A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

Sengar. The T'lan Imass strode towards the sound, then halted, thoughts suddenly scattering, a flash of images cascading through the warrior's mind. Time folding in on itself, sinking away, then rising once more—
    Sparks danced low to the ground, tinder caught, flames flickering.
    They were in the crevasse, standing on its littered floor. Onrack looked for Trull Sengar, found the Tiste Edur lying prone on the damp rock a half-dozen paces away.
    The T'lan Imass approached.
    The mortal was unconscious. There was blood smearing his lap, pooling beneath his crotch, and Onrack could see it cooling, suggesting that it did not belong to Trull Sengar, but to the Eres woman who had ... taken his seed.
    His first seed. But there had been nothing to her appearance suggesting virginity. Her breasts had swollen with milk in the past; her nipples had known the pressure of a pup's hunger. The blood, then, made no sense.
    Onrack crouched beside Trull Sengar.
    And saw the fresh wound of scarification beneath his belly button. Three parallel cuts, drawn across diagonally, and the stained imprints of three more – likely those the
woman had cut across her own belly – running in the opposite direction.
    'The Eres witch has stolen his seed,' Monok Ochem said from two paces away.
    'Why?' Onrack asked.
    'I do not know, Onrack the Broken. The Eres have the minds of beasts—'
    'Not to the exclusion of all else,' Onrack replied, 'as you well know.'
    'Perhaps.'
    'Clearly, this one had intent.'
    Monok Ochem nodded. 'So it would seem. Why does the Tiste Edur remain unconscious?'
    'His mind is elsewhere—'
    The bonecaster cocked its head. 'Yes, that is the definition of unconscious—'
    'No, it is elsewhere. When I stepped close, I came into contact with sorcery. That which the Eres projected. For lack of any other term, it was a warren, barely formed, on the very edge of oblivion. It was,' Onrack paused, then continued, 'like the Eres themselves. A glimmer of light behind the eyes.'
    Ibra Gholan suddenly drew his weapon.
    Onrack straightened.
    There were sounds, now, beyond the fire's light, and the T'lan Imass could see the glow of flesh and blood bodies, a dozen, then a score. Something else approached, the footfalls uneven and shambling.
    A moment later, an aptorian demon loomed into the light, a shape unfolding like black silk. And riding its humped, singular shoulder, a youth. Its body was human, yet its face held the features of the aptorian – a massive, lone eye, glistening and patterned like honeycomb. A large mouth, now opening to reveal needle fangs that seemed capable of retracting, all but their tips vanishing from sight. The rider wore black leather armour, shaped like scales and overlapping. A chest harness bore at least a dozen weapons,
ranging from long-knives to throwing darts. Affixed to the youth's belt were two single-hand crossbows, their grips fashioned from the base shafts of antlers.
    The rider leaned forward over the spiny, humped shoulder. Then spoke in a low, rasping voice. 'Is this all that Logros can spare?'
    'You,' Monok Ochem said, 'are not welcome.'
    'Too bad, Bonecaster, for we are here. To guard the First Throne.'
    Onrack asked, 'Who are you, and who has sent you here?'
    'I am Panek, son of Apt. It is not for me to answer your other question, T'lan Imass. I but guard the outer ward. The chamber that is home to the First Throne possesses an inner warden – the one who commands us. Perhaps she can answer you. Perhaps, even, she will.'
    Onrack picked up Trull Sengar. 'We would speak with her, then.'
    Panek smiled, revealing the crowded row of fangs. 'As I said, the Throne Room. No doubt,' he added, smile broadening, 'you know the way.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
    In the oldest, most fragmentary of texts, will be found obscure mention of the Eres'al, a name that seems to refer to those most ancient of spirits that are the essence of the physical world. There is, of course, no empirical means of determining whether the attribution of meaning – the power inherent in making symbols of the inanimate – was causative, in essence the creative force behind the Eres'al; or if some other mysterious power was involved, inviting the accretion of meaning and significance by intelligent forms of life at some later date.
    In either case, what cannot be refuted is the rarely acknowledged but formidable power that exists like subterranean layers in notable features of the land; nor that such power is manifested with subtle