A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

every weapon, and the killing goes on and on. And from the maelstrom powerful creatures arise, and the slaying reaches beyond measure.
    'Such powers must be answered. The Errant returns, and casts the seed into blood-soaked earth. Thus rises the Hold of the Azath.
    'Deadly shelter for the tyrants, oh they are so easily lured. And so balance is achieved. But it remains a grisly balance, yes? No cessation to the wars, although they are much diminished, so that, finally, their cruel ways come into focus.'
    Her voice was like sorcery unbound. Its rough-edged song entranced, devoured, unveiled vistas into the minds of all those who heard it. Feather Witch had walked from the terror of the Beginnings, and there was no fear in her words.
    'But the tread of time is itself a prison. We are shackled with progression. And so the Errant comes once more, and the Ice Hold rises, with its attendant servants who journey through the realms to war against time. Walker, Huntress, Shaper, Bearer, Child and Seed. And upon the Throne of Ice sits Death, cowled and frost-rimed, stealer of caring, to shatter the anxious shackles of mortal life. It is a gift, but a cold one.
    'Then, to achieve balance once more, is born the Eleint, and chaos is given flesh, and that flesh is draconic. Ruled by the Queen, who must be slain again and again by every child she bears. And her Consort, who loves none but himself. Then Liege, servant and guardian and doomed to eternal failure. Knight, the very sword of chaos itself – 'ware his path! And Gate, that which is the Breath. Wyval, spawn of the dragons, and the Lady, the Sister, Blood-Drinker and Path-Shaper. The Fell Dragons.
    'One Hold remains ...'
    Udinaas spoke with the others as they whispered, 'The Empty Hold.'
    Feather Witch tilted her head suddenly, a frown marring her forehead. 'Something circles above the Empty Throne. I cannot see it, yet it ... circles. A pallid hand, severed and dancing ... no, it is —'
    She stiffened, then red spurted from wounds on her shoulders, and she was lifted from the ground.
    Screams, the witnesses surging to their feet, rushing forward, arms outstretched.
    But too late, as invisible talons clenched tighter and invisible wings thundered the dusty air of the barn. Carrying Feather Witch into the shadows beneath the curved ceiling. She shrieked.
    Udinaas, heart hammering in his chest, pushed away, through the jostling bodies, to the wooden stairs reaching to the loft. Splinters stabbed his hands as he clawed his way up the steep, rough-hewn steps. Feather Witch's shrieks filled the air now, as she thrashed in the grip of the unseen talons. But crows have no talons —
    He reached the loft, skidding as he raced across its uneven planks, eyes fixed on Feather Witch, then, one step from the edge, he leapt into the air. Arms outstretched, he sailed over the heads of the crowd below.
    His target was the swirling air above her, the place where the invisible creature hovered. And when he reached that place, he collided hard with a massive, scaled body. Leathery wings hammered wildly at him as he wrapped his arms tight about a clammy, muscle-clenched body. He heard a wild hiss, then a jaw snapped down over his left shoulder. Needle-like teeth punched through his skin, sank deep into his flesh.
    Udinaas grunted.
    A Wyval, spawn of Eleint —
    With his left hand, he scrabbled for the net-hook at his belt.
    The beast tore at his shoulder, and blood gushed out.
    He found the tool's worn wooden grip, dragged the hooked blade free. Its inner edge was honed sharp, used to trim knots. Twisting round, teeth clenched in an effort to ignore the lizard jaws slashing his shoulder again and again until little more than shreds remained, Udinaas chopped downward to where he thought one of the Wyval's legs must be. Solid contact. He ripped the inside edge of the blade into the tendons.
    The creature screamed.
    And released Feather Witch.
    She plummeted into the mass of upraised arms below.
    Talons hammered against Udinaas's chest, punched through.
    He slashed, cutting deep. The leg spasmed back.
    Jaws drew away, then snapped home once again, this time round his neck.
    Net-hook fell from twitching hand. Blood filled his mouth and nose.
    Darkness writhed across his vision – and he heard the Wyval scream again, this time in terror and pain, the sound emanating from its nostrils in hot gusts down his back. The jaws ripped free.
    And Udinaas was falling.
    And knew nothing more.
    The others