Draw a breath, a deep breath, now hold it, my friends, hold it long for the world the world drowns.
Wu There were many faces to chaos, to the realm between the realms, and this path they had taken, Taralack Veed reflected, was truly horrific.
Defoliated trees rose here and there, broken-fingered branches slowly spinning in the chill, desultory wind, wreaths of smoke drifting across the blasted landscape of mud and, everywhere, corpses. Sheathed in clay, limbs jutting from the ground, huddled forms caked and halfsubmerged.
In the distance was the flash of sorcery, signs of a battle still underway, but the place where they walked was lifeless, silence like a shroud on all sides, the only sounds tremulously close by – the sob of boots pulling free of the grey slime, the rustle of weapons and armour, and the occasional soft-voiced curse in both Letherii and Edur.
Days of this madness, this brutal reminder of what was possible, the way things could slide down, ever down, until warriors fought without meaning and lives rushed away to fill muddy pools, cold flesh giving way underfoot.
And we march to our own battle, pretending indifference to all that surrounds us. He was no fool. He had been born to a tribe that most called primitive, backward. Warrior castes, cults of blood and ceaseless vendetta. The Gral were without sophistication, driven by shallow desires and baseless convictions. Worshippers of violence.
Yet, was there not wisdom in imposing rules to keep madness in check, to never go too far in the bloodletting?
Taralack Veed realized now that he had absorbed something of civilized ways; like fever from bad water, his thoughts had been twisted with dreams of annihilation – an entire clan, he'd wanted every person in it killed, preferably by his own hand. Man, woman, child, babe. And then, in a measure of modest tempering, he had imagined a lesser whirlwind of slaughter, one that would give him enough kin over which he could rule, unopposed, free to do with them as he pleased. He would be the male wolf in its prime, commanding with a look in its eye, proving with a simple gesture its absolute domination.
None of it made sense any more.
Up ahead, the Edur warrior Ahlrada Ahn called out a rest, and Taralack Veed sank down against the sloped, sodden wall of a trench, stared down at his legs, which seemed to end just beneath his knees, the rest invisible beneath an opaque pool of water reflecting the grey sludge of sky.
The dark-skinned Tiste Edur made his way back along the line, halted before the Gral and the Jhag warrior behind him. 'Sathbaro Rangar says we are close,' he said. 'He will open the gate soon – we have outstayed our welcome in this realm in any case.'
'What do you mean?' Taralack asked.
'It would not do to be seen here, by its inhabitants. True, we would be as apparitions to them, ghostly, simply one more trudging line of soldiers. Even so, such witnessing could create… ripples.'
'Ripples?'
Ahlrada Ahn shook his head. 'I myself am unclear, but our warlock is insistent. This realm is like the Nascent – to open the way is to invite devastation.' He paused, then said, 'I have seen the Nascent.'
Taralack Veed watched the Edur walk on, halting to speak every now and then with an Edur or Letherii.
'He commands with honour,' Icarium said.
'He is a fool,' the Gral said under his breath.
'You are harsh in your judgement, Taralack Veed.'
'He plays at deceit, Slayer, and they are all taken in, but I am not.
Can you not see it? He is different from the others.'
'I am sorry,' Icarium said, 'but I do not see as you do. Different – how?'
Taralack Veed shrugged. 'He fades his skin. I can smell the compound he uses, it reminds me of gothar flowers, which my people use to whiten deer hide.'
'Fades…' Icarium slowly straightened and looked back down the line.
Then he sighed. 'Yes, now I see. I have been careless-'
'You have been lost inside yourself, my friend.'
'Yes.'
'It is not good. You must ready yourself, you must remain mindful, Slayer-'
'Do not call me that.'
'This too is inside yourself, this resistance to the truth. Yes, it is a harsh truth, but only a coward would not face it, would turn away and pretend to a more comforting falsehood. Such cowardice is beneath you.'
'Perhaps not, Taralack Veed. I believe I am indeed a coward. And yet, this is the least of my crimes, if all that you say of me is true-'
'Do you doubt me?'
'There is no hunger within me,' the Jhag said. 'No lust to kill. And all that you set at my feet, all that you say I have done – I recall nothing of it.'
'So is the nature of your curse, my friend. Would that I could confess, here and now, that I have deceived you. There have been changes in my soul, and now I feel as if we are trapped, doomed to our fate. I have come to know you better than I ever have before, and I grieve for you, Icarium.'
The pale grey eyes regarded him. 'You have told me that we have travelled together a long time, that we have made these journeys of the spirit before. And you have been fierce in your zeal, your desire to see me… unleashed. Taralack Veed, if we have been together for many years… what you now say makes no sense.'
Sweat prickled beneath the Gral's clothes and he looked away.
'You claim Ahlrada Ahn is the deceiver among us. Perhaps it takes a deceiver to know his kin.'
'Unkind words from you, my friend-'
'I no longer believe we are friends. I now suspect you are my keeper, and that I am little more than your weapon. And now you voice words of doubt as to its sharpness, as if through mutual uncertainty we may step closer to one another. But I will take no such step, Taralack Veed, except back – away from you.'
Bastard. He has pretended to be oblivious. But all the while, he has listened, he has observed. And now closes upon the truth. The weapon is clever – I have been careless, invited into being dismissive, and if my words were themselves weapons, I forgot that this Jhag knows how to defend himself, that he possesses centuries of armour.
He looked up as Ahlrada Ahn strode past them again, heading for the front of the column. 'Soon,' the warrior reminded them.
The journey resumed.
Captain Varat Taun, second to Atri-Preda Yan Tovis, Twilight, waved his Letherii archers forward. He spat in an effort to get the taste of mud from his mouth, but it was hopeless. The sorcery of the Holds had been let loose here, in coruscating waves of annihilation – the air stank of it, and in the wind he could hear the echoes of ten thousand soldiers dying, and the mud on his tongue was that of pulverized flesh, gritty with fragments of bone.
Yet perhaps there was a kind of gift in all of this, a measure providing perspective. For, grim as the Letherii Empire under the rule of the Tiste Edur had become, well, there were still green hills, farms, and blue sky overhead. Children were born to mothers and joyous tears flowed easy down warm, soft cheeks, the eyes brimming with love… ah, my darling wife, these memories of you are all that hold me together, all that keep me sane. You and our precious daughter. I will see you again. I promise that. Perhaps soon.
Ahlrada Ahn was, once more, at the head of the column. Poor man. His facial features gave him away quickly enough, to a soldier hailing from Bluerose, such as Varat Taun. An imposter – what were the reasons for such deception? Survival, maybe. That and nothing more. Yet he had heard from Letherii slaves serving the Tiste Edur there was an ancient enmity between the Edur and the Tiste Andii, and if the Edur knew of the hidden enclaves in Bluerose, of their hated dark-skinned kin, well…
And so Ahlrada Ahn was among them here. A spy. Varat Taun wished him success. The Onyx Order had been benign rulers, after all – of course, under the present circumstances, the past was an invitation to romantic idealism.
Even considering that, it could not have been worse that now.
Another pointless battle awaited them. More Letherii dead. He so wanted Twilight's respect, and this command could prove a true testing ground. Could Varat command well? Could he show that fine balance between ferocity and caution? Ah, but I have apprenticed myself to the best commander of the Letherii armies since Preda Unnutal Hebaz, have I not?
That thought alone seemed to redouble the pressure he felt.
The trench they had been trudging along debouched onto a muddy plain, the surface chewed by horse hoofs and cart wheels and the craters of sorcerous detonations. Here, the reek of rotting flesh hung like a mist. Gravestones were visible here and there, pitched askew or broken, and there was splintered wood – black with sodden decay – and thin white bones amidst the dead still clothed in flesh.
Perhaps half a league away ran a ridge, possibly a raised road, and figures were visible there, in a ragged line, marching towards the distant battle, pikes on their backs.
'Quickly!' Sathbaro Rangar hissed, hobbling forward. 'Stay low, gather round – no, there! Crouch, you fools! We must leave!'
Steth and Aystar, brother and sister, who had shared memories of pain, hands and feet nailed to wood, ravens at their faces tearing at their eyes – terrible nightmares, the conjurings of creative imaginations, said their mother, Minala – crept forward through the gloom of the fissure, the rocky floor beneath them slick, sharp-edged, treacherous.
Neither had yet fought, although both voiced their zeal, for they were still too young, or so Mother had decided. But Steth was ten years of age, and Aystar his sister was nine; and they wore the armour of the Company of Shadow, weapons at their belts, and they had trained with the others, as hard and diligently as any of them. And somewhere ahead stood their favourite sentinel, guarding the passage. They were sneaking up on him, their favourite game of all.
Crouching, they drew closer to where he usually stood.
And then a grating voice spoke from their left. 'You two breathe too loud.'
Aystar squealed in frustration, jumping up. 'It's Steth! I don't breathe at all! I'm just like you!' She advanced on the hulking T'lan Imass who stood with his back to the crevasse wall. Then she flung herself at him, arms wrapping about his midsection.
Onrack's dark, empty gaze settled upon her. Then the withered hand not holding the sword reached up and gingerly patted her on the head. 'You are breathing now,' the warrior said.
'And you smell like dust and worse.'
Steth moved two paces past Onrack's position and perched himself atop a boulder, squinting into the gloom beyond. 'I saw a rat today,' he said. 'Shot two arrows at it. One came close. Really close.'
'Climb down from there,' the T'lan Imass said, prying Aystar's arms from his waist. 'You present a target in silhouette.'
'Nobody's coming any more, Onrack,' the boy said, twisting round as the undead warrior approached. 'They've given up – we were too nasty for them. Mother was talking about leaving-'
The arrow took him full on the side of the head, in the temple, punching through bone and spinning the boy round, legs sliding out onto a side of the boulder, then, with a limp roll, Steth fell to the ground.
Aystar began screaming, a piercing cry that rang up and down the fissure, as Onrack shoved her behind him and said, 'Run. Back, stay along a wall. Run.'
More arrows hissed down the length of the crevasse, two of them thudding into Onrack with puffs of dust. He pulled them loose and dropped them to the floor, striding forward and taking his sword into both hands.
Minala's face looked old, drawn with days and nights of fear and worry, the relentless pressure of waiting, of looking upon her adopted children, rank on rank, and seeing naught but soldiers, who had learned to kill, who had learned to watch their comrades die. All to defend a vacant throne.
Trull Sengar could comprehend the mocking absurdity of this stand. A ghost had claimed the First Throne, a thing of shadows so faded from this world even the undead T'lan Imass looked bloated with excess beside it. A ghost, a god, a gauze-thin web-tracing of desire, possessiveness and nefarious designs – this is what had claimed the seat of power, over all the T'lan Imass, and would now see it held, blocked against intruders.
There were broken T'lan Imass out there, somewhere, who sought to usurp the First Throne, to take its power and gift it to the Crippled God – to the force that now chained all of the Tiste Edur. The Crippled God, who had given Rhulad a sword riven with a terrible curse. Yet, for that fallen creature, an army of Edur was not enough.
An army of Letherii was not enough. No, it wanted the T'lan Imass.
And we would stop him, this Crippled God. This pathetic little army of ours.
Onrack had promised anger, with the battle that would, inevitably, come at last. But Trull knew that anger would not be enough, nor what he himself felt: desperation. Nor Minala's harsh terror, nor, he now believed, the stolid insensibility of Monok Ochem and Ibra Gholan – that too, was doomed to fail. What a menagerie we are.
He pulled his gaze from Minala, glanced over to where stood Monok Ochem, motionless before the arched entranceway leading into the throne room. The bonecaster had not moved in at least three cycles of sleeping and waking. The silver-tipped fur on his shoulders shimmered vaguely in the lantern light. Then, as Trull studied the figure, he saw the head cock slightly.
WellA child's shrieking, echoing from up the passage, brought Trull Sengar to his feet. His spear leaned against a wall – snatching it in one hand he rushed towards the cries.
Aystar suddenly appeared, arms outflung, her face a blur of white – '
Steth's dead! He's been killed! He's dead-'
And then Minala was in the child's path, wrapping her in a fierce hug then twisting round. 'Panek! Gather the soldiers!'
The second line of defence, halfway between Onrack's position and the main encampment, was held by Ibra Gholan, and this T'lan Imass turned as Trull Sengar approached.
'Onrack battles,' Ibra Gholan said. 'To slow their advance. There are many Tiste Edur this time. And humans. A shaman is among them, an Edur, wielding chaotic power. This time, Trull Sengar, they mean to take the First Throne.'
He could hear sounds of fighting now. Onrack, alone against a mass of Trull's own kin. And a damned warlock. 'Get Monok Ochem up here, then!
If that warlock decides to unleash a wave of sorcery, we're finished.'
'Perhaps you are-'
'You don't understand, you sack of bones! Chaotic sorcery! We need to kill that bastard!' And Trull moved forward, leaving Ibra Gholan behind.
Ahlrada Ahn watched three of his warriors fall to the T'lan Imass's huge stone sword – the undead bastard had yet to take a step back from the narrow choke-point in the passage. Ahlrada Ahn turned to Sathbaro Rangar. 'We need to drive that thing back! It won't tire – it can hold that position for ever!'
Taralack Veed pushed into view. 'Send Icarium against it!'
'The Jhag is empty,' the warlock said dismissively. 'Withdraw your warriors, Ahlrada Ahn. And get those Letherii to cease with their arrows – I do not want an errant shaft in the back.' Sathbaro Rangar then moved forward.
And Ahlrada Ahn saw a figure coming up behind the T'lan Imass, a figure wielding a spear – tall, hidden in shadows, yet… a familiar silhouette, the fluid movement – he saw an arrow hiss past the undead' s shoulder, then saw that spear shaft flick it aside.
No. This cannot be. I am mistaken. 'Sathbaro!'
The T'lan Imass suddenly yielded its position, stepping back into darkness, and then it and the other figure moved away, up the passageSathbaro Rangar hobbled closer to the choke-point, power building round him, a silver-etched rising wave, flickering argent. The damp stone of the fissure's walls began snapping, a strange percussive sound as water burst into steam. A large sheet of rock near the narrowed portal suddenly exfoliated, crashing down to shatter on the floor.
The sorcery lifted higher, fuller, spreading out to the sides, then over Sathbaro's head, a standing wave of power that crackled and hissed like a thousand serpents.
Ahlrada Ahn moved forward. 'Sathbaro! Wait!'
But the warlock ignored him, and with a roar the seething wave of magic plunged into the choke-point, blistering a path up the channel-where it suddenly shattered.
The concussion pushed Ahlrada Ahn back three steps, a wave of heat striking him like a fist.
Sathbaro Rangar screamed.
As something huge appeared in the choke-point, humped shoulders pushing through the aperture. Gaunt with undeath, its skin a mottled map of grey and black, silver-tipped fur on the neck and reaching along the shoulders like hackles, the creature emerged from the chokepoint and rushed on its knuckles and hand-like hind feet – straight for Sathbaro Rangar.
Ahlrada Ahn shouted out a warning-too late, for the beast reached out and closed enormous hands on the warlock, lifted him into the air, tore off one arm, then the other, blood gouting as the apparition then twisted the shrieking Sathbaro round and bit into the back of the Edur's neck, huge canines sinking deep. As the jaws clenched, the undead demon's head snapped back – and ripped half the neck away – Sathbaro's spine racing out like an anchor-chain, whipping bloody in the airThe beast then flung the corpse aside, and advanced on Ahlrada Ahn.
Icarium stood over the corpse of a child, stared down at the fluids leaking from the broken skull, at the glazed eyes and half-open mouth.
The Jhag stood as if rooted, trembling.
Taralack Veed was before him. 'Now, Slayer. Now is the time!'
'No need,' Icarium muttered. 'No need for this.'
'Listen to me-'
'Be silent. I will not kill children. I will have none of this-'
A detonation of sorcery ahead, the concussion rolling back, rocking them both. Shouts, then screams. And a bestial snarl. Shrieks, cries of horror from the Letherii and Edur, then the sound of fear.
'Icarium! A demon is upon us! A demon! No child, no children – do you see? You must act – now! Show them! Show the Edur what is within you!'
Taralack was dragging at his arm. Frowning, Icarium allowed himself to be pulled forward, through a mass of cowering Edur. No, I do not want this – yet he could feel the pounding of his hearts, rising like war drums with songs of fireThe stench of spilled blood and waste, and both warriors arrived to witness the savage death of Sathbaro Rangar.
And the Soletaken then surged into a charge – and Ahlrada Ahn – the brave warrior, seeking to protect his soldiers – stepped into the creature's path.
Icarium found his single-edged sword in his right hand – he did not recall unsheathing it – and he was moving forward, every motion seeming improbably slow, disjointed, as he reached out, grasping the Tiste Edur and throwing him back as if he weighed little more than a cloth hanging; and then the Jhag advanced to meet the undead ape.
He saw it suddenly recoil.
Another step forward, as a strange humming filled Icarium's skull, and the beast backed further away, into the choke-point, then beyond, where it whirled round and fled up the passage.
Icarium staggered, gasped, threw one hand up against one edge of the narrowed portal – felt its brittle surface beneath his palm. The eerie song in his mind fadedAnd then Edur were plunging past him, rushing through the breach. And once more, ahead, the sounds of battle. Hard iron clashing, all scent of sorcery gone**** Beyond the choke-point, Ahlrada Ahn saw before him a widening of the fissure, and there, in a ragged line at least three deep, stood soldiers of some kind, weapons wavering, pale smudged faces beneath helms – Sisters take me, they are so young! What is this? Children face us!
And then he saw the two T'lan Imass, and between them a tall, greyskinned figure – no. No, it cannot be – we left him, weA savage war-cry from Kholb Harat, echoed almost immediately by Saur Bathrada. 'Trull Sengar! The traitor is before us!'
'You are mine!'
Despite Saur's bold claim, both he and Kholb lunged together, closing on Trull Sengar.
Then the remaining Edur were spreading out, rushing the line of armoured children, and the two forces collided in a cacophony of ringing weapons and shields. Screams of pain and rage rebounded off the battered stone walls.
And Ahlrada Ahn stood, frozen in place, watching, disbelieving.
Trull Sengar fought a frantic defence with his spear, as weapons slashed and thrust at him from both Saur and Kholb. They were forcing him back – and Ahlrada Ahn could see, could understand – Trull was seeking to protect these children – the ones behind himEdur screams – the two T'lan Imass were pushing forward in counterattack, one to either side, and it seemed nothing could stop them.
Yet still he stood, and then, with a brutal, hoarse cry, he sprang forward.
Trull Sengar knew these two warriors. He could see the hatred in their eyes, felt their fury in the weight of their blows as they sought to batter through his guard – he could not hold them much longer. And when he fell, he knew the pitifully young soldiers behind would come face to face with these Edur killers.
Where was Apt? Why was Minala holding the demon back – what more could assail them?
Someone else was shouting his name now, from among the packed Edur. A name voiced, not in rage, but in anguish – but Trull had no time to look, no time even to wonder – Kholb had laid a blade along his left wrist, opening the flesh wide, and blood was streaming along the underneath of that forearm, seeping into the hand's grip on the shaft.
Not much longer. They've improved, the both of themHe then saw a Merude cutlass slash inward from behind Kholb, taking the warrior solidly in the neck, through – and Kholb Harat's head rolled on its side, tumbled down. The body wavered a moment, then crumpled.
A snarling curse from Saur Bathrada, who spun round, stabbing low, his sword digging deep into the newcomer's right thighAnd Trull lunged, sinking the point of his spear into Saur's forehead, just beneath the rim of the helmet. And saw, with horror, both of the warrior's eyes leap from their sockets as if on strings as the head pitched back.
Trull dragged his weapon free as an Edur staggered into him, gasping, 'Trull! Trull Sengar!'
'Ahlrada?'
The warrior twisted round, raising both cutlasses. 'I fight at your side, Trull! Amends – please, I beg you!'
Amends? 'I don't understand – but I do not doubt. Welcome-'
A sound was building in Trull's head, seeming to assail him from every direction. He saw a child clamp hands to ears off to his left, then another one'Trull Sengar! It is the Jhag! Sisters take us, he is coming!'
Who? What?
What is that sound?
Onrack the Broken saw the Jhag, felt the power growing in the figure that staggered forward as if drunk, and the T'lan Imass moved into his path. Is this their leader? Jaghut blood, yes. Oh, how the old bitterness and fury rises againThe Jhag suddenly straightened, raising his sword, and the highpitched moaning burgeoned with physical force, pummelling Onrack back a step, and the T'lan Imass saw, at last, the Jhag's eyes.
Flat, lifeless, then seeming to light, all at once, with a dreadful rage.
The tall, olive-hued warrior surged at him, weapon flashing with blinding speed.
Onrack caught that blade on his sword, slashed high in riposte, intending to take off the Jhag's head – and, impossibly, that sword was there to meet his own, with a force that rocked the T'lan Imass. A hand punched outward, caught the undead warrior on the chest, lifting him clear from the rock floorA heavy crash against a wall, ribs splintering. Sliding down, Onrack landed on his feet, crouching to gather himself, then he launched himself forward once moreThe Jhag was moving past, straight for Minala's front line of young soldiers, the keening sound now deafeningOnrack collided with the half-blood, indurate bone and the weight of a mule behind the force hammering into the Jhag's midsection.
And the T'lan Imass was thrown back, thumping hard to the floor.
His target had been staggered as well, and Onrack saw its bared teeth as it whirled and, shimmering fast, closed on the undead warrior – before he could even rise – that free hand snapping down, fingers pushing through thick, desiccated hide, wrapping round his sternum, lifting Onrack into the air, then flinging the T'lan Imass away – into the wall once again, this time with a force that shattered both bone and the stone flank of the fissure.
Onrack crumpled in a heap, amidst shards of rock, and did not move.
But the Jhag had been turned round by the effort, and now faced a mass of Tiste Edur and Letherii.
Trull Sengar saw the green-skinned monstrosity – who had crushed Onrack against a wall as if he had been a sack of melons – suddenly plunge among the Edur crowded behind him, and begin a terrible slaughter.
The keening sound rose yet higher, bringing with it a swirling, cavorting wind of raw power. Building – flailing the flesh from those Edur and Letherii closest to him – a nightmare had arrived, roaring a promise of obliteration. Trull stared, disbelieving, as blood blossomed in the air in a dreadful mist, as bodies fell – two, three at a time, then four, five – the warriors seemed to melt away, toppling, spun round by savage impactsA stained hand grasped his left forearm, drew him round. And, through the terrible keening: 'Trull – we shall die now, all of us – but, I have found you. Trull Sengar, I am sorry – for the Shorning, for all… all the rest-'
Minala stumbled close. 'Where is Monok Ochem?' she demanded, spitting blood – a spear had thrust into her chest, just beneath the right clavicle, and her face was deathly white. 'Where is the bonecaster?'
Trull pointed, back towards the entranceway to the throne room. 'He went through there – like a knife-stuck dog-' And then he stared, for Ibra Gholan now stood in that archway, as if waiting.
All at once words were impossible, and they were pushed back by a raging wind, spinning, buffeting, so strong it lifted dead children into the air, whirled them round, limbs flailing about. The Jhag stood, twenty paces away, amidst heaps of corpses – and beyond him, Trull could see now, shimmered a gate; wavering as if jarred loose, unanchored to the rock floor, it appeared to be edging ever closer, as if pulled forward by the storm of power. Beyond it was a tunnel, seeming to spin, revealing flashes of a vast killing field, then, at the centre and impossibly distant, something like a rocking ship on rough seas.
Minala had staggered past, edging round Ibra Gholan and vanishing into the throne roomThe Jhag, silver light blazing from his eyes, then turned roundAnd, leaning forward, with stilted overlong strides – as if his own flesh and bone had become impediments to the rage within him – he marched closer.
Spirits bless me – Trull launched himself to meet the apparition.
The sword seemed to come at him from everywhere at once. Trull had no opportunity for counter-attack, the shaft of the spear ringing, jumping in his hands with every blow he desperately shunted asideAnd then Ahlrada Ahn attacked from the Jhag's right – two lightning clashes as the lone single-edged sword batted aside both Merude cutlasses, then licked out, and blood exploded from Ahlrada Ahn's chest, an impact hard enough to fling the warrior from the ground, legs wheeling over his head, the body then sailing, wind-tossed and loosing sheets of crimson, through the air.
The Jhag redoubled his attack on Trull, the keening sound bursting from his mouth in a wail of outrage. Blurring sword, bone-jarring blocks, one after another – and still the Jhag could not get past.
Mostly buried beneath leaking corpses, Varat Taun lad motionless, one eye fixed on the battle between the two figures, Icarium and a Tiste Edur – it could not last, against the Jhag no-one could, yet that spear-wielder held on, defiant, displaying a skill so profound, so absolute, that the Letherii found himself unable to even draw breath.
Behind the Tiste Edur, children were retreating towards a rough-carved doorway at the apex of the chasm tunnel.
The storm was a whirlwind now, circling the two battling figures – gods, they moved faster than Varat's eye could follow, but now, finally, that spear began to splinter amidst the frenzy of parriesVarat Taun heard weeping, closer to hand, and he shifted his gaze a fraction, to see Taralack Veed huddled against a wall, curled up and sobbing in terror. He had been clawing at the stone, as if seeking to dig his way out, and bloody streaks glistened on the latticed rock.
You wanted this, you bastard. Now live with it.
Another splintering sound brought his gaze round once more, and he saw that the spear had shattered – the Edur flung himself backward, somehow avoiding a lateral slash of the sword that would have decapitated him. Roaring, Icarium advanced to finish off his foe, then suddenly ducked, twisted and threw himself to one side-as a midnight-hued demon swirled from shadows, the wide-mawed head on its sinuous neck darting out, jaws closing on Icarium's right shoulder, single foreleg raking huge talons down the front of the Jhag, along his ribs, seeking the softer flesh of his belly. The demon reared, dragging the Jhag into the airBut the single-edged sword would not be denied, slashing down, cutting through the demon's neck. Black blood sprayed as the huge body pitched sideways, legs kicking spasmodically. Icarium landed into a crouch, then struggled to loosen the death-grip of those jaws clamped round his shoulder.
Beyond Icarium, the Tiste Edur was dragging Ahlrada Ann's body back, retreating towards the archwayNo point. No point at all – once he's freeThe roaring wind was abrading the stone wall, filling the blood-laden air with glittering pieces of granite. Cracks travelled the stone in a crazed web – the storm's roar grew yet louder, and all at once Varat's left eardrum shattered in a burst of agony.
Staggering, his forearms bloody ribbons of flailed flesh, Trull pulled Ahlrada Ahn closer to the portal. Ibra Gholan no longer stood guard – in fact, the Edur saw no-one, no-one at all.
Have they fled? Surrendered the throne? Please, Sisters, please. Let them escape, out of here, away from thisHe reached the entranceway, and saw, just within, Ibra Gholan – the warrior's back to Trull, facing the First Throne – no, Trull saw, facing what was left of Monok Ochem. The sorcerous windstorm must have raced into the chamber, with a power the bonecaster could not withstand – the T'lan Imass had been thrown back, colliding with the right side of the throne, where, Trull saw with growing horror, Monok Ochem had melted. Fused, destroyed and twisted as its body was melded into the First Throne. Barely half of the bonecaster's face was visible, one eye surrounded by its cracked, collapsed socket.
To either side and against the wall crouched the pitifully few children still alive, Panek kneeling beside the prone, motionless form of Minala, who lay in a slowly spreading pool of blood.
Ibra Gholan turned as Trull dragged Ahlrada into the chamber.
'Monok Ochem has failed,' the undead warrior intoned. 'Move from the portal, Trull Sengar. I will now meet the Lifestealer.'
Trull pulled his friend to one side, then knelt and settled a hand on Ahlrada Ahn's spattered forehead. To his surprise, the eyes flickered open.
'Ahlrada…'
The dying warrior sought to speak, mouth opening then filling with bubbles of blood. A savage cough sprayed it into Trull's face, then a single word slurred free, a moment before Ahlrada Ahn died.
A single word.
'Home.'
Ibra Gholan strode out to meet the one he called Lifestealer. Four paces from the Jhag, who had finally managed to tear free the Aptorian's death-grip, the T'lan Imass charged.
Stone and iron, sparks at the heart of the roaring winds, and on those winds spun fragments of flesh, bone splinters, clumps of sodden hair and pieces of armour.
Collecting a spear from the scatter of weapons on the floor, Trull limped to place himself in the entranceway.
Ibra Gholan's attack had driven the Jhag back a step, then anotherA harsh cracking sound and the T'lan Imass reeled, its flint sword shattered. Lifestealer's weapon whirled down, tore through the undead warrior's left shoulder – another chop, ribs bursting, pieces caught on the wind – Ibra Gholan staggered backAnd the sword connected with the side of the warrior's head.
The skull exploded into a mass of shardsAnother swing ripped through the body, just above the hip, straight across, through the spine, out the other side, severing the T'lan Imass in half. Four more blows before what was left of the undead warrior could even reach the floor. Bone fragments skirling in every direction.
Lifestealer tilted his head back and roared, the sound slamming Trull to the ground, driving all breath from his lungs – he stared, helpless, as the monstrosity took a step closer, then another.
A flash, solid ripping of the air, and a figure stumbled as if from nowhere into the Jhag's path. A figure who hissed, 'Damn you, Shadowthrone!' Trull saw it look up, take in the approaching apparition, manage a single step back, then, as the Jhag raised his sword, sorcery burst from the figure – blinding – and when it dispelled, the wind was racing with a banshee shriek back down the ragged corridor – and Lifestealer was nowhere to be seen.
Varat Taun watched Icarium annihilate the T'lan Imass, and saw once more the lone Tiste Edur, readying a spear moments before that triumphant roar battered the warrior from his feet.
The captain saw a gate open before Icarium, saw the unleashing of magic, and then Varat Taun ducked, as if to squeeze beneath more bodies, as the concussion that erupted when the sorcery struck the Jhag shook the very stone – the floor, the walls – and in an instant, a momentary flash, he saw Icarium wheeling through the air, towards him, then over, then past – and the furious wind plunged into the Jhag's wake.
Only to return with renewed force, and Varat felt the sodden bodies around him jostle and press down, as Icarium strode back over the dead, tilted forward, raising his sword once more.
The Ceda, dark-skinned, lithe, watched the Jhag's approach, and then released another thunderous gout of magic-and Icarium flew back**** The storm winds seemed to twist as if in berserker rage, howling, tearing at the stone walls, ripping huge chunks away. The bodies of the fallen were plucked into the air, the flesh scouring away from the bones, the bones thinning then splitting apart – weapons sailed past, withering into nothing.
And Trull Sengar, on his knees, watched as the stranger hammered Lifestealer. Again and again, each trembling detonation punching the Jhag back through the air, spinning, flailing, striking some distant obstruction with deep, rattling impacts.
And then, each time, the terrible slayer regained his feet, and marched forward once more.
Only to be struck again.
In the interval following the last one, the stranger turned and saw Trull Sengar, and, in Malazan, he yelled, 'Who in Hood's name is that man?'
Trull blinked, shook his head.
Wrong question. Who in Hood's name are you?
Roaring, Lifestealer clambered closer, and this time, he withstood the sorcerous blast, was pushed back but a few steps, and as the wild blaze faded, he shook his head, and lifted his sword. And came forward again.
Another eruption, but the Jhag leaned against itAnd Trull saw the mage jolt as if he had been punched. Skin split on the back of the man's hands, blood spurting.
Lifestealer stepped back, then surged forward yet again.
And the mage seemed to half-vanish in a mist of blood, flung back, stumbling, then, with a snarl, finding his balance once moreIn time for the Jhag's next assault.
And Trull found the mage skidding to a halt directly in front of him.
No skin was visible that was not sheathed in blood. Ruptures marred every limb, the face, the neck; the eyes were deep red, streaming crimson tears. One trembling hand lifted, and through torn lips, the mage seemed to smile as he said, 'That's it for me. All yours, Edur, and tell Shadowthrone and Cotillion, I'll be waiting for them on the other side of Hood's Gate.'
Trull looked up, then straightened, readying his spear.
Lifestealer's eyes blazed, and in that incandescence, Trull imagined he saw recognition. Yes, me again.
All at once the roaring wind stuttered, seemed to rip into itself, sending fragments of detritus flying against the walls – and there was heat, warm, sultry heat, flowing from behind the Jhag – who raised his sword and tottered closer**** Clawing part-way free of the bodies, Varat Taun felt the shattering of the storm. His breath caught, as a golden glow seemed to rise, suffusing the air – and in that glow, warmth, life.
Furtive movement to his left and he twisted his head round – a figure, furred, as if wearing a skin-tight brown pelt – no, naked, a woman – no, a female – not human at all. YetIn a half-crouch, moving lithe, sinuous, filled with trepidation, approaching Icarium from behind, as the Jhag began walking towards the lone Tiste Edur. Then, a swift dart forward – Icarium heard and began his spin round – but she had reached out, a long-fingered hand – no weapon, reaching out, and Varat Taun saw the finger tips brush Icarium, just above the Jhag's right hip – the slightest of touchesAnd the Slayer crumpled to the ground.
Behind Varat, a wordless cry, and the Letherii flinched as someone scrambled past him – Taralack VeedThe unhuman female had crouched beside the fallen form of Icarium.
Softly stroking the slayer's forehead, as the amber glow began to fade, and with that fading, the female herself grew indistinct, then dissolved into gold light, which flickered, then vanished.
Taralack Veed turned his head and met Varat's eyes. 'Help me!' he hissed.
'Do what?' the Letherii demanded.
'The gate behind you – it fades! We need to drag Icarium back through!
We need to get him out of here!'
'Are you insane?'
The Gral's face twisted. 'Don't you understand? Icarium – he is for your Emperor!'
A sudden chill, sweeping away the last vestiges of that healing warmth, and then, in its wake, a flood of emotion – scalding his mind.
Varat Taun pushed himself upright, clambered to join Taralack Veed.
For Rhulad. Gods. Yes, I see now. Yes. For Rhulad – even Rhulad – even that sword – yes, I see, I see!
The entranceway to the throne room was unoccupied once more, as the Tiste Edur had pulled the Ceda into the sanctity of that chamber – now was their chance – he and Taralack reached the prostrate form of Icarium.
The Gral collected the sword and sheathed it beneath his belt, then grasped one arm. 'Take the other,' he commanded in a hiss. 'Hurry!
Before they realize – before that damned gate slams shut!'
And Varat grasped the other arm, and they began dragging Icarium back.
The slickness of what lay beneath the Jhag made it easier than expected.
Kneeling, Trull Sengar wiped blood from the mage's face, cautiously, gentle round the closed eyes. From beyond the archway, a profound silence. Within this chamber, the sounds of weeping, muted, hopeless.
'Will he live?'
The Tiste Edur started, then looked up. 'Cotillion. You said you'd send help. Is this him?'
The god nodded.
'He wasn't enough.'
'I know that.'
'So who would you have sent next?'
'Myself, Trull Sengar.'
Ah. He looked back down at the unconscious mage. 'The Eres'al… she did what no-one else could do.'
'So it would seem.'
'Unanticipated, her arrival, I presume.'
'Most unexpected, Trull. It is unfortunate, nonetheless, that her power of healing did not reach through, into this chamber.'
The Tiste Edur frowned, then looked back up at the god. 'What do you mean?'
Cotillion could not meet his eyes. 'Onrack. Even now he rises. Mended, more or less. I think she feels for him…'
'And who feels for us?' Trull demanded. He turned his head aside and spat out blood.
There was no answer from the god.
The Tiste Edur slumped down into a ragged sitting position. 'I'm sorry, Cotillion. I don't know if you deserved that. Probably not.'
'It has been an eventful night,' the god said. Then sighed. 'Such is convergence. I asked you earlier, will Quick Ben live?'
Quick Ben. Trull nodded. 'I think so. The blood's stopped flowing.'
'I have called Shadowthrone. There will be healing.'
Trull Sengar glanced over to where Panek sat beside his mother – one of his mothers – 'Shadowthrone had best hurry, before those children become orphans once again.'
A scuffling sound from the portal, and Onrack shuffled into view.
'Trull Sengar.'
He nodded, managed a broken smile. 'Onrack. It seems you and I are cursed to continue our pathetic existence for a while longer.'
'I am pleased.'
No-one spoke for a moment, and then the T'lan Imass said, 'Lifestealer is gone. He was taken away, back through the gate.'
Cotillion hissed in frustration. 'The damned Nameless Ones! They never learn, do they?'
Trull was staring at Onrack. 'Taken? He lives? Why – how? Taken?'
But it was the god who answered. 'Icarium – Lifestealer – is their finest weapon, Trull Sengar. The Nameless Ones intend to fling him against your brother, the Emperor of Lether.'
As comprehension reached through the numbness of exhaustion, Trull slowly closed his eyes. Oh no, please… 'I see. What will happen then, Cotillion?'
'I don't know. No-one does. Not even the Nameless Ones, although in their arrogance they would never admit to it.'
A squeal from Panek drew their attention – and there was Shadowthrone, crouching down over Minala, settling a hand on her forehead.
Trull spat again – the insides of his mouth were lacerated – then grunted and squinted up at Cotillion. 'I will not fight here again,' he said. 'Nor Onrack, nor these children – Cotillion, please-'
The god turned away. 'Of course not, Trull Sengar.' Trull watched Cotillion walk through the archway, and the Tiste Edur's gaze fell once more on the body of Ahlrada Ahn. As Shadowthrone approached Quick Ben, Trull climbed to his feet and made his way to where his friend was lying. Ahlrada Ahn. I do not understand you – I have never understood you – but I thank you nonetheless. I thank you…
He stepped to the entranceway, looked out, and saw Cotillion, the Patron of Assassins, the god, sitting on a shelf of stone that had slipped down from one wall, sitting, alone, with his head in his hands.