A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

failure is already known to us?'
    'To deepen our doubt, Mathok,' she replied.
    He curtly gestured, adding a frustrated growl. 'This mire has no surface, Chosen One—'
    'Wait!' Sha'ik stared once again at Tavore. 'She has sent her weapon away – Kamist Reloe has withdrawn his questing – and now ... ah!' The last word was a startled cry, as she felt the muted unveiling of power from both Nil and Nether – a power far greater than it had any right to be.
    Sha'ik then gasped, as the goddess within her flinched back – as if stung — and loosed a shriek that filled her skull.
    For Raraku was answering the summons, a multitude of voices, rising in song, rising with raw, implacable desire –
the sound, Sha'ik realized, of countless souls straining against the chains that bound them.
    Chains of shadow. Chains like roots. From this torn, alien fragment of warren. This piece of shadow, that has risen to bind their souls and so feeds upon the life-force. 'Mathok, where is Leoman?' We need Leoman.
    'I do not know, Chosen One.'
    She turned once more and stared at Korbolo Dom. He stood foremost on the ramp, his stance squared, thumbs hitched into his sword-belt, studying the enemy with an air of supreme confidence that made Sha'ik want to scream.
    Nothing – nothing was as it seemed.
    To the west, the sun had turned the horizon into a crimson conflagration. The day was drowning in a sea of flame, and she watched shadows flowing across the land, her heart growing cold.
     
    The alley outside Heboric's tent was empty in both directions. The sun's sudden descent seemed to bring a strange silence along with the gloom. Dust hung motionless in the air.
    The Destriant of Treach paused in the aisle.
    Behind him Scillara said, 'Where is everyone?'
    He had been wondering the same thing. Then, slowly, the hairs rose on the back of his neck. 'Can you hear that, lass?'
    'Only the wind ...'
    But there was no wind.
    'No, not wind,' Scillara murmured. 'A song. From far away – the Malazan army, do you think?'
    He shook his head, but said nothing.
    After a moment Heboric gestured Scillara to follow and he set out down the alley. The song seemed suspended in the very air, raising a haze of dust that seemed to shiver before his eyes. Sweat ran down his limbs. Fear. Fear has driven this entire city from the streets. Those voices are the sound of war.
    'There should be children,' Scillara said. 'Girls ...'
    'Why girls more than anyone else, lass?'
    'Bidithal's spies. His chosen servants.'
    He glanced back at her. 'Those he ... scars?'
    'Yes. They should be ... everywhere. Without them—'
    'Bidithal is blind. It may well be he has sent them elsewhere, or even withdrawn them entirely. There will be ... events this night, Scillara. Blood will be spilled. The players are, no doubt, even now drawing into position.'
    'He spoke of this night,' she said. 'The hours of darkness before the battle. He said the world will change this night.'
    Heboric bared his teeth. 'The fool has sunk to the bottom of the Abyss, and now stirs the black mud.'
    'He dreams of true Darkness unfolding, Destriant. Shadow is but an upstart, a realm born of compromise and filled with impostors. The fragments must be returned to the First Mother.'
    'Not just a fool, then, but mad. To speak of the most ancient of battles, as if he himself is a force worthy of it – Bidithal has lost his mind.'
    'He says something is coming,' Scillara said, shrugging. 'Suspected by no-one, and only Bidithal himself has any hope of controlling it, for he alone remembers the Dark.'
    Heboric halted. 'Hood take his soul. I must go to him. Now.'
    'We will find him—'
    'In his damned temple, aye. Come on.'
    They swung about.
    Even as two figures emerged from the gloom of an alley mouth, blades flickering out.
    With a snarl, Heboric closed on them. One taloned hand shot out, tore under and into an assassin's neck, then snapped upward, lifting the man's head clean from his shoulders.
    The other killer lunged, knife-point darting for Heboric's left eye. The Destriant caught the man's wrist and crushed
both bones. A slash from his other hand spilled the assassin's entrails onto the dusty street.
    Flinging the body away, Heboric glared about. Scillara stood a few paces back, her eyes wide. Ignoring her, the Destriant crouched down over the nearest corpse. 'Korbolo Dom's. Too impatient by far—'
    Three quarrels struck him simultaneously. One deep into his right hip, shattering bone. Another plunging