run. A vicious game, but a game none the less. Sha’ik knew that virtually every conceivable advantage lay with her. Tavore’s legions were green, the territory was Sha’ik’s own, her Army of the Apocalypse were veterans of the rebellion and numerically superior. The Whirlwind Goddess drew power from an Elder Warren-she now realized-perhaps not pure but either immune or resistant to the effects of otataral. Tavore’s mages amounted to two Wickan warlocks both broken of spirit, whilst Sha’ik’s cadre included four High Mages and a score of shamans, witches and sorcerers, including Fayelle and Henaras. In all, defeat seemed impossible. And yet Sha’ik was terrified.
She sat alone in the central chamber of the vast, multi-roomed tent that was her palace. The braziers near the throne were slowly dimming, shadows encroaching on all sides. She wanted to run. The game was too hard, too fraught. Its final promise was cold-colder than she had ever imagined. Vengeance is a wasted emotion, yet I have let it consume me. I gave it like a gift to the goddess.
Fragments of clarity-they were diminishing, withering like flowers in winter-as the hold of the Whirlwind Goddess tightened on her soul. My sister traded me for the faith of the Empress, to convince Laseen of Tavore’s own loyalty. All to serve her ambition. And her reward was the position of Adjunct. Such are the facts, the cold truths. And I, in turn, have traded my freedom for the power of the Whirlwind Goddess, so that I can deliver just vengeance against my sister. Are we, then, so different?
Fragments of clarity, but they led nowhere. She could ask questions, yet seemed incapable of seeking answers. She could make statements, but they seemed strangely hollow, devoid of significance. She was being kept from thinking. Why?
Another question she knew she would not answer, would not, even, make an effort to answer. The goddess doesn’t want me to think. Well, at least that was a recognition of sorts.
She sensed the approach of someone, and issued a silent command to her guards-Mathok’s chosen warriors-to permit the visitor to pass within. The curtains covering the entrance to the chamber parted.
‘A late night for an ancient one such as you, Bidithal,’ Sha’ik said. ‘You should be resting, in preparation for the battle.’
‘There are many battles, Chosen One, and some have already begun.’ He leaned heavily on his staff, looking around with a slight smile on his wrinkled lips. ‘The coals are fading,’ he murmured.
‘I would have thought the growing shadows would please you.’
His smile tightened, then he shrugged. ‘They are not mine, Chosen One.’
‘Aren’t they?’
The smile grew more strained still. ‘I was never a priest of Meanas.’
‘No, here it was Rashan, ghost-child of Kurald Galain… yet the warren it claimed was, none the less, Shadow. We are both well aware that the distinctions diminish the closer one delves into the mysteries of the most ancient triumvirate. Shadow, after all, was born of the clash between Light and Dark. And Meanas is, in essence, drawn from the warrens of Thyrllan and Galain, Thyr and Rashan. It is, if you will, a hybrid discipline.’
‘Most sorcerous arts available to mortal humans are, Chosen One. I do not, I am afraid, comprehend the point you wish to make.’
She shrugged. ‘Only that you send your shadow servants here to spy on me, Bidithal. What is it you hope to witness? I am as you see me.’
He spread his hands, staff resting against one shoulder. ‘Perhaps not spies, then, but protectors.’
‘And I am in such dire need of protection, Bidithal? Are your fears… specific? Is this what you have come to tell me?’
‘I am close to discovering the precise nature of that threat, Chosen One. Soon, I will be able to deliver my revelations. My present concerns, however, are with High Mage L’oric and, perhaps, Ghost Hands.’
‘Surely you do not suspect either of them of being part of the conspiracy.’
‘No, but I am coming to believe that other forces are at play here. We are at the heart of a convergence, Chosen One, and not just between us and the Malazans.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Ghost Hands is not as he once was. He is a priest once more.’
Sha’ik’s brows lifted in frank disbelief. ‘Fener is gone, Bidithal-’
‘Not Fener. But consider this. The god of war has been dethroned. And another has risen in its place, as necessity demanded. The Tiger of Summer, who was once the First Hero, Treach. A Soletaken of the First Empire… now a god. His need will be great, Chosen One, for mortal champions and avatars, to aid him in establishing the role he would assume. A Mortal Sword, a Shield Anvil, a Destriant-all of the ancient titles… and the powers the god invests in them.’
‘Ghost Hands would never accept a god other than Fener,’ Sha’ik asserted. ‘Nor, I imagine, would a god be foolish enough to embrace him in turn. You know little of his past, Bidithal. He is not a pious man. He has committed… crimes-’
‘None the less, Chosen One. The Tiger of Summer has made his choice.’
‘As what?’
Bidithal shrugged. ‘What else could he be but Destriant.’
‘What proof have you of this extraordinary transformation?’
‘He hides well… but not well enough, Chosen One.’
Sha’ik was silent for a long moment, then she replied with a shrug of her own. ‘Destriant to the new god of war. Why wouldn’t he be here? We are at war, after all. I will think of this… development, Bidithal. At the moment, however, I cannot-assuming it is true-see its relevance.’
‘Perhaps, Chosen One, the most significant relevance is also the simplest one: Ghost Hands is not the broken, useless man he once was. And, given his… ambivalence to our cause, he presents us with a potential threat-’
‘I think not,’ Sha’ik said. ‘But, as I said, I will give it some thought. Now, your vast web of suspicions has snared L’oric as well? Why?’
‘He has been more elusive of late than is usual, Chosen One. His efforts to disguise his comings and goings have become somewhat extreme.’
‘Perhaps he grows weary of your incessant spying, Bidithal.’
‘Perhaps, though I am certain he remains unaware that the one ever seeking to maintain an eye on his activities is indeed me. Febryl and the Napan have their own spies, after all. I am not alone in my interests. They fear L’oric, for he has rebuffed their every approach-’
‘It pleases me to hear that, Bidithal. Call off your shadows, regarding L’oric. And that is a command. You better serve the Whirlwind’s interests in concentrating on Febryl, Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe.’
He bowed slightly. ‘Very well, Chosen One.’
Sha’ik studied the old man. ‘Be careful, Bidithal.’
She saw him pale slightly, then he nodded. ‘I am ever that, Chosen One.’
A slight wave of her hand dismissed him.
Bidithal bowed once more, then, gripping his walking stick, he hobbled from the chamber. Out through the intervening chambers, past a dozen of Mathok’s silent desert warriors, then out, finally into the cool night air.
Call off my shadows, Chosen One? Command or no, I am not so foolish as to do that.
Shadows gathered around him as he strode down the narrow alleyways between tents and huts. Do you remember the dark?
Bidithal smiled to himself. Soon, this fragment of shattered warren would become a realm unto itself. And the Whirlwind Goddess would see the need for a priesthood, a structure of power in the mortal world. And in such an organization, there would be no place for Sha’ik, except perhaps a minor shrine honouring her memory.
For now, of course, the Malazan Empire must be dealt with, summarily, and for that Sha’ik, as a vessel of the Whirlwind’s power, would be needed. This particular path of shadows was narrow indeed. Bidithal suspected that Febryl’s alliance with the Napan and Kamist Reloe was but temporary. The mad old bastard had no love for Malazans. Probably, his plans held a hidden, final betrayal, one concluding in the mutual annihilation of every interest but his own.
And I cannot pierce to the truth of that, a failure on my part that forces my hand. I must be… pre-emptive. I must side with Sha’ik, for it will be her hand that crushes the conspirators.
A hiss of spectral voices and Bidithal halted, startled from his dark musings.
To find Febryl standing before him.
‘Was your audience with the Chosen One fruitful, Bidithal?’
‘As always, Febryl,’ Bidithal smiled, wondering at how the ancient High Mage managed to get so close before being detected by his secret guardians. ‘What do you wish of me? It’s late.’
‘The time has come,’ Febryl said in a low, rasping tone. ‘You must choose. Join us, or stand aside.’
Bidithal raised his brows. ‘Is there not a third option?’
‘If you mean you would fight us, the answer is, regrettably, no. I suggest, however, we withhold on that discussion for the moment. Instead, hear our reward for you-granted whether you join us or simply remove yourself from our path.’
‘Reward? I am listening, Febryl.’
‘She will be gone, as will the Malazan Empire. Seven Cities will be free as it once was. Yet the Whirlwind Warren will remain, returned to the Dryjhna-to the cult of the Apocalypse which is and always has been at the heart of the rebellion. Such a cult needs a master, a High Priest, ensconced in a vast, rich temple, duly honoured by all. How would you shape such a cult?’ Febryl smiled. ‘It seems you have already begun, Bidithal. Oh yes, we know all about your… special children. Imagine, then, all of Seven Cities at your disposal. All of Seven Cities, honoured to deliver to you their unwanted daughters.’
Bidithal licked his lips, eyes shifting away. ‘I must think on this-’
‘There’s no more time for that. Join us, or stand aside.’
‘When do you begin?’
‘Why, Bidithal, we already have. The Adjunct and her legions are but days away. We have already moved our agents, they are all in place, ready to complete their appointed tasks. The time for indecision is past. Decide. Now.’
‘Very well. Your path is clear, Febryl. I accept your offer. But my cult must remain my own, to shape as I choose. No interference-’
‘None. That is a promise-’
‘Whose?’
‘Mine.’
‘And what of Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe?’
Febryl’s smile broadened. ‘What worth their vows, Bidithal? The Empress had Korbolo Dom’s once. Sha’ik did as well…’
As she had yours, too, Febryl. ‘Then we-you and I-understand each other.’
‘We do indeed.’
Bidithal watched the High Mage stride away. He knew my shadow spirits surrounded me, yet was dismissive of them. There was no third option. Had I voiced defiance, I would now be dead. I know it. I can feel Hood’s cold breath, here in this alley. My powers are… compromised. How? He needed to discover the source of Febryl’s confidence. Before he could do anything, before he could make a single move. And which move will that be? Febryl’s offer… appeals.
Yet Febryl had promised no interference, even as he had revealed an arrogant indifference to the power Bidithal had already fashioned. An indifference that bespoke of intimate knowledge. You do not dismiss what you know nothing of, after all. Not at this stage.
Bidithal resumed his journey back to his temple. He felt… vulnerable. An unfamiliar sensation, and it brought a tremble to his limbs.
A faint stinging bite, then numbness spreading out from her lungs.
Scillara leaned her head back, reluctant to exhale, believing for the briefest of moments that her need for air had vanished. Then she exploded into coughing.
‘Be quiet,’ Korbolo Dom snarled, rolling a stoppered bottle across the blankets towards her. ‘Drink, woman. Then open those screens-I can barely see with all the water wrung from my eyes.’
She listened to his boots on the rushes, moving off into one of the back chambers. The coughing was past. Her chest felt full of thick, cloying liquid. Her head was swimming, and she struggled to recall what had happened a few moments earlier. Febryl had arrived. Excited, she believed. Something about her master, Bidithal. The culmination of a long-awaited triumph. They had both gone to the inner rooms.
There had been a time, once, she was fairly certain, when her thoughts had been clear-though, she suspected, most of them had been unpleasant ones. And so there was little reason to miss those days. Except for the clarity itself-its acuity that made recollection effortless.
She so wanted to serve her master, and serve him well. With distinction, sufficient to earn her new responsibilities, to assume new roles-ones that did not, perhaps, involve surrendering her body to men. One day, Bidithal would not be able to attend to all the new girls as he did now-there would be too many, even for him. She was certain she could manage the scarring, the cutting away of pleasure.
They would not appreciate the freeing, of course. Not at first. But she could help them in that. Kind words and plenty of durhang to blunt the physical pain… and the outrage.
Had she felt outrage? Where had that word come from, to arrive so sudden and unexpected in her thoughts?
She sat up, stumbled away from the cushions to the heavy screens blocking the outside night air. She was naked, but unmindful of the cold. A slight discomfort in the heaviness of her unbound breasts. She had twice been pregnant, but Bidithal had taken care of that, giving her bitter teas that broke the seed’s roots and flushed it from her body. There had been that same heaviness at those times, and she wondered if yet another of the Napan’s seeds had taken within her.
Scillara fumbled at the ties until one of the screens folded down, and she looked out onto the dark street.
The guards were both visible, near the entrance which was situated a few paces to her left. They glanced over, faces hidden by helms and the hoods of their telabas. And, it seemed, continued staring, though offering no greeting, no comment.
There was a strange dullness to the night air, as if the smoke filling the tent chamber had settled a permanent layer over her eyes, obscuring all that she looked at. She stood for a moment longer, weaving, then walked over to the entrance.
Febryl had left the flaps untied. She pushed them aside and stepped out between the two guards.
‘Had his fill of you this night, Scillara?’ one asked.
‘I want to walk. It’s hard to breathe. I think I’m drowning.’
‘Drowning in the desert, aye,’ the other grunted, then laughed.
She staggered past, choosing a direction at random.
Heavy. Filled up. Drowning in the desert.
‘Not this night, lass.’
She stumbled as she turned about, threw both arms out for balance, and squinted at the guard who had followed. ‘What?’
‘Febryl has wearied of your spying. He wants Bidithal blind and deaf in this camp. It grieves me, Scillara. It does. Truly.’ He took her by the arm, gauntleted fingers closing tight. ‘It’s a mercy, I think, and I will make it as painless as possible. For I liked you, once. Always smiling, you were, though of course that was mostly the durhang.’ He was leading her away as he spoke, down from the main avenue into the rubbish-cluttered aisles between tent-walls. ‘I’m tempted to take my pleasure of you first. Better a son of the desert than a bow-legged Napan for your last memory of love, yes?’
‘You mean to kill me?’ She was having trouble with the thought, with thinking at all.
‘I’m afraid I must, lass. I cannot defy my master, especially in this. Still, you should be relieved that it is me and not some stranger. For I will not be cruel, as I have said. Here, into these ruins, Scillara-the floor has been swept clean-not the first time it’s seen use, but if all signs are removed immediately there is no evidence to be found, is there? There’s an old well in the garden for the bodies.’
‘You mean to throw me down the well?’
‘Not you, just your body. Your soul will be through Hood’s gate by then, lass. I will make certain of that. Now, lie yourself down, here, on my cloak. I have looked upon your lovely body unable to touch for long enough. I have dreamt of kissing those lips, too.’
She was lying on the cloak, staring up at dim, blurry stars, as the guard unhitched his sword-belt then began removing his armour. She saw him draw a knife, the blade gleaming black, and set it to one side on the flagstoned floor.
Then his hands were pushing her thighs apart. There is no pleasure. It is gone. He is a handsome man. A woman’s husband. He prefers pleasure before business, as I once did. I think. But now, I know nothing of pleasure. Leaving naught but business.
The cloak was bunching beneath her as his grunts filled her ears. She calmly reached out to one side and closed her hand around the hilt of the knife. Raised it, the other hand joining it over and above the guard.
Then she drove the knife down into his lower back, the blade’s edge gouging between two vertebrae, severing the cord, the point continuing on in a stuttering motion as it pierced membranes and tore deep into the guard’s middle and lower intestines.
He spilled into her at the moment of death, his shudders becoming twitches, the breath hissing from a suddenly slack mouth as his forehead struck the stone floor beside her right ear.
She left the knife buried halfway to its hilt-as deep as her strength had taken it-in his back, and pushed at his limp body until it rolled to one side.
A desert woman for your last memory of love.
Scillara sat up, wanting to cough but swallowing until the urge passed. Heavy, and heavier still.
I am a vessel ever filled, yet there’s always room for more. More durhang. More men and their seeds. My master found my place of pleasure and removed it. Ever filled, yet never filled up. There is no base to this vessel. This is what he has done.
To all of us.
She tottered upright. Stared down at the guard’s corpse, at the wet stains spreading out beneath him.
A sound behind her. Scillara turned.
‘You murdering bitch.’
She frowned at the second guard as he advanced, drawing a dagger.
‘The fool wanted you alone for a time. This is what he gets for ignoring Febryl’s commands-I warned him-’
She was staring at the hand gripping the dagger, so was caught unawares as the other hand flashed, knuckles cracking hard against her jaw.
Her eyes blinked open to jostling, sickening motion. She was being dragged through rubbish by one arm. From somewhere ahead flowed the stench of the latrine trench, thick as fog, a breath of warm, poisoned air. Her lips were broken and her mouth tasted of blood. The shoulder of the arm the guard gripped was throbbing.
The man was muttering. ‘… pretty thing indeed. Hardly. When she’s drowning in filth. The fool, and now he’s dead. It was a simple task, after all. There’s no shortage of whores in this damned camp. What-who-’
He had stopped.
Head lolling, Scillara caught a blurred glimpse of a squat figure emerging from darkness.
The guard released her wrist and her arm fell with a thump onto damp, foul mud. She saw him reaching for his sword.
Then his head snapped up with a sound of cracked teeth, followed by a hot spray that spattered across Scillara’s thighs. Blood.
She thought she saw a strange emerald glow trailing from one hand of the guard’s killer-a hand taloned like a huge cat’s.
The figure stepped over the crumpled form of the guard, who had ceased moving, and slowly crouched down beside Scillara.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ the man growled. ‘Or so I’ve just realized. Extraordinary, how single lives just fold into the whole mess, over and over again, all caught up in the greater swirl. Spinning round and round, and ever downward, it seems. Ever downward. Fools, all of us, to think we can swim clear of that current.’
The shadows were strange on him. As if he stood beneath palms and tall grasses-but no, there was only the night sky above the squat, broad-shouldered man. He was tattooed, she realized, in the barbs of a tiger.
‘Plenty of killing going on lately,’ he muttered, staring down at her with amber eyes. ‘All those loose threads being knotted, I expect.’
She watched him reach down with that glowing, taloned hand. It settled, palm-downward, warm between her breasts. The tips of the claws pricked her skin and a tremble ran through her.
That spread, coursing hot through her veins. That heat grew suddenly fierce, along her throat, in her lungs, between her legs.
The man grunted. ‘I thought it was consumption, that rattling breath. But no, it’s just too much durhang. As for the rest, well, it’s an odd thing about pleasure. Something Bidithal would have you never know. Its enemy is not pain. No, pain is simply the path taken to indifference. And indifference destroys the soul. Of course, Bidithal likes destroyed souls-to mirror his own.’
If he continued speaking beyond that, she did not hear, as sensations long lost flooded into her, only slightly blunted by the lingering, satisfying haze of the durhang. She felt badly used between her legs, but knew that feeling would pass.
‘Outrage.’
He was gathering her into his arms, but paused. ‘You spoke?’
Outrage. Yes. That. ‘Where are you taking me?’ The question came out between coughs, and she pushed his arms aside to bend over and spit out phlegm while he answered.
‘To my temple. Fear not, it’s safe. Neither Febryl nor Bidithal will find you there. You’ve been force-healed, lass, and will need to sleep.’
‘What do you want with me?’
‘I’m not sure yet. I think I will need your help, and soon. But the choice is yours. Nor will you have to surrender… anything you don’t want to. And, if you choose to simply walk away, that is fine as well. I will give you money and supplies-and maybe even find you a horse. We can discuss that tomorrow. What is your name?’
He reached down once more and lifted her effortlessly.
‘Scillara.’
‘I am Heboric, Destriant to Treach, the Tiger of Summer and the God of War.’
She stared up at him as he began carrying her along the path. ‘I am afraid I am going to disappoint you, Heboric. I think I have had my fill of priests.’
She felt his shrug, then he smiled wearily down at her. ‘That’s all right. Me too.’
Felisin awoke shortly after L’oric returned with a freshly slaughtered lamb for his demon familiar, Greyfrog. Probably, the High Mage reflected when she first stirred beneath the tarpaulin, she had been roused to wakefulness by the sound of crunching bones.
The demon’s appetite was voracious, and L’oric admired its single-mindedness, if not its rather untidy approach to eating.
Felisin emerged, wrapped in her blankets, and walked to L’oric’s side. She was silent, her hair in disarray around her young, tanned face, and watched the demon consuming the last of the lamb with loud, violent gulps.
‘Greyfrog,’ L’oric murmured. ‘My new familiar.’
‘Your familiar? You are certain it’s not the other way round? That thing could eat both of us.’
‘Observant. She is right, companion L’oric. Maudlin. I would waddle. Alas. Torpid vulnerability. Distraught. All alone.’
‘All right.’ L’oric smiled. ‘An alliance is a better word for our partnership.’
‘There is mud on your boots, and snagged pieces of reed and grass.’
‘I have travelled this night, Felisin.’
‘Seeking allies?’
‘Not intentionally. No, my search was for answers.’
‘And did you find any?’
He hesitated, then sighed. ‘Some. Fewer than I would have hoped. But I return knowing one thing for certain. And that is, you must leave. As soon as possible.’
Her glance was searching. ‘And what of you?’
‘I will follow, as soon as I can.’
‘I’m to go alone?’
‘No. You will have Greyfrog with you. And one other… I hope.’
She nodded. ‘I am ready. I have had enough of this place. I no longer dream of vengeance against Bidithal. I just want to be gone. Is that cowardly of me?’
L’oric slowly shook his head. ‘Bidithal will be taken care of, lass, in a manner befitting his crimes.’
‘If you are intending to murder him, then I would advise against sending Greyfrog with me. Bidithal is powerful-perhaps more so than you realize. I can travel alone-no-one will be hunting me, after all.’
‘No. Much as I would like to kill Bidithal myself, it will not be by my hand.’
‘There is something ominous in what you are saying, or, perhaps, in what you’re not saying, L’oric.’
‘There will be a convergence, Felisin. With some… unexpected guests. And I do not think anyone here will survive their company for long. There will be… vast slaughter.’
‘Then why are you staying?’
‘To witness, lass. For as long as I can.’
‘Why?’
He grimaced. ‘As I said, I am still seeking answers.’
‘And are they important enough to risk your own life?’
‘They are. And now, I will leave you here in Greyfrog’s trust for a time. You are safe, and when I return it will be with the necessary supplies and mounts.’
She glanced over at the scaled, ape-like creature with its four eyes. ‘Safe, you said. At least until it gets hungry.’
‘Appreciative. I will protect this one. But do not be gone too long. Ha ha.’
Dawn was breathing light into the eastern sky as Heboric stepped outside to await his visitor. The Destriant remained in as much darkness as he could manage, not to hide from L’oric-whom he now watched stride into view and approach-but against any other watchers. They might well discern a figure, crouched there in the tent’s doorway, but little more than that. He had drawn a heavy cloak about himself, hood drawn up over his head, and he kept his hands beneath the folds.
L’oric’s steps slowed as he drew near. There would be no hiding the truth from this man, and Heboric smiled as he saw the High Mage’s eyes widen.
‘Aye,’ Heboric muttered, ‘I was reluctant. But it is done, and I have made peace with that.’
‘And what is Treach’s interest here?’ L’oric asked after a long, uneasy moment.
‘There will be a battle,’ Heboric replied, shrugging. ‘Beyond that… well, I’m not sure. We’ll see, I expect.’
L’oric looked weary. ‘I was hoping to convince you to leave. To take Felisin away from here.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Move her camp a league, out beyond the northeast edge of the oasis. Three saddled horses, three more pack horses. Food and water sufficient for three, to take us as far as G’danisban.’
‘Three?’
Heboric smiled. ‘You are not aware of it, but there is a certain… poetry to there being three of us.’
‘Very well. And how long should she expect to wait?’
‘As long as she deems acceptable, L’oric. Like you, I intend to remain here for a few days yet.’
His eyes grew veiled. ‘The convergence.’
Heboric nodded.
L’oric sighed. ‘We are fools, you and I.’
‘Probably.’
‘I had once hoped, Ghost Hands, for an alliance between us.’
‘It exists, more or less, L’oric. Sufficient to ensure Felisin’s safety. Not that we have managed well in that responsibility thus far. I could have helped,’ Heboric growled.
‘I am surprised, if you know what Bidithal did to her, that you have not sought vengeance.’
‘Vengeance? What is the point in that? No, L’oric, I have a better answer to Bidithal’s butchery. Leave Bidithal to his fate…’
The High Mage started, then smiled. ‘Odd, only a short time ago I voiced similar words to Felisin.’
Heboric watched the man walk away. After a moment, the Destriant turned and re-entered his temple.
‘There is something… inexorable about them…’
They were in the path of the distant legions, seeing the glimmer of iron wavering like molten metal beneath a pillar of dust that, from this angle, seemed to rise straight up, spreading out in a hazy stain in the high desert winds. At Leoman’s words, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas shivered. Dust was sifting down the folds of his ragged telaba; the air this close to the Whirlwind Wall was thick with suspended sand, filling his mouth with grit.
Leoman twisted in his saddle to study his warriors.
Anchoring his splintered lance into the stirrup cup, Corabb settled back in the saddle. He was exhausted. Virtually every night, they had attempted raids, and even when his own company had not been directly involved in the fighting there had been retreats to cover, counter-attacks to blunt, then flight. Always flight. Had Sha’ik given Leoman five thousand warriors, the Adjunct and her army would be the ones retreating. All the way back to Aren, mauled and limping.
Leoman had done what he could with what he had, however, and they had purchased-with blood-a handful of precious days. Moreover, they had gauged the Adjunct’s tactics, and the mettle of the soldiers. More than once, concerted pressure on the regular infantry had buckled them, and had Leoman the numbers, he could have pressed home and routed them. Instead, Gall’s Burned Tears would arrive, or Wickans, or those damned marines, and the desert warriors would be the ones fleeing. Out into the night, pursued by horse warriors as skilled and tenacious as Leoman’s own.
Seven hundred or so remained-they’d had to leave so many wounded behind, found and butchered by the Khundryl Burned Tears, with various body parts collected as trophies.
Leoman faced forward on his saddle once more. ‘We are done.’
Corabb nodded. The Malazan army would reach the Whirlwind Wall by dusk. ‘Perhaps her otataral will fail,’ he offered. ‘Perhaps the goddess will destroy them all this very night.’
The lines bracketing Leoman’s blue eyes deepened as he narrowed his gaze on the advancing legions. ‘I think not. There is nothing pure in the Whirlwind’s sorcery, Corabb. No, there will be a battle, at the very edge of the oasis. Korbolo Dom will command the Army of the Apocalypse. And you and I, and likely Mathok, shall find ourselves a suitable vantage point… to watch.’
Corabb leaned to one side and spat.
‘Our war is done,’ Leoman finished, collecting his reins.
‘Korbolo Dom will need us,’ Corabb asserted.
‘If he does, then we have lost.’
They urged their weary horses into motion, and rode through the Whirlwind Wall.
He could ride at a canter for half a day, dropping the Jhag horse into a head-dipping, loping gait for the span of a bell, then resume the canter until dusk. Havok was a beast unlike any other he had known, including his namesake. He had ridden close enough to the north side of Ugarat to see watchers on the wall, and indeed they had sent out a score of horse warriors to contest his crossing the broad stone bridge spanning the river-riders who should have reached it long before he did.
But Havok had understood what was needed, and canter stretched out into gallop, neck reaching forward, and they arrived fifty strides ahead of the pursuing warriors. Foot traffic on the bridge scattered from their path, and its span was wide enough to permit easy passage around the carts and wagons. Broad as the Ugarat River was, they reached the other side within a dozen heartbeats, the thunder of Havok’s hoofs changing in timbre from stone to hard-packed earth as they rode out into the Ugarat Odhan.
Distance seemed to lose relevance to Karsa Orlong. Havok carried him effortlessly. There was no need for a saddle, and the single rein looped around the stallion’s neck was all he needed to guide the beast.
Nor did the Teblor hobble the horse for the night, instead leaving him free to graze on the vast sweeps of grass stretching out on all sides.
The northern part of the Ugarat Odhan had narrowed between the inward curl of the two major rivers-the Ugarat and the other Karsa recalled as being named either Mersin or Thalas. A spine of hills had run north-south, dividing the two rivers, their summits and slopes hard-packed by the seasonal migration of bhederin over thousands of years. Those herds were gone, though their bones remained where predators and hunters had felled them, and the land was used now as occasional pasture, sparsely populated and that only in the wet season.
In the week it took to cross those hills, Karsa saw naught but signs of shepherd camps and boundary cairns, and the only grazing creatures were antelope and a species of large deer that fed only at night, spending days bedded down in low areas thick with tall, yellow grasses. Easily flushed then run down to provide Karsa with an occasional feast.
The Mersin River was shallow, almost dried up this late in the dry season. Fording it, he had then ridden northeast, coming along the trails skirting the south flanks of the Thalas Mountains, then eastward, to the city of Lato Revae, on the very edge of the Holy Desert.
He traversed the road south of the city’s wall at night, avoiding all contact, and reached the pass that led into Raraku at dawn the following day.
A pervasive urgency was driving him on. He was unable to explain the desire in his own mind, yet did not question it. He had been gone a long time, and though he did not believe the battle in Raraku had occurred, he sensed it was imminent.
And Karsa wanted to be there. Not to kill Malazans, but to guard Leoman’s back. But there was a darker truth, he well knew. The battle would be a day of chaos, and Karsa Orlong meant to add to it. Sha’ik or no Sha’ik, there are those in her camp who deserve only death. And I shall deliver it. He did not bother conjuring a list of reasons, of insults delivered, contempt unveiled, crimes committed. He had been indifferent for long enough, indifferent to so many things. He had reined in his spirit’s greatest strengths, among them his need to make judgements, and act decisively upon them in true Teblor fashion.
I have tolerated the deceitful and the malicious for long enough. My sword shall now answer them.
The Toblakai warrior was even less interested in creating a list of names, since names invited vows, and he had had enough of vows. No, he would kill as the mood took him.
He looked forward to his homecoming.
Provided he arrived in time.
Descending the slopes leading down into the Holy Desert, he was relieved to see, far to the north and east, the red crest of fury that was the Whirlwind Wall. Only days away, now.
He smiled at that distant anger, for he understood it. Constrained-chained-for so long, the goddess would soon unleash her wrath. He sensed her hunger, as palpable as that of the twin souls within his sword. The blood of deer was too thin.
He reined in Havok at an old camp near the edge of a salt flat. The slopes behind him would provide the last forage and water for the horse until just this side of the Whirlwind Wall, so he would spend time here bundling grasses for the journey, as well as refilling the waterskins from the spring ten paces from the camp.
He built a fire using the last of the bhederin dung from the Jhag Odhan-something he did only rarely-and, following a meal, opened the pack containing the ruined T’lan Imass and dragged the remnants out for the first time.
‘You are impatient to get rid of me?’ Siballe asked in a dry, rasping voice.
He grunted, staring down at the creature. ‘We’ve travelled far, Unfound. It has been a long time since I last looked upon you.’
‘Then why do you choose to look upon me now, Karsa Orlong?’
‘I do not know. I regret it already.’
‘I have seen the sun’s light through the weave of the fabric. Preferable to darkness.’
‘Why should what you prefer interest me?’
‘Because, Karsa Orlong, we are within the same House. The House of Chains. Our master-’
‘I have no master,’ the Teblor growled.
‘As he would have it,’ Siballe replied. ‘The Crippled God does not expect you to kneel. He issues no commands to his Mortal Sword, his Knight of Chains-for that is what you are, the role for which you have been shaped from the very beginning.’
‘I am not in this House of Chains, T’lan Imass. Nor will I accept another false god.’
‘He is not false, Karsa Orlong.’
‘As false as you,’ the warrior said, baring his teeth. ‘Let him rise before me and my sword will speak for me. You say I have been shaped. Then there is much to which he must give answer.’
‘The gods chained him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They chained him, Karsa Orlong, to dead ground. He is broken. In eternal pain. He has been twisted by captivity and now knows only suffering.’
‘Then I shall break his chains-’
‘I am pleased-’
‘And then kill him.’
Karsa grabbed the shattered T’lan Imass by its lone arm and stuck it back into the pack. Then rose.
Great tasks lay ahead. The notion was satisfying.
A House is just another prison. And I have had enough of prisons. Raise walls around me, and I will knock them down.
Doubt my words, Crippled God, to your regret…