To breathe.
To kill.
Unmindful and unhearing, Sha’ik made her way down the slope. The basin awaited her, that field of battle. She saw Malazan scouts on the ridge opposite, one riding back to the encampment, the others simply watching.
It was understood, then. As she had known it would be.
Vague, distant shouts behind her. She smiled. Of course, in the end, it is the two warriors who first found me. I was foolish to have doubted them. And I know, either one would stand in my stead.
But they cannot.
This fight belongs to me. And the goddess.
‘Enter.’
Captain Keneb paused for a moment, seeking to collect himself, then he strode into the command tent.
She was donning her armour. A mundane task that would have been easier with a servant at hand, but that, of course, was not Tavore’s way.
Although, perhaps, that was not quite the truth. ‘Adjunct.’
‘What is it, Captain?’
‘I have just come from the Fist’s tent. A cutter and a healer were summoned at once, but it was far too late. Adjunct Tavore, Gamet died last night. A blood vessel burst in his brain—the cutter believes it was a clot, and that it was born the night he was thrown from his horse. I am . . . sorry.’
A pallor had come to her drawn, plain face. He saw her hand reach down to steady herself against the table edge. ‘Dead?’
‘In his sleep.’
She turned away, stared down at the accoutrements littering the table. ‘Thank you, Captain. Leave me now, and have T’amber—’
There was a commotion outside, then a Wickan’youth pushed in. ‘Adjunct! Sha’ik has walked down into the basin! She challenges you!’
After a long moment, Tavore nodded. ‘Very well. Belay that last order, Captain. You both may go.’ She turned to resume strapping on her armour.
Keneb gestured the youth ahead and they strode from the tent.
Outside, the captain hesitated. It’s what Gamet would do . . . isn’t it?
‘Will she fight her?’ the Wickan asked.
He glanced over. ‘She will. Return to Temul, lad. Either way, we have a battle ahead of us this day.’ He watched the young warrior hurry off.
Then swung to face the modest tent situated twenty paces to his left. There were no guards stationed before its flap. Keneb halted before the entrance. ‘Lady T’amber, are you within?’
A figure emerged. Dressed in hard leathers—light armour, Keneb realized with a start—and a longsword strapped to her hip. ‘Does the Adjunct wish to begin her morning practice?’
Keneb met those calm eyes, the colour of which gave the woman her name. They seemed depthless. He mentally shook himself. ‘Gamet died last night. I have just informed the Adjunct.’
The woman’s gaze flicked towards the command tent. ‘I see.’
‘And in the basin between the two armies, Sha’ik now stands . . . waiting. It occurred to me, Lady, that the Adjunct might appreciate some help with her armour.’
To his surprise she turned back to her tent. ‘Not this morning, Captain. I understand your motives . . . but no. Not this morning. Good day, sir.’
Then she was gone.
Keneb stood motionless in surprise. All right, then, so I do not understand women.
He faced the command tent once more, in time to see the Adjunct emerge, tightening the straps on her gauntlets. She was helmed, the cheek guards locked in place. There was no visor covering her eyes—many fighters found their vision too impaired by the slits—and he watched her pause, lifting her gaze to the morning sky for a moment, before she strode forward.
He gave her some distance, then followed.
L’oric clawed his way through the swirling shadows, scraped by skeletal branches and stumbling over gnarled roots. He had not expected this. There had to be a path, a way through this blackwood forest.
That damned goddess was here. Close. She had to be—if he could but find the trail.
The air was sodden and chill, the boles of the trees leaning this way and that, as if an earthquake had just shaken the ground. Wood creaked overhead to some high wind. And everywhere flitted wraiths, lost shadows, closing on the High Mage then darting away again. Rising from the humus like ghosts, hissing over his head as he staggered on.
And then, through the trees, the flicker of fire.
Gasping, L’oric ran towards it.
It was her. And the flames confirmed his suspicion. An Imass, trailing the chains of Tellann, the Ritual shattered—oh, she has no place here, no place at all.
Chthonic spirits swarmed her burning body, the accretions of power she had gathered unto herself over hundreds of thousands of years. Hatred and spite had twisted them all into malign, vicious creatures.
Marsh water and mould had blackened the limbs of the Imass. Moss covered the torso like dangling, knotted fur. Ropes of snarled, grey hair hung down, tangled with burrs. From her scorched eye sockets, living flames licked out. The bones of her cheeks were white, latticed in cracks from the heat.
Toothless, the heavy lower jaw hanging—barely held in place by rotting strips of tendon and withered muscle.
The goddess was keening, a wavering, eerie cry that did not pause for breath, and it seemed to L’oric that she was struggling.
He drew closer.
She had stumbled into a web of vines, the twisted ropes entangling her arms and legs, wrapped like serpents about her torso and neck. He wondered that he had not seen them earlier, then realized that they were flickering, one moment there, the other gone—although no less an impediment for their rhythmic disappearance—and they were changing . . .
Into chains.
Suddenly, one snapped. And the goddess howled, redoubled her efforts.
Another broke, whipping to crack against a tree.
L’oric edged forward. ‘Goddess! Hear me! Sha’ik—she is not strong enough for you!’
‘My—my—my child! Mine! I stole her from the bitch! Mine!’
The High Mage frowned. Who? What bitch? ‘Goddess, listen to me, please! I offer myself in her stead! Do you understand?’
Another chain broke.
And a voice spoke low behind L’oric. ‘Interfering bastard.’
He spun, but too late, as a wide-bladed knife was driven deep between his ribs, tearing a savage path to his heart.
Or where his heart should have been, had L’oric been human.
The serrated tip missed, sliding in front of the deep-seated organ, then jammed into the side of the sternum.
L’oric groaned and sagged.
The killer dragged his knife free, crouched and pulled L’oric’s head back by the jaw. Reached down with the blade.
‘Never mind that, fool!’ hissed another voice. ‘She’s breaking the chains!’
L’oric watched the man hesitate, then growl and move away.
The High Mage could feel blood filling his chest. He slowly turned onto his side, and could feel the warm flow seep down from the wound. The change in position gave him a mostly unobscured view of the goddess—
—and the assassins now closing in on her.
Sorcery streamed from their knives, a skein of death-magics.
The goddess shrieked as the first knife was driven into her back.
He watched them kill her. A prolonged, brutal butchering. Korbolo’s Talons, his chosen assassins, who had been waiting in ambush, guided here by Febryl—no-one else could have managed that path—and abetted by the sorcerous powers of Kamist Reloe, Henaras and Fayelle. She fought back with a ferocity near to match, and soon three of the four assassins were dead—torn limb from limb. But more chains now ensnared the goddess, dragging her down, and L’oric could see the fires dying in her eye sockets, could see spirits writhe away, suddenly freed and eager to flee. And the last killer darted in, hammering down with his knife. Through the top of the skull. A midnight flash, the detonation flinging the killer back. Both skull and blade had shattered, lacerating the Tal
on’s face and chest. Blinded and screaming, he reeled back, tripped over a root and thumped to the ground.
L’oric listened to the man moaning.
Chains snaked over the fallen body of the goddess, until nothing visible was left of her, the black iron links heaped and glistening.
Whatever high wind had lashed the treetops now fell away, leaving only silence.
They all wanted this shattered warren. This fraught prize. But Toblakai killed Febryl. He killed the two Deragoth.
He killed Bidithal.
And as for Korbolo Dom—something tells me the Empress will soon speak to him in person. The poor bastard.
Beneath the High Mage, his lifeblood soaked the moss.
It came to him, then, that he was dying.
Twigs snapped nearby.
‘I’m hardly surprised. You sent your familiar away, didn’t you? Again.’
L’oric twisted his head around, stared upward, and managed a weak smile. ‘Father.’
‘I don’t think much has changed in your room, son, since you left it.’
‘Dusty, I would think.’
Osric grunted. ‘The entire keep is that, I would hazard. Haven’t been there in centuries.’
‘No servants?’
‘I dismissed them . . . about a thousand years ago.’
L’oric sighed. ‘I’d be surprised if the place is still standing.’
Osric slowly crouched down beside his son, the sorcerous glow of Denul now surrounding him. ‘Oh, it still stands, son. I always keep my options open. An ugly cut you have there. Best healed slowly.’
L’oric closed his eyes. ‘My old bed?’
‘Aye.’
‘It’s too short. It was when I left, anyway.’
‘Too bad he didn’t cut off your feet, then, L’oric.’
Strong arms reached under him and he was lifted effortlessly.
Absurdly—for a man my age—he felt at peace. In his father’s arms.
‘Now,’ Osric said, ‘how in Hood’s name do we get out of here?’
The moment passed.
She stumbled, barely managing to right herself. Behind the iron mesh, she blinked against the hot, close air. All at once, the armour seemed immeasurably heavy. A surge of panic—the sun was roasting her alive beneath these plates of metal.
Sha’ik halted. Struggled to regain control of herself.
Myself. Gods below . . . she is gone.
She stood alone in the basin. From the ridge opposite a lone figure was descending the slope. Tall, unhurried, the gait achingly familiar.
The ridge behind Tavore, and those on every battered island of ancient coral, was now lined with soldiers.
The Army of the Apocalypse was watching as well, Sha’ik suspected, though she did not turn about.
She is gone. I have been . . . abandoned.
I was Sha’ik, once. Now, I am Felisin once more. And here, walking towards me, is the one who betrayed me. My sister.
She remembered watching Tavore and Ganoes playing with wooden swords. Beginning on that path to deadly familiarity, to unthinking ease wielding the weight of that weapon. Had the world beyond not changed—had all stood still, the way children believed it would—she would have had her turn. The clack of wood, Ganoes laughing and gently instructing her—there was joy and comfort to her brother, the way he made teaching subservient to the game’s natural pleasures. But she’d never had the chance for that.
No chance, in fact, for much of anything that could now return to her, memories warm and trusting and reassuring.
Instead, Tavore had dismembered their family. And for Felisin, the horrors of slavery and the mines.
But blood is the chain that can never break.
Tavore was now twenty strides away. Drawing out her otataral sword.
And, though we leave the house of our birth, it never leaves us.
Sha’ik could feel the weight of her own weapon, dragging hard enough to make her wrist ache. She did not recall unsheathing it.
Beyond the mesh and through the slits of the visor, Tavore strode ever closer, neither speeding up nor slowing.
No catching up. No falling back. How could there be? We are ever the same years apart. The chain never draws taut. Never slackens. Its length is prescribed. But its weight, oh, its weight ever varies.
She was lithe, light on her feet, achingly economical. She was, for this moment, perfect.
But, for me, the blood is heavy. So heavy.
And Felisin struggled against it—that sudden, overwhelming weight. Struggled to raise her arms—unthinking of how that motion would be received.
Tavore, it’s all right—
A thunderous clang, a reverberation jolting up her right arm, and the sword’s enervating weight was suddenly gone from her hand.
Then something punched into her chest, a stunning blossom of cold fire piercing through flesh, bone—and then she felt a tug from behind, as if something had reached up, clasped her hauberk and yanked on it—but it was just the point, she realized. The point of Tavore’s sword, as it drove against the underside of the armour shielding her back.
Felisin looked down to see that rust-hued blade impaling her.
Her legs gave way and the sword suddenly bowed to her weight.
But she did not slide off that length of stained iron.
Her body held on to it, releasing only in shuddering increments as Felisin fell back, onto the ground.
Through the visor’s slit, she stared up at her sister, a figure standing behind a web of black, twisted iron wire that now rested cool over her eyes, tickling her lashes.
A figure who now stepped closer. To set one boot down hard on her chest—a weight that, now that it had arrived, seemed eternal—and dragged the sword free.
Blood.
Of course. This is how you break an unbreakable chain.
By dying.
I just wanted to know, Tavore, why you did it. And why you did not love me, when I loved you. I—I think that’s what I wanted to know.
The boot lifted from her chest. But she could still feel its weight.
Heavy. So very heavy . . .
Oh, Mother, look at us now.
Karsa Orlong’s hand snapped out, caught Leoman before the man fell, then dragged him close. ‘Hear me, friend. She is dead. Take your tribes and get out of here.’
Leoman lifted a hand and passed it across his eyes. Then he straightened. ‘Dead, yes. I’m sorry, Toblakai. It wasn’t that. She’—his face twisted—‘she did not know how to fight.’
‘True, she did not. And now she’s dead, and the Whirlwind Goddess with her. It is done, friend. We have lost.’
‘More than you know,’ Leoman groaned, pulling away.
In the basin below, the Adjunct was staring down at Sha’ik’s corpse. From both armies lining the ridges, silence. Karsa frowned. ‘The Malazans do not cheer.’
‘No,’ Leoman snarled, turning to where Corabb waited with the horses. ‘They probably hate the bitch. We ride to Y’Ghatan, Toblakai—’
‘Not me,’ Karsa growled.
His friend paused and then nodded without turning around, and vaulted onto his horse. He took the reins from Corabb then glanced over at Toblakai. ‘Fare well, my friend.’
‘And you, Leoman of the Flails.’
‘If L’oric returns from wherever he went, tell him . . .’ His voice trailed away, then he shrugged. ‘Take care of him if he needs help.’
‘I shall, but I do not think we will see him again.’
Leoman nodded. Then he said to Corabb, ‘Tell the warchiefs to scatter with their tribes. Out of Raraku as fast as they can manage it—’
‘Out of the Holy Desert, Leoman?’ Corabb asked.
‘Can’t you hear it? Never mind. Yes. Out. Rejoin me on the western road—the ancient one that runs straight.’
Corabb saluted, then pulled his horse round and rode off.
‘You too, Toblakai. Out of Raraku—’
‘I will,’ Karsa replie
d, ‘when I am done here, Leoman. Now, go—officers are riding to the Adjunct. They will follow with an attack—’
‘Then they’re fools,’ Leoman spat.
Karsa watched his friend ride off. Then strode to his own mount. He was tired. His wounds hurt. But some issues remained unsettled, and he needed to take care of that.
The Teblor swung himself onto Havok’s back.
Lostara walked down the slope, the cracked ground crunching underfoot. At her side marched Pearl, breathing hard beneath the weight of Korbolo Dom’s bound, limp form.
Tavore still stood alone on the flats, a few paces from Sha’ik’s body. The Adjunct’s attention had been fixed on the Dogslayer trenches, and on the lone, ragged standard rising from the highest ground at the central ramp’s summit.
A standard that had no right being here. No right existing at all.
Coltaine’s standard, the wings of the Crow Clan.
Lostara wondered who had raised it, where it had come from, then decided she didn’t want to know. One truth could not be ignored, however. They’re all dead. The Dogslayers. All. And the Adjunct did not need to even raise a hand to achieve that.
She sensed her own cowardice and scowled. Skittering away, again and again, from thoughts too bitter with irony to contemplate. Their journey to the basin had been nightmarish, as Kurald Emurlahn swarmed the entire oasis, as shadows warred with ghosts, and the incessant rise and fall of that song grew audible enough for Lostara to sense, if not hear. A song still climbing in crescendo.
But, at the feet of . . . of everything. A simple, brutal fact.
They had come too late.
Within sight, only to see Tavore batter Sha’ik’s weapon out of her hands, then thrust that sword right through her . . . name it, Lostara Yil, you damned coward. Name it! Her sister. Through her sister. There. It’s done, dragged out before us.
She would not look at Pearl, could say nothing. Nor did he speak.
We are bound, this man and I. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want it. I’ll never be without it. Oh, Queen forgive me . . .
Close enough now to see Tavore’s face beneath the helm, an expression stern—almost angry—as she turned to watch their approach.
Officers were riding down, though slowly.