‘You were sent into a Warren of Chaos, mortal. You survived – in itself an unlikely event – and travelled the slow vortex towards the Rent. Then, when Morn’s portal should have taken you, it instead cast you out Stone has taken one of your eyes. And the ay here has chosen you in the sharing of her soul. Baaljagg has seen in you a rare worthiness, Aral Fayle—’
‘I still don’t want any new names! Hood’s breath!’ He was sweating beneath his worn, dust-caked armour. He searched desperately for a way to change the subject, to shift the conversation away from himself. ‘What’s yours mean, anyway? Onos T’oolan – what’s that from?’
‘Onos is “clanless man”. T’ is “broken”. Ool is “veined” while lan is “flint” and in combination T’oolan is “flawed flint”.’
Toc stared at the T’lan Imass for a long moment. ‘Flawed flint.’
‘There are layers of meaning.’
‘I’d guessed.’
‘From a single core are struck blades, each finding its own use. If veins or knots of crystal lie hidden within the heart of the core, the shaping of the blades cannot be predicted. Each blow to the core breaks off useless pieces – hinge-fractured, step-fractured. Useless. Thus it was with the family in which I was born. Struck wrong, each and all.’
‘Tool, I see no flaws in you.’
‘In pure flint all the sands are aligned. All face in the same direction. There is unity of purpose. The hand that shapes such flint can be confident. I was of Tarad’s clan. Tarad’s reliance in me was misplaced. Tarad’s clan no longer exists. At the Gathering, Logros was chosen to command the clans native to the First Empire. He had the expectation that my sister, a Bonecaster, would be counted among his servants. She defied the ritual, and so the Logros T’lan Imass were weakened. The First Empire fell. My two brothers, T’ber Tendara and Han’ith Iath, led hunters to the north and never returned. They too failed. I was chosen First Sword, yet I have abandoned Logros T’lan Imass. I travel alone, Aral Fayle, and thus am committing the greatest crime known among my people.’
‘Wait a moment,’ Toc objected. ‘You said you’re heading to a second Gathering – you’re returning to your people…’
The undead warrior did not respond, head slowly turning to gaze northward.
Baaljagg rose, stretched, then padded to Tool’s side. The massive creature sat, matching the T’lan Imass’s silent regard.
A sudden chill whispered through Toc the Younger. Hood’s breath, what are we headed into? He glanced at Senu and Thurule. The Seguleh seemed to be watching him. ‘Hungry, I gather. I see your bridling impatience. If you like, I could—’
* * *
Rage.
Cold, deadly.
Unhuman.
Toc was suddenly elsewhere, seeing through a beast’s eyes – but not the ay, not this time. And not images from long ago, but from this moment; behind which tumbled a cascade of memories. A moment later, all sense of himself was swallowed, his identity swept away before the storm of another creature’s thoughts.
It has been so long since life found shape … with words, with awareness.
And now, too late.
Muscles twitched, leaked blood from beneath his slashed, torn hide. So much blood, soaking the ground under his flesh, smearing the grasses in a crawling track up the hill’s slope.
Crawling, a journey of return. To find oneself, now, at the very end. And memories awakened …
The final days – so long ago, now – had been chaotic. The ritual had unravelled, unexpectedly, unpredictably. Madness gripped the Soletaken. Madness splintered the more powerful of his kin, broke one into many, the burgeoning power wild, blood-hungry, birthing the D’ivers. The Empire was tearing itself apart.
But that was long ago, so very long ago …
I am Treach – one of many names. Trake, the Tiger of Summer, the Talons of War. Silent Hunter. I was there at the end, one of the few survivors once the T’lan Imass were done with us. Brutal, merciful slaughter. They had no choice – I see that now, though none of us were prepared to forgive. Not then. The wounds were too fresh.
Gods, we tore a warren to pieces on that distant continent. Turned the eastlands into molten stone that cooled and became something that defied sorcery. The T’lan Imass sacrificed thousands to cut away the cancer we had become. It was the end, the end of all that promise, all that bright glory. The end of the First Empire. Hubris, to have claimed a name that rightly belonged to the T’lan Imass …
We fled, a handful of survivors. Ryllandaras, old friend – we fell out, clashed, then clashed again on another continent. He had gone the farthest, found a way to control the gifts – Soletaken and D’ivers both. White Jackal Ay’tog. Agkor. And my other companion, Messremb – where has he gone? A kind soul, twisted by madness, yet so loyal, ever loyal …
Ascending. Fierce arrival – the First Heroes. Dark, savage.
I remember a vast sweep of grasses beneath a sky deepening to dusk. A wolf, its single eye like a smear of moonlight, on a distant ridgeline. This strangely singular memory, sharp as talons, returning to me now. Why?
I padded this earth for thousands of years, sunk deep into the beast, human memories fading, fading, gone. And yet … this vision of the wolf, awakening all within me …
I am Treach. Memories returning in full flood, even as my body grows cold, so very cold.
He’d tracked the mysterious beasts for days, driven by relentless curiosity. A scent unknown to him, a swirling wake of death and old blood. Fearless, he’d thought only of delivering destruction, as he had done without challenge for so long. The White Jackal had vanished into the mists centuries past, dead, or if not dead, then as good as. Treach had driven him from a ledge, sent him spinning and writhing down into the fathomless crevasse. No enemies worthy of the name since then. The tiger’s arrogance was legendary – it had not been difficult, embracing such assurity.
The four K’Chain Che’Malle hunters had circled back, awaited him with cold intent.
I tore into them. Slashed flesh shattered bones. I dragged one down, fangs deep in its lifeless neck. Another moment, another heartbeat, and there would have been but three.
So close a thing …
Treach lay dying from a dozen mortal wounds. Indeed, he should have been dead already, yet he clung on, with blind, bestial determination, fuelled by rage. The four K’Chain Che’Malle had left him, contemptuously, knowing he would not rise again and immune to mercy.
Prone on the grasses, the Tiger of Summer had watched with dulled eyes as the creatures padded away, noted with satisfaction as an arm on one of them, dangling from the thinnest strip of skin, finally parted and fell to the ground – to be left behind with utter indifference.
Then, as the undead hunters reached the crest of a nearby hill, his eyes had flashed. A sleek, long black shape flowed from the grasses, was among his slayers. Power flowed like black water. The first K’Chain Che’Malle withered beneath the onslaught.
The clash descended beyond the crest, beyond Treach’s line of sight, yet, dimly heard past the deafening thunder of his waning life, the battle continued. He began dragging himself forward, inch by inch.
Within moments, all sounds from the other side of the hill fell away, yet Treach struggled on, his blood a slick trail behind him, his amber eyes fixed on the crest, his will to live reduced to something bestial, something that refused to recognize an end to its life.
I have seen this. Antelope. Bhederin. The wilful denial, the pointless struggle, efforts to escape, even as throat gushes blood to fill my mouth. Limbs kicking in the illusion of running, of fleeing, even as I begin feeding. I have seen this, and now understand it.
The tiger is humbled by memories of prey.
He forgot the reason for the struggle to reach the crest, knew only that he must achieve it, a final ascent, to see what lay beyond.
What lay beyond. Yes. A sun low on the horizon. The endless sweep of unbroken, untamed prairie. A final vision of wildness, before I slink through Hood’s
cursed gates.
She appeared before him, sleek and muscled and smooth-skinned. A woman, small yet not frail, the fur of a panther on her shoulders, her long black hair unkempt yet gleaming in the day’s dying light. Almond-shaped eyes, amber like his own. Heart-shaped face, robustly featured.
Coarse queen, why does this sight of you break my heart?
She approached, settled down to lift his massive head, rest it against her lap. Small hands stroked the blood and dried froth from around his eyes. ‘They are destroyed,’ she said in the ancient language, the language of the First Empire. ‘Not so difficult – you left them with little, Silent Hunter. Indeed, they veritably flew apart at my softest touch.’
Liar.
She smiled. ‘I have crossed your wake before, Treach, yet would not approach – recalling your rage when we destroyed your empire, so long ago.’
It has long cooled, Imass. You did only what was necessary. You mended the wounds—
‘The Imass cannot take credit for that. Others were involved in the task of repairing the shattered warren. We did nothing but slay your kind – those whom we could find, that is. It is our singular skill.’
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 await 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.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 185