A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Uruth's eyes. 'This was no full unveiling. This was a demonic summoning.'
    Trull frowned. 'I do not understand, Mother. There were shadows—'
    'And a darkness,' Fear cut in. 'From the depths ... darkness.'
    She crossed her arms and looked away. Trull had never seen Uruth so distressed.
    And in himself, his own growing unease. Fully three-fifths of the Tiste Edur employed sorcery. A multitude of fragments from the riven warren of Kurald Emurlahn. Shadow's power displayed myriad flavours. Among Uruth's sons, only Binadas walked the paths of sorcery. Fear's words had none the less triggered a recognition in Trull. Every Tiste Edur understood his own, after all. Caster of magic or not.
    'Mother, Hannan Mosag's sorcery was not Kurald Emurlahn.' He did not need their expressions to realize that he had been the last among them to understand that truth. He grimaced. 'Forgive me my foolish words—'
    'Foolish only in speaking them aloud,' Uruth said. 'Fear, take Trull and Rhulad. Go to the Stone Bowl—'
    'Stop this. Now.' Tomad's voice was hard, his expression dark. 'Fear. Trull. Return to the house and await me there. Uruth, tend to the needs of the widows. A fallen warrior faces his first dusk among kin. Propitiations must be made.'
    For a moment Trull thought she was going to object. Instead, lips pressed into a line, she nodded and strode away.
    Fear beckoned Trull and they walked to the longhouse, leaving their father standing alone beside the canal.
    'These are awkward times,' Trull said.
    'Is there need,' Fear asked, 'when you stand between Rhulad and Mayen?'
    Trull clamped his mouth shut. Too off-balance to deflect the question with a disarming reply.
    Fear took the silence for an answer. 'And when you stand between them, who do you face?'
    'I – I am sorry, Fear. Your question was unexpected. Is there need, you ask. My answer is: I don't know.'
    'Ah, I see.'
    'His strutting ... irritates me.'
    Fear made no response.
    They came to the doorway. Trull studied his brother. 'Fear, what is this Stone Bowl? I have never heard—'
    'It doesn't matter,' he replied, then walked inside.
    Trull remained at the threshold. He ran a hand through his hair, turned and looked back across the compound. Those who had stood in welcome were gone, as were their warrior kin. Hannan Mosag and his K'risnan Cadre were nowhere to be seen. A lone figure remained. Tomad.
    Are we so different from everyone else?
    Yes. For the Warlock King has asked for Tomad's sons. To pursue a vision.
    He has made us his servants. Yet ... is he the master?
    In his dream, Udinaas found himself kneeling in ashes. He was cut and bleeding. His hands. His legs. The ash seemed to gnaw into the wounds with avid hunger. The tightness in his throat made him gasp for breath. He clawed at the air as he clambered onto his feet and stood, wavering – and the sky roared and raced in on all sides.
    Fire. A storm of fire.
    He screamed.
    And found himself on his knees once more.
    Beyond his ragged breathing, only silence. Udinaas lifted his head. The storm was gone.
    Figures on the plain. Walking, dust roiling up behind them like wind-tossed shrouds. Weapons impaled them. Limbs hung from shreds of tendon and muscle. Sightless eyes and expressions twisted with fearful recognition – faces seeing their own deaths – blind to his own presence as they marched past.
    Rising up within him, a vast sense of loss. Grief, then the bitter whisper of betrayal.
    Someone will pay for this. Someone will pay.
    Someone.
    Someone.
    The words were not his, the thoughts were another's, but the voice, there in the centre of his skull – that voice was his own.
    A dead warrior walked close. Tall, black-skinned. A sword had taken most of his face. Bone gleamed, latticed with red cracks from some fierce impact.
    A flash of motion.
    Metal-clad hand crashed into the side of Udinaas's head. Blood sprayed. He was in a cloud of grey ash, on the ground. Blinking burning fire.
    He felt gauntleted fingers close about his left ankle. His leg was viciously yanked upward.
    And then the warrior began dragging him.
    Where are we going?
    'The Lady is harsh.'
    The Lady?
    'Is harsh.'
    She awaits us at journey's end?
    'She is not one who waits.'
    He twisted as he was pulled along, found himself staring back at the furrow he'd made in the ashes. A track reaching to the horizon. And black blood was welling from that ragged gouge. How long has he been dragging me? Whom do I wound?
    The thunder of hoofs.
    'She