A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

nothing certain, nothing at all. Besides,' she added with a shrug, 'strategy and tactics are anathema to the Apocalypse.'
    Heboric grimaced. 'That doesn't bode well.'
    'Wrong. We are free to devise our own.'
    'Even if the goddess did not guide you, someone or something did. Else Sha'ik would never have been given those visions.'
    'Now you speak of fate. Argue that with your fellow scholars, Heboric. Not every mystery can be unravelled, much as you believe otherwise. Sorry if that pains you ...'
    'Not half as sorry as I am. But it occurs to me that even as mortals are but pieces on a gameboard, so too are the gods.'
    '"Elemental forces in opposition,"' she said, smiling.
    Heboric's brows rose, then he scowled. 'A quote. A familiar one—'
    'It should be. It's carved into the Imperial Gate in Unta, after all. Kellanved's own words, as a means to justify the balance of destruction with creation – the expansion of the Empire, in all its hungry glory.'
    'Hood's breath!' the old man hissed.
    'Have I sent your mind spinning in other directions, Heboric?'
    'Aye.'
    'Well, save your breath. The subject of your next treatise – no doubt that handful of obscure old fools will dance in excitement.'
    'Old fools?'
    'Your fellow scholars. Your readers, Heboric'
    'Ah.'
    They were silent again for some time, until the ex-priest spoke once more. 'What will you do?' he asked softly.
    'With what has happened out there?'
    'With what's still happening. Korbolo Dom reaping senseless slaughter in your name—'
    'In the name of the goddess,' she corrected, hearing the brittle anger in her own voice. She'd already exchanged sharp words with Leoman on this subject.
    'Word of the "rebirth" has probably reached him—'
    'No, it has not. I have sealed Raraku, Heboric. The storm raised around us can scour flesh from bones. Not even a T'lan Imass could survive the passage.'
    'Yet you have made an announcement,' the old man said. 'The Whirlwind.'
    'Which has raised in Korbolo Dom doubts. And fears. He is very eager to complete the task he's chosen. He's still unfettered, and so is free to answer his obsessions—'
    'And so, what will you do? Aye, we can march, but it will take months to reach the Aren Plain, and by then Korbolo will have given Tavore all the justification she needs to deliver a ruthless punishment. The rebellion was bloody, but your sister will make what's already happened seem like a scratch on the backside.'
    'You assume she is my superior, Heboric, don't you? In tactics—'
    'There's precedent for how far your sister will go in cruelty, lass,' he growled. 'Witness you standing here ...'
    'And there lies my greatest advantage, old man. Tavore believes she will face a desert witch whom she has never met. Ignorance will not sway her contempt for such a creature. Yet I am not ignorant of my enemy ...'
    A subtle change had come to the distant roar of the Whirlwind towering behind them. Sha'ik smiled. Heboric's sense of that change came moments later. He turned. 'What is happening?'
    'It will not take us months to reach Aren, Heboric. Have you not wondered what the Whirlwind is?'
    The ex-priest's blind eyes widened as he faced that pillar of dust and wind. Sha'ik wondered how the man's preternatural senses perceived the phenomenon, but his next words made it clear that whatever he saw was true. 'By the gods, it's toppling!'
    'Dryjhna's Warren, Heboric, our whirling road to the south.'
    'Will it take us there in time, Fel— Sha'ik? In time to stop Korbolo Dom's madness?'
    She did not answer, for it was already too late.
     
    As Duiker rode in through the gates, gauntleted hands reached out to grasp the halter and reins, dragging his mare to a stuttering halt. A smaller hand closed on the historian's wrist, tugging with something like desperation. He looked down, and saw in Nether's face a sickly dread that poured ice into his veins.
    'To the tower,' she pleaded. 'Quickly!'
    A strange murmuring was building from Aren's walls, a sound of darkness that filled the dusty air. Sliding down from the saddle, Duiker felt his heart begin to thunder. Nether's hand pulled him through the crowd of Garrison Guards and refugees. He felt other hands reach out, touch lightly as if seeking a blessing or conferring one, then slip past.
    An arched doorway suddenly yawned before him, leading to a gloomy landing with stone steps rising along the inside of the tower wall. The sound from the city walls was building to a roar, a wordless cry of outrage,