A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Boatfinder?'
    'No. We are his shadows.'
    'Because you exist only in the flowing time.'
    The man turned and made a reverent bow that stirred
something within Samar Dev. 'Your wisdom honours us,
witch,' he said.
    'Where,' she asked, 'is Iskar Jarak's kingdom?'
    Sudden tears in the man's eyes. 'An answer we yearn to
find. It is lost—'
    'In the unfound time.'
    'Yes.'
    'Iskar Jarak was a Mezla.'
    'Yes.'
    Samar Dev opened her mouth for one more question,
then realized that it wasn't necessary. She knew its answer.
Instead, she said, 'Boatfinder, tell me, from the frozen time
into the flowing time, is there a bridge?'
    His smile was wistful, filled with longing. 'There is.'
    'But you cannot cross it.'
    'No.'
    'Because it's burning.'
    'Yes, witch, the bridge burns.'
    King Iskar Jarak, and the unfound kingdom ...
     
    Descending like massive, raw steps, the shelves of rock
marched down into crashing foam and spume. A fierce
wind raked the northern sea's dark waves to the very
horizon, where storm-clouds commanded the sky, the
colour of blackened armour. At their backs and stretching
the western length of coastline, rose a bent-back forest of
pines, firs and cedars, their branches torn and made ragged
by the battering winds.
    Shivering, Taralack Veed drew the furs closer, then
turned his back on the raging seas. 'We now travel westward,'
he said, speaking loud enough to be heard above the
gale. 'Follow this coast until it curls north. Then we strike
inland, directly west, into the land of stone and lakes.
Difficult, for there is little game to be found there, although
we will be able to fish. Worse, there are bloodthirsty
savages, too cowardly to attack by day. Always at night. We
must be ready for them. We must deliver slaughter.'
    Icarium said nothing, his unhuman gaze still fixed on
that closing storm.
    Scowling, Taralack moved back into the rock-walled
camp they had made, crouching in the blessed lee and
holding his red, cold-chafed hands over the driftwood fire.
Few glimmers of the Jhag's legendary, near mythical
equanimity remained. Dark and dour, now. A refashioning
of Icarium, by Taralack Veed's own hands, although he but
followed the precise instructions given him by the
Nameless Ones. The blade has grown dull. You shall be the
whetstone, Gral.
    But whetstones were insensate, indifferent to the blade
and to the hand that held it. For a warrior fuelled by
passion, such immunity was difficult to achieve, much less
maintain. He could feel the weight now, ever building, and
knew he would, one day, grow to envy the merciful death
that had come to Mappo Runt.
    They had made good time thus far. Icarium was tireless.
Once given direction. And Taralack, for all his prowess and
endurance, was exhausted. I am no Trell, and this is not
simple wandering. Not any more, and never again for
Icarium.
    Nor, it seemed, for Taralack Veed.
    He looked up when he heard scrabbling, and watched
Icarium descend.
    'These savages you spoke of,' the Jhag said without preamble,
'why should they seek to challenge us?'
    'Their forsaken forest is filled with sacred sites, Icarium.'
    'We need only avoid trespass, then.'
    'Such sites are not easily recognized. Perhaps a line of
boulders on the bedrock, mostly buried in lichen and moss.
Or the remnant of an antler in the crotch of a tree, so overgrown
as to be virtually invisible. Or a vein of quartzite
glittering with flecks of gold. Or the green tool-stone – the
quarries are no more than a pale gouge in vertical rock, the
green stone shorn from it by fire and cold water. Mayhap
little more than a bear trail on bedrock, trodden by the
miserable beasts for countless generations. All sacred.
There is no fathoming the minds of such savages.'
    'It seems you know much of them, yet you have told me
you have never before travelled their lands.'
    'I have heard of them, in great detail, Icarium.'
    A sudden edge in the Jhag's eyes. 'Who was it that
informed you so, Taralack Veed of the Gral?'
    'I have wandered far, my friend. I have mined a thousand
tales—'
    'You were being prepared. For me.'
    A faint smile suited the moment and Taralack found it
easily enough. 'Much of that wandering was in your
company, Icarium. Would that I could gift you my
memories of the time we have shared.'
    'Would that you could,' Icarium agreed, staring down at
the fire now.
    'Of course,' Taralack added, 'there would be much darkness,
many grim and unpleasant deeds, within that gift.
The absence within you, Icarium, is both