A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

of domestication. Most scholars, in their species-bound arrogance, believe that humans domesticated dogs, but it may well have been the other way round, at least to start. Who ran with whom?'
    'But those creatures aren't humans. They're not even Imass.'
    'No, but they will be, one day. I've seen others, scampering on the edges of wolf packs. Standing upright gives them better vision, a valuable asset to complement the wolves' superior hearing and sense of smell. A formidable combination, but the wolves are the ones in charge. That will eventually change ... but not for those serving the Deragoth, I suspect.'
    'Why?'
    'Because something is about to happen. Here, in this trapped memory. I only hope that I will be privileged to witness it before the world fades entirely.'
    'You called the Deragoth "Hounds of Darkness". Are they children of Mother Dark, then?'
    'They are no-one's children,' Osric growled, then he shook his head. 'They have that stench about them, but in truth I have no idea. It just seemed an appropriate name. "Deragoth" in the Tiste Andii tongue.'
    'Well,' L'oric muttered, 'actually, it would be Dera'tin'jeragoth.'
    Osric studied his son. 'So like your mother,' he sighed. 'And is it any wonder we could not stand each other's company? The third day, always by the third day. We could make a lifetime of those three days. Exaltation, then comfort, then mutual contempt. One, two, three.'
    L'oric looked away. 'And for your only son?'
    Osric grunted. 'More like three bells.'
    Climbing to his feet, L'oric brushed dust from his hands. 'Very well. I may require your help in opening the path back to Raraku. But you might wish to know something of the Liosan and Kurald Thyrllan. Your people and their realm have lost their protector. They pray for your return, Father.'
    'What of your familiar?'
    'Slain. By T'lan Imass.'
    'So,' Osric said, 'find yourself another.'
    L'oric flinched, then scowled. 'It's not as easy as that! In any case, do you hold no sense of responsibility for the Liosan? They worship you, dammit!'
    'The Liosan worship themselves, L'oric. I happen to be a convenient figurehead. Kurald Thyrllan may appear vulnerable, but it isn't.'
    'And what if these Deragoth are servants of Darkness in truth? Do you still make the same claim, Father?'
    He was silent, then strode towards the gaping entrance-way. 'It's all her fault,' he muttered as he passed.
    L'oric followed his father outside. 'This ... observation tower. Is it Jaghut?'
    'Yes.'
    'So, where are they?'
    'West. South. East. But not here – I've seen none.'
    'You don't know where they are, do you?'
    'They are not in this memory, L'oric. That is that. Now, stay back.'
    The High Mage remained near the tower, watching his father veer into his draconic form. The air suddenly redolent with a sweet, spicy aroma, a blurring of shape before L'oric's eyes. Like Anomander Rake, Osric was more dragon than anything else. They were kin in blood, if not in personality. I wish I could understand this man, this father of mine. Queen take me, I wish I could even like him. He strode forward.
    The dragon lifted one forelimb, talons opening.
    L'oric frowned. 'I would rather ride your shoulders, Father—'
    But the reptilian hand reached out and closed about him.
    He resolved to suffer the indignity in silence.
     
    Osric flew westward, following the coastline. Before too long forest appeared, and the land reached around northward. The air whipping between the dragon's scaled fingers grew cold, then icy. The ground far below began climbing,
the forests flanking mountain sides shifting into conifers. Then L'oric saw snow, reaching like frozen rivers in crevasses and chasms.
    He could recall no mountains from the future to match this ancient scene. Perhaps this memory, like so many others, is flawed.
    Osric began to descend – and L'oric suddenly saw a vast white emptiness, as if the mountain rearing before them had been cut neatly in half. They were approaching that edge.
    A vaguely level, snow-crusted stretch was the dragon's destination. Its southern side was marked by a sheer cliff. To the north ... opaque oblivion.
    Wings pounding, raising clouds of powdery white, Osric hovered for a moment, then released L'oric.
    The High Mage landed in waist-deep snow. Cursing, he kicked his way onto firmer footing, as the enormous dragon settled with a shuddering crunch off to one side.
    Osric quickly sembled into Liosan form, the wind whipping at his hair, and strode over.
    There