A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

hastening towards the flickering
gate.
    They were not returning to the ships.
    Taralack Veed had heard, from Twilight, that an Edur
commander named Hanradi Khalag had been sending his
warriors against another foe, through a gate – one that led,
in a journey of days, to yet another private war. And it was
these enemies who would now face the wrath of these Edur
here. And that of Icarium.
    So they shall see, after all. That is good.
    At his side there came a sound from the Jhag that drew
Taralack Veed around in surprise. Low laughter.
    'You are amused?' he asked Icarium in a hoarse whisper.
    'Of Shadow both,' the Jhag said enigmatically, 'the
weaver deceives the worshipper. But I will say nothing. I
am, after all, empty.'
    'I do not understand.'
    'No matter, Taralack Veed. No matter.'
     
    The throne room was abandoned once more, dust settling,
shadows slinking back to their predictable haunts. And,
from the shattered throne itself, there grew a faint
shimmering, a blurring of edges, then a wavering that
would have alarmed any who witnessed it – but of such
sentient creatures there were none.
    The broken, crushed fragments of wood melted away.
    And once more there on the dais stood the Throne of
Shadow. And stepping free of it, a shadowy form more solid
than any other. Hunched, short, shrouded in folds of midnight
gauze. From the indistinct smudge where a face
belonged, only the eyes were visible, momentarily, a glinting
flash.
    The figure moved away from the throne, towards
the doorway ... silver and ebony cane tapping on the
pavestones.
    A short while later it reached the temple's entrance and
looked out. There, at the gate, walked the last of them. A
Gral, and the chilling, dread apparition that was Icarium.
    A catch of breath from the huddling shadow beneath the
arched frame, as the Jhag paused once to glance back.
    And Shadowthrone caught, in Icarium's expression,
something like a smile, then the faintest of nods, before the
Jhag turned away.
    The god cocked his head, listening to the party hurry
back up the path.
    A short time later and they were gone, back through
their gate.
    Meticulous illusion, crafted with genius, triggered by the
arrival of strangers – of, indeed, any but Shadowthrone
himself – triggered to transform into a shattered, powerless
wreck. Meanas, bound with Mockra, flung across the span
of the chamber, invisible strands webbing the formal
entrance. Mockra, filaments of suggestion, invitation, the
surrendering of natural scepticism, easing the way to
witness the broken throne.
    Lesser warrens, yet manipulated by a god's hands, and
not any god's hands, either. No ... mine!
    The Edur were gone.
    'Idiots.'
     
    'Three sorcerer kings,' Destriant Run'Thurvian said, 'rule
Shal-Morzinn. They will contest our passage, Adjunct
Tavore Paran, and this cannot be permitted.'
    'We would seek to negotiate,' the Adjunct said. 'Indeed,
to purchase supplies from them. Why would they oppose
this?'
    'Because it pleases them to do so.'
    'And they are formidable?'
    'Formidable? It may well prove,' the Destriant said, 'that
even with the assistance of your sorcerers, including your
High Mage here, we will suffer severe, perhaps devastating
losses should we clash with them. Losses sufficient to drive
us back, even to destroy us utterly.'
    The Adjunct frowned across at Admiral Nok, then at
Quick Ben.
    The latter shrugged. 'I don't even know who they are and
I hate them already.'
    Keneb grunted. Some High Mage.
    'What, Destriant Run'Thurvian, do you suggest?'
    'We have prepared for this, Adjunct, and with the assistance
of your sorcerers, we believe we can succeed in our
intention.'
    'A gate,' Quick Ben said.
    'Yes. The Realm of Fanderay and Togg possesses seas.
Harsh, fierce seas, but navigable nonetheless. It would not
be wise to extend our journey in that realm overlong – the
risks are too vast – but I believe we can survive them long
enough to, upon re-emerging, find ourselves off the Dal
Honese Horn of Quon Tali.'
    'How long will that take?' Admiral Nok asked.
    'Days instead of months, sir,' the Destriant replied.
    'Risks, you said,' Keneb ventured. 'What kind of risks?'
    'Natural forces, Fist. Storms, submerged ice; in that
realm the sea levels have plunged, for ice grips many lands.
It is a world caught in the midst of catastrophic changes.
Even so, the season we shall enter is the least violent – in
that, we are most fortunate.'
    Quick Ben snorted. 'Forgive me, Destriant, but I sense
nothing