A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

hammering down with his knife. Through the top of the skull. A midnight flash, the detonation flinging the killer back. Both skull and blade had shattered, lacerating the Talon's face and chest. Blinded and screaming, he reeled back, tripped over a root and thumped to the ground.
    L'oric listened to the man moaning.
    Chains snaked over the fallen body of the goddess, until nothing visible was left of her, the black iron links heaped and glistening.
    Whatever high wind had lashed the treetops now fell away, leaving only silence.
    They all wanted this shattered warren. This fraught prize. But Toblakai killed Febryl. He killed the two Deragoth.
    He killed Bidithal.
    And as for Korbolo Dom – something tells me the Empress will soon speak to him in person. The poor bastard.
    Beneath the High Mage, his lifeblood soaked the moss.
    It came to him, then, that he was dying.
    Twigs snapped nearby.
    'I'm hardly surprised. You sent your familiar away, didn't you? Again.'
    L'oric twisted his head around, stared upward, and managed a weak smile. 'Father.'
    'I don't think much has changed in your room, son, since you left it.'
    'Dusty, I would think.'
    Osric grunted. 'The entire keep is that, I would hazard. Haven't been there in centuries.'
    'No servants?'
    'I dismissed them ... about a thousand years ago.'
    L'oric sighed. 'I'd be surprised if the place is still standing.'
    Osric slowly crouched down beside his son, the sorcerous glow of Denul now surrounding him. 'Oh, it still stands, son. I always keep my options open. An ugly cut you have there. Best healed slowly.'
    L'oric closed his eyes. 'My old bed?'
    'Aye.'
    'It's too short. It was when I left, anyway.'
    'Too bad he didn't cut off your feet, then, L'oric.'
    Strong arms reached under him and he was lifted effortlessly.
    Absurdly – for a man my age – he felt at peace. In his father's arms.
    'Now,' Osric said, 'how in Hood's name do we get out of here?'
    The moment passed.
     
    She stumbled, barely managing to right herself. Behind the iron mesh, she blinked against the hot, close air. All at once, the armour seemed immeasurably heavy. A surge of
panic – the sun was roasting her alive beneath these plates of metal.
    Sha'ik halted. Struggled to regain control of herself.
    Myself. Gods below . . . she is gone.
    She stood alone in the basin. From the ridge opposite a lone figure was descending the slope. Tall, unhurried, the gait achingly familiar.
    The ridge behind Tavore, and those on every battered island of ancient coral, was now lined with soldiers.
    The Army of the Apocalypse was watching as well, Sha'ik suspected, though she did not turn about.
    She is gone. I have been . . . abandoned.
    I was Sha'ik, once. Now, I am Felisin once more. And here, walking towards me, is the one who betrayed me. My sister.
    She remembered watching Tavore and Ganoes playing with wooden swords. Beginning on that path to deadly familiarity, to unthinking ease wielding the weight of that weapon. Had the world beyond not changed – had all stood still, the way children believed it would – she would have had her turn. The clack of wood, Ganoes laughing and gently instructing her – there was joy and comfort to her brother, the way he made teaching subservient to the game's natural pleasures. But she'd never had the chance for that.
    No chance, in fact, for much of anything that could now return to her, memories warm and trusting and reassuring.
    Instead, Tavore had dismembered their family. And for Felisin, the horrors of slavery and the mines.
    But blood is the chain that can never break.
    Tavore was now twenty strides away. Drawing out her otataral sword.
    And, though we leave the house of our birth, it never leaves us.
    Sha'ik could feel the weight of her own weapon, dragging hard enough to make her wrist ache. She did not recall unsheathing it.
    Beyond the mesh and through the slits of the visor,
Tavore strode ever closer, neither speeding up nor slowing.
    No catching up. No falling back. How could there be? We are ever the same years apart. The chain never draws taut. Never slackens. Its length is prescribed. But its weight, oh, its weight ever varies.
    She was lithe, light on her feet, achingly economical. She was, for this moment, perfect.
    But, for me, the blood is heavy. So heavy.
    And Felisin struggled against it – that sudden, overwhelming weight. Struggled to raise her arms – unthinking of how that motion would be received.
    Tavore, it's all right —
    A thunderous