A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

...
    On a glacial berm to the north, the lone Jaghut began weaving the sorcery of Omtose Phellack. He had witnessed the devastation wrought by the two Soletaken Eleint and their attendant armies. Little sympathy was spared for the K'Chain Che'Malle. They were dying out anyway, for myriad reasons, none of which concerned the Jaghut overmuch. Nor did the intruders worry him. He had long since lost his capacity for worry. Along with fear. And, it must be admitted, wonder.
    He felt the betrayal when it came, the distant bloom of magic and the spilling of ascendant blood. And the two dragons were now one.
    Typical.
    And then, a short while later, in the time when he rested between weavings of his ritual, he sensed someone approaching him from behind. An Elder god, come in answer to the violent rift torn between the realms. As expected. Still ... which god? K'rul? Draconus? The Sister of Cold Nights? Osserc? Kilmandaros? Sechul Lath? Despite his studied indifference, curiosity finally forced him to turn to look upon the newcomer.
    Ah, unexpected ... but interesting.
    Mael, Elder Lord of the Seas, was wide and squat, with deep blue skin that faded to pale gold at throat and bared belly. Lank blond hair hung unbound from his broad, almost flat pate. And in Mael's amber eyes, sizzling rage.
    'Gothos,' Mael rasped, 'what ritual do you invoke in answer to this?'
    The Jaghut scowled. 'They've made a mess. I mean to cleanse it.'
    'Ice,' the Elder god snorted. 'The Jaghut answer to everything.'
    'And what would yours be, Mael? Flood, or ... flood?'
    The Elder god faced south, the muscles of his jaw bunching. 'I am to have an ally. Kilmandaros. She comes from the other side of the rent.'
    'Only one Tiste Soletaken is left,' Gothos said. 'Seems he struck down his companion, and even now delivers him into the keeping of the Azath Tower's crowded yard.'
    'Premature. Does he think the K'Chain Che'Malle his only opposition in this realm?'
    The Jaghut shrugged. 'Probably.'
    Mael was silent for a time, then he sighed and said, 'With your ice, Gothos, do not destroy all of this. Instead, I ask that you ... preserve.'
    'Why?'
    'I have my reasons.'
    'I am pleased for you. What are they?'
    The Elder god shot him a dark look. 'Impudent bastard.'
    'Why change?'
    'In the seas, Jaghut, time is unveiled. In the depths ride currents of vast antiquity. In the shallows whisper the future. The tides flow between them in ceaseless exchange. Such is my realm. Such is my knowledge. Seal this devastation in your damned ice, Gothos. In this place, freeze time itself. Do this, and I will accept an indebtedness to you ... which one day you might find useful.'
    Gothos considered the Elder god's words, then nodded. 'I might at that. Very well, Mael. Go to Kilmandaros. Swat down this Tiste Eleint and scatter his people. But do it quickly.'
    Mael's eyes narrowed. 'Why?'
    'Because I sense a distant awakening – but not, alas, as distant as you would like.'
    'Anomander Rake.'
    Gothos nodded.
    Mael shrugged. 'Anticipated. Osserc moves to stand in his path.'
    The Jaghut's smile revealed his massive tusks. 'Again?'
    The Elder god could not help but grin in answer.
    And though they smiled, there was little humour on that glacial berm.
    * * *
    1159th Year of Bum's Sleep
Year of the White Veins in the Ebony
Three years before the Letherii Seventh Closure
    He awoke with a bellyful of salt, naked and half buried in white sand amidst the storm's detritus. Seagulls cried overhead, their shadows wheeling across the rippled beach. Cramps spasming his gut, he groaned and slowly rolled over.
    There were more bodies on the beach, he saw. And wreckage. Chunks and rafts of fast-melting ice rustled in the shallows. Crabs scuttled in their thousands.
    The huge man lifted himself to his hands and knees. And then vomited bitter fluids onto the sands. Pounding throbs racked his head, fierce enough to leave him half blind, and it was some time before he finally rocked back to sit up and glare once more at the scene around him.
    A shore where no shore belonged.
    And the night before, mountains of ice rising up from the depths, one – the largest of them all – reaching the surface directly beneath the vast floating Meckros city. Breaking it apart as if it were a raft of sticks. Meckros histories recounted nothing remotely like the devastation he had seen wrought. Sudden and virtually absolute annihilation of a city that was home to twenty thousand. Disbelief still tormented him, as if