Gardens of the Moon

  'I'll hold your left,' he said, shifting his grip on the curved tulwar in his right hand.

  Lorn unsheathed her own longsword and fixed her attention northwards. Only four of the six Barghast were visible, approaching slowly. 'We're being flanked,' she called out to her crossbowman. 'Take the one on your left.'

  The soldier beside her grunted. 'My life need not be sheltered,' he said. 'We were charged with your protection, Adjunct—'

  'Quiet,' Lorn commanded. 'The longer you stand the better protected I'll be,' she said.

  The soldier grunted again.

  The four Barghast were lingering now, just out of bowshot range. Two still carried their lances; the other two gripped short axes. Then a voice cried out far to Lorn's right and she whirled to see a lance speeding towards her, and behind it a charging Barghast.

  Lorn brought her blade across her body and dropped into a crouch as she raised the weapon over her head. Her sword caught the lance's shaft and even as it did so she was turning, pulling her weapon to one side. The deflected lance sped past and cracked into the hillside off to her right.

  Behind her she heard the crossbowman release a quarrel. As she spun back to the four charging Barghast there came a scream of pain from the other side of the mound. The soldier beside her seemed to have forgotten his wound, as he gripped his tulwar with both hands and planted his feet wide.

  'Attend, Adjunct,' he said.

  The Barghast off to the right cried out and she turned to see him spinning with the impact of a quarrel.

  The four warriors before them were no more than thirty feet away. The two with lances now launched them. Lorn made no move, realizing almost immediately that the one aimed at her would fly wide. The soldier beside her dropped away to his left, but not enough to avoid the lance as it thudded into his right thigh. It struck with such force as to drive right through his leg and embed itself in the earth. The soldier was pinned, but his only response was a soft gasp, and he raised his sword to parry an axe swinging at his head.

  In this time Lorn had already closed with the Barghast rushing at her. His axe was a shorter weapon, and she took advantage of this with a thrust before he came into his own range. He brought the copper-sheathed haft up to parry, but Lorn had already flicked her wrist, completing the feint and dipping under the axe. Her lunge buried the sword point in the Barghast's chest, slicing the leather armour as if it were cloth.

  Her attack had committed her, and her sword was nearly wrenched from her hand as the savage toppled backwards. Off-balance, she staggered a step, expecting the crushing blow of an axe. But it did not arrive. Regaining her balance she spun round, to find her crossbowman, now wielding his tulwar, engaging the other Barghast. Lorn snapped her attention to see how her other guard fared.

  Somehow, he still lived, though he faced two Barghast. He'd managed to drag the lance out of the earth, but the weapon's shaft remained in his leg. That he was able to move at all, much less defend himself, spoke eloquently of Jakatakan discipline and training.

  Lorn rushed to engage the Barghast on the man's right, nearest her. Even as she did so, an axe slipped past the soldier's guard and struck him across the chest. Scale snapped as the heavy weapon's edge ripped through armour. The soldier groaned and fell to one knee, blood spraying on to the ground.

  Lorn was in no position to defend him and could only watch in horror as the axe swung again, this time striking the man in the head. The helmet collapsed inward and his neck broke. He toppled sideways, landing at Lorn's feet. Her forward momentum carried her right over him.

  A curse broke from her lips as she sprawled, crashing into the Barghast in front of her. She tried to bring the point of her sword up behind him but he twisted lithely to one side and leaped away. Lorn took a wild swing at him, missing, even as she fell. She felt her shoulder dislocate as she hit the hard ground, and the sword dropped from her numbed hand.

  Now, she thought, the only thing left to do is die. She rolled on to her back.

  With a growl the Barghast was standing beside her, axe raised high.

  Lorn was in a good position to see the skeletal hand bursting from the earth beneath the Barghast. It grasped an ankle. Bones snapped and the warrior screamed. Vaguely, as she watched, she wondered where the other two savages had gone. All sounds of fighting seemed to have stopped, but the ground rumbled with a growing, urgent thunder.

  The Barghast stared down at the hand crushing his shin. He screamed again as the wide, rippled blade of a flint sword shot up between his legs. The axe left the warrior's hands as he frantically brought them down in an effort to deflect the sword, twisting to one side and kicking out with his free leg. It all came too late. The sword impaled him, jamming against his hipbone and lifting him from the ground. His dying shriek rose skyward.

  Lorn climbed to her feet with difficulty, her right arm hanging useless at her side. She identified the thundering sound as the beat of hoofs, and turned in the direction from which they came. A Malazan. As that fact sank in, she swung her attention from the rider and looked around. Both her guards were dead, and arrows jutted from two Barghast bodies.

  She took a shallow breath – all she could manage as pain spread across her chest – and gazed upon the creature that had risen from the earth. It was cloaked in rotting furs, and it stood over the warrior's body, one leg still clutched in its hand. The other hand gripped the sword, which had been pushed the length of the Barghast's body, the point emerging from his neck.

  'I was expecting you days ago,' Lorn said, glaring at the figure.

  It turned to regard her, its face hidden in shadow beneath the yellowed bone shelf of its helmet. The helmet, she saw, was the skull-cap of some horned beast, one horn broken off at its base.

  The rider arrived behind her. 'Adjunct!' he called out, dismounting. He came to her side, bow still in his hand and arrow nocked. His lone eye glanced across Lorn and, seeming satisfied that her wound was not mortal, fixed on the massive but squat creature facing them. 'Hood's Breath, a T'lan Imass.'

  Lorn continued glaring at the T'lan Imass. 'I knew you were about. It's the only thing that explains a Barghast shaman bringing himself and his hand-picked hunters into the area. He must have used a Warren to get here. So where were you?'

  Toc the Younger stared at the Adjunct, amazed at her outburst. His gaze flicked back to the T'lan Imass. The last time he'd seen one was in Seven Cities, eight years past, and then it had been from a distance as the undead legions marched out into the western wastelands on some mission even the Empress could learn nothing about. At this close range, Toc eagerly studied the T'lan Imass. Not much left of it, he concluded. Despite the sorcery, three hundred thousand years had taken their toll. The skin that stretched across the squat man's robust bones was a shiny nut brown in colour, the texture of leather. Whatever flesh it had once covered had contracted to thin strips the consistency of oak roots – such muscles showed through torn patches here and there. The creature's face, what Toc could see of it, bore a heavy chinless jawbone, high cheeks and a pronounced brow ridge. The eye sockets were dark holes.

  'I asked you a question,' Lorn grated. 'Where were you?'

  The head creaked as the Imass looked down at its feet. 'Exploring,' it said quietly in a voice born of stones and dust.

  Lorn demanded, 'Your name, T'lan?'

  'Onos T'oolan, once of the Tarad Clan, of the Logros T'lan. I was birthed in the autumn of the Bleak Year, the ninth son to the Clan whetted as warrior in the Sixth Jaghut War—'

  'Enough,' Lorn said. She sagged wearily and Toc moved to her side. Glancing up at him she scowled, 'You look grim.' Then a small smile came to her lips. 'But good to me.'

  Toc grinned. 'First things first, Adjunct. A place for you to rest.' She did not protest as he guided her to a grassy knoll near the barrow and gently pushed her to her knees. He glanced back to see the T'lan Imass still standing where it had first emerged from the ground. It had turned, however, and seemed to be studying the barrow. 'We must make
your arm immobile,' Toc said to the worn, weathered woman kneeling before him. 'I am named Toc the Younger,' he said, squatting down.

  She raised her gaze at this. 'I knew your father,' she said. Her smile returned. 'Also a great bowman.'

  He ducked his head in reply.

  'He was a fine commander too,' Lorn continued, studying the ravaged youth who was now tending to her arm. 'The Empress has regretted his death—'

  'Not dead for sure,' Toc interrupted, his tone tight and his single eye averted as he began removing the gauntlet from her hand. 'Disappeared.'

  'Yes,' Lorn said softly. 'Disappeared since the Emperor's death.' She winced as he pulled away the gauntlet and tossed it aside.

  'I'll need some strips of cloth,' he said, rising.

  Lorn watched him stride to one of the Barghast bodies. She had not known who her Claw contact would be, only that he was the last left alive among Dujek's forces. She wondered why he had veered so sharply from his father's path. There was nothing pleasant, or proud, in being a Claw. Only efficiency and fear.

  He took a knife to the body's tanned leather armour, slicing it back to reveal a rough woollen shirt, into which he cut. Then he returned to her side, a handful of long strips in one hand. 'I didn't know you had an Imass for company,' he said, as he crouched beside her again.

  'They choose their own modes of travel,' Lorn said, a hint of anger in her voice. 'And come when they please. But yes, he's an integral player in my mission.' She fell silent, gritting her teeth in pain as Toc slipped the rude sling over her shoulder and under her arm.

  'I have little good to report,' Toc said, and he told her of Paran's disappearance, and of Whiskeyjack and his squad departing without the captain in attendance. By the time he had finished he had adjusted the sling to his own satisfaction, and sat back on his haunches with a sigh.

  'Damn,' Lorn hissed. 'Help me to my feet.'

  After he'd done so, she wobbled a bit and gripped his shoulder to steady herself. Then she nodded. 'Get me my sword.'

  Toc strode to the spot she'd indicated. After a brief search he found the longsword in the grass, and his eye thinned to a slit upon seeing the weapon's dusty red blade. He brought it to her, and said, 'An Otataral sword, Adjunct, the ore that kills magic'

  'And mages,' Lorn said, taking the weapon awkwardly in her left hand and sheathing it.

  'I came upon the dead shaman,' Toc said.

  'Well,' Lorn said, 'Otataral is no mystery to you of the Seven Cities, but few here know it, and I would keep it that way.'

  'Understood.' Toc turned to regard the immobile Imass.

  Lorn seemed to read his thought. 'Otataral cannot quench their magic – believe me, it's been tried. The Warrens of the Imass are similar to those of the Jaghut and the Forkrul Assail – Elder-, blood- and earthbound – that flint sword of his will never break, and it cuts through the finest iron as easily as it will flesh and bone.'

  Toc shivered and spat. 'I'll not envy you your company, Adjunct.'

  Lorn smiled. 'You'll be sharing it for the next few days, Toe the Younger. We've a long walk to Pale.'

  'Six, seven days,' Toe said. 'I expected you to be mounted.'

  Lorn's sigh was heartfelt. 'The Barghast shaman worked his talents on them. A disease took them all, even my stallion, which I brought with me through the Warren.' Her lined face softened momentarily, and Toc could feel her genuine sorrow.

  It surprised him. All that he'd heard of the Adjunct had painted for him a picture of a cold-blooded monster, the gauntleted hand of death that could descend from anywhere at any time. Perhaps this side of her existed; he hoped he would not have to see it. Then again, he corrected himself, she'd not spared her soldiers a second glance. Toc spoke, 'You'll ride my mare, Adjunct. She's no warhorse, but she's quick and long on endurance.'

  They walked to where he'd left his horse, and Lorn smiled. 'That's a Wickan breed, Toc the Younger,' she said, as she laid a hand on the mare's neck, 'so cease the modesty, else I lose trust in you. A fine animal.'

  Toc helped her into the saddle. 'Do we leave the Imass where it is?' he asked.

  Lorn nodded. 'He'll find his own way. Now, let's give this mare the opportunity to prove herself. Wickan blood is said to smell of iron.' She reached down and offered her left arm. 'Mount up,' she said.

  Toc barely managed to hide his shock. Share the saddle with the Adjunct of the Empire? The notion was so absurd that he came near to laughing. 'I can walk, Adjunct,' he said gruffly. 'With such little time to waste, you would be better to ride on, and ride hard. You'll see Pale's walls in three days. I can manage a jog at ten-hour stretches.'

  'No, Toc the Younger.' Lorn's tone brooked no argument. 'I need you in Pale, and I need to hear all there is about the occupying legions, and Dujek, and Tayschrenn. Better to arrive a few days late than unprepared. Now, grasp my arm and let's be on with it.'

  Toc complied.

  As he sank into the saddle behind Lorn, his mare snorted and stepped quickly to one side. Both he and the Adjunct almost fell. They turned to see the T'lan Imass standing beside them. It raised its head to Lorn.

  'The barrow has yielded a truth, Adjunct,' Onos T'oolan said.

  Toc felt her stiffen. 'And that is?'

  'We are upon the right path,' the T'lan Imass replied.

  Something told Toc that the path the creature referred to had nothing to do with the trader's track leading south to Pale. He cast one final glance back at the barrow as Lorn silently swung the horse around, and then at Onos T'oolan. Neither seemed likely to unveil their secrets, but Lorn's reaction had raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and the itch around his lost eye roused itself. Toc muttered a curse under his breath and began to scratch.

  'Something the matter, Toc the Younger?' Lorn asked, not turning.

  He thought about his reply. He said, 'The price of being blind, Adjunct. Nothing more.'

  Captain Paran paced in the natrow room. This was madness! All he knew was that he was being hidden, but the only answers to his questions would come from a bed-ridden sorceress locked in some strange fever, and a nasty puppet whose painted eyes seemed to fix on him with intense hatred.

  Vague memories haunted him as well, the feel of slick, cold stones scraping beneath his fingernails at a moment when all his strength had poured from his body; and then the hazy vision of a massive dog – a Hound? – in the room, a dog that seemed to breathe death. It had been seeking to kill the woman, and he'd stopped it – somehow, he wasn't sure of the details.

  A suspicion nagged him that the dog wasn't dead, that it would be back. The puppet ignored most of his questions, and when it did speak to him it was to voice dire threats. Apparently, though the Sorceress was ill, her presence alone – her continued existence – was all that kept Hairlock from fulfilling those threats.

  Where was Whiskeyjack? Had the sergeant left without him? What would that do to Adjunct Lorn's plan?

  He ceased pacing and turned a glare on the sorceress lying in the bed. Hairlock had told Paran that she'd somehow hidden him when Tayschrenn arrived, the High Mage having sensed the dog's presence. Paran had no memory of any of that, but he wondered how the woman could have managed anything after the beating she'd taken. Hairlock had scoffed that the sorceress hadn't even been aware of opening her Warren that one last time; that she'd done it all on instinct. Paran had the feeling that the marionette had been scared by that unveiling of power. Hairlock seemed most eager for the woman's death, but was either unable to achieve it himself or too frightened to try. The creature had muttered something about wards she'd raised about her person.

  Yet Paran found nothing to impede his ministrations when the fever had been at its worst. It had broken the previous night, and now Paran felt his impatience reaching some kind of threshold. The sorceress slept, but if she didn't awaken soon he'd take matters into his own hands – leave this hiding place, perhaps seek out Toc the Younger, provided he could avoid Tayschrenn or any officers on his way out of the building.
>
  Paran's unseeing glare remained fixed on the sorceress, his thoughts racing. Slowly, a new awareness tickled the edges of his mind, and he abruptly blinked. The woman's eyes were open, and they studied him.

  He took a half-step forward but was stopped dead by her first words.

  'I heard the Coin drop, Captain.'

  The blood drained from Paran's face. An echo flittered through his memory. 'A coin?' he asked, his voice barely a whisper. 'A spinning coin?' The voices of gods, of dead men and women. Howls of Hounds — all pieces of my memory's torn tapestry.

  'Spins no longer,' the woman replied. She pushed herself into a sitting position. 'How much do you remember?'

  'Scant,' the captain admitted, surprised at himself for telling the truth. 'The puppet will not even tell me your name,' he said.

  'Tattersail. I've been, uh, in the company of Whiskeyjack and his squad.' A veil of caution seemed to slip over her sleepy gaze. 'I was to take care of you until your health returned.'

  'I believe you did,' Paran said. 'And I returned the favour, which evens the scales, Sorceress.'

  'So it does. Well, now what?'

  Paran's eyes widened. 'You don't know?'

  Tattersail shrugged.

  'But this is ridiculous,' Paran exclaimed. 'I know nothing of what's happening here. I awaken to find a half-dead witch and a talking puppet for company, and of my new command not a single sign. Have they left for Darujhistan already?'

  'I can't give you much in the way of answers,' Tattersail murmured. 'All I can tell you is the sergeant wanted you alive, because he needs to know who tried to assassinate you. We'd all like to know, in fact.' She fell silent, expectant.

  Paran studied her round, ghostly pale face. There was something about her that seemed to disregard her physical mundanity, overwhelmed it, in fact, so that the captain found himself responding in ways that surprised him. It was, he saw, a friendly face, and he couldn't recall the last time he'd experienced such a thing. It left him off-balance, with only Tattersail to steady him. And that made him feel as if he were descending a spiral, with the sorceress in the centre. Descending? Perhaps it was an ascent. He wasn't sure, and the uncertainty made him wary.