Gardens of the Moon

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Quick ben sat in the hut, his back to the ancient stone the Wall before him rose the five sticks that linked him with Hairlock. The string connecting the sticks was taut. Across fron the wizard, near the hide-covered entrance, sat Trotts.

Kalam had still not recovered enough to accompany Quick Ben or to guard him as Trotts now did. The wizard had known the Barghast warrior for years, he'd fought alongside him in more battles than he cared to recall, and more than once one of them had saved the other's skin. And yet Quick Ben realized he really knew very little about Trotts. The one thing he did know, however, comforted him. The Barghast was a savage, brutal fighter, as capable with his throwing axes as he was with the longsword he now cradled in his lap. And he was fearless in the face of sorcery, secure in the fetishes tied into his braids and in the woad tattoos inscribed by the hand of his clan's shaman.

Considering what might fall into their laps, those protections could come in handy.

The Barghast stared at the wizard with flat, expressionless eyes, unwavering in the dim light.

Quick Ben shook out the kinks in his hands, then bent forward to study the array of tied sticks. «Hairlock's crouching inside his Warren,» he said. «Not moving. Seems to be waiting.» He sat back and withdrew his dagger, which he jammed point first into the packed earth. «So we wait, too. And watch.»

Trotts asked, «Watch what?»

«Never mind.» Quick Ben sighed. «You have that scrap of bedroll?»

Trotts removed from a sleeve a torn piece of cloth. He came forward, giving the sticks more room than was necessary, and pushed the scrap into the wizard's hand.

Quick Ben set it down on his left. He muttered a few words and passed his hand over it. «Resume your seat,» he said. «And keep your weapon ready in case things go bad.»

He closed his eyes then, reaching into his Warren. Before him an image formed that made him jerk with surprise. «What,» he whispered, «is Hairlock doing on Rhivi Plain?»

Paran could feel nothing but the white fire of vengeance, filling his mind, coruscating through his body. Oponn had chosen to use him. Now he would use Oponn, the Twins» power, that horrifying edge of destruction that came with Ascendancy. And like the gods, he could be cold-blooded in that use, even if it meant pulling Oponn kicking and screaming on to this plain to face whatever lay ahead.

A hiss of warning that might have been his conscience reached through to him. Toc the Younger was his friend, perhaps the only friend he had.

Unprotected by any god, his chance of surviving what was coming was slim. Would there be another death to lay at his feet? Paran pushed aside the possibility. He was here to answer for Tattersail's murder. The Adjunct had taught him the value of being singleminded. But what did Tattersail teach you?

«If things get too hot,» he said, «pull out, Toc. Ride for Darujhistan. Find Whiskeyjack.»

The scout nodded.

«If I go down-»

«I heard you, Captain.»

«Good.»

Silence fell between them, the only sounds remaining the thump of hoofs and the hot west wind that blew like sand whispering across stone.

Vague anticipations crowded Paran's head. Was the Adjunct waiting for them? If she recognized him and Toc, she'd have no reason to attack them. For all she knew, the captain had been killed. And Toc was a Claw.

There'd be no ambush. The Adjunct would simply step out into the open and hail him, no doubt shocked by his appearance but hardly suspicious.

And when she came close, Chance would sing. It would be done, and if necessary they'd deal with the Imass afterwards. He hoped that the Imass would simply leave with the mission's collapse. Without the Adjunct, everything would fall through.

At least, so he hoped. Chance might be a gifted sword, but the T'lan Imass were Elder creations, born of sorceries that made Oponn less than a child.

Paran's grip on the sword's handle was tight. His hand ached, and he could feel sweat between his fingers. Chance felt no different from any other weapon. Should he be expecting something more? He couldn't recall much of the time he'd last used it, against the Hound. But if there was power in the weapon, should he not be able to sense it? As it was, Chance felt cold, as if he clutched a shard of ice that refused to melt in his grip. If anything, Chance felt awkward, as if he was a novice and held it wrongly.

What had triggered this sudden crumpling of confidence? Pulling an Ascendant into the fray: how precisely do I do that? Of course, if Oponn's as eager as last time: Maybe it was no more than just the tension that came with waiting for something to happen. Was Toc mistaken? He turned to the man beside him and opened his mouth to speak.

A loud, manic cackle stopped him. Paran pulled savagely on the reins.

His horse screamed and reared. The air seemed to rip and a cold wind gusted against them. The captain raised his sword and cursed. The horse screamed again, this time in pain. It crumpled beneath him, as if its bones had been turned to dust. Paran sprawled, the sword flying from his hand as the ground rose up to meet him. The horse's fall had the sound of a bag filled with rocks and lamp oil, landing beside him and rolling over his legs.

Toc's bowstring twanged and an arrow shattered against something hard.

Paran pushed himself on to his side and looked up.

The puppet Hairlock floated above the ground twenty feet ahead. A second arrow struck as the captain watched, also shattering.

Hairlock laughed again, swinging his mad stare to Toc. He gestured.

Paran cried out, twisting to see Toc thrown from his mount. The Claw cartwheeled through the air. A jagged tear opened in the air in front of him. Paran shouted a second time in helpless horror as Toc the Younger plunged into that tear and disappeared into swirling mists. The rent closed with a snap, leaving no sign of Paran's companion.

Hairlock descended slowly to the ground. The puppet paused to adjust his tattered clothing, then strode towards Paran.

«I thought it might be you,» Hairlock sniggered. «Isn't vengeance sweeter than honey, eh, Captain? Your death will be long, protracted and very, very painful. Imagine my pleasure at seeing you like this!»

Paran pushed with his legs. The horse's body fell back, freeing him. He scrambled to his feet and dived for his sword, grasping it while rolling, then regained his feet.

Hairlock watched in evident amusement and began to advance. «That weapon is not for me, Captain. It'll not even cut me. So,» the puppet came on, «wail away.»

Paran raised the weapon, a wave of despair coming over him.

Hairlock stopped and cocked his head. He whirled to face the north.

«Impossible!» the puppet snarled.

Now Paran caught what Hairlock had already heard: the howling of Hounds.

In the hut Quick Ben had watched the ambush, dumbfounded. What was Paran doing? Where was Tattersail? «Hood's Path,» he'd whispered angrily,» talk about losing track!» In any case, it had all happened too fast for him to prevent the loss of the one-eyed man accompanying the captain.

His eyes flew open and he snatched the scrap of cloth. «Sorry,» he hissed. «Sorry! Hear me, woman! I know you. I know who you are. Cotillion, Patron of Assassins, the Rope, I call upon you!»

He felt a presence enter his mind, followed by a man's voice. «Well done, Quick Ben.»

The wizard said, «I have a message for you, Rope. For Shadowthrone.»

He felt a heightened tension in his head. «A deal's been struck. Your lord's Hounds hunger for vengeance. I haven't time to explain it all now-leave that to Shadowthrone. I am about to give to you the location of the one Shadowthrone seeks.»

He heard wry amusement in the Rope's voice. «I provide the link, correct? The means by which you stay alive in all this. I congratulate you, Quick Ben. Few mortals have ever succeeded in avoiding my lord's inclination to double-cross. It seems you have outwitted him. Very well, convey to me this location. Shadowthrone will receive it immediately.»

Quick Ben cast forth Hairlock's precise position on the Rhivi Plain. He only hoped the Hounds would arrive in time. He had a lot of questions for Paran, and wanted the captain to reach them alive but he had to admit that the chances of that were slight.

All that remained for the wizard now was to prevent the puppet's escape. He smiled again. That was something he looked forward to.

Onos T'oolan had squatted before the standing stone since dawn. In the hours since, Lorn had wandered the nearby hills, at war with herself. She now knew with a certainty that what they were doing was wrong, that its consequences went far beyond the petty efforts of a mundane Empire The T'lan Imass worked in the span of millennia, their purposes their own..Yet their endless war had become her endless war. Laseen's Empire was a shadow of the First Empire. The difference lay in that the Imass conducted genocide against another species. Malaz killed its own. Humanity had not climbed up since the dark age of the Imass: it had spiralled down.

The sun stood high overhead. She had last looked upon Tool an hour past. The warrior had not moved an inch. Lorn climbed yet another hill already a quarter-mile distant from the standing stone. She hoped to catch a glimpse of Lake Azur, to the west.

She came to the hill's summit and found herself not thirty feet from four mounted travellers. It was hard to determine who was more surprised, but the Adjunct moved first, her sword rasping into her hands as she sprang to close the distance.

Two were essentially unarmed, a boy and a short fat man. They and one other, a gaudily dressed man now unsheathing a duelling rapier, rode mules. But it was the last man who held Lorn's attention. Fully armoured astride a horse, he was the first to react to her charge. Bellowing, he spurred his mount past the others and unsheathed a bastard sword.

Lorn smiled as the fat man attempted to open a Warren and failed. Her Otataral blade steamed briefly before a cold wash of air poured from it. The fat man, his eyes widening, reeled back in his saddle and promptly rolled over the mule's rump, landing heavily in the dust. The boy leaped down from his own mount and paused, unsure whether to aid the fat man or remove the dagger from his belt. As the armoured man rode past him, he reached his decision and ran to where the fat man had fallen. The one with the rapier had also dismounted and approached in the warrior's wake.

Lorn's eyes caught all this between blinks. Then the warrior was upon her, swinging his bastard sword one-handed down towards her head.

The Adjunct didn't bother to parry. Instead, she dodged in front of the horse to come up on the man from his left, away from his sword arm.

The horse reared. Lorn darted past, slicing her blade across the man's thigh, above the plate armour. The Otataral edge sliced through chain links, leather and flesh with equal ease.

The warrior grunted and clapped a mailed hand to the spurting wound even as the horse threw him from the saddle.

Ignoring him, Lorn engaged the duellist, attempting to beat his thin blade aside and close to bring the edge of her weapon into play. But the man was good, deftly disengaging her attempted beat. The sword's swing unbalanced her before she could slow its momentum preparatory to an upper-cut, and in this moment the duellist extended his rapier.

She cursed as her forward motion brought her on to 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. «VMy ribt-i-Ae 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 duellist 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 Adeaphon 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 on to 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 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 to 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 centre.

Paran's smile broadened. Come to me, Gear. I'm tired of being used and death doesn't seem so frightening any more. 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 pushe past to confront the Hounds. Paran almost dropped his sword. A Tis And??

The man wore a massive two-handed sword strapped to his back. He stood before the Hounds, making no move towards the weapon.

The seven had now arrayed themselves before them, but they shifted restlessly, warily eyeing the newcomer.

The Tiste And? 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 And? smiled. «Then we are much alike, mortal.»

Mortal?

The Hounds paced back and forth, growling and snapping the air. The Tiste And? watched them, then spoke. «Enough meddling. I see you Rood,» he said to one Hound, mangy brown, scarred and yellow-eye «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 And?» s.

«You have heard my warning, Rood.»

Paran watched as the Tiste And? 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 And? 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 And? 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 veilow, 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 And?» 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 And? 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 And? 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 centre. 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 And? 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 And? 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.

«Oponn?» Rake's head turned slowly, and the captain once again looked into eyes of deep, cold blue. Paran's spirits sank. The Tiste And?» s gaze fell to the sword, then again to Shadowthrone. «Begone,» Rake said. «The matter is ended.»

Shadowthrone dipped his head. «For now.» The god raised his hands and shadows gathered around him. The surviving Hounds closed in, leaving their dead kin where they lay. The shadows thickened, became opaque, entirely hiding those within. When they dispersed, the lord and Paran eyed the Tiste And? who now faced him. After a moment the Rake's brows rose. «That's it?» he asked. «That's the extent of your comments? Do I speak with Oponn directly? I thought it I sensed a presence before, but when I looked more carefully: nothing.» Rake shifted grip on his sword, the point rising. «Do you hide within, Oponn?»

«Not as far as I'm aware,» Paran replied. «Apparently Oponn saved my life or, rather, brought me back to life. I've no idea why, but I've been told that I've become Oponn's tool.»

«You are journeying to Darujhistan?»

Paran nodded.

«May I approach?» Rake asked, sheathing his sword «Why not?»

The Tiste And? strode up to him and laid a hand against his chest. Paran felt nothing untoward. Rake stepped back. «Oponn may have been within you in the past, but it seems the Twins have hastily withdrawn. I see their signs, but no god controls you now, mortal.» He hesitated. «Their treatment of you was: unkind. If Caladan Brood was here he could heal that:»

«You're no longer Oponn's tool.» The Tiste's eyes remained blue, but they'd There was a squawk nearby and both turned to see a Great Raven alight on one of the Hound's bodies. It plucked out an eye and gobbled it down Paran fought back a wave of nausea. The huge battered bird «This man's sword, Master,» the raven said, «is not Oponn's only tool, Paran shook his head, his only surprise the realization that nothing surprised him any more. He sheathed his sword.

«Speak on, Crone,» Rake commanded.

Rake frowned. «Perhaps not.» He faced the captain again. «Hold on to that weapon until your luck turns. When that happens and if you're still alive, break it or give it to your worst enemy.» A grin crossed his features «Thus far, it seems your luck holds.»

Paran hesitated. «I'm free to go?»

Lord Anomander Rake nodded.

The captain looked around, then strode off in search of the

Minutes later, the shock came to Paran, driving him to his knees. Toc was gone. He'd dragged the man with him in his relentless, mindless pursuit across the plain. He looked up, eyes unseeing. He'd called Hairlock his enemy. He'd proclaimed Lorn's death his final goal. As if these two things would answer the anguish within him, would heal the pain of loss.

But the demon is within me.

Oponn had been unkind: What had Rake meant? Have any of these thoughts been my own? Look at me-my every move seems a desperate search for someone to blame, always someone else. I've made being a tool of a god an excuse, a justification for not thinking, for simply reacting. And others have died for it.

Rake had also said, «Finish what you start.» He would have to deal with his own demons later. There could be no turning back. But it had been wrong to think that what he planned would end the pain within him. Adding Lorn's blood to his stained hands would not achieve what he sought.

Paran rose, collected the reins of the surviving horses. He led the beasts back to the scene of the fight. The Tiste And? had vanished, but the Hounds remained, motionless dark humps in the yellow grass. He dropped the reins and approached one. The slice across its chest still leaked blood. Crouching, Paran reached out, ran his fingers along the animal's hide. See what the desire for murder gets you? Hood's Breath, but you were a beautiful beast. His fingertips brushed blood. The captain recoiled at the contact, but it was too late. Something rippled up his arm, swept through him. He fell back into darkness, the sound of chains rattling taut.

Paran found himself walking and he was not alone. Through the gloom he could make out figures on all sides, each shackled with long iron chains, leaning forward as if pulling at an immense weight. The ground underfoot was barren, lifeless. Overhead there was nothing but darkness. Beneath the constant creak of the chains was a heavier sound that Paran could feel through the soles of his boots. Alone unchained, he fell back towards the source of that sound, passing chained figures, many of them not human. A shape appeared, hulking, pitching. A wagon, impossibly huge, its wooden wheels taller than a man. Driven by an insatiable desire to discover what it carried, Paran moved closer.

A chain ripped across his chest, throwing him from his feet. An earpiercing howl sounded directly above him. Claws gouged his left arm, pinning it to the ground. A chain rippled under his back. He struggled as a cold wet nose and savage teeth pushed under his chin. The jaws I Paran lay perfectly still, waiting for the fatal clenching of those jaws.

Instead, they pulled away. He found himself staring up into the Hound's eyes, one blue, one brown. A massive collar of iron circled its neck. The beast lunged away. The chain under him snapped taut, flinging Paran into the air. He felt more than heard the wagon groan sideways, even as he landed sprawling into the path of one of the wooden wheels.

A hand grasped the collar of his cloak and dragged him clear. The captain scrambled to his feet.

A voice beside him spoke. «Any man who has earned mercy from Hounds and walks here unchained is a man worth talking to. Walk with me.»

The shadow of a cowl hid the stranger's features. The man was big, dressed in rags. After releasing Paran he resumed straining on his chain.

«Never before,» he grunted, «has this prison been so tested.» He hissed as the wagon lurched yet again to the Hounds» frantic attempts to escape.

«I fear this will overturn.»

«And if it does?»

The face swung to him briefly and in the darkness Paran saw the flash of teeth. «The pulling will get harder.»

«Where are we?»

«The Warren within the Sword. Did not Dragnipur take your life, too?»

«If it had, would I not be chained as well?»

«True enough. What then are you doing here?»

«I don't know,» Paran admitted. «I saw the Hounds killed by Rake's sword. Then I touched the blood of one of the slain beasts.»

«That explains their confusion. They thought you one of their own: at first. You were wise to submit to that Hound's challenge.»

«Too frightened to move, you mean.»

The stranger laughed. «Even so.»

«What is your name?»

«Names are meaningless. Rake killed me. Long ago. That is enough.»

Paran fell silent. Eternity, chained here, forever pulling. And I ask for the man's name. Would any apology suffice?

The wagon bucked savagely, earth ripped from under its wheels.

Figures fell, wailing. The Hounds howled their fury.

«Gethol's Breath,» the stranger gasped. «Will they never cease?»

«I don't think they will,» Paran said. «Can those chains be broken?»

«No. None have managed it yet, that is, and there are dragons among us. But these Hounds:» He sighed. «It is astonishing, but already I long for the peace their arrival has shattered.»

«Perhaps I can help.»

The stranger barked a laugh. «By all means, try.»

Paran moved away, heading towards the Hounds. He had no plan in mind. But I alone am unchained. The thought stopped him and he smiled. Unchained. No one's tool. He continued on, wondering. He passed figures straining step by step, some silent, some muttering in madness. None raised its head to glance as he passed. The sound of bestial gasping reached him. «Hounds!» Para called. «I would help!»

After a time, they appeared from the gloom. Blood sheathed their shoulders and chests, the flesh. torn and mangled by the collars. The Hounds trembled, muscles jumping along their flanks. Their eyes, level with Paran's own, met his with such numbed, helpless misery that his heart lurched. He reached out to the odd-eyed one. «I would examine your collars, your chains, seeking a flaw.»

The beast walked alongside him-they were ever moving forward, the wagon unceasing in its roll. Paran bent close, running his hands on the collar, seeking a join. There was none. Where the chain attached, the link and the collar seemed of one solid piece. Though he knew little of smithing, he believed this attachment would prove the weakest element and should already show signs of strain. But his fingertips told him otherwise. The iron was not even scratched.

Paran ran his hand along the chain, leaving the Hound's side. He paused noticing the other beast watching his every move, then continued on. From the animal to the wagon, over seventy armspans of length, he ran his hands from link to link, seeking a change in the feel of the iron, seeking heat, gouges. Nothing. He arrived alongside the wagon. The wheel he walked behind was solid wood, a span in width, nicked and gouged but otherwise featureless. The wall of the bed was twenty or more feet high. The slatted sideboards of withered, bone-grey wood showed spaces a finger's width between. Paran flinched back on seeing skeletal fingers crowding the cracks, wriggling helplessly.

The wagon's frame beneath the sideboards drew his attention.

Here the wood was black, glistening with pitch. Chain-ends entered it, countless in number, sinking seamlessly into the wood. Under his touch the frame seemed solid, yet it was as if the chain links passed through it-whatever held them, then, was beyond the wagon's frame.

Paran drew a deep breath of the cool, stale air, then ducked under the bed.

The frame's beam was a dozen spans thick, condensation dripping down from its pitched underside in endless rain. At the inside edge Paran found once again the chains, continuing on further under the wagon., Grasping one, he followed it inward. The links grew colder as did the air around him. Before long he was forced to release the chain, his hands burned by the cold. The rain from the underside of the wagon came down as slivers of ice. Two paces ahead, the chains converged, swallowed by a suspended pool of absolute darkness. Cold poured from it in pulsing waves. Paran could get no closer.

He hissed in frustration as he scrambled along opposite the dark hole, wondering what to do next. Even if he managed to break a chain, he had no idea which ones belonged to the Hounds. As for the others:

Anomander Rake seemed a creature of clear-if cold-justice. To break a chain could unleash ancient horrors upon the realms of the living. Even the stranger he'd spoken with could once have been a Tyrant, a horrible dominator.

Paran unsheathed Chance. As the blade leaped free of the scabbard it bucked wildly in his hands. The captain grinned even as tremors of terror reached through his hands from the sword. «Oponn! Dear Twins, I call on you! Now!»

The air groaned. Paran stumbled over someone, who loosed a stream of curses. Sheathing his sword, he reached down, hand closing on brocaded cloth. He pulled the god to his feet. «Why you?» Paran demanded. «I wanted your sister.»

«Madness, mortal!» the male Twin snapped. «To call me here! So close to the Queen of Darkness-here, within a god-slaying sword!»

Paran shook him. Filled with a mindless, bestial rage, the captain shook the god. He heard the Hounds howl, and fought back a sudden desire to join his voice to their cries.

The Twin, terror in his bright eyes, clawed at Paran. «What-what are you doing?»

Paran stopped, his attention drawn to two chains that had gone slack.

«They're coming.»

The wagon seemed to leap upward, rocked as it had never been before. The thunder of the impact filled the air, wood and ice cascading down.

«They have your scent, Twin.»

The god shrieked, battered his fists into Paran's face, scratching, kicking, but the captain held on. «Not the luck that pulls.» He spat blood.

«The luck: that pushes-»

The wagon was hammered again, its wheels bucking into the air to come down with a splintering, echoing concussion. Paran had no time to wonder at the savage strength that coursed through him, a strength sufficient to hold down a god gripped in panic. He simply held on.

«Please!» the Twin begged. «Anything! just ask it! Anything within my powers.»

«The Hounds» chains,» Paran said. «Break them.»

«I–I cannot!»

The wagon shuddered sickeningly, distant wood splintering. Paran dragged the Twin a pace as it rolled forward again. «Think of a way,» he said. «Or the Hounds will have you.»

«I–I cannot be sure, Paran.»

«What? You can't be sure of what?»

The Twin gestured towards the blackness. «In there. The chains are held in place within it-within the Warren of Darkness, within Kurald Galain. Should they enter: I do not know-I cannot be certain, but the chains may disappear.»

«How can they enter?»

«They could be leaving one nightmare only to enter another.»

«It cannot be worse, Twin. I asked you, how?»

«Bait.»

«What?»

The Twin smiled shakily. «As you said, they're coming. But, Paran, you must release me. By all means, hold me before the portal, but please, at the last moment:»

«I release my hold on you.»

The god nodded.

«Very well.»

The Hounds struck the wagon again, and this time they broke through. Clutching the Twin, Paran spun round to see the beasts charging out of the gloom. His captive shrieked.

The Hounds leaped.

Paran released the god, dropping flat to the ground as the Hounds passed through the air above. The Twin vanished. The Hounds flashed past, disappeared into the portal in silence, and were gone.

Paran rolled to his feet, even as darkness reached out for him, not with the cold of oblivion but with a breath like warm, sighing wind.

He opened his eyes to find himself on his hands and knees on the plain's yellowed grass, beside a flattened, blood-smeared patch where the body of a Hound had once lain. Insects buzzed close by. His head aching, Paran climbed to his feet. The other Hound's body was gone as well. What had he done? And why? Of all the things that the Twin could have offered him: Tattersail: Toc the Younger: Then again, to pluck a soul back through Hood's Gate was not likely within Oponn's power to achieve. Had he freed the Hounds? He realized he would probably never know.

He staggered over to the horses. At least, for a short time there, he had been unchained. He had been free, and what he had done he had done, by his own choice. My own choice.

He looked to the south. Darujhistan and the Adjunct await me. Finish what you started, Paran. Finish it once and for all.

«Damn inconvenient,» Coll growled as Crokus completed tying the bandage. «She was good,» he added. «She knew exactly what to do. I'd say she'd been trained. Sort of fits, since she was dressed like a mercenary.»

«I still don't understand,» Crokus said, sitting back on his haunches. He glanced at Murillio and Kruppe. Both remained unconscious. «Why did she attack us? And why didn't she kill me?»

Coll did not reply. He sat glaring at his horse, which stood a dozen feet away, quietly cropping grass. He'd already voiced a dozen foul curses at the beast, and Crokus suspected that their relationship had been, as Kruppe would put it, irretrievably compromised.

«What's this?» Coll grunted.

Crokus realized that the man was looking past the horse, a frown deepening the lines of his forehead.

The boy turned, then let out a wild shout, springing backwards and snatching at his daggers. His boot caught a stone and he sprawled. He jumped to his feet, one blade freed and in his hand. «It's her!» he yelled.

«The woman from the bar! She's a killer, Coll.»

«Easy, lad,» Coll said. «She looks anything but dangerous, despite that sword on her hip. Hell,» he added, pushing himself straighter, «if anything, she looks completely lost.»

Crokus stared at the woman, who stood at the summit's edge. «Hood's Breath,» he muttered. Coll was right. He'd never seen anyone look so bewildered, so utterly at a loss. She was looking at them, tensed as if ready to flee. All the poise, the deadly confidence she'd possessed in the Phoenix Inn was gone, as if it had never been. Crokus sheathed his dagger.

«So,» he asked, «what do we do now, Coll?»

The wounded man shrugged. «Ease the girl's mind, I guess. From the looks of it, she needs some help.»

«But she killed Chert,» Crokus stated. «I saw the blood on her knife.»

Coll squinted at the girl. «I don't doubt you, boy, but this girl doesn't look capable of killing anyone.»

«You think I can't see that?» Crokus said. «I'm just telling you what I saw. I know it doesn't make any sense!»

Coll sighed. «Anyway, she still needs our help. So go and get her, Crokus.»

The boy threw up his hands. «How do I do that?»

«Damned if I know,» Coll replied, grinning. «Try flirting.»

Crokus threw the man a disgusted look, then he walked cautiously towards the girl. She tensed and backed a step. «Careful!» Crokus cried, pointing at the summit's crest behind her.

The girl saw that she stood at the very edge of a steep slope. Oddly enough, this seemed to relax her. She moved a few steps closer to Crokus, her wide eyes searching his.

«That's right,» Crokus murmured. «Everything's fine. Do you understand?» He pointed at his mouth and made talking motions.

Coll groaned.

The girl surprised them both by replying in Daru, «I understand you,» she said haltingly. «More now. You're not Malazan, you're not speaking Malazan. But I understand you.» She frowned. «How?»

«Malazan, huh?» Coll said. «Where are you from, girl?»

She thought for a moment. «Itko Kan,» she said.

«What the hell?» Coll laughed. «What storm blew you here?»

Realization flooded her eyes. «Where's my father? What happened to the nets? I bought the twine, and there was that Seer-Riggalai the Seer, the wax-witch. I remember her-she died!» The girl fell to her knees. «She died. And then-»

Coll's expression was severe, thoughtful. «And then?»

«I don't remember,» the girl whispered, looking down at her hands. «I don't remember anything more.» She began to cry.

«Gedderone's thousand teats,» Coll cursed quietly, waving Crokus to his side. «Listen carefully, lad. Don't wait for us. Take this girl to your uncle. Take her to Mammot, and quickly.»

Crokus scowled. «Why? I can't just leave you here, Coll. Who knows when Murillio and Kruppe will come around? What if that mercenary comes back?»

«What if she does?» Coll asked pointedly.

Crokus flushed and looked away.

«Murillio's a tough bastard, despite the perfume,» Coll said. «He'll be up and dancing in no time. Take the girl to your uncle, lad. Do as I say.»

«You still haven't told me why,» Crokus said.

«It's a hunch, no more.» Coll reached up and gripped the boy's shoulder. «This girl's been possessed. I think. Someone, something, brought her here, to Darujhistan, and on to our trail. The truth is somewhere in her head, Crokus, and it could be vital. Your uncle knows the right people, they can help her, lad. Now, saddle up my horse. I'll wait here for our friends to wake. Hell, I can't walk anyway. I shouldn't move for at least a couple of days. Kruppe and Murillio will handle things here. Go!»

Crokus eyed the weeping girl. Then he said. «All right, Coll. We'll go back, me and her.»

«Good,» Coll grunted. «Now, lay me out a bedroll and some food. Then ride on out of here, and if that damn horse of mine has a heart attack outside the city gates, even better. Hop to it, lad.»