A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

and before the inexorably rising waters came deadly plagues to take those who had not drowned.
    Somehow, the rent had closed sometime in the night just past. The river from another realm had been returned to its original path.
    The shoreline ahead probably did not deserve the word, but nothing else came to Trull Sengar's mind as he was dragged along its verge. The beach was nothing more than silt, heaped against a huge wall that seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon. The wall had withstood the flood, though water now streamed down it on the opposite side.
    Bodies on his left, a sheer drop of seven, maybe eight man-heights to his right, the top of the wall itself slightly less than thirty paces across; that it held back an entire sea whispered of sorcery. The broad, flat stones underfoot were smeared with mud, but already drying in the heat, dun-coloured insects dancing on its surface, leaping from the path of Trull Sengar and his captors.
    Trull still experienced difficulty comprehending that notion. Captors. A word he struggled with. They were his brothers, after all. Kin. Faces he had known all his life, faces he had seen smile, and laugh, and faces – at times – filled with a grief that had mirrored his own. He had stood at their sides through all that had happened, the glorious triumphs, the soul-wrenching losses.
    Captors.
    There were no smiles, now. No laughter. The expressions of those who held him were fixed and cold.
    What we have come to.
    The march ended. Hands pushed Trull Sengar down, heedless of his bruises, the cuts and the gouges that still leaked blood. Massive iron rings had been set, for some unknown purpose, by this world's now-dead inhabitants, along the top of the wall, anchored in the heart of the huge stone blocks. The rings were evenly spaced down the wall's length, at intervals of fifteen or so paces, for as far as Trull could see.
    Now, those rings had found a new function.
    Chains were wrapped around Trull Sengar, shackles hammered into place on his wrists and ankles. A studded girdle was cinched painfully tight about his midriff, the chains drawn through iron loops and pulled taut to pin him down beside the iron ring. A hinged metal press was affixed to his jaw, his mouth forced open and the plate pushed in and locked in place over his tongue.
    The Shorning followed. A dagger inscribed a circle on his forehead, followed by a jagged slash to break that circle, the point pushed deep enough to gouge the bone. Ash was rubbed into the wounds. His long single braid was removed with rough hacks that made a bloody mess of his nape. A thick, cloying unguent was then smeared through his remaining hair, massaged down to the pate. Within a few hours, the rest of his hair would fall away, leaving him permanently bald.
    The Shorning was an absolute thing, an irreversible act of severance. He was now outcast. To his brothers, he had ceased to exist. He would not be mourned. His deeds would vanish from memory along with his name. His mother and father would have birthed one less child. This was, for his people, the most dire punishment – worse than execution by far.
    Yet, Trull Sengar had committed no crime.
    And this is what we have come to.
    They stood above him, perhaps only now comprehending what they had done.
    A familiar voice broke the silence. 'We will speak of him
now, and once we have left this place, he will cease to be our brother.'
    'We will speak of him now,' the others intoned, then one added, 'He betrayed you.'
    The first voice was cool, revealing nothing of the gloat that Trull Sengar knew would be there. 'You say he betrayed me.'
    'He did, brother.'
    'What proof do you have?'
    'By his own tongue.'
    'Is it just you who claims to have heard such betrayal spoken?'
    'No, I too heard it, brother.'
    'And I.'
    'And what did our brother say to you all?'
    'He said that you had severed your blood from ours.'
    'That you now served a hidden master.'
    'That your ambition would lead us all to our deaths—'
    'Our entire people.'
    'He spoke against me, then.'
    'He did.'
    'By his own tongue, he accused me of betraying our people.'
    'He did.'
    'And have I? Let us consider this charge. The southlands are aflame. The enemy's armies have fled. The enemy now kneels before us, and begs to be our slaves. From nothing, was forged an empire. And still our strength grows. Yet. To grow stronger, what must you, my brothers, do?'
    'We must search.'
    'Aye. And when you find what must be sought?'
    'We must