And, in a low voice, almost a whisper, the Betrayer said, ‘Of course it is you. But this battle, it is not—’
At that moment, Trull Sengar saw his brother. Fear, the god of his childhood, the stranger of his last days among the Tiste Edur. Fear, meeting Trull’s wide eyes. Seeing the battle about to begin. Comprehending – and then there was a knife in his hand, and, as he surged forward to stab the Betrayer in the back, Trull saw in his brother’s face – in an instant – the full measure of Fear’s sudden self-awareness, the bitter irony, the truth of generations past returned once more, one last time. Silchas Ruin, an Edur knife seeking his back.
When Fear was tugged backward, when his throat opened wide, Trull Sengar felt his mind, his soul, obliterated, inundated by incandescent fury, and he was moving forward, the tip of his spear seeking the slayer of his brother—
And the Betrayer was in his way.
A slash opened up the Betrayer’s skin at the base of his throat, the tip skittering away across one clavicle; then a thrust, punching into the apparition’s left shoulder muscle.
And all at once the Betrayer’s swords wove a skein of singing iron, parrying the spear’s every lightning thrust and sweep. And suddenly Trull Sengar’s advance stalled, and then he was being driven back, as those swords, hammering the shaft of his spear, tore away bronze sheathing, began splintering the wood.
And Trull Sengar recognized, before him, his own death.
Onrack the Broken saw his friend’s attack fail, saw the fight turn, and saw that Trull Sengar was doomed to fall.
Yet he did not move. Could not.
He felt his own heart tearing itself to pieces, for the man behind him – the Imass, Ulshun Pral – was, Onrack knew at once, of his own blood. A revelation, the summation of a thousand mysterious sensations, instincts, the echoing of gestures – Ulshun Pral’s very stance, his manner of walking, and the talent of eyes and hand – he was, oh he was…
Trull Sengar’s spear exploded in the warrior’s hands. A sword lashed out—
The blow to her shoulder had driven Seren Pedac down to her knees, then pitched her sideways – and she saw, there before Silchas Ruin, Trull Sengar.
Clip, blood streaming down his face, had turned back to pursue Udinaas, who was crawling, scrabbling towards Kettle.
And before her rose a choice.
Trull
Or Udinaas.
But, alas, Seren Pedac was never good with choices.
With her hands she sent the stone spear skittering towards Trull Sengar – even as his own weapon shattered into pieces. And, tearing the dagger from her shoulder, she renewed her Mockra assault on Clip – staggering the bastard once more.
As the sword swung to take Trull in the side of his head, he dropped down, then rolled to evade the second weapon that chopped down. He wasn’t fast enough. The edge slammed deep into his right hip, stuck fast in solid bone.
Trull took hold of the Betrayer’s forearm and pulled as he twisted – the pain as he sought to trap that embedded sword momentarily blinded him, filling his skull with white fire – and against the other sword he could do nothing—
But the Betrayer, pulled slightly off balance, took a step to the side to right himself – onto the shaft of the stone spear which promptly rolled beneath his weight.
And down he went.
Trull saw the spear, reached for it. Closed both hands about the shaft, then, still lying on his side, one of the singing swords pinned beneath him – the Betrayer’s arm stretched out as he sought to maintain his grip – Trull drove the butt end of the spear into his opponent’s midsection.
Punching all the air from his lungs.
He plunged backward, rolled, and the sword under Trull slapped down as the Betrayer’s hand involuntarily released it. And Trull pounded a hand down on the weapon, dislodging it from the bone of his hip.
The white fire remained in his mind, even as he forced himself onto his knees, then upward. The leg beneath the wound refused to obey him and he snarled in sudden rage, willing himself into a standing position – then, leg dragging, he closed in on the Betrayer—
Seren Pedac – all her efforts at incinerating Clip’s brain failing – shrank back as the now grinning Tiste Andii, abandoning his hunt for Udinaas, turned about and advanced on her, drawing out knife and rapier. Crimson teeth, crimson streaks from his eyes like tears—
At that moment, impossibly, Trull Sengar hurt Silchas Ruin – drove the White Crow onto his back where his head snapped back to crunch against the floor, stunning him.
And Clip turned, saw, and raced in a low blur towards Trull.
Meeting a spear that lashed out. Clip parried it at the last moment, surprise on his features, and he skidded to a halt, and was suddenly fighting for his life.
Against a crippled Tiste Edur.
Who drove him back a step.
Then another.
Wounds blossomed on Clip. Left arm. Across the ribs on the right side. Laying open his right cheek.
In a sudden, appallingly fast-shifting attack, Trull Sengar reversed the spear and the stone shaft cracked hard into Clip’s right forearm, breaking it. Another crack, dislocating the right shoulder – and the knife spun away. Third time, this one on the upper left thigh, hard enough to splinter the femur. A final one, against Clip’s left temple – a spray of blood, the head rocking to one side, the body collapsing utterly beneath it. Rapier clunking from a senseless hand.
And Trull then whirled back to Silchas Ruin—
But his wounded leg failed him and he fell – Seren heard his curse like a sharp retort—
The white-skinned Tiste Andii advanced to where Onrack stood. The lone sword in his right hand howled as he readied it.
‘Step aside, Imass,’ he said. ‘The one behind you is mine.’
Onrack shook his head. He is mine. Mine!
It was clear that the Tiste Andii saw Onrack’s refusal in the face of the Imass warrior, for he suddenly snarled – a sound of raw impatience – and lashed out with his left hand.
Sorcery hammered into Onrack. Lifting him from his feet, high into the air, then slamming him into a wall of stone.
As he dropped down hard onto the floor, a single thought drifted through his mind before unconsciousness took him: Not again.
Trull Sengar, lying helpless on the floor, cried out upon seeing Onrack engulfed in magic and then flung away. He struggled to regain his feet, but the leg was a dead weight now, and he was leaving a thick trail of blood as he dragged himself closer to Silchas Ruin.
Then someone was kneeling at his side. Hands soft on one shoulder—
‘Stop,’ a woman’s voice murmured. ‘Stop, Trull Sengar. It is too late.’
Udinaas struggled to breathe. Wither’s shadowy hands had crushed something in his throat. He felt himself weakening, darkness closing in on all sides.
He had failed.
Even knowing, he had failed.
This is the truth of ex-slaves, because even that word is a lie. Slavery settles into the soul. My master now is naught but failure itself.
Forcing himself to remain conscious, he lifted his head. Drag the breath in, dammit. Lift the head – fail if need be, but do not die. Not yet. Lift the head!
And watch.
Silchas Ruin sheathed his remaining sword, walked up to Ulshun Pral.
And took him by the throat.
A low woman’s voice spoke from his left. ‘Harm my son, Tiste Andii, and you will not leave here.’
He turned to see a woman, an Imass, clothed in the skin of a panther. She was standing over the prone form of the warrior he had just flung aside.
‘That this one lives,’ she said, with a gesture down to the Imass at her bared feet, ‘is the only reason I have not already torn you to pieces.’
A Bonecaster, and the look in her feline eyes was a dark promise.
Silchas Ruin loosened his hold on the Imass before him, then reached down and deftly plucked free a flint dagger. ‘This,’ he said,
‘is all I need.’ And as soon as he held the primitive weapon in his hand, he knew the truth of his claim.
Stepping away, eyes holding the woman’s.
She made no move.
Satisfied, Silchas Ruin turned about.
Seren, kneeling beside Trull Sengar, watched the White Crow walk over to where Kettle sat on the stone floor. With his free hand he reached down to her.
A fistful of tunic, a sudden lift, pulling the child into the air, then back down, hard, onto the flat of her back, her head cracking hard on the stone, even as he drove the flint knife into the centre of her chest.
Her small legs kicked, then went still.
Silchas Ruin slowly straightened. Stepped back.
Udinaas turned his head away, his vision filling with tears. Of course, the child had known, just as he had known. Kettle was, after all, the last desperate creation of an Azath.
And here, in this brutal place, she had been joined to a Finnest.
He heard Seren Pedac cry out. Looked once more, blinking to clear his eyes.
Silchas Ruin had backed away, towards one of the gates.
Where Kettle lay, the leather-wrapped handle of the flint knife jutting up from her chest, the air had begun to swirl, darkness condensing. And the small body was moving in fitful jerks, then a slow writhing of limbs as roots snaked out, sank tendrils into the very stone. Rock hissed, steamed.
Silchas Ruin looked on for a moment longer, then he swung about, collected his second sword, sheathed it, and walked into a gate, vanishing from sight.
His breathing less ragged, Udinaas twisted round, looked for Clip’s body – but the bastard was gone. A blood trail leading to one of the gates. It figures. But oh, I saw Trull Sengar – I saw him take you on, Clip. You, sneering at that paltry weapon, the lowly spear. I saw, Clip.
The dark cloud surrounding Kettle’s body had burgeoned, grown. Stone foundations, black roots, the trickle of water spreading in a stain.
An Azath, to hold for ever the soul of Scabandari. Silchas Ruin, you have your vengeance. Your perfect exchange.
And, because he could not help himself, Udinaas lowered his head and began to weep.
Somehow, Trull Sengar forced himself back onto his feet. Although without Seren Pedac at his side, taking much of his weight – and without the spear on which he leaned – she knew that that would have been impossible.
‘Please,’ he said to her, ‘my brother.’
She nodded, wincing as the wound in her shoulder pulsed fresh blood, and began helping him hobble across to where Fear Sengar’s body was sprawled, almost at the foot of the now darkened gate.
‘What am I to do?’ Trull asked, suddenly hesitating and looking to where stood the squat woman wearing the skin of a panther. She and the Imass who had carried the Finnest were both now crouched at the form of a third Imass, a warrior. The woman was cradling the dead or unconscious warrior’s head. ‘Onrack…my friend…’
‘Kin first,’ Seren Pedac said. Then she raised her voice and called out to the Imass. ‘Does the fallen one live?’
‘Yes,’ the warrior replied. ‘My father lives.’
A sob broke from Trull Sengar and he sagged against her. Seren staggered beneath his weight for a moment, then straightened. ‘Come, my love.’
This caught Trull’s attention as, perhaps, nothing else would. He searched her face, her eyes.
‘We must return to my house,’ she said, even as dread clawed at her heart – another, after all I have done to those who came before him. Errant forgive me. Another. ‘I carry a sword,’ she added. ‘And would bury it before the threshold.’ And shall I then kneel there, dirt on my hands, and cover my eyes? Shall I cry out in grief for what is to come? For all that I will bring to you, Trull Sengar? My burdens—
‘I have dreamed you would say that, Seren Pedac.’
She closed her eyes for a long moment, and then nodded.
They resumed their journey, and when they reached Fear Sengar, she let Trull settle down onto the ground, and he set the spear down, then reached out to touch his brother’s ashen, lifeless face.
From nearby, Udinaas – his face streaked in tears – spoke in a harsh, grating voice. ‘I greet you, Trull Sengar. And I must tell you…your brother, Fear…he died as a hero would.’
Trull lifted his head, stared across at the Letherii. ‘Udinaas. You are wrong. My brother sought…betrayal.’
‘No. He saw you, Trull, and he knew the mind of Silchas Ruin. Knew you could never stand against the White Crow. Do you understand me? He saw you.’
‘Is that helpful?’ Seren Pedac snapped.
Udinaas bared bloodstained teeth. ‘With the only alternative betrayal, Acquitor, then yes. Trull, I am…sorry. And yet…Fear – I am proud of him. Proud to have known him.’
And she saw her beloved nod, then manage a sorrow-filled smile at the ex-slave. ‘Thank you, Udinaas. Your journey – all of you – your journey, it must have been long. Difficult.’ He glanced to her, then back to Udinaas. ‘For remaining at my brother’s side, I thank you both.’
Oh, Trull, may you never know the truth.
Onrack the Broken opened his eyes to an ancient dream, and its conjuration twisted like a knife in his soul. Not oblivion, then. Such peace is denied me. Instead, my crimes return. To haunt.
And yet…Ulshun Pral—
An ancient dream, yes, and hovering just beyond, a far younger dream – one he had not even known to exist. The Ritual of Tellann had stolen from so many men of the Imass this reaching into the future, this creation of sons, daughters, this rooting of life into the soil that lived on.
Yes, that had indeed been a dream—
Kilava Onass suddenly frowned. ‘You stare, Onrack, with all the intelligence of a bhederin. Have you lost your wits?’
Dreams did not berate, did they?
‘Ah,’ she then said, nodding, ‘now I see you of old – I see the panic that ever fills a man’s eyes, when all he longed for is suddenly within reach. But know this, I too have longed, and I too now feel…panic. To love in absence is to float on ever still waters. No sudden currents. No treacherous tides. No possibility of drowning. You and I, Onrack, have floated so for a very long time.’
He stared up at her – yes, he was lying on hard stone. In the cavern of the gates.
Then Kilava smiled, revealing those deadly canines. ‘But I fared better, I think. For you gave me a gift, from that one night. You gave me Ulshun Pral. And when I found this…this illusion, I found for our son a home, a haven.’
‘This realm…dies,’ Onrack said. ‘Are we all illusions now?’
Kilava shook her head, the luxuriant black hair shimmering. ‘Gothos gave to our son the Finnest. As for the rest, well, your son has explained it to me. The white-skinned Tiste Andii, Silchas Ruin, delivered the seed of an Azath, a seed in the guise of a child. To accept the Finnest, to use its power to grow. Onrack, soon these gates will be sealed, each and all drawn into the House, into a squat, clumsy tower. And this realm – with an Azath House here, this realm no longer wanders, no longer fades. It is rooted, and so it will remain.’
Behind her, Ulshun Pral said, ‘Gothos said Silchas Ruin would one day come for the Finnest. Gothos thought that was…funny. Jaghut,’ he then said, ‘are strange.’
Kilava Onass added, ‘To win his freedom, Silchas Ruin bargained with an Azath, an Azath that was dying. And now he has done what was asked of him. And the Azath is reborn.’
‘Then…we need not have fought.’
Kilava scowled. ‘Never trust a Tiste Andii.’ Her luminous eyes flickered away briefly. ‘It seems there were other…issues.’
But Onrack was not ready to think of those. He continued staring up at Kilava Onass. ‘You, then, that night in darkness.’
Her scowl deepened. ‘Were you always this thick? I cannot remember – by the spirits, my panic worsens. Of course it was me. You bound me to stone, with your eyes and hand. With, Onrack, your love. Yours was a forbidden desire and it
wounded so many. But not me. I knew only that I must give answer. I must let my heart speak.’ She laid a hand on his chest. ‘As yours now does. You are flesh and blood, Onrack. The Ritual has relinquished your soul. Tell me, what do you seek?’
He held his eyes on hers. ‘I have found it,’ he said.
Every bone in his body ached as he forced himself to his feet. At once his gaze was drawn to where he had last seen Trull Sengar; and a growing dread was swept from his mind upon seeing his friend.
Trull Sengar, you are as hard to kill as I am.
A moment later, he saw the tears on his friend’s face, and it seemed there would be grief this day, after all.
At the mouth of a fissure not far away, in a small clearing, Rud Elalle stood in the midst of carnage. Where one of his mother’s sisters had died. Where three Imass had died.
And somewhere beyond, he knew in his heart, he would find the body of his mother.
He stood on blood-soaked ground, and wondered what it was that had just died within his own soul.
Some time later, much later, he would find the word to describe it.
Innocence.
Quick Ben still hobbled like an old man, amusing Hedge no end. ‘There you are,’ he said as they made their way towards the cave and its tunnel leading to the Gates of Starvald Demelain, ‘exactly how you’ll look twenty years from now. Creepy and gamey. Pushing wobbly teeth with a purple tongue and muttering rhymes under your breath—’
‘Keep talking, sapper, and you’ll know all about loose teeth. In fact, I’m surprised a few weren’t knocked right out when that bone hit you. Gods below, that is probably the funniest thing I have ever seen.’
Hedge reached and gingerly touched the huge lump on his forehead. ‘So, we did our task today. How do you think the others fared?’
‘We’ll soon find out,’ the wizard replied. ‘One thing, though.’
‘What?’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 683