A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

trail, where it angled southwest.
     
    Trull Sengar groaned, then opened his eyes. He lifted his head, wincing at the countless sharp pains pressing into his back. That flint sword had thrown him down a scree of stone chips ... although it had been hapless Onrack who had taken the brunt of the blow. Even so, his chest ached, and he feared his ribs were bruised, if not cracked.
    The T'lan Imass was awkwardly regaining its feet a dozen paces away.
    Trull spat and said, 'Had I known the door was barred, I would have knocked first. That was a damned Thelomen Toblakai.'
    The Tiste Edur saw Onrack's head snap round to stare back up at the cave.
    'What is it?' Trull demanded. 'He's coming down to finish us?'
    'No,' the T'lan Imass replied. 'In that cave ... the Warren of Tellann lingers ...'
    'What of it?'
    Onrack began climbing the rock slide toward the cavern's mouth.
    Hissing his frustration, Trull clambered upward and followed, slowly, pausing every few steps until he was able to find his breath once more.
    When he entered the cave he gave a shout of alarm. Onrack was standing inside a fire, the rainbow-coloured flames engulfing him. And the T'lan Imass held, in its right hand, the shattered remains of another of its kind.
    Trull stepped forward, then his feet skidded out from under him and he fell hard onto a bed of sharp flint chips. Pain thundered from his ribs, and it was some time before
he could breathe once more. Cursing, he rolled onto his side – gingerly – then carefully climbed upright. The air was hot as a forge.
    Then the cavern was suddenly dark – the strange fire had gone out.
    A pair of hands closed on Trull's shoulders.
    'The renegades have fled,' said Onrack. 'But they are close. Come.'
    'Right, lead on, friend.'
    A moment before they emerged into the sunlight, sudden shock raced through Trull Sengar.
    A pair of hands.
     
    Karsa skirted the valley side, making his way along what passed for a trail. Countless rockslides had buried it every ten paces or so, forcing him to scramble across uncertain, shifting gravel, raising clouds of dust in his wake.
    On second consideration, he realized that one of the two strangers who had blocked his exit from the cave had been a T'lan Imass. Not surprising, since the entire valley, with all its quarries, mines and tombs, was a site holy to them ... assuming anything could be holy to creatures that were undead. And the other – not human at all. But familiar none the less. Ah, like the ones on the ship. The grey-skinned ones I killed.
    Perhaps he should retrace his route. His sword had yet to drink real blood, after all. Barring his own, of course.
    Ahead, the trail cut sharply upward, out of the valley. Thoughts of having to repeat this dust-fouled, treacherous route decided him. He would save the blooding of his sword for more worthy enemies. He made his way upward.
    It was clear the six T'lan Imass had not taken this route. Fortunate for them. He had lost his patience with their endless words, especially when the deeds they had done shouted louder, loud enough to overwhelm their pathetic justifications. He reached the crest and pulled himself onto level ground. The vista stretching to the southwest was as
untamed as any place Karsa had yet to see in Seven Cities. No signs of civilization were apparent – no evidence at all that this land had ever been broken. Tall prairie grasses waved in the hot wind, cloaking low, rolling hills that continued on to the horizon. Clumps of low, bushy trees filled the basins, flickering dusty green and grey as the wind shook their leaves.
    The Jhag Odhan. He knew, suddenly, that this land would capture his heart with its primal siren call. Its scale ... matched his own, in ways he could not define. Thelomen Toblakai have known this place, have walked it before me. A truth, though he was unable to explain how he knew it to be so.
    He lifted his sword. 'Bairoth Delum – so I name you. Witness. The Jhag Odhan. So unlike our mountain fastnesses. To this wind I give your name – see how it races out to brush the grasses, to roll against the hill and through the trees. I give this land your name, Bairoth Delum.'
    That warm wind sang against the sword's rippled blade with moaning cadence.
    A flash of movement in the grasses, a thousand paces distant. Wolves, fur the colour of honey, long-limbed, taller than any he had ever before seen. Karsa smiled.
    He set forth.
    The grasses reached to just beneath his chest, the ground