A roar filled his head, the sound of rushing water. His last lungful of air was dwindling to nothing in his chest. Something hard hammered into his side—a piece of the runner’s hull, wreckage being dragged by the currents—their boat had overturned. Either Apsalar was somewhere in the swirling water with him, or she had managed to leap onto solid sandstone. He hoped it was the latter, that they would not both drown—for drowning was all that was left to him.
Sorry, Cotillion. I hope you did not expect too much of me—
He struck stone once more, was rolled along it, then the current tugged him upward and suddenly spat him loose.
He flailed with his limbs, clawing the motionless water, his pulse pounding in his head. Disorientated, panic ripping through him like wildfire, he reached out one last time.
His right hand plunged into cold air.
A moment later his head broke the surface.
Icy, bitter air poured into his lungs, as sweet as honey. There was no light, and the sounds of his gasping returned no echoes, seeming to vanish in some unknown immensity.
Cutter called out to Apsalar, but there was no reply.
He was swiftly growing numb. Choosing a random direction, he set out.
And quickly struck a stone wall, thick with wet, slimy growth. He reached up, found only sheerness. He swam along it, his limbs weakening, a deadly lassitude stealing into him. He struggled on, feeling his will seep away.
Then his outstretched hand slapped down onto the flat surface of a ledge. Cutter threw both arms onto the stone. His legs, numbed by the cold, pulled at him. Moaning, he sought to drag himself out of the water, but his strength was failing. Fingers gouging tracks through the slime, he slowly sank backward.
A pair of hands closed, one on each shoulder, to gather the sodden fabric in a grip hard as iron. He felt himself lifted clear from the water, then dropped onto the ledge.
Weeping, Cutter lay unmoving. Shivers racked him.
Eventually, a faint crackling sound reached through, seeming to come from all sides. The air grew warmer, a dull glow slowly rising.
The Daru rolled onto his side. He had expected to see Apsalar. Instead, standing above him was an old man, extraordinarily tall, his white hair long and dishevelled, white-bearded though his skin was black as ebony, with eyes a deep, glittering amber—the sole source, Cutter realized with a shock—of the light.
All around them, the seaweed was drying, shrivelling, as waves of heat radiated from the stranger.
The ledge was only a few paces wide, a single lip of slick stone flanked by vertical walls stretching out to the sides.
Sensation was returning to Cutter’s legs, his clothes steaming now in the heat. He struggled into a sitting position. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said in Malazan.
‘Your craft has littered the pool,’ the man replied. ‘I suppose you will want some of the wreckage recovered.’
Cutter twisted to stare out on the water, but could see nothing. ‘I had a companion—’
‘You arrived alone. It is probable that your companion drowned. Only one current delivers victims here. The rest lead only to death. On the isle itself, there is but one landing, and you did not find it. Few corpses of late, of course, given our distance from occupied lands. And the end of trade.’
His words were halting, as if rarely used, and he stood awkwardly.
She drowned? More likely she made it onto shore. Not for Apsalar the ignoble end that almost took me. Then again…She was not yet immortal, as subject to the world’s cruel indifference as anyone. He pushed the thought away for the moment.
‘Are you recovered?’
Cutter glanced up. ‘How did you find me?’
A shrug. ‘It is my task. Now, if you can walk, it is time to leave.’
The Daru pushed himself to his feet. His clothing was almost dry. ‘You possess unusual gifts,’ he observed. ‘I am named…Cutter.’
‘You may call me Darist. We must not delay. The very presence of life in this place risks his awakening.’
The ancient Tiste Andii turned to face the stone wall. At a gesture, a doorway appeared, beyond which were stone stairs leading upward. ‘That which survived the wrecking of your craft awaits you above, Cutter. Come.’
The Daru set off after the man. ‘Awakening? Who might awaken?’
Darist did not reply.
The steps were worn and slick, the ascent steep and seemingly interminable. The cold water had stolen Cutter’s strength, and his pace grew ever slower. Again and again Darist paused to await him, saying nothing, his expression closed.
They eventually emerged onto a level hallway down which ran, along the walls, pillars of rough-skinned cedars. The air was musty and damp beneath the sharp scent of the wood. There was no-one else in sight. ‘Darist,’ Cutter asked as they walked down the aisle, ‘are we still beneath ground level?’
‘We are, but we shall proceed no higher for the time being. The island is assailed.’
‘What? By whom? What of the Throne?’
Darist halted and swung round, the glow in his eyes somehow deepening. ‘A question carelessly unasked. What has brought you, human, to Drift Avalii?’
Cutter hesitated. There was no love lost between the present rulers of Shadow and the Tiste Andii. Nor had Cotillion even remotely suggested actual contact be made with the Children of Darkness. They had been placed here, after all, to ensure that the true Throne of Shadow remain unoccupied. ‘I was sent by a mage—a scholar, whose studies had led him to believe the island—and all it contained—was in danger. He seeks to discover the nature of that threat.’
Darist was silent for a moment, his lined face devoid of expression. Then he said, ‘What is this scholar’s name?’
‘Uh, Baruk. Do you know him? He lives in Darujhistan—’
‘What lies in the world beyond the island is of no concern to me,’ the Tiste Andii replied.
And that, old man, is why you’re in this mess. Cotillion was right. ‘The Tiste Edur have returned, haven’t they? To reclaim the Throne of Shadow. But it was Anomander Rake who left you here, entrusted with—’
‘He lives still, does he? If Mother Dark’s favoured son is displeased with how we have managed this task, then he must come and tell us so himself. It was not some human mage who sent you here, was it? Do you kneel before the Wielder of Dragnipur? Does he renew his claims to the blood of the Tiste Andii, then? Has he renounced his Draconian blood?’
‘I wouldn’t know—’
‘Does he now appear as an old man—older by far than me? Ah, I see by your face the truth of it. He has not. Well, you may go back to him and tell him—’
‘Wait! I do not serve Rake! Aye, I saw him in person, and not very long ago, and he looked young enough at the time. But I did not kneel to him—Hood knows, he was too busy at the time in any case! Too busy fighting a demon to converse with me! We but crossed paths. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Darist. Sorry. And I am most certainly not in any position to find him and tell him whatever it is you want me to say to him.’
The Tiste Andii studied Cutter for a moment longer, then he swung about and resumed the journey.
The Daru followed, his thoughts wild with confusion. It was one thing to accept the charge of a god, but the further he travelled on this dread path, the more insignificant he himself felt. Arguments between Anomander Rake and these Tiste Andii of Drift Avalii…well, that was no proper business of his. The plan had been to sneak onto this island and remain unseen. To determine if indeed the Edur had found this place, though what Cotillion would do with such knowledge was anyone’s guess.
But that’s something I should think about, I suppose. Damn it, Cutter—Crokus would’ve had questions! Mowri knows, he would’ve hesitated a lot longer before accepting Cotillion’s bargain. If he accepted at all! This new persona was imposing a certain sense of stricture—he’d thought it would bring him more freedom. But now it was beginning to appear that the truly free one had been Crokus.
/> Not that freedom ensured happiness. Indeed, to be free was to live in absence. Of responsibilities, of loyalties, of the pressures that expectation imposed. Ah, misery has tainted my views. Misery, and the threat of true grieving, which draws nearer—but no, she must be alive. Somewhere up above. On an island assailed…
‘Darist, please, wait a moment.’
The tall figure stopped. ‘I see no reason to answer your questions.’
‘I am concerned…for my companion. If she’s alive, she’s somewhere above us, on the surface. You said you were under attack. I fear for her—’
‘We sense the presence of strangers, Cutter. Above us, there are Tiste Edur. But no-one else. She is drowned, this companion of yours. There is no point in holding out hope.’
The Daru sat down suddenly. He felt sick, his heart stuttering with anguish. And despair.
‘Death is not an unkind fate,’ Darist said above him. ‘If she was a friend, you will miss her company, and that is the true source of your grief—your sorrow is for yourself. My words may displease you, but I speak from experience. I have felt the deaths of many of my kin, and I mourn the spaces in my life where they once stood. But such losses serve only to ease my own impending demise.’
Cutter stared up at the Tiste Andii. ‘Darist, forgive me. You may be old, but you are also a damned fool. And I begin to understand why Rake left you here then forgot about you. Now, kindly shut up.’ He pushed himself upright, feeling hollowed out inside, but determined not to surrender to the despair that threatened to overwhelm him. Because surrendering is what this Tiste Andii has done.
‘Your anger leaves me undamaged,’ Darist said. He turned and gestured to the double doors directly ahead. ‘Through here you will find a place to rest. Your salvage awaits there, as well.’
‘Will you tell me nothing of the battle above?’
‘What is there to tell you, Cutter? We have lost.’
‘Lost! Who is left among you?’
‘Here in the Hold, where stands the Throne, there is only me. Now, best rest. We shall have company soon enough.’
The howls of rage reverberated through Onrack’s bones, though he knew his companion could hear nothing. These were cries of the spirits—two spirits, trapped within two of the towering, bestial statues rearing up on the plain before them.
The cloud cover overhead had broken apart, was fast vanishing in thinning threads. Three moons rode the heavens, and there were two suns. The light flowed with shifting hues as the moons swung on their invisible tethers. A strange, unsettling world, Onrack reflected.
The storm was spent. They had waited in the lee of a small hill while it thrashed around the gargantuan statues, the wind howling past from its wild race through the rubble-littered streets of the ruined city lying beyond. And now the air steamed.
‘What do you see, T’lan Imass?’ Trull asked from where he sat hunched, his back to the edifices.
Shrugging, the T’lan Imass turned away from his lengthy study of the statues. ‘There are mysteries here…of which I suspect you know more than I.’
The Tiste Edur glanced up with a wry expression. ‘That seems unlikely. What do you know of the Hounds of Shadow?’
‘Very little. The Logros crossed paths with them only once, long ago, in the time of the First Empire. Seven in number. Serving an unknown master, yet bent on destruction.’
Trull smiled oddly, then asked, ‘The human First Empire, or yours?’
‘I know little of the human empire of that name. We were drawn into its heart but once, Trull Sengar, in answer to the chaos of the Soletaken and D’ivers. The Hounds made no appearance during that slaughter.’ Onrack looked back at the massive stone Hound before them. ‘It is believed,’ he said slowly, ‘by the bonecasters, that to create an icon of a spirit or a god is to capture its essence within that icon. Even the laying of stones prescribes confinement. Just as a hut can measure out the limits of power for a mortal, so too are spirits and gods sealed into a chosen place of earth or stone or wood…or an object. In this way power is chained, and so becomes manageable. Tell me, do the Tiste Edur concur with that notion?’
Trull Sengar climbed to his feet. ‘Do you think we raised these giant statues, Onrack? Do your bonecasters also believe that power begins as a thing devoid of shape, and thus beyond control? And that to carve out an icon—or make a circle of stones—actually forces order upon that power?’
Onrack cocked his head, was silent for a time. ‘Then it must be that we make our own gods and spirits. That belief demands shape, and shaping brings life into being. Yet were not the Tiste Edur fashioned by Mother Dark? Did not your goddess create you?’
Trull’s smile broadened. ‘I was referring to these statues, Onrack. To answer you—I do not know if the hands that fashioned these were Tiste Edur. As for Mother Dark, it may be that in creating us, she but simply separated what was not separate before.’
‘Are you then the shadows of Tiste Andii? Torn free by the mercy of your goddess mother?’
‘But Onrack, we are all torn free.’
‘Two of the Hounds are here, Trull Sengar. Their souls are trapped in the stone. And one more thing of note—these likenesses cast no shadows.’
‘Nor do the Hounds themselves.’
‘If they are but reflections, then there must be Hounds of Darkness, from which they were torn,’ Onrack persisted. ‘Yet there is no knowledge of such…’ The T’lan Imass suddenly fell silent.
Trull laughed. ‘It seems you know more of the human First Empire than you first indicated. What was that tyrant emperor’s name? No matter. We should journey onward, to the gate—’
‘Dessimbelackis,’ Onrack whispered. ‘The founder of the human First Empire. Long vanished by the time of the unleashing of the Beast Ritual. It was believed he had…veered.’
‘D’ivers?’
‘Aye.’
‘And beasts numbered?’
‘Seven.’
Trull stared up at the statues, then gestured. ‘We didn’t build these. No, I am not certain, but in my heart I feel…no empathy. They are ominous and brutal to my eyes, T’lan Imass. The Hounds of Shadow are not worthy of worship. They are indeed untethered, wild and deadly. To truly command them, one must sit in the Throne of Shadow—as master of the realm. But more than that. One must first draw together the disparate fragments. Making Kurald Emurlahn whole once more.’
‘And this is what your kin seek,’ Onrack rumbled. ‘The possibility troubles me.’
The Tiste Edur studied the T’lan Imass, then shrugged. ‘I did not share your distress at the prospect—not at first. And indeed, had it remained…pure, perhaps I would still be standing alongside my brothers. But another power acts behind the veil in all this—I know not who or what, but I would tear aside that veil.’
‘Why?’
Trull seemed startled by the question, then he shivered. ‘Because what it has made of my people is an abomination, Onrack.’
The T’lan Imass set out towards the gap between the two nearest statues.
After a moment, Trull Sengar followed. ‘I imagine you know little of what it is like to see your kin fall into dissolution, to see the spirit of an entire people grow corrupt, to struggle endlessly to open their eyes—as yours have been opened by whatever clarity chance has gifted you.’
‘True,’ Onrack replied, his steps thumping the sodden ground.
‘Nor is it mere naïveté,’ the Tiste Edur went on, limping in Onrack’s wake. ‘Our denial is wilful, our studied indifference conveniently self-serving to our basest desires. We are a long-lived people who now kneel before short-term interests—’
‘If you find that unusual,’ the T’lan Imass muttered, ‘then it follows that the one behind the veil has need for you only in the short term—if indeed that hidden power is manipulating the Tiste Edur.’
‘An interesting thought. You may well be right. The question then is, once that short-term objective is reached, what will happen to my people?’
‘Abandoned. Yes—’
‘Unless, of course,’ the T’lan Imass went on, ‘they would then pose a threat to one who had so exploited them. If so, then the answer would be to annihilate them once they are no longer useful.’
‘There is the unpleasant ring of truth to your words, Onrack.’
‘I am generally unpleasant, Trull Sengar.’
‘So I am learning. You say the souls of two Hounds are imprisoned within these—which ones again?’
‘We now walk between them.’
‘What are they doing here, I wonder?’
‘The stone has been shaped to encompass them, Trull Sengar. No-one asks the spirit or the god, when the icon is fashioned, if it wishes entrapment. Do they? The need to make such vessels is a mortal’s need. That one can rest eyes on the thing one worships is an assertion of control at worst, or at best the illusion that one can negotiate over one’s own fate.’
‘And you find such notions suitably pathetic, Onrack?’
‘I find most notions pathetic, Trull Sengar.’
‘Are these beasts trapped for eternity, do you think? Is this where they go when they are destroyed?’
Onrack shrugged. ‘I have no patience with these games. You possess your own knowledge and suspicions, yet would not speak them. Instead, you seek to discover what I know, and what I sense of these snared spirits. I care nothing for the fate either way of these Hounds of Shadow. Indeed, I find it unfortunate that—if these two were slain in some other realm and so have ended up here—there are but five remaining, for that diminishes my chances of killing one myself. And I think I would enjoy killing a Hound of Shadow.’
The Tiste Edur’s laugh was harsh. ‘Well, I won’t deny that confidence counts for a lot. Even so, Onrack of the Logros, I do not think you would walk away from a violent encounter with a Hound.’
The T’lan Imass halted and swung towards Trull Sengar. ‘There is stone, and there is stone.’
‘I am afraid I do not understand—’
In answer, Onrack unsheathed his obsidian sword. He strode up to the nearer of the two statues. The creature’s forepaw was itself taller than the T’lan Imass. He raised his weapon two-handed, then swung a blow against the dark, unweathered stone.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 312
