A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

passing eight years ago, slowly rose.
    Jaghra Til's life had been short, yet the silts that had settled on its bottom were thick. And treacherous.
    Pran Chole, Bonecaster of Cannig Tol's clan among the Kron T'lan, sat motionless atop a mostly buried boulder along an ancient beach ridge. The descent before him was snarled in low, wiry grasses and withered driftwood. Twelve paces beyond, the land dropped slightly, then stretched out into a broad basin of mud. Three ranag had become trapped in a boggy sinkhole twenty paces into the basin. A bull male, his mate and their calf, ranged in a pathetic defensive circle. Mired and vulnerable, they must have seemed easy kills for the pack of ay that found them. But the land was treacherous indeed. The large tundra wolves had succumbed to the same fate as the ranag. Pran Chole counted six ay, including a yearling. Tracks indicated that another yearling had circled the sinkhold dozens of times before wandering westward, doomed no doubt to die in solitude.
    How long ago had this drama occurred? There was no way to tell. The mud had hardened on ranag and ay alike, forming cloaks of clay latticed with cracks. Spots of bright green showed where windborn seeds had germinated, and the Bonecaster was reminded of his visions when spiritwalking – a host of mundane details twisted into something unreal. For the beasts, the struggle had become eternal, hunter and hunted locked together for all time.
    Someone padded to his side, crouched down beside him. Pran Chole's tawny eyes remained fixed on the frozen tableau. The rhythm of footsteps told the Bonecaster the identity of his companion, and now came the warm-blooded smells that were as much a signature as resting eyes upon the man's face.
    Cannig Tol spoke. 'What lies beneath the clay, Bonecaster?'
    'Only that which has shaped the clay itself, Clan Leader.'
    'You see no omen in these beasts?'
    Pran Chole smiled. 'Do you?'
    Cannig Tol considered for a time, then said, 'Ranag are gone from these lands. So too the ay. We see before us an ancient battle. These statements have depth, for they stir my soul.'
    'Mine as well,' the Bonecaster conceded.
    'We hunted the ranag until they were no more, and this brought starvation to the ay, for we had also hunted the tenag until they were no more too. The agkor who walk with the bhederin would not share with the ay, and now the tundra is empty. From this, I conclude that we were wasteful and thoughtless in our hunting.'
    'Yet the need to feed our own young—'
    'The need for more young was great.'
    'It remains so, Clan Leader.'
    Cannig Tol grunted. 'The Jaghut are powerful in these lands, Bonecaster. They did not flee – not at first. You know the cost in Imass blood.'
    'And the land yields its bounty to answer that cost.'
    'To serve our war.'
    'Thus, the depths are stirred.'
    The Clan Leader nodded and was silent. Pran Chole waited. In their shared words they still tracked the skin of things. Revelation of the muscle and bone was yet to come. But Cannig Tol was no fool, and the wait was not long.
    'We are as those beasts.'
    The Bonecaster's eyes shifted to the south horizon, tightened.
    Cannig Tol continued. 'We are the clay, and our endless war against the Jaghut is the struggling beast beneath. The surface is shaped by what lies beneath.' He gestured with one hand. 'And before us now, in these creatures slowly turning to stone, is the curse of eternity.' There was still more. Pran Chole said nothing. 'Ranag and ay,' Cannig Tol resumed. 'Almost gone from the mortal realm. Hunter and hunted both.'
    'To the very bones,' the Bonecaster whispered.
    'Would that you had seen an omen,' the Clan Leader muttered, rising.
    Pran Chole also straightened. 'Would that I had,' he agreed in a tone that only faintly echoed Cannig Tol's wry, sardonic utterance.
    'Are we close, Bonecaster?'
    Pran Chole glanced down at his shadow, studied the antlered silhouette, the figure hinted at within the furred cape, ragged hides and headdress. The sun's angle made him seem tall – almost as tall as a Jaghut. 'Tomorrow,' he said. 'They are weakening. A night of travel will weaken them yet more.'
    'Good. Then the clan shall camp here tonight.'
    The Bonecaster listened as Cannig Tol made his way back down to where the others waited. With darkness, Pran Chole would spiritwalk into the whispering earth, seeking those of his own kind. While their quarry was weakening, Cannig Tol's clan was yet weaker. Less than a dozen adults