A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

finger spun the rings round, then
wrapped them close as the chain coiled tight. A moment
later he reversed the motion. His right hand thus occupied,
coiling and uncoiling the chain, he set off.
    Southward he went, into and out of swaths of shadow
and sunlight, his footfalls almost soundless, the snap of the
chain the only noise accompanying him. Tied to his back
was a horn and bloodwood bow, unstrung. At his right hip
was a quiver of arrows, bloodwood shafts and hawk-feather
fletching; at the quiver's moss-packed base, the arrowheads
were iron, teardrop-shaped and slotted, the blades on each
head forming an X pattern. In addition to this weapon he
carried a baldric-slung plain rapier in a silver-banded
turtleshell scabbard. The entire scabbard and its fastening
rings were bound with sheepskin to deaden the noise as he
padded along. These details to stealth were one and all
undermined by the spinning and snapping chain.
    The afternoon waned on, until he moved through
unbroken shadow as he skirted the eastern flank of each
successive valley he traversed, ever southward. Through it
all the chain twirled, the rings clacking upon contacting
each other, then whispering out and spinning yet again.
    At dusk he came to a ledge overlooking a broader valley,
this one running more or less east–west, whereupon,
satisfied with his vantage point, he settled into a squat and
waited. Chain whispering, rings clacking.
    Two thousand spins later, the rings clattered, then went
still, trapped inside the fist of his right hand. His eyes,
which had held fixed on the western mouth of the pass,
unmindful of the darkness, had caught movement. He
tucked the chain and rings back into the pouch lining the
inside of his shirt, then rose.
    And began the long descent.
    * * *
    The Onyx Wizards, purest of the blood, had long since
ceased to struggle against the strictures of the prison they
had created for themselves. Antiquity and the countless
traditions that were maintained to keep its memory alive
were the chains and shackles they had come to accept. To
accept, they said, was to grasp the importance of responsibility,
and if such a thing as a secular god could exist, then
to the dwellers of Andara, the last followers of the Black-
Winged Lord, that god's name was Responsibility. And it
had, over the decades since the Letherii Conquest, come to
rival in power the Black-Winged Lord himself.
    The young archer, nineteen years of age, was not alone
in his rejection of the stolid, outdated ways of the Onyx
Wizards. And like many of his compatriots of similar age –
the first generation born to the Exile – he had taken a
name for himself that bespoke the fullest measure of that
rejection. Clan name cast away, all echoes of the old
language – both the common tongue and the priest dialect
– dispensed with. His clan was that of the Exiled, now.
    For all these gestures of independence, a direct command
delivered by Ordant Brid, Reve Master of the Rock among
the Onyx Order, could not be ignored.
    And so the young warrior named Clip of the Exiled
had exited the eternally dark monastery of Andara, had
climbed the interminable cliff wall and eventually emerged
into hated sunlight to travel overland beneath the blinded
stars of day, arriving at an overlook above the main pass.
    The small party of travellers he now approached were
not traders. No baggage train of goods accompanied them.
No shackled slaves stumbled in their wake. They rode
Letherii horses, yet even with the presence of at least
three Letherii, Clip knew that this was no imperial
delegation. No, these were refugees. And they were being
hunted.
    And among them walks the brother of my god.
    As Clip drew nearer, as yet unseen by the travellers, he
sensed a presence flowing alongside him. He snorted his
disgust. 'A slave of the Tiste Edur, tell me, do you not know
your own blood? We will tear you free, ghost – something
you should have done for yourself long ago.'
    'I am unbound,' came the hissing reply.
    'Then I suppose you are safe enough from us.'
    'Your blood is impure.'
    Clip smiled in the darkness. 'Yes, I am a cauldron of failures.
Nerek, Letherii – even D'rhasilhani.'
    'And Tiste Andii.'
    'Then greet me, brother.'
    Rasping laughter. 'He has sensed you.'
    'Was I sneaking up on them, ghost?'
    'They have halted and now await.'
    'Good, but can they guess what I will say to them? Can
you?'
    'You are impertinent. You lack respect. You are about to
come face to face with Silchas Ruin, the