A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

cause, not mine!'
    'Your warriors – they expected you to fight at their
sides—'
    'They expected nothing of the sort. The fools wanted to
die. In Dryjhna's name.' He bared his teeth in contempt.
'Well, let them! Let them die! And best of all, they are
going to take half the Adjunct's army with them. There's
your glory, Corabb!' He advanced on him, pointing towards
the temple doors. 'You want to join the fools? You want to
feel your lungs searing with the heat, your eyes bursting,
skin cracking? You want your blood to boil in your
veins?'
    'An honourable death, Leoman of the Flails, compared
to this.'
    He voiced something like a snarl, spun back to L'oric.
'Open the way – and fear not, I made no promises to her
regarding you, beyond bringing you here.'
    'The fire grows into life outside this temple, Leoman,'
L'oric said. 'I may not succeed.'
    'Your chances diminish with each moment that passes,'
Leoman said in a growl.
    There was panic in the man's eyes. Corabb studied it, the
way it seemed so ... out of place. There, in the features he
thought he knew so well. Knew every expression possible.
Anger, cold amusement, disdain, the stupor and lidded eyes
within the fumes of durhang. Every expression ... except
this one. Panic.
    Everything was crumbling inside, and Corabb could feel
himself drowning. Sinking ever deeper, reaching up
towards a light that grew ever more distant, dimmer.
    With a hissed curse, L'oric faced the altar. Its stones seemed
to glow in the gloom, so new, the marble unfamiliar – from
some other continent, Corabb suspected – traced through
with purple veins and capillaries that seemed to pulse. There
was a circular pool beyond the altar, the water steaming – it
had been covered the last time they had visited; he could see
the copper panels that had sealed it lying against a side-wall.
    The air swirled above the altar.
    She was waiting on the other side. A flicker, as if
reflected from the pool of water, then the portal opened,
engulfing the altar, edges spreading, curling black, then
wavering fitfully. L'oric gasped, straining beneath some
invisible burden. 'I cannot hold this long! I see you,
Queen!'
    From the portal came a languid, cool voice, 'L'oric, son
of Osserc. I seek no geas from you.'
    'Then what do you want?'
    A moment, during which the portal wavered, then:
'Sha'ik is dead. The Whirlwind Goddess is no more.
Leoman of the Flails, a question.' A new tone to her voice,
something like irony. 'Is Y'Ghatan – what you have done
here – is this your Apocalypse?'
    The desert warrior scowled, then said, 'Well, yes.' He
shrugged. 'Not as big as we'd hoped ...'
    'But, perhaps, enough. L'oric. The role of Sha'ik, the
Seer of Dryjhna, is ... vacant. It needs to be filled—'
    'Why?' L'oric demanded.
    'Lest something else, something less desirable, assume
the mantle.'
    'And the likelihood of that?'
    'Imminent.'
    Corabb watched the High Mage, sensed a rush of
thoughts behind the man's eyes, as mysterious implications
fell into place following the goddess's words. Then, 'You
have chosen someone.'
    'Yes.'
    'Someone who needs ... protecting.'
    'Yes.'
    'Is that someone in danger?'
    'Very much so, L'oric. Indeed, my desires have been
anticipated, and we may well have run out of time.'
    'Very well. I accept.'
    'Come forward, then. You, and the others. Do not delay
– I too am sorely tried maintaining this path.'
    His soul nothing but ashes, Corabb watched the High
Mage stride into the portal, and vanish within the swirling,
liquid stain.
    Leoman faced him one more time, his voice almost
pleading as he said, 'My friend ...'
    Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas shook his head.
    'Did you not hear? Another Sha'ik – a new Sha'ik—'
    'And will you find her a new army as well, Leoman?
More fools to lead to their deaths? No, I am done with you,
Leoman of the Flails. Take your Malazan wench and be
gone from my sight. I choose to die here, with my fellow
warriors.'
    Dunsparrow reached out and grasped Leoman's arm.
'The portal's crumbling, Leoman.'
    The warrior, last commander of Dryjhna, turned away,
and, the woman at his side, strode into the gate. Moments
later it dissolved, and there was nothing.
    Nothing but the strange, swirling wind, skirling dustdevils
tracking the inlaid tile floor.
    Corabb blinked, looked round. Outside the temple, it
seemed the world was ending, voicing a death-cry ever
rising in timbre. No ... not a death-cry. Something else ...
    Hearing a closer sound – from a side passage – a