The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (42 page)

Bellurdan grunted distastefully. “The T’lan Imass who accompanies the Adjunct has created around them a dead space. Our sorcery is devoured by the warrior’s Eldering powers. The effect is cumulative. If you were to open your Warren entirely, you would be consumed utterly, Tattersail.” The Thelomen stepped forward. “The High Mage has instructed me to arrest you and return you to him.”

“And if I resist?”

Bellurdan answered, in a tone filled with sorrow, “Then I am to kill you.”

“I see.” Tattersail thought for a time. Her world seemed to have closed in now, her every memory irrelevant and discarded. Her heart pounded like a thundering drum in her chest. All that remained of her past, and her only true sense of her life, was regret—an unspecified, yet overwhelming regret. She looked up at the Thelomen, compassion brimming in her eyes. “So where are this T’lan and the Adjunct, then?”

“Perhaps eight hours to the east. The Imass is not even aware of us. The time for conversation is ended, Tattersail. Will you accompany me?”

Her mouth dry, she said, “I did not think you one to betray a long-standing friend.”

Bellurdan spread his hands wider and said, in a pained voice, “I will never betray you, Tattersail. The High Mage commands both of us. How can there be betrayal?”

“Not that,” Tattersail replied quickly. “I once asked if I could speak with you at length. Remember? You said yes, Bellurdan. Yet now you tell me conversation is ended. I had not imagined your word to be so worthless.”

In the dying light it was impossible to see the Thelomen’s face, but the anguish in his tone was plain. “I am sorry, Tattersail. You are correct. I gave you my word that we would speak again. Can we not do this while we return to Pale?”

“No,” Tattersail snapped. “I wish it now.”

Bellurdan bowed his head. “Very well.”

Tattersail forced the tension from her shoulders and neck. “I have some questions,” she said. “First, Tayschrenn sent you to Genabaris for a time, didn’t he? You were searching through some scrolls for him?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask what were those scrolls?”

“Is it of vital significance now, Tattersail?”

“It is. The truth will help me in deciding whether to go with you, or die here.”

Bellurdan hesitated only a moment. “Very well. Among the archives collected from the city’s mages—all of whom were executed, as you know—were found some copied fragments of
Gothos’ Folly
, an ancient Jaghut tome—”

“I know of it,” Tattersail interjected. “Go on.”

“As a Thelomen, I possess Jaghut blood, though of course Gothos would deny it. The High Mage entrusted the examination of these writings to me. I was to seek out information concerning the burial of a Jaghut Tyrant, a burial that was in fact a prison.”

“Wait,” Tattersail said, shaking her head. “The Jaghut had no government. What do you mean by a Tyrant?”

“One whose blood was poisoned by the ambition to rule over others. This Jaghut Tyrant enslaved the land around it—all living things—for close to three thousand years. The Imass of the time sought to destroy it, and failed. It was left to other Jaghut to attend to the sundering and imprisoning of the Tyrant—for such a creature was as abominable to them as it was to Imass.”

Tattersail’s heart now hammered in her chest. “Bellurdan.” She had to fight to push the words from her. “Where was this Tyrant buried?”

“I concluded that the barrow lies south of here, in the Gadrobi Hills directly east of Darujhistan.”

“Oh, Queen of Dreams. Bellurdan, do you know what you’ve done?”

“I have done as I was commanded by our High Mage.”

“And that’s why the T’lan Imass is with the Adjunct.”

“I don’t understand what you are saying, Tattersail.”

“Dammit, you brainless ox!” she rasped. “They plan to free the Tyrant! Lorn’s sword—her Otataral sword—”

“No,” Bellurdan rumbled. “They would not do such a thing. Rather, they seek to prevent someone else releasing it. Yes, that is more likely. It is the truth of things. Now, Tattersail, our conversation is done.”

“I can’t go back,” the sorceress said. “I must go on. Please, don’t stop me.”

“We are to return to Pale,” Bellurdan said stubbornly. “Your concern has been satisfied. Permit me to take you back so that I may continue seeking the proper burial place for Nightchill.”

There was no choice left in Tattersail’s mind, but there had to be a way out. The conversation had bought her time, time to recover from the ordeal of traveling by Warren. Bellurdan’s words returned to her: if she accessed her Thyr Warren now she would be consumed. Incinerated by the reactive influence of the T’lan Imass. Her eyes fell on the burlap sack beside the Thelomen and saw from it a faint gleam of sorcery. A spell.
My own spell
. She recalled now: a gesture of compassion, a spell of . . . preservation.
Is this my way out? Hood’s Breath, is it even possible?
She thought of Hairlock, the journey from the dying body to a lifeless . . . vessel.
Shedenul, have mercy on us
. . .

The sorceress stepped back and opened her Warren. High Thyr magic blazed around her. She saw Bellurdan stagger back then steady himself. He screamed something, but she could not hear him. Then he charged at her.

She regretted the Thelomen’s fatal courage as the fire blackened the world around her, even as she opened her arms and embraced him.

Lorn strode to Tool’s side. The T’lan Imass faced west, and a tension swirled about him that she could almost see.

“What is it?” she asked, her eyes on the white fountain of fire rising above the horizon. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Nor I,” Tool replied. “It is within the barrier I have cast around us.”

“But that’s impossible,” the Adjunct snapped.

“Yes, impossible to last this long. Its source should have been consumed almost instantly. Yet . . .” The T’lan Imass fell silent.

There was no need for Tool to finish his sentence. The pillar of fire still raged in the night sky as it had for the past hour. The stars swam in the inky darkness around it, magic swirling in a frenzy as if from a bottomless well. On the wind
was a smell that left Lorn slightly nauseous. “Do you recognize the Warren, Tool?”

“Warrens, Adjunct. Tellann, Thyr, Denul, D’riss, Tennes, Thelomen Toblakai, Starvald Demelain . . .”

“Starvald Demelain, what in Hood’s Name is that?”

“Elder.”

“I thought there were but three Elder Warrens, and that’s not one of them.”

“Three? No, there were many, Adjunct, all born of one. Starvald Demelain.”

Lorn wrapped her cloak tighter about herself, eyes on the column of fire. “Who could manage such a conjuring?”

“There was one . . . once. Of worshipers there are none left, so he is no more. I have no answer to your question, Adjunct.” The Imass staggered as the pillar bloomed outward, then winked out. A distant thundering rumble reached them.

“Gone,” Lorn whispered.

“Destroyed,” Tool said. The warrior cocked his head. “Strange, the source is indeed destroyed. But something has also been born. I sense it, a new presence.”

Lorn checked her sword. “What is it?” she demanded.

Tool shrugged. “New. It flees.”

Was this cause for worry? Lorn scowled and turned to the T’lan Imass, but he had already left her side, and was now striding back to their campfire. The Adjunct glanced once more at the western horizon. There was a cloud, blotting out the stars. It looked huge. She shivered.

It was time to sleep. The Imass would stand guard, so she need not worry about surprise visitors. The day had been long, and she’d over-rationed her water; she felt weak, an unfamiliar sensation. Her scowl deepened as she walked to the camp. Tool, standing immobile beside the flames, reminded her of his arrival two days ago. The fiery glimmer that jumped along his withered flesh-and-bone helm once again triggered something primordial in her mind, and with it came a deep, unreasoning fear of darkness. She stepped close to the Imass. “Fire is life,” she whispered, the phrase seeming to rise from the depths of instinct.

Tool nodded. “Life is fire,” he said. “With such words was born the First Empire. The Empire of Imass, the Empire of Humanity.” The warrior turned to the Adjunct. “You’ve done well, my child.”

The gray pall of smoke hung unmoving over Blackdog Forest a dozen leagues north of her as Crone dipped her splayed tail and sank wearily toward the army encamped on the Rhivi Plain.

The tents marched outward like spokes from a central fortified hub where stood a large canopy, rippling in the morning breeze. Toward this center the Great Raven descended. Her sharp gaze marked Rhivi plainsmen moving among the aisles. Off on the eastern rim fluttered the banners of the Catlin Horse, green and silver to mark the mercenary contingent of Caladan Brood’s main army. By
far the greatest proportion of soldiers, however, were Tiste Andii—Anomander Rake’s people, dwellers of the city within Moon’s Spawn—their tall, dark-clad forms moving like shadows between the tents.

Wheeled tracks led north to the forest fringes: supply routes to entrenchments once held by the Malazans and now marking Brood’s front lines. Rhivi-driven carts moved forward an endless stream of supplies, while other wagons, laden with the dead and the wounded, entered the camp in a grim flow.

Crone cackled. Magic bled from the main tent and stained the dusty air with a heavy, turgid magenta, the color of the D’riss Warren, earth magic. Her wings now felt light and held a youthful spring as she beat the air. “Ahhh,” Crone sighed, “magic.” Sweeping through the wards and traps, the Great Raven glided over the tent and thrummed rapidly as she dropped outside the entrance.

No guard barred the doorway, which had been left pulled back and tied to a support pole. Crone hopped inside.

With the exception of a small hanging at the far end, behind which squatted an army cot, no other divisions had been made within the tent. In the center stood a massive table, its surface etched with the contours of the surrounding land. One man stood alone, leaning over it, his back to the doorway. An enormous iron hammer was slung across his broad back; despite its size and evident weight, it looked almost toylike against that span of muscle and bone. Power rolled from him in musky waves.

“Delays, delays,” Crone muttered, as she flapped up to land on the tabletop.

Caladan Brood grunted distractedly.

“You sensed the storm of sorcery last night?” she asked.

“Sensed? We could see it. The Rhivi shamans seem somewhat disturbed, but they have no answers. We’ll discuss that later, Crone. Now I must think.”

Crone cocked her head at the map. “The west flank falls back in total disarray. Who commands that Barghast mob?”

Brood asked, “When did you fly within sight of them?”

“Two days past. I saw but a third of the original force left alive.”

Brood shook his head. “Jorrick Sharplance, under him five thousand Barghast and seven Blades of the Crimson Guard.”

“Sharplance?” Crone hissed laughter. “Full of himself, is he?”

“He is, but the Barghast so named him. As I was saying, five legions of Gold Moranth dropped into his lap three days ago. Jorrick retreated under cover of night, and bled off two-thirds of his army east and west—his Barghast have a knack of disappearing where no cover seems possible. Yesterday his panicked mob did an about-face and met the Gold. His Barghast moved in as pincers. Two Moranth legions wiped out, the other three retreating to the forest with half their supplies scattered on the plain.”

Crone cocked her head again. “Jorrick’s plan?”

Brood inclined his head. “He’s Crimson Guard, though the Barghast call him their own. Young, thus fearless.”

The raven studied the map. “And the east? How holds Fox Pass?”

“Well,” Brood said. “Mostly Stannis conscripts on the other side—the
Malazans are finding them a reluctant ally. We’ll see the Crimson Guard’s mettle in twelve months’ time, when the next wave of Malazan marines disembark at Nisst.”

“Why not drive northward?” Crone asked. “Prince K’azz could liberate the Free Cities over the winter.”

“The Prince and I agree on this,” Brood said. “He stays where he is.”

“Why?” Crone demanded.

Brood grunted. “Our tactics are our business.”

“Suspicious bastard,” Crone muttered. She hopped along the south edge of the map. “Your underbelly remains for final grim scrutiny. Naught but Rhivi plainsmen between you and Pale. And now forces walk the plain that even the Rhivi know nothing of—yet you show little concern, warrior. Why is that, Crone wonders?”

“I have been in communication with Prince K’azz and his mages, and with the Barghast and Rhivi shamans. What was born on the plain last night belongs to no one. It is alone, and frightened. Even now the Rhivi have begun the search for it. Concerned? No, not by that. Still, there’s much more going on in the south.” Brood straightened.

“Anomander is in the midst of it,” Crone purred. “Plotting and counterplotting, scattering broken glass in everyone’s path. I’ve never seen him in a better mood.”

“Enough gossip. You have news for me?”

“Of course, Master.” Crone stretched her wings and sighed. She jabbed her beak at an itch, crunched a flea and gulped it down. “I know who holds the Spinning Coin.”

“Who?”

“A youth whose bliss is ignorance. The Coin spins and turns a face to all those in his company. They’ve their own game, but it will converge with greater things, and so Oponn’s thin threads reverberate in spheres otherwise immune to the Jesters’ influence.”

“What does Rake know?”

“Of this, little. But you well know his dislike of Oponn. He would cut those threads given the opportunity.”

“Idiot,” Brood muttered. He thought for a time, unmoving, like a shaping of stone and iron, while Crone ambled back and forth across the Rhivi Plain, her long, black talons scattering the wooden regiment and division markers like dominoes.

“Without Oponn, Rake’s power is presently unmatched,” Brood said. “He hangs over Darujhistan like a beacon and the Empress is sure to send something against him. Such a battle would—”

“Level Darujhistan,” Crone chirped brightly. “In flames numbering twelve, so fly the Free Cities, so much ash in the wind.”