A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

hunted was such exquisite
pleasure that the Hounds never turned the game. Let the
chase go on, and on. Dance from the path of that rage, all
that blind need.
    All things will cast a shadow. If light blazes infernal,
a shadow can grow solid, outlines sharp, motion rippling
within. Shape is a reflection, but not all reflections are
true. Some shadows lie. Deception born of imagination
and imagination born of fear, or perhaps it is the other way
round and fear ignites imagination – regardless, shadows
will thrive.
    In the dark conjurings of a sentient mind, all that is
imagined can be made real. The beast, and the shadow it
casts. The beast's shadow, and the light from which it is
born. Each torn away, made distinct, made into things of
nightmare.
    Philosophers and fools might claim that light is without
shape, that it finds its existence in painting the shape of
other things, as wayward as the opening of an eye. That,
in the absence of such things, it slants unseen, indeed,
invisible. Without other things to strike upon, it does not
cavort, does not bounce, does not paint and reflect. Rather,
it flows eternal. If this is so, then light is unique in the
universe.
    But the universe holds to one law above all others: nothing is unique.
    Fools and philosophers have not, alas, seen the light.
    Conjure the shapes of beasts, of Hounds and monsters,
fiends and nightmares. Of light, of dark, and of shadow. A
handful of clay, a gifted breath of life, and forces will seethe
in the conflicts inscribed upon their souls.
    The Deragoth are the dark, and in their savage solidity
would claim ownership of the shadows they cast. Lock and
Pallid, however, are the light that gave the Deragoth shape,
without whom neither the Deragoth nor the Hounds of
Shadow would exist. If the hunters and the hunted so will,
one day the beasts shall come together, baleful in mutual
regard, perhaps even eager to annihilate one another, and
then, in a single instant of dumbfounded astonishment,
vanish one and all. Ha hah.
    Not all instincts guide one to behaviours of survival. Life
is mired in stupidity, after all, and the smarter the life, the
stupider it can be. The Hounds of Shadow were neither
brilliant nor brainless. They were, in fact, rather clever.
    Salutations to this tripartite universe, so mutually
insistent. And why not? It doesn't even exist, except in the
caged mind that so needs simplification.
    A mind, mused Cotillion, like mine.
    He glanced across at his companion. But not his. When
you stand at the centre of the game, no questions arise. How
can that be? What is it like, to be the storm's eye? What
happens, dear Shadowthrone, when you blink?
    'This,' muttered Shadowthrone, 'was unexpected.'
    'A damned complication,' Cotillion agreed. 'We need
the Hounds there, just to ensure nothing goes awry.'
    Shadowthrone snorted. 'It always goes awry. Gods below,
I've had to use that mad High Priest again.'
    'Iskaral Pust.' After a moment, Cotillion realized he
was smiling. He quickly cast away that expression, since if
Shadowthrone saw it he might well go apoplectic. 'Lovely
as she is, Sordiko Qualm is not insurance enough, not for
this, anyway.'
    'Nor is Pust!' snapped Shadowthrone.
    They watched the Hounds drawing closer, sensed the
beasts' collective curiosity at this unplanned intercession.
Their task now, after all, was simple. Straightforward,
even.
    Cotillion glanced back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing
on the gaunt figure walking towards them. Well, not precisely
– the stranger was on his way to a damned reunion,
and what would come of that?
    'Too many histories, too many half-truths and outright
lies.' Shadowthrone snarled every word of that statement.
'Pups of the Tiste Edur – any one will do, it seems, if they
know the old commands. But now . . .'
    'According to my, er, research, its name is Tulas Shorn,
and no, I do not know the gender and what seems to be
left of it doesn't look as if it will provide enough detail to
decide either way.'
    Shadowthrone grunted, and then said, 'At least it's
sembled – oh, how I hate dragons! If vermin had a throne,
they'd be on it.'
    'Everywhere there's a mess, they're in the middle of it,
all right. Eleint, Soletaken – hardly a difference, when it
comes to trouble.'
    'The chaos of their blood, Cotillion. Imagine how dull it
would be without them . . . and I so cherish dullness.'
    If you say so.
    'So,' Shadowthrone resumed, 'how does all this fit with
your ridiculously convoluted