A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

been cursed, I think. And I speak from long experience; curses are horrible things. Tell me, has Sha'ik ever spoken to you of convergence?'
    'No.'
    'When curses collide, you might say. Flaws and virtues, the many faces of fateful obsession, of singular purpose. Powers and wills are drawn together, as if one must by nature seek the annihilation of the other. Thus, you and Icarium are now here, and we are moments from a dreadful convergence, and it is my fate to witness. Helpless unto desperate madness. Fortunately for my own sake, I have known this feeling before.'
    Karsa had been eating throughout Mappo's words. Now he examined the bone in his hands, then tossed it aside, wiped his palms on the white bear fur of his cloak, and straightened. 'What else have you and Icarium discovered about me, Mappo?'
    'A few more things. Ryllandaras gauged you, and concluded that he had no wish to add his skins to your collection. He is ever wise, is Ryllandaras. A score of wolves, you said? His power has grown, then, a mystery both ominous and curious, given the chaos in his heart. What else? Well, the rest I choose not to reveal.'
    Karsa grunted. He untied the bear cloak and let it fall to the ground, then unslung his sword and turned to face the rockslide.
    A boulder sailed out from the cavity, of a size and weight that would strain even Bairoth Gild. The ground shook when it struck and bounced and rolled to a dusty halt.
    'Will he now make me wait?' Karsa growled.
    As if in answer Icarium emerged from the cave, slapping the dust from his long-fingered hands. 'You are not Fenn,' he said. 'Indeed, I believe you are Teblor, a son of the fallen tribes in Laederon. You have travelled far, warrior, to meet your end.'
    'If you are so eager,' Karsa growled, 'cease your words.'
    The Jhag's expression grew troubled. 'Eager? No. I am
never eager. This is a moment of pathos, I believe. The first time I have felt such a thing, which is strange.' He turned to his companion. 'Have we known such moments as this one before, Mappo Runt?'
    'Aye, my friend. We have.'
    'Ah, well, then the burden of recollection is yours alone.'
    'As it ever was, Icarium.'
    'I grieve for you, friend.'
    Mappo nodded. 'I know you do. Now, best unsheathe your sword, Icarium. This Teblor evinces frustration and impatience.'
    The Jhag went to his weapon. 'What will come of this, Mappo?'
    The Trell shook his head. 'I do not know, but I am filled with dread.'
    'I shall endeavour to be efficient, then, so as to diminish the duration of your discomfort.'
    'Clearly impossible,' Karsa muttered, 'given your love of words.' He readied his sword. 'Be on with it, then, I have a horse to find.'
    Icarium's brows rose fractionally, then he drew out his sword. An unusual weapon, single-edged and looking ancient. He approached.
    The Jhag's attack was a flicker of motion, faster than anything Karsa had seen before, yet his sword flashed to meet it.
    Blades collided.
    There was a peculiar snick and Karsa found himself holding nothing more than a handle.
    Outrage exploded within him and he stepped forward, his huge fist hammering into Icarium's face. The Jhag was thrown backward, leaving his feet, his sword cartwheeling away to clatter on the slope of the rockfall. Icarium landed with a heavy thump, and did not move.
    'Bastard broke my sword—' Karsa began, turning towards Mappo.
    White light detonated in his skull.
    And he knew no more.
    Mappo stared down at the motionless Thelomen Toblakai, noting the slow rise and fall of the giant's chest. Hefting his mace, he glanced over to where Icarium lay, saw a hand slowly lift from the ground, twitch, then settle once more.
    The Trell sighed. 'Better than I could have hoped for, I think.'
    He walked back and returned his weapon to the large leather sack, then set out to strike the camp.
     
    Pounding pain behind his eyes, a sound of roaring, as of a river raging through a narrow channel. Karsa groaned.
    Some time passed before he finally pushed himself onto his hands and knees.
    It was dawn ... again.
    'Say nothing, Bairoth Gild,' he muttered. 'Nor you, Delum Thord. I can well guess what happened. That bastard Trell struck me from behind. Aye, he didn't kill me, but one day he will wish he had.'
    A slow, cautious look around confirmed that he was alone. His broken sword had been positioned beside him, handle and blade side by side, with a small bound bundle of desert flowers lying atop them.
    The blow to his head left him nauseous, and he found