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.
