A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

demons of your realm, Cotillion? Azalan? Dinal? Can
you give us nothing?'
    'We can,' he said. 'But not now.'
    'When?'
    He looked at her. 'When the need is greatest.'
    Minala stepped close. 'You bastard. I had thirteen hundred.
Now I have four hundred still capable of fighting.'
She jabbed a finger towards the area beyond the chokepoint.
'Almost three hundred more lie dying of wounds – and there is nothing I can do for them!'
    'Shadowthrone will be informed,' Cotillion said. 'He will
come. He will heal your wounded—'
    'When?'
    The word was nearly a snarl.
    'When I leave here,' he replied, 'I am returning directly
to Shadowkeep. Minala, I would speak with the others.'
    'Who? Why?'
    Cotillion frowned, then said, 'The renegade. Your Tiste
Edur. I have ... questions.'
    'I have never seen such skill with the spear. Trull Sengar
kills, and kills, and then, when it is done and he kneels in
the blood of the kin he has slain, he weeps.'
    'Do they know him?' Cotillion asked. 'Do they call him
by name?'
    'No. He says they are Den-Ratha, and young. Newly
blooded. But he then says, it is only a matter of time. Those
Edur that succeed in withdrawing, they must be reporting
the presence of an Edur among the defenders of the First
Throne. Trull says that one of his own tribe will be among
the attackers, and he will be recognized – and it is then, he
says, that they will come in force, with warlocks. He says,
Cotillion, that he will bring ruin upon us all.'
    'Does he contemplate leaving?' Cotillion asked.
    She scowled. 'To that he gives no answer. If he did, I
would not blame him. And,' she added, 'if he chooses to
stay, I may well die with his name the last curse I voice in
this world. Or, more likely, the second last name.'
    He nodded, understanding. 'Trull Sengar remains, then,
out of honour.'
    'And that honour spells our doom.'
    Cotillion ran a hand through his hair, mildly surprised to
discover how long it had grown. J need to find a hair hacker.
One trustworthy enough with a blade at my neck. He considered
that. Well, is it any wonder gods must do such
mundane tasks for themselves? Listen to yourself, Cotillion –
your mind would flee from this moment. Meet this woman's
courage with your own. 'The arrival of warlocks among the
Tiste Edur will prove a difficult force to counter—'
    'We have the bonecaster,' she said. 'As yet he has
remained hidden. Inactive. For, like Trull Sengar, he is a
lodestone.'
    Cotillion nodded. 'Will you lead me in, Minala?'
    In answer she turned about and gestured that he follow.
    The cavern beyond was a nightmare vision. The air was
fetid, thick as that of a slaughterhouse. Dried blood covered
the stone floor like a crumbling, pasty carpet. Pale faces –
too young by far – turned to look upon Cotillion with
ancient eyes drained of all hope. The god saw Apt, the
demon's black hide ribboned with grey, barely healed scars,
and crouched at her lone forefoot, Panek, his huge, faceted
eye glittering. The forehead above that ridged eye displayed
a poorly stitched slice, result of a blow that had peeled back
his scalp from just above one side of the eye's orbital, across
to the temple opposite.
    Three figures rose, emerging from gloom as they walked
towards Cotillion. The Patron God of Assassins halted. Monok Ochem, the clanless T'lan Imass known as Onrack the
Broken, and the renegade Tiste Edur, Trail Sengar. I wonder,
would these three, along with Ibra Gholan, have been enough? Did
we need to fling Minala and her young charges into this horror?
    Then, as they drew closer, Cotillion saw Onrack and
Trull more clearly. Beaten down, slashed, cut. Half of
Onrack's skeletal head was shorn away. Ribs had caved in
from some savage blow, and the upper ridge of his hip, on
the left side, had been chopped away, revealing the porous
interior of the bone. Trull was without armour, and had
clearly entered battle lacking such protection. The
majority of his wounds – deep gashes, puncture holes –
were on his thighs, beneath the hips and to the outside
– signs of a spear-wielder's style of parrying with the middle-haft
of the weapon. The Edur could barely walk, leaning
heavily on the battered spear in his hands.
    Cotillion found it difficult to meet the Edur's exhausted,
despair-filled eyes. 'When the time comes,' he said to the
grey-skinned warrior, 'help shall arrive.'
    Onrack the Broken spoke. 'When they win the First
Throne, they will realize the truth. That it is not for them.
They can hold it, but they