Killing.
'Yes. Killing.'
I cannot return to my human form. I cannot find it within myself.
'It has been too long, Treach.' Now, I die.
'Yes. I have no skills in healing.' Within his mind, he smiled. No, only killing. 'Only killing.'
Then an end to my suffering, please.
'That is the man speaking. The beast would never ask such a thing. Where is your defiance, Treach? Where is your cunning?' Do you mock me? 'No. I am here. As are you. Tell me, who then is this other presence?'
Other?
'Who has unchained your memories, Treach? Who has returned you to yourself? For centuries you were a beast, with a beast's mind. Once that place is reached, there is no return. Yet…'
Yet I am here.
'When your life fades from this world, Treach, I suspect you will find yourself, not before Hood's gates, but… elsewhere. I can offer nothing of certainty. But I have sensed the stirrings. An Elder God is active once again, perhaps the most ancient one of all. Subtle moves are being made. Select mortals have been chosen, and are being shaped. Why? What does this Elder God seek? I know not, but I believe it is in answer to a grave—and vast—threat. I believe the game that has begun will take a long time in its playing out.'
A new war?
'Are you not the Tiger of Summer? A war in which, this Elder God has judged, you will be needed.'
Wry amusement flooded Treach's mind. I have never been needed, Imass.
'Changes have come. Upon us all, it seems.'
Ah, then we shall meet again? I would wish it. I would see you, once more, as the midnight panther.
She laughed, low in her throat. 'And so the beast awakens. Farewell, Treach.'
She had, in that last moment, seen what he only now felt. Darkness closed around him, narrowed his world. Vision… from two eyes… to one.
One. Looking across a stretch of grasses as night fell, watching the massive Soletaken tiger pause warily above the dead bull ranag upon which it had been feeding. Seeing the twin flares of its cold, challenging glare. All… so long ago, now…
Then nothing.
A gloved hand slapped him hard. Groggily, Toc the Younger pried open his lone eye, found himself staring up at Senu's painted mask.
'Uh…'
'An odd time to fall asleep,' the Seguleh said tonelessly, then straightened and moved away.
The air was sweet with the smell of roasting meat. Groaning, Toc rolled over, then slowly sat up. Echoes rolled through him, ineffable sadness, half-formed regrets, and the long exhalation of a final breath. Gods, no more visions. Please. He struggled to clear his head, looked around. Tool and Baaljagg had not moved from their stance of before: both staring northward, motionless and—Toc eventually realized—taut with tension. And he thought he knew why.
'She's not far off,' he said. 'Coming fast.' With the night, flowing as the sun flees. Deadly majesty; ancient, so very ancient, eyes.
Tool turned. 'What have you seen, Aral Fayle? To where did you journey?'
The Malazan clambered weakly upright. 'Beru fend, I'm hungry. Hungry enough to eat that antelope raw.' He paused, drew a deep breath. 'What have I seen? I was witness, T'lan Imass, to the death of Treach. Trake, as he's known round here, the Tiger of Summer. Where? North of here. Not far. And no, I don't know why.'
Tool was silent for a moment, then he simply nodded and said, 'Chen're aral lich'fayle. The Menhir, heart of memory.' He swung round again as Baaljagg rose suddenly, hackles rising.
The panther that Toc knew was coming finally appeared, more than twice a man's height in length, eyes almost level with Toc's own, her sleek fur blue-black and shimmering. A scent of spice swept forward like an exhaled breath, and the creature began sembling, the shift an uncertain blurring, a folding in of darkness itself. Then a small woman stood before them, her eyes on Tool. 'Hello, brother.' The T'lan Imass slowly nodded. 'Sister.'
'You've not aged well,' she noted, lithely stepping forward. Baaljagg backed away. 'You have.'
Her smile transformed bold features into a thing of beauty. 'Generous of you, Onos. You have a mortal ay for a companion, I see.'
'As mortal as you, Kilava Onass.'
'Indeed? Predictably shy of my kind, of course. None the less, an admirable beast.' She held out a hand. Baaljagg edged closer.
'Imass,' she murmured. 'Yes, but flesh and blood. Like you. Do you remember, now?'
The huge wolf ducked her head and padded up to Kilava, leaned a shoulder against that of the woman, who pressed her face into the animal's mane, drew deep the scent, then sighed. 'This is an unexpected gift,' she whispered.
'More than that,' Toc the Younger said.
He twisted inside as she looked up at him to reveal the raw sensuality in her eyes, a thing so clearly natural that he knew in an instant that he was no more the focus of it than anyone else upon whom she turned her gaze. The Imass as they once were, before the Ritual. As they would have remained, if, like her, they had refused its power. A moment later, those eyes narrowed. Toc nodded.
'I saw you,' she said, 'looking out from Treach's eyes—'
'Both eyes?'
She smiled. 'No. Only one—the one you no longer have, mortal. I would know what the Elder God has planned… for us.'
He shook his head. 'I don't know. I can't recall ever meeting him, alas. Not even a whisper in my ear.'
'Brother Onos, who is this mortal?'
'I have named him Aral Fayle, sister.'
'And you have given him weapons of stone.'
'I have. Unintended.'
'By you, perhaps…'
'I serve no god,' Tool growled.
Her eyes flashed. 'And I do? These steps are not our own, Onos! Who would dare manipulate us? An Imass Bonecaster and the First Sword of the T'lan Imass—prodded this way and that. He risks our wrath—'
'Enough,' Tool sighed. 'You and I are not of a kind, sister. We have never walked in step. I travel to the Second Gathering.'
Her sneer was decidedly unpleasant. 'Think you I did not hear the summons?'
'Made by whom? Do you know, Kilava?'
'No, nor do I care. I shall not attend.'
Tool cocked his head. 'Then why are you here?'
'That is my business.'
She seeks… redress. The realization flooded Toc's mind, and he knew that the knowledge was not his, but an Elder God's. Who now spoke directly, in a voice that trickled like sand into the Malazan's thoughts. To right an old wrong, heal an old scar. You shall cross paths again. It is, however, of little consequence. It is the final meeting that concerns me, and that will be years away in all likelihood. Ah, but I reveal unworthy impatience. Mortal, the children of the Pannion Seer are suffering. You must find a way to release them. It is difficult—a risk beyond imagining—but I must send you into the Seer's embrace. I do not think you will forgive me.
Struggling, Toc pushed his question forward in his mind. Release them. Why?
An odd question, mortal. I speak of compassion. There are gifts unimagined in such efforts. A man who dreams has shown me this, and indeed, you shall soon see for yourself. Such gifts…
'Compassion,' Toc said, mentally jarred by the Elder God's sudden departure. He blinked, saw that Tool and Kilava were staring at him. The woman's face had paled.
'My sister,' the First Sword said, 'knows nothing of compassion.' Toc stared at the undead warrior, trying to retrieve what had been spoken last—before the… visitation. He could not recall.
'Brother Onos, you should have realized it by now,' Kilava slowly said. 'All things change.' Studying Toc once more, the woman smiled, but it was a smile of sorrow. 'I leave now—'
'Kilava.' Tool stepped forward, a faint clash of bones and skin. 'The ritual that sundered you from your kin, the breaking of blood-ties—this Second Gathering, perhaps…'
Her expression softened. 'Dear brother, the summoner cares nothing for me. My ancient crime will not be undone. Moreover, I suspect that what will a
wait you at the Second Gathering will not be as you imagine. But I… I thank you, Onos T'oolan, for the kind thought.'
'I said… we do not… travel in step,' the undead warrior whispered, struggling with each word. 'I was angry, sister—but it is an old anger. Kilava—'
'Old anger, yes. But you were right, none the less. We have never walked in step with each other. Our past ever dogs our trail. Perhaps some day we will mend our shared wounds, brother. This meeting has given me… hope.' She briefly laid a hand on Baaljagg's head, then turned away.
Toc watched her vanish into the dusk's shroud. Another clattering of bones within leather skin made him swing round. To see Tool on his knees, head hung. There could be no tears from a corpse, yet…
Toc hesitated, then strode to the undead warrior. 'There was untruth in your words, Tool,' he said.
Swords hissed out and the Malazan spun to see Senu and Thurule advancing on him.
Tool snapped out a hand. 'Stop! Sheathe your weapons, Seguleh. I am immune to insults—even those delivered by one I would call a friend.'
'Not an insult,' Toc said levelly, turning back to the T'lan Imass. 'An observation. What did you call it? The breaking of blood-ties.' He laid a hand on Tool's shoulder. 'It's clear to me, for what that's worth, that the breaking failed. The blood-ties remain. Perhaps you could take heart in that, Onos T'oolan.'
The head tilted up, withered sockets revealed beneath the bone shelf of the helm.
Gods, I look and see nothing. He looks and sees… what? Toc the Younger struggled to think of what to do, what to say next. As the moment stretched, he shrugged, offered his hand.
To his amazement, Tool grasped it.
And was lifted upright, though the Malazan grunted with the effort, his every muscle protesting. Hood take me, that's the heaviest sack of bones I've… never mind.
Senu broke the silence, his tone firm. 'Stoneblade and Stonearrow, attend. The meal awaits us.'
Now, how in Hood's name did I earn all this? Onos T'oolan. And respect from a Seguleh, no less… In a night of wonders, that one surely takes the crown.
'I have truly known but two mortal humans,' Tool said at his side. 'Both underestimated themselves, the first one fatally so. This night, friend Aral Fayle, I shall endeavour to tell you of the fall of Adjunct Lorn.'
'A moral to the tale, no doubt,' Toc commented wryly.
'Indeed.'
'And here I was planning to spend the night tossing bones with Senu and Thurule.'
Senu snapped, 'Come and eat, Stonearrow!'
Uh oh, I think I just overstepped the familiarity thing.
Blood had filled the gutters, not long past. Sun and absence of rain had preserved the turgid flow as dust-dulled black, deep enough to hide the hump of the cobbles lying underneath, the mortal river reaching down to the silty waters of the bay.
No-one in Callows had been spared. She had come upon the heaped pyres on her approach down the inland road, and judged the slaughter at perhaps thirty thousand.
Garath ranged ahead, slipping beneath the arch of the gate. She followed at a slower pace.
The city had been beautiful, once. Copper-sheathed domes, minarets, poetically winding streets overlooked by ornate balconies riotous with flowering plants. The lack of hands to nourish the precious plants had turned the gardens brown and grey. Leaves crackled underfoot as Lady Envy walked down the central avenue.
A trader city, a merchants' paradise. The masts of countless ships were visible in the harbour ahead, all motionless, indicating that the crafts had been holed and sat one and all in the mud of the bay.
Ten days, no more, since the slaughter. She could smell Hood's breath, a sigh at unexpected bounty, a faint ripple of unease at what it signified. You are troubled, dear Hood. This bodes ill, indeed…
Garath led her unerringly, as she knew he would. An ancient, almost forgotten alleyway, the cobbles heaved, cracked and covered in decades of rubbish. Into a small, sagging house, its foundation stones of a far sharper cut than those that rested upon them. Within, a single room with a reed-matted floor of thick, wooden boards. A desultory scatter of poorly made furniture, bronze cooking plate over a brick-housed hearth, rotting foodstuffs. A child's toy wagon off to one side. The dog circled in the centre of the small room. Lady Envy approached, kicked aside the reed mats. No trapdoor. The inhabitants had had no idea of what lay beneath their home. She unveiled her warren, passed a hand over the floorboards, watched them dissolve into dust, creating a circular hole. A damp, salty breath wafted from its darkness.
Garath padded to the edge, then dropped out of sight. She heard the clatter of claws some distance below. With a sigh, Lady Envy followed.
No stairs, and the pavestones of the floor were a long time in halting her warren-slowed fall. Vision enhanced, she looked around, then sniffed. The temple was all of this one chamber, squalid, once low-ceilinged though the beams of that roof had long since vanished. There was no raised altarstone, but she knew that for this particular ascendant, the entire floor of cut stone served that sacred function. Back in the days of blood … 'I can imagine what awakened this place to you,' she said, eyes on Garath, who had lain down and was moments from sleep. 'All that blood, seeping down, dripping, dripping onto your altar. I admit, I prefer your abode in Darujhistan. Far grander, almost worthy of complementing my esteemed presence. But this…' Her nose wrinkled.
Garath, eyes closed, twitched. Welcome, Lady Envy.
'Your summons was uncharacteristically distraught, K'rul. Is this the work of the Matron and her undead hunters? If so, then calling me here was unnecessary. I am well aware of their, efficacy.'
Crippled and chained he may be, Lady Envy, but this particular god is never so obvious. His game displays a master's sleight of hand. Nothing is as he would have us believe, and his use of unwitting servants is as brutal as his treatment of enemies. Consider, after all, the Pannion Seer. No, for Callows, death came from the sea. A warren-twisted fleet. Cold-eyed, unhuman killers. Seeking, ever seeking, they now ply the world's oceans. 'Seeking what, dare I ask?' A worthy challenge, no less.
'And do these dreadful seaborne murderers have a name?'
One enemy at a time, Lady Envy. You must cultivate patience.
She crossed her arms. 'You sought me out, K'rul, and you can be certain that I had not anticipated that you and I would ever meet again. The Elder Gods are gone, and good riddance, as far as I'm concerned—and that includes my father, Draconus. Were we companions two hundred thousand years ago, you and I? I think not, though the memories are admittedly vague. Not enemies, true enough. But friends? Allies? Most certainly not. Yet here you have come. I have gathered your own unwitting servants, as you asked. Have you any idea the demands on my energies to hold those three Seguleh in check?'
Ah, yes, and where is the Third now?
'Stretched senseless half a league from the city. It was vital to get him away from that T'lan Imass—the gods know, I didn't drag him along for the company. You're missing my point, K'rul. The Seguleh will not be controlled. Indeed, I wonder who humours whom when it comes to those three frightful warriors. Mok will challenge Tool. Mark my words, and while a part of me thrills at the thought—to witness such a clash! None the less, the destruction of one or the other will ill suit your plans, I imagine. The First Sword was almost defeated by Thurule, you know. Mok will chop him into kindling—'
K'rul's soft laughter filled her head. Hopefully, not before Mok and his brothers have carved their way into the Pannion Seer's throne room. Besides, Onos T'oolan is far more subtle of thought than you might imagine, Lady Envy. Let them battle, if Mok so chooses. I suspect, however, that the Third may well surprise you with his… constraint.
'Constraint? Tell me, K'rul, did you think the Seguleh First would send someone as highly ranked as the Third to lead his punitive army?'
Admittedly, no. For this task, of splitting the Seer's forces into two fronts, I had expected perhaps three or four hundred Eleventh Level initiates. Suffic
ient to inconvenience the Seer enough to draw an army or two away from the approaching Malazans. Yet, with the Second missing, and with Mok's growing prowess, no doubt the First had his reasons.
'One final question, then. Why am I doing you these favours, anyway?'
Aspetulant as ever, I see. Very well. You chose to turn your back on the need, when last it arose. Disappointing, that, yet enough did indeed attend to manage the Chaining—although at a cost that your presence would have diminished. But, even chained, the Crippled God will not rest. He exists in endless, tormenting pain, shattered, broken within and without, yet he has turned that into a strength. The fuel for his rage, his hunger for vengeance—
'The fools who pulled him down are long dead, K'rul. Vengeance is just an excuse. The Crippled God is driven by ambition. Lust for power is the core of his rotten, shrivelled heart.'
Perhaps, perhaps not. Time will tell, as the mortals say. In any case, you defied the summons at the Chaining, Lady Envy. I will not brook your indifference a second time.
'You?' She sneered. 'Are you my master, K'rul? Since when—'
Visions flooded her mind, staggering her. Darkness. Then chaos, wild, unfocused power, a universe devoid of sense, of control, of meaning. Entities flung through the maelstrom. Lost, terrified by the birth of light. A sudden sharpening—pain as of wrists opened, the heat spilling forth—a savage imposition of order, the heart from which blood flowed in even, steady streams. Twin chambers to that heart—Kurald Galain, the Warren of Mother Dark—and Starvald Demelain, the Warren of… Dragons. And the blood—the power—now sweeping in currents through veins, through arteries, branching out through all existence, and the thought that came to her then stole all warmth from her flesh. Those veins, those arteries, they are the warrens. 'Who created this? Who?'
Dear Lady, K'rul replied, you have your answer, and I will be damned if I am going to countenance your impertinence. You are a sorceress. By Light's Wild Mane, your power feeds on the very blood of my eternal soul, and I will have your obedience in this!
Lady Envy staggered another step, suddenly released by the visions, disorientated, her heart thudding in her chest. She drew in a sharp breath. 'Who knows the… the truth, K'rul?' That, in striding through the warrens, we travel through your very flesh. That, when we draw upon the power of the warrens, we draw your very blood? 'Who knows?'