out from the Moon, their fifteen-foot wingspans catching the wind and lifting them high above the city and plain.
Fear lurched into terror in Tattersail's heart.
Hairlock barked a laugh and whirled to them. «These are the Moon's messengers, colleagues!» Madness glittered in his eyes. «These carrion birds!» He flung back his cloak and raised his arms. «Imagine a lord who's kept thirty thousand Great Ravens well fed!»
A figure had appeared on the ledge before the portal, its arms upraised, long silver hair blowing from its head.
Mane of Chaos. Anomander Rake. Lord of the black-skinned Tiste And? who has looked down on a hundred thousand winters, who has tasted the blood of dragons, who leads the last of his kind, seated in the Throne of Sorrow and a kingdom tragic and fey-a kingdom with no land to call its own.
Anomander Rake looked tiny against the backdrop of his edifice, almost insubstantial at this distance. The illusion was about to be shattered. She gasped as the aura of his power bloomed outward-to see it at such a distance: «Channel your Warrens,» Tattersail commanded, her voice cracking. «Now!»
Even as Rake gathered his power, twin balls of blue fire raced upward from the centre hill. They struck the Moon near its base and rocked it.
Tayschrenn launched another wave of gilden flames, crashing with amber spume and red-tongued smoke.
The Moon's lord responded. A black, writhing wave rolled down to the first hill. The High Mage was buffeted to his knees deflecting it, the hilltop around him blighted as the necrous power rolled down the slopes, engulfing nearby ranks of soldiers. Tattersail watched as a midnight flash swallowed the hapless men, followed by a thump that thundered through the earth. When the flash dissipated, the soldiers lay in rotting heaps, mown down like stalks of grain.
Kurald Galain sorcery. Elder magic, the Breath of Chaos.
Her breaths coming fast and tight in her chest, Tattersail felt her Thyr Warren flow into her. She shaped it, muttering chain-words under her breath, then unleashed the power. Calot followed, drawing from his Mockra Warren. Hairlock surrounded himself in his own mysterious source, and the cadre entered the fray.
Everything narrowed down for Tattersail from then on, yet a part of her mind remained distant, held on a leash of terror, observing with a kind of muffled vision all that happened around her.
The world became a living nightmare, as sorcery flew upward to batter Moon's Spawn, and sorcery rained downward, indiscriminate and devastating. Earth rose skyward in thundering columns. Rocks ripped through men like hot stones through snow. A downpour of ash descended to cover the living and dead alike. The sky dimmed to pallid rose, the sun a coppery disc behind the haze.
She saw a wave sweep past Hairlock's defences, cutting him in half.
His howl was more rage than pain, instantly muted as virulent power washed over Tattersail and she found her own defences assailed by the sorcery's cold, screaming will as it sought to destroy her. She reeled back, brought up short by Calot as he added his Mockra power to bolster her faltering parries. Then the assault passed, sweeping on and down the hill to their left.
Tattersail had fallen to her knees. Calot stood over her, chaining words of power around her, his face turned away from Moon's Spawn, fixed on something or someone down below on the plain. His eyes were wide with terror.
Too late Tattersail understood what was happening. Calot was defending her at his own expense. A final act, even as he watched his own death erupt around him. A blast of bright fire engulfed him. Abruptly the net of protection over Tattersail vanished. A wash of crackling heat from where Calot had stood sent her tumbling to one side. She felt more than heard her own shriek, and her sense of distance closed in then, a layer of mental defence obliterated.
Spitting dirt and ashes, Tattersail climbed to her feet and fought on, no longer launching attacks just struggling to remain alive. Somewhere in the back of her head a voice was screaming, urgent, panicked. Calot had faced the plain not Moon's Spawn-he'd faced right! Hairlock had been struck from the plain!
She watched as a Kenryll'ah demon arose beneath Nightchill.
Laughing shrilly, the towering, gaunt creature tore Nightchill limb from limb. It had begun feeding by the time Bellurdan arrived. The Thelomen bellowed as the demon raked its knife-like talons against his chest.
Ignoring the wounds and the blood that sprayed from them, he closed his hands around the demon's head and crushed it.
NKaronys unleashed gouts of flame from the staff in his hands until Moon's Spawn almost disappeared inside a ball of fire. Then ethereal wings of ice closed around the short, fat wizard, freezing him where he stood. An instant later he was crushed to dust.
Magic rained in an endless storm around Tayschrenn, where he still knelt on the withered, blackened hilltop. But every wave directed his way he shunted aside, wreaking devastation among the soldiers cowering on the plain. Through the carnage filling the air, through the ash and shrill tongued ravens, through the raining rocks and the screams of the wounded and dying, through the blood- chilling shrieks of demons flinging themselves into ranks of soldiery-through it all sounded the steady thunder of the High Mage's onslaught. Enormous cliffs, sheared from the Moon's face and raging with flame and trailing columns of black smoke, fell down into the city of Pale, transforming the city into its own cauldron of death and chaos.
Her ears numbed and body throbbing as if her flesh itself gasped for breath, Tattersail was slow to grasp that the sorcery had ceased. Even the voice shrieking in the back of her mind had fallen silent. She raised bleary eyes to see Moon's Spawn, billowing smoke and ablaze in a dozen places on its ravaged mien, moving away, pulling back. Then it was past the city, unsteady in its revolutions and leaning to one side. Moon's Spawn headed south, towards the distant Tahlyn Mountains.
She looked around, vaguely recalling that a company of soldiers had sought refuge on the blasted summit. Then something had hit her, taking all she had left to resist it. Now, nothing was left of the company but their armour. Always an even trade, Sorceress. She fought against a sob, then swung her attention to the first hill.
Tayschrenn was down, but alive. A half-dozen marines scampered up the hillside to gather around the High Mage. A minute later they carried him away.
Bellurdan, most of his clothing burned away and his flesh scorched red, remained on the centre hill, collecting Nightchill's scattered limbs and raising his voice in a mournful wail. The sight, in all its horror and pathos, struck Tattersail's heart like a hammer on an anvil. Quickly she turned away. «Damn you, Tayschrenn.»
Pale had fallen. The price was Onearm's Host and four mages. Only now were the Black Moranth legions moving in. Tattersail's jaw clenched, her lips drawing from their fullness into a thin white line.
Something tugged at her memory, and she felt a growing certainty that this scene was not yet played out.
The sorceress waited.
The Warrens of Magic dwelt in the beyond. Find the gate and nudge it open a crack. What leaks out is yours to shape. With these words a young woman set out on the path to sorcery. Open yourself to the Warren that comes to you-that finds you. Draw forth its power-as much as your body and soul are capable of containing-but remember, when the body fails, the gate closes.
Tattersail's limbs ached. She felt as though someone had been beating her with clubs for the past two hours. The last thing she had expected was that bitter taste on her tongue that said something nasty and ugly had come to the hilltop. Such warnings seldom came to a practitioner unless the gate was open, a Warren unveiled and bristling with power.
She'd heard tales from other sorcerers, and she'd read mouldy scrolls that touched on moments like these, when the power arrived groaning and deadly, and each time, it was said, a god had stepped on to the mortal ground.
If she could have driven the nail of immortal presence in this place, however, it would have to be Hood, the God of Death. Yet her instincts said no. She didn't believe a god had arrived, but something else had.
What frustrated the sorceress was that she couldn't decide who among the people surrounding her was the dangerous one. Something kept drawing her gaze back to the young girl. But the child seemed only half there most of the time.
The voices behind her finally drew her attention. Sergeant Whiskeyjack stood over Quick Ben and the other soldier, both of whom still knelt at Hairlock's side. Quick Ben clutched an oblong object, wrapped in hides, and was looking up at his sergeant as if awaiting approval.
There was tension between the two men. Frowning, Tattersail walked over. «What are you doing?» she asked Quick Ben, her eyes on the object in the wizard's almost feminine hands. He seemed not to have heard, his eyes on the sergeant.
Whiskeyjack shot her a glance. «Go ahead, Quick,» he growled, then strode off to stand at the hill's edge, facing west-towards the Moranth Mountains.
Quick Ben's fine, ascetic features tightened. He nodded at his companion. «Get ready, Kalam.»
The soldier named Kalam leaned back on his haunches, his hands in his sleeves. The position seemed an odd response to Quick Ben's request, but the mage seemed satisfied. Tattersail watched as he laid one of his thin, spidery hands on Hairlock's trembling, blood-splashed chest. He whispered a few chaining words and closed his eyes.
«That sounded like Denul,» Tattersail said, glancing at Kalam, who remained motionless in his crouch. «But not quite,» she added slowly.
«He's twisted it somehow.» She fell silent then, seeing something in Kalam that reminded her of a snake waiting to strike. Wouldn't take much to set him off, I think. Just a few more ill-timed words, a careless move towards Quick Ben or Hairlock. The man was big, bearish, but she remembered his dangerous glide past her. Snake indeed, the man's a killer, a soldier who's reached the next level in the art of murder Not just a job any more, this man likes it. She wondered then if it wasn't this energy, this quiet promise of menace, that swept over her with the flavour of sexual tension. Tattersail sighed. A day for perversity.
Quick Ben had resumed his chaining words, this time over the object, which he now set down beside Hairlock. She watched as enwreathing power enveloped the wrapped object, watched in growing apprehension as the mage traced his long fingers along the hide's seams. The energy trickled from him with absolute control. He was her superior in the lore.
He had opened a Warren she didn't even recognize.
«Who are you people?» she whispered, stepping back.
Hairlock's eyes snapped open, clear of pain and shock. His gaze found Tattersail and the stained smile came easily to his broken lips. «Lost arts, «Sail. What you're about to see hasn't been done in a thousand years.»
His face darkened then and the smile faded. Something burned in his eyes. «Think back, woman! Calot and I. When we went down. What did you see? Did you feel something? Something odd? Come on, think! Look at me! See my wound, see how I'm lying! Which direction was I facing when that wave hit?»
She saw the fire in his eyes, of anger mingled with triumph. «I'm not sure,» she said slowly. «Something, yes.» That detached, reasoning part of her mind that had laboured with her throughout the battle, that had screamed in her mind at Calot's death, screamed in answer to the waves of sorcery-to the fact that they had come from the plain. Her eyes narrowed on Hairlock. «Anomander Rake never bothered to aim. He was being indiscriminate. Those waves of power were aimed, weren't they? Coming at us from the wrong side.» She was trembling. «But why? Why would Tayschrenn do that?»
Hairlock reached up one mangled hand and clutched Quick Ben's cloak. «Use her, Mage. I'll take the chance.»
Tattersail's thoughts raced. Hairlock had been sent down into the tunnels by Dujek. And Whiskeyjack and his squad had been down there.
A deal had been struck. «Hairlock, what's happening here?» she demanded, fear clenching the muscles of her neck and shoulders. «What do you mean, «use» me?»
«You're not blind, wornan!»
«Quiet,» Quick Ben said. He laid down the object on the wizard's ravaged chest, positioning it carefully so that it was centred lengthways along Hairlock's breastbone. The top end reached to just under the man's chin, the bottom end extending a few inches beyond what was left of his torso. Webs of black energy spun incessantly over the hide's mottled surface.
Quick Ben passed a hand over the object and the web spread outward.
The glittering black threads traced a chaotic pattern that insinuated Hairlock's entire body, over flesh and through it, the pattern ever changing, the changes coming faster and faster. Hairlock jerked, his eyes bulging, then fell back. A breath escaped his lungs in a slow, steady hiss.
When it ceased with a wet gurgle, he did not draw another.
Quick Ben sat back on his haunches and glanced over at Whiskeyjack.
