The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (58 page)

She cursed as her forward motion brought her onto the blade’s tip. The point pushed through the links of her hauberk and entered her left shoulder. Pain lanced like fire up her arm. Angered by the wound, she swung her sword savagely at the man’s head. The flat of the blade caught him flush on the forehead and he sprawled back like a limp doll.

Lorn cast a quick glance to where the warrior still struggled to stop the blood gushing from his leg, then whirled to face the last two men. The boy stood before the fat man, who lay unconscious. Though his face was pale, he held a thin-bladed dagger in his left hand and a larger knife in the other. His eyes were hard as he stared at her.

The thought crossed Lorn’s mind, belatedly, that she need not have attacked these men. She wore mercenary garb, and the T’lan Imass was not even within sight. Words might have achieved the same results, and she’d never liked shedding blood. Well, it was too late for that now. She advanced slowly.

“We meant no harm,” the boy said in Daru. “Leave us be.”

Lorn hesitated. The suggestion surprised her. Why not? She straightened. “Agreed,” she answered in the same language. “Patch up your friends and steer clear.”

“We’ll head back to Darujhistan,” the boy said, looking equally surprised. “We’ll camp here and recover, leave in the morning.”

The Adjunct stepped back. “Do that, and you’ll stay alive. Try anything else, and I’ll kill you all. Understood?”

The boy nodded.

Lorn backed away, angling to the north. She’d head that way for a time, then swing round to the east and come back down to where Tool was. She had no idea what had brought these men out into the hills, but didn’t suspect it had anything to do with her, or even the barrow. As she increased the distance between herself and the hill, she saw the boy rush over to the warrior. In any case, she concluded, there wasn’t much left of that group to cause her worry. The duelist wasn’t dead, but he’d awake to a headache. As for the warrior, it was touch and go. She’d seen a lot of blood come from him. The fat man might have broken his neck, and as a mage he was harmless in her vicinity. That left the boy, and since when had she had cause to fear a boy?

Lorn quickened her pace.

______

After the startling communication from Quick Ben, Sorry had contacted Shadowthrone. The Lord of Shadows had fumed briefly, and after informing the Rope that Ben Adaephon Delat had been a high priest of Shadow, Sorry found herself sharing Shadowthrone’s anger. The man would pay for his many deceits.

Shadowthrone’s Hounds had indeed been ready, and she was sure that even now they closed the hunt.

As she resumed her journey through her Warren she met with increasing resistance, a strange pressure with every step she took eastward. Finally, she relented and emerged into the Gadrobi Hills. It was midday, and half a mile ahead rode the Coin Bearer’s party. She closed the gap swiftly until she was no more than a hundred yards behind them, gathering shadows about her as she went—though even this proved increasingly difficult. And that could mean only one thing: a T’lan Imass was nearby.

To what, and to whom, was the Coin Bearer riding? Had she miscalculated entirely? Were they agents for the Malazan Empire? That possibility ran contrary to Oponn’s influence, but she had trouble arriving at any other conclusion.

This, she told herself, would prove an interesting day.

The party was fifty yards ahead, making their way up a hillside. They reached the summit and disappeared briefly from her view. She quickened her pace, only to hear sounds of fighting on the hilltop—a fight in which Otataral was unveiled.

A flash of rage ran through her. Memory was attached to Otataral, a very personal memory. Cautiously she sought a vantage point at the hill’s crest.

The exchange had been short, and the Coin Bearer’s party looked near wiped out. In fact, only the Coin Bearer still stood, facing a tall, lithe woman wielding an Otataral blade.

Sorry recognized Adjunct Lorn. On a mission, no doubt, for her dear Empress, a mission that included a T’lan Imass, still out of sight but close. She caught their conversation. If the boy’s group weren’t agents for the Empire then perhaps their master in Darujhistan had sensed the presence of the Imass out here, and had sent them to investigate.

She would discover the nature of the Adjunct’s mission later. Right now, however, it was time to kill the Coin Bearer. And the near proximity of the Imass made success all the more certain. Even Oponn’s powers could not overcome the influence of a Tellann Warren. Murdering the boy would be easy. Sorry waited, then smiled as Adjunct Lorn withdrew, heading north.

In minutes, the Coin of Oponn would be in her hands. And this day, a god might die.

As soon as Lorn was sufficiently distant Crokus ran to the warrior. Sorry rose slowly into a crouch, then moved forward in silence, her garotte in her hands.

______

The Hounds howled again, their eager cries closing in from all sides. Hairlock crouched, indecisive. Then the puppet faced the captain. “You’ll have to wait a little longer to die, Captain. I’ve no intention of allowing things to be rushed. No, I wish to linger over your demise.”

Chance sweaty in his hands, Paran shrugged. To his own surprise, it made little difference to him. If the Hounds arrived to find Hairlock gone, they’d probably take out their frustration on him, and that would be that. “You’ll come to regret the opportunity, Hairlock. Whether this sword’s magic is meant for you or not, I was looking forward to chopping you into kindling. Is your magic a match for my hatred? It would have been nice to find out.”

“Oh, sudden bravery! What do you know of hatred, Captain? When I return I’ll show you precisely what hatred can achieve.” The wooden figure gestured and a dozen feet away another tear opened in the air, this one exuding a fetid stench. “Stubborn mutts,” Hairlock muttered. “Until later, Captain,” and he scurried for the rent.

In the hut, Quick Ben’s grin turned savage. He jerked the dagger free with his right hand and, in a single, fluid motion, sliced the taut strings connecting the sticks.

“Goodbye, Hairlock,” he hissed.

Paran’s eyes widened as the puppet flopped onto his stomach. A moment later Hairlock let loose a shriek.

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Looks like somebody cut your strings, Hairlock,” he said.

The Hounds were close. In moments they’d be all over them.

“Your life, Captain!” Hairlock cried. “Fling me into the Warren and your life is yours, I swear it!”

Paran leaned on his sword and made no reply.

“Pawn of Oponn,” Hairlock snarled, “I would spit on you if I could! Spit on your soul!”

The earth rumbled, and at once massive shapes moved around Paran, silently closing in on the immobile marionette. Paran recognized Gear, the Hound he’d wounded. He felt the sword in his hands answer that challenge with an eager tremor that reached into his arms. Gear’s head swung in his direction as it passed, and Paran saw a promise in its eyes. The captain smiled.
If anything draws Oponn out, it will be the fight to come
.

Hairlock shrieked one last time, and then the Hounds were upon him.

A large shadow passed across the hill and Paran looked up to see a Great Raven swooping over them. The bird cawed hungrily. “Too bad,” Paran said to it. “I doubt its remains would be palatable.”

Three Hounds began fighting over the splintered wood—all that was left of Hairlock. The remaining four, led by Gear, now turned to Paran.

The captain raised his sword and dropped into a combative crouch. “Come on, then. Through me to the god using me, just once let the tool turn in the Twins’ hands. Come on, Hounds, let us soak this ground with blood.”

The creatures fanned out into a half-circle, Gear in the center.

Paran’s smile broadened.
Come to me, Gear. I’m tired of being used and death doesn’t seem so frightening anymore. Let’s be done with it
.

Something heavy pressed down on him, as if a hand had reached down from the sky and tried to drive him into the earth. The Hounds flinched. Paran staggered, unable to breathe, a sudden darkness closing around the edges of his vision. The ground groaned beneath him, the yellowed grasses of the plain lying flat. Then the pressure lifted and chilled air flooded back into his lungs. Sensing a presence, the captain whirled.

“Step aside,” a tall, black-skinned, white-haired man said, as he pushed past to confront the Hounds. Paran almost dropped his sword. A Tiste Andii?

The man wore a massive two-handed sword strapped to his back. He stood before the Hounds, making no move toward the weapon. All seven had now arrayed themselves before them, but they shifted restlessly, warily eyeing the newcomer.

The Tiste Andii glanced at Paran. “Whatever you’ve done to draw the attention of gods, it was unwise,” he said, in Malazan.

“It seems I never learn,” Paran replied.

The Tiste Andii smiled. “Then we are much alike, mortal.”

Mortal?

The Hounds paced back and forth, growling and snapping the air. The Tiste Andii watched them, then spoke. “Enough meddling. I see you, Rood,” he said to one Hound, mangy brown, scarred, and yellow-eyed. “Take your kin and leave. Tell Shadowthrone I won’t tolerate his interference. My battle with Malaz is my own. Darujhistan is not for him.”

Rood was the only Hound not growling. Its glowing eyes bore steadily into the Tiste Andii’s.

“You have heard my warning, Rood.”

Paran watched as the Tiste Andii cocked his head. Slowly he returned his attention to the captain. “Gear wishes you dead.”

“It’s the price I pay for showing mercy.”

The Tiste Andii raised an eyebrow.

Paran shrugged. “See the scar he carries?”

“That was your mistake, mortal. You must finish what you set out to do.”

“Next time. What happens now?”

“For the moment, mortal, they find the thought of killing me more desirable than that of killing you.”

“And what are their chances?”

“The answer to that is evident in how long they’ve been hesitating, wouldn’t you think, mortal?”

The Hounds attacked faster than anything Paran could have imagined. His heart lurched as a flurry of motion closed in around the other man. As the captain
stepped back an invisible fist of darkness exploded behind his eyes, a snapping of massive chains, the groan of huge wooden wheels. He squeezed shut his eyes against the staggering pain, then forced them open again to see that the fight was over. The Tiste Andii had his sword in his hands, its black blade slick with blood—blood that boiled and swiftly became ash. Two Hounds lay unmoving, one to either side of him. A wayward wind drew a wintry breath across the scene with a sound like a gasp, shivering the grasses.

Paran saw that one Hound had been nearly decapitated, while the other had been sliced across its broad chest—it did not look like a killing wound, but the creature’s eyes, one blue the other yellow, stared sightlessly skyward.

Rood yelped and the others backed away.

Paran tasted blood in his mouth. He spat, then raised a hand to find blood trickling from his ears. The pain in his head was ebbing. He looked up just as the Tiste Andii’s head came round to face him. Seeing death in the man’s eyes, Paran stepped back and half raised his sword, though the effort took all his strength. He watched, uncomprehending, as the Tiste Andii shook his head. “For a moment I thought . . . No, I see nothing now . . .”

Paran blinked stinging tears from his eyes, then wiped his cheeks. He started on seeing that the stain of those tears on his forearm was pink. “You just killed two Hounds of Shadow.”

“The others withdrew.”

“Who are you?”

The Tiste Andii did not answer, his attention once more on the Hounds.

Behind them a cloud of shadow was forming in the air, deepening and thickening in its center. A moment later it dissipated, and a black, shrouded, translucent figure stood in its place, hands tucked into its sleeves. Shadows commanded whatever face lay hidden beneath the hood.

The Tiste Andii lowered his sword’s point to the ground. “They were warned, Shadowthrone. I want one thing understood. You may prove my match here, especially if your Rope is about. But I promise you, it will be messy, and there are those who will avenge me. Your existence, Shadowthrone, could become uncomfortable. Now, I’ve yet to lose my temper. Withdraw your Realm’s influence from the proceedings, and I will leave it at that.”

“I am not involved,” Shadowthrone said quietly. “My Hounds found the quarry I sought. The hunt is over.” The god’s head tilted to observe the two dead creatures. “Over for all time, for Doan and Ganrod.” Shadowthrone looked up. “There is no release for them?”

“None. Nor for any who would pursue vengeance.”

A sigh issued from the hooded darkness of the god’s face. “Ah, well. As I said, I am not involved. However, the Rope is.”

“Recall him,” the Tiste Andii commanded. “Now.”

“He will be severely displeased, Anomander Rake. His plans extend far beyond Darujhistan, seeking to reach the Malazan throne itself.”

Anomander Rake
. . . Paran recalled Tattersail’s convictions after scrying her
Deck of Dragons.
The Knight of High House Dark, the Son of Darkness, the lord with the black sword and its deadly chains. Ruler of Moon’s Spawn, or so she thought. She saw this coming. This very moment, the clash between Shadow and Dark, the blood spilled
. . .

“I fight my own battles,” Rake growled. “And I’d rather deal with Laseen on the Malazan throne than with a servant of Shadow. Recall him.”

“One last point,” Shadowthrone said, a giggle escaping him, “I am not responsible for whatever actions the Rope might take against you.”

A smile entered Rake’s tone. “Convince him of the wise course, Shadowthrone. I have no patience for your games. If I am pushed, by either you, your Hounds, or by the Rope, I’ll make no distinction. I will assail the Shadow Realm, and you are invited to try to stop me.”

“You lack all subtlety,” the god said, sighing. “Very well.” He paused and shadows swirled around him. “He has been recalled. Forcibly extracted, as it were. The field is yours once again, Anomander Rake. The Malazan Empire is all yours, as is Oponn,” Shadowthrone added.