A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

striding forward
and taking his sword into both hands.
     
    Minala's face looked old, drawn with days and nights of fear
and worry, the relentless pressure of waiting, of looking
upon her adopted children, rank on rank, and seeing
naught but soldiers, who had learned to kill, who had
learned to watch their comrades die.
    All to defend a vacant throne.
    Trull Sengar could comprehend the mocking absurdity of
this stand. A ghost had claimed the First Throne, a thing of
shadows so faded from this world even the undead T'lan
Imass looked bloated with excess beside it. A ghost, a god,
a gauze-thin web-tracing of desire, possessiveness and
nefarious designs – this is what had claimed the seat of
power, over all the T'lan Imass, and would now see it held,
blocked against intruders.
    There were broken T'lan Imass out there, somewhere,
who sought to usurp the First Throne, to take its power and
gift it to the Crippled God – to the force that now chained
all of the Tiste Edur. The Crippled God, who had given
Rhulad a sword riven with a terrible curse. Yet, for that
fallen creature, an army of Edur was not enough. An army
of Letherii was not enough. No, it wanted the T'lan Imass.
    And we would stop him, this Crippled God. This pathetic
little army of ours.
    Onrack had promised anger, with the battle that would,
inevitably, come at last. But Trull knew that anger
would not be enough, nor what he himself felt: desperation.
Nor Minala's harsh terror, nor, he now believed, the stolid
insensibility of Monok Ochem and Ibra Gholan – that too,
was doomed to fail. What a menagerie we are.
    He pulled his gaze from Minala, glanced over to where
stood Monok Ochem, motionless before the arched
entranceway leading into the throne room. The bonecaster
had not moved in at least three cycles of sleeping and
waking. The silver-tipped fur on his shoulders shimmered
vaguely in the lantern light. Then, as Trull studied the
figure, he saw the head cock slightly.
    Well—
    A child's shrieking, echoing from up the passage,
brought Trull Sengar to his feet. His spear leaned against a
wall – snatching it in one hand he rushed towards the cries.
    Aystar suddenly appeared, arms outflung, her face a blur
of white – 'Steth's dead! He's been killed! He's dead —'
    And then Minala was in the child's path, wrapping her
in a fierce hug then twisting round. 'Panek! Gather the
soldiers!'
    The second line of defence, halfway between Onrack's
position and the main encampment, was held by Ibra
Gholan, and this T'lan Imass turned as Trull Sengar
approached.
    'Onrack battles,' Ibra Gholan said. 'To slow their
advance. There are many Tiste Edur this time. And
humans. A shaman is among them, an Edur, wielding
chaotic power. This time, Trull Sengar, they mean to take
the First Throne.'
    He could hear sounds of fighting now. Onrack, alone
against a mass of Trull's own kin. And a damned warlock. 'Get Monok Ochem up here, then! If that warlock decides
to unleash a wave of sorcery, we're finished.'
    'Perhaps you are—'
    'You don't understand, you sack of bones! Chaotic sorcery! We need to kill that bastard!' And Trull moved
forward, leaving Ibra Gholan behind.
     
    Ahlrada Ahn watched three of his warriors fall to the T'lan
Imass's huge stone sword – the undead bastard had yet to
take a step back from the narrow choke-point in the
passage. Ahlrada Ahn turned to Sathbaro Rangar. 'We
need to drive that thing back! It won't tire – it can hold
that position for ever!'
    Taralack Veed pushed into view. 'Send Icarium against
it!'
    'The Jhag is empty,' the warlock said dismissively.
'Withdraw your warriors, Ahlrada Ahn. And get those
Letherii to cease with their arrows – I do not want an errant
shaft in the back.' Sathbaro Rangar then moved forward.
    And Ahlrada Ahn saw a figure coming up behind the
T'lan Imass, a figure wielding a spear – tall, hidden in
shadows, yet ... a familiar silhouette, the fluid movement
– he saw an arrow hiss past the undead's shoulder, then saw
that spear shaft flick it aside.
    No. This cannot be. I am mistaken. 'Sathbaro!'
    The T'lan Imass suddenly yielded its position, stepping
back into darkness, and then it and the other figure moved
away, up the passage—
    Sathbaro Rangar hobbled closer to the choke-point,
power building round him, a silver-etched rising wave,
flickering argent. The damp stone of the fissure's walls
began snapping, a strange percussive sound as water burst
into steam. A large sheet of rock near the narrowed