A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

does,
swallowing this tilted, dying realm.'
    'The Shadow Realm is dying , Quick Ben?'
    The wizard licked his lips – a nervous gesture Trull had
seen before from the tall, thin man – then shrugged. 'I
think so. With every border an open wound, it's not that
surprising. Now, quiet everyone. I need to concentrate.'
    Trull watched as Quick Ben closed his eyes.
    A moment later his body grew indistinct, grainy at its
edges, then began wavering, into and out of solidity.
    The Tiste Edur, still leaning on his spear, grinned over at
Onrack. 'Well, old friend, it seems we wander the unknown
yet again.'
    'I regret nothing, Trull Sengar.'
    'It's virtually the opposite for me – with the exception of
talking you into freeing me when I was about to drown in
the Nascent – which, I've just realized, doesn't look much
different from this place. Flooding worlds. Is this more
pervasive than we realize?'
    A clattering of bones as the T'lan Imass shrugged. 'I
would know something, Trull Sengar. When peace comes
to a warrior . . .'
    The Edur's eyes narrowed on the battered undead. 'How
do you just cast off all the rest? The surge of pleasure at the
height of battle? The rush of emotions, each one threatening
to overwhelm you, drown you? That sizzling sense of
being alive? Onrack, I thought your kind felt . . . nothing.'
    'With awakening memories,' Onrack replied, 'so too
other . . . forces of the soul.' The T'lan Imass lifted one
withered hand. 'This calm on all sides – it mocks me.'
    'Better a wild storm?'
    'I think, yes. A foe to fight. Trull Sengar, should I join
this water as dust, I do not think I would return. Oblivion
would take me with the promise of a struggle ended. Not
what I desire, friend, for that would mean abandoning you.
And surrendering my memories. Yet what does a warrior do
when peace is won?'
    'Take up fishing,' Quick Ben muttered, eyes still closed,
body still wavering. 'Now enough words from you two. This
isn't easy.'
    Wavering once more in and out of existence, then,
suddenly – gone.
    Ever since Shadowthrone had stolen him away – when
Kalam needed him the most – Quick Ben had quietly
seethed. Repaying a debt in one direction had meant
betraying a friend in another. Unacceptable.
    Diabolical.
    And if Shadowthrone thinks he has my loyalty just because he pushed Kal into the Deadhouse, then he is truly as mad as we all think he is. Oh, I'm sure the Azath and whatever horrid guardian resides in there would welcome Kalam readily enough. Mount his head on the wall above the mantel, maybe – all right, that's not very likely. But the Azath collects. That's what it does, and now it has my oldest friend. So, how in Hood's name do I get him out?
    Damn you, Shadowthrone.
    But such anger left him feeling unbalanced, making concentration
difficult. And the skin rotting from my legs isn't helping either. Still, they needed a way out. Cotillion hadn't
explained much. No, he'd just expected us to figure things out for ourselves. What that means is that there's only one real direction. Wouldn't do to have us get lost now, would it?
    Slightly emboldened – a momentary triumph over diffidence
– Quick Ben concentrated, his senses reaching out to
the surrounding ether. Solid, clammy, a smooth surface
yielding like sponge under the push of imagined hands. The
fabric of this realm, the pocked skin of a ravaged world. He
began applying more pressure, seeking . . . soft spots, weaknesses – I know you exist.
    Ah, you are now aware of me – I can feel that. Curious, you feel almost . . . feminine. Well, a first time for everything. What had been clammy beneath his touch was now simply
cool. Hood's breath, I'm not sure I like the images accompanying this thought of pushing through.
    Beyond his sense of touch, there was nothing. Nothing
for his eyes to find; no scent in the tepid air; no sound
beyond the faint swish of blood in the body – there one
moment, gone the next as he struggled to separate his soul,
free it to wander.
    This isn't that bad—
    A grisly tearing sound, then a vast, inexorable inhalation,
tearing his spirit loose – yanking him forward and through,
stumbling, into acrid swirling heat, thick clouds closing on all
sides, soft sodden ground underfoot. He groped forward, his
lungs filling with a pungent vapour that made his head reel. Gods, what sickness is this? I can't breathe —
    The wind spun, drove him staggering forward – sudden
chill, stones turning beneath his feet, blessed clean air that
he