A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

the low ground between them steep-sided and tangled with brush and dead pines. The domes then merged, creating a winding bridge of high ground along which the four travelled with greater ease than before.
    It began to rain, a steady drizzle that blackened the basaltic bedrock and made it slick.
    Onrack could hear Trull Sengar's harsh breathing and sensed his companion's weariness. But no entreaties to rest came from the Tiste Edur, even as he increasingly used his spear as a staff as they trudged onward.
    Forest soon replaced the exposed bedrock, slowly shifting from coniferous to deciduous, the hills giving way to flatter ground. The trees then thinned, and suddenly, beyond a line of tangled deadfall, plains stretched before them, and the rain was gone. Onrack raised a hand. 'We shall halt here.'
    Ibra Gholan, ten paces ahead, stopped and swung round. 'Why?'
    'Food and rest, Ibra Gholan. You may have forgotten
that these number among the needs of mortals.'
    'I have not forgotten, Onrack the Broken.'
    Trull Sengar settled onto the grasses, a wry smile on his lips as he said, 'It's called indifference, Onrack. I am, after all, the least valuable member of this war party.'
    'The renegades will not pause in their march,' Ibra Gholan said. 'Nor should we.'
    'Then journey ahead,' Onrack suggested.
    'No,' Monok Ochem commanded. 'We walk together. Ibra Gholan, a short period of rest will not prove a great inconvenience. Indeed, I would the Tiste Edur speak to us.'
    'About what, Bonecaster?'
    'Your people, Trull Sengar. What has made them kneel before the Chained One?'
    'No easy answer to that question, Monok Ochem.'
    Ibra Gholan strode back to the others. 'I shall hunt game,' the warrior said, then vanished in a swirl of dust.
    The Tiste Edur studied the fluted spearhead of his new weapon for a moment, then, setting the spear down, he sighed. 'It is a long tale, alas. And indeed, I am no longer the best choice to weave it in a manner you might find useful—'
    'Why?'
    'Because, Monok Ochem, I am Shorn. I no longer exist. To my brothers, and my people, I never existed.'
    'Such assertions are meaningless in the face of truth,' Onrack said. 'You are here before us. You exist. As do your memories.'
    'There have been Imass who have suffered exile,' Monok Ochem rasped. 'Yet still we speak of them. We must speak of them, to give warning to others. What value a tale if it is not instructive?'
    'A very enlightened view, Bonecaster. But mine are not an enlightened people. We care nothing for instruction. Nor, indeed, for truth. Our tales exist to give grandeur to the mundane. Or to give moments of great drama and
significance an air of inevitability. Perhaps one might call that "instruction" but that is not their purpose. Every defeat justifies future victory. Every victory is propitious. The Tiste Edur make no misstep, for our dance is one of destiny.'
    'And you are no longer in that dance.'
    'Precisely, Onrack. Indeed, I never was.'
    'Your exile forces you to lie even to yourself, then,' Onrack observed.
    'In a manner of speaking, that is true. I am therefore forced to reshape the tale, and that is a difficult thing. There was much of that time that I did not understand at first – certainly not when it occurred. Much of my knowledge did not come to me until much later—'
    'Following your Shorning.'
    Trull Sengar's almond-shaped eyes narrowed on Onrack, then he nodded. 'Yes.'
    As knowledge flowered before my mind's eye in the wake of the Ritual of Tellann's shattering. Very well, this I understand. 'Prepare for the telling of your tale, Trull Sengar. If instruction can be found within it, recognition is the responsibility of those to whom the tale is told. You are absolved of the necessity.'
    Monok Ochem grunted, then said, 'These words are spurious. Every story instructs. The teller ignores this truth at peril. Excise yourself from the history you would convey if you must, Trull Sengar. The only lesson therein is one of humility.'
    Trull Sengar grinned up at the bonecaster. 'Fear not, I was never pivotal among the players. As for excision, well, that has already occurred, and so I would tell the tale of the Tiste Edur who dwelt north of Lether as would they themselves tell it. With one exception – which has, I admit, proved most problematic in my mind – and that is, there will be no aggrandizement in my telling. No revelling in glory, no claims of destiny or inevitability. I shall endeavour, then, to be other than the