A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

monstrosity – who had
crushed Onrack against a wall as if he had been a sack of
melons – suddenly plunge among the Edur crowded behind
him, and begin a terrible slaughter.
    The keening sound rose yet higher, bringing with it a
swirling, cavorting wind of raw power. Building – flailing
the flesh from those Edur and Letherii closest to him – a
nightmare had arrived, roaring a promise of obliteration.
Trull stared, disbelieving, as blood blossomed in the air in a
dreadful mist, as bodies fell – two, three at a time, then four,
five – the warriors seemed to melt away, toppling, spun
round by savage impacts—
    A stained hand grasped his left forearm, drew him round.
And, through the terrible keening: 'Trull – we shall die
now, all of us – but, I have found you. Trull Sengar, I am
sorry – for the Shorning, for all ... all the rest—'
    Minala stumbled close. 'Where is Monok Ochem?' she
demanded, spitting blood – a spear had thrust into her
chest, just beneath the right clavicle, and her face was
deathly white. 'Where is the bonecaster?'
    Trull pointed, back towards the entranceway to the
throne room. 'He went through there – like a knife-stuck
dog—' And then he stared, for Ibra Gholan now stood in
that archway, as if waiting.
    All at once words were impossible, and they were pushed
back by a raging wind, spinning, buffeting, so strong it
lifted dead children into the air, whirled them round, limbs
flailing about. The Jhag stood, twenty paces away, amidst
heaps of corpses – and beyond him, Trull could see now,
shimmered a gate; wavering as if jarred loose, unanchored
to the rock floor, it appeared to be edging ever closer, as if
pulled forward by the storm of power. Beyond it was a
tunnel, seeming to spin, revealing flashes of a vast killing
field, then, at the centre and impossibly distant, something
like a rocking ship on rough seas.
    Minala had staggered past, edging round Ibra Gholan
and vanishing into the throne room—
    The Jhag, silver light blazing from his eyes, then turned
round—
    And, leaning forward, with stilted overlong strides – as if
his own flesh and bone had become impediments to the
rage within him – he marched closer.
    Spirits bless me – Trull launched himself to meet the
apparition.
    The sword seemed to come at him from everywhere at
once. Trull had no opportunity for counter-attack, the shaft
of the spear ringing, jumping in his hands with every blow
he desperately shunted aside—
    And then Ahlrada Ahn attacked from the Jhag's right –
two lightning clashes as the lone single-edged sword batted
aside both Merude cutlasses, then licked out, and blood
exploded from Ahlrada Ahn's chest, an impact hard
enough to fling the warrior from the ground, legs wheeling
over his head, the body then sailing, wind-tossed and
loosing sheets of crimson, through the air.
    The Jhag redoubled his attack on Trull, the keening sound bursting
    from his mouth in a wail of outrage. Blurring sword, bone-jarring blocks,
    one after another – and still the Jhag could not get past.
     
    Mostly buried beneath leaking corpses, Varat Taun lay
motionless, one eye fixed on the battle between the two
figures, Icarium and a Tiste Edur – it could not last, against
the Jhag no-one could, yet that spear-wielder held on,
defiant, displaying a skill so profound, so absolute, that the
Letherii found himself unable to even draw breath.
    Behind the Tiste Edur, children were retreating towards
a rough-carved doorway at the apex of the chasm tunnel.
    The storm was a whirlwind now, circling the two
battling figures – gods, they moved faster than Varat's eye
could follow, but now, finally, that spear began to splinter
amidst the frenzy of parries—
    Varat Taun heard weeping, closer to hand, and he shifted
his gaze a fraction, to see Taralack Veed huddled against a
wall, curled up and sobbing in terror. He had been clawing
at the stone, as if seeking to dig his way out, and bloody
streaks glistened on the latticed rock. You wanted this, you
bastard. Now live with it.
    Another splintering sound brought his gaze round once
more, and he saw that the spear had shattered – the Edur
flung himself backward, somehow avoiding a lateral slash of
the sword that would have decapitated him. Roaring,
Icarium advanced to finish off his foe, then suddenly
ducked, twisted and threw himself to one side—
    —as a midnight-hued demon swirled from shadows, the
wide-mawed head on its sinuous neck darting out, jaws
closing on