A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

thunder in Onrack's skull. He thought to fall to dust, but for the first time he possessed neither the will nor, it seemed, the capacity to do so.
    The power was shorn from him – the Vow had been broken, ripped away from his body. He was now, he realized, as those of his fallen kin, the ones that had sustained so much physical destruction that they had ceased to be one with the T'lan Imass.
    He lay unmoving, and felt the heavy tread of one of the Hounds as it padded up to stand over him. A dust- and shard-flecked muzzle nudged him, pushed at the broken ribs of his chest. Then lifted away. He listened to its breathing, the sound like waves riding a tide into caves, could feel its presence like a heaviness in the damp air.
    After a long moment, Onrack realized that the beast was no longer looming over him. Nor could he hear the heavy footfalls through the wet earth. As if it and its companion had simply vanished.
    Then the scrape of boots close by, a pair of hands dragging him over, onto his back.
    Trull Sengar stared down at him. 'I do not know if you can
    still hear me,' he muttered. 'But if it is any consolation, Onrack of the
    Logros, those were not Hounds of Shadow. Oh, no, indeed. They were the real
    ones. The Hounds of Darkness, my friend. I dread to think what you have freed
    here...'
    Onrack managed a reply, his words a soft rasp. 'So much for gratitude.'
     
    Trull Sengar dragged the shattered T'lan Imass to a low wall at the city's edge, where he propped the warrior into a sitting position. 'I wish I knew what else I could do for you,' he said, stepping back.
    'If my kin were present,' Onrack said, 'they would complete the necessary rites. They would sever my head from my body, and find for it a suitable place so that I might
look out upon eternity. They would dismember the headless corpse and scatter the limbs. They would take my weapon, to return it to the place of my birth.'
    'Oh.'
    'Of course, you cannot do such things. Thus, I am forced into continuation, despite my present condition.' With that, Onrack slowly clambered upright, broken bones grinding and crunching, splinters falling away.
    Trull grunted, 'You could have done that before I dragged you.'
    'I regret most the loss of an arm,' the T'lan Imass said, studying the torn muscles of his left shoulder. 'My sword is most effective when in the grip of two hands.' He staggered over to where the weapon lay in the mud. Part of his chest collapsed when he leaned down to retrieve it. Straightening, Onrack faced Trull Sengar. 'I am no longer able to sense the presence of gates.'
    'They should be obvious enough,' the Tiste Edur replied. 'I expect near the centre of the city. We are quite a pair, aren't we?'
    'I wonder why the Hounds did not kill you.'
    'They seemed eager to leave.' Trull set off down the street directly opposite, Onrack following. 'I am not even certain they noticed me – the dust cloud was thick. Tell me, Onrack. If there were other T'lan Imass here, then they would have done all those things to you? Despite the fact that you remain . . . functional?'
    'Like you, Trull Sengar, I am now shorn. From the Ritual. From my own kind. My existence is now without meaning. The final task left to me is to seek out the other hunters, to do what must be done.'
    The street was layered in thick, wet silt. The low buildings to either side, torn away above the ground level, were similarly coated, smoothing every edge – as if the city was in the process of melting. There was no grand architecture, and the rubble in the streets revealed itself to be little more than fired bricks. There was no sign of life anywhere.
    They continued on, their pace torturously slow. The street slowly broadened, forming a vast concourse flanked by pedestals that had once held statues. Brush and uprooted trees marred the vista, all a uniform grey that gradually assumed an unearthly hue beneath the now-dominant blue sun, which in turn painted a large moon the colour of magenta.
    At the far end was a bridge, over what had once been a river but was now filled with silt. A tangled mass of detritus had ridden up on one side of the bridge, spilling flotsam onto the walkway. Among the garbage lay a small box.
    Trull angled over towards it as they reached the bridge. He crouched down. 'It seems well sealed,' he said, reaching out to pry the clasp loose, then lifting the lid. 'That's odd. Looks like clay pots. Small ones ...'
    Onrack moved up alongside the Tiste Edur. 'They are