Dust of Dreams

reined in, fought with her panicking horse. Gravel skittered. The beast snorted, hoofs stamping in the sluicing streams and puddles.
    ‘We are who you seek.’
    She could not tell which one the voice came from. She grasped the pouch containing the seething dirt, gift of the Atri-Ceda Aranict, and gasped at its sudden heat.
    They were corpses one and all. T’lan Imass. Battered, broken, limbs missing, weapons dangling from seemingly senseless hands of bone wrapped in blackened skin. Long hair, dirty blond and rust red, was plastered down round their desiccated faces, where rainwater ran like eternal tears.
    Breathing hard, Masan Gilani studied them for a time, and then she said, ‘Just five of you? No others?’
    ‘We are who remain.’
    She thought the one speaking was the one standing closest to her, but could not be certain. The rain was a roar around them all, the wind moaning as if trapped in an enormous cave. ‘There should be . . . more,’ she insisted. ‘There was a vision—’
    ‘We are the ones you seek.’
    ‘Are you summoned then?’
    ‘We are.’ And the lead T’lan Imass pointed to the pouch at her hip. ‘Thenik is incomplete.’
    ‘Which one of you is Thenik?’
    The creature on the outside right stepped forward. Every bone looked to be shattered, with splinters and chips missing. A crazed web of cracks broke up its face beneath a helm made from the skull of some unknown beast.
    Fumbling with the ties, Masan finally managed to pull free the pouch. She tossed it over. Thenik made no move to catch it. The pouch landed at its feet, sank into a puddle.
    ‘Thenik thanks you,’ said the speaker. ‘I am Urugal the Woven. With me isThenik the Shattered, Beroke Soft Voice, Kahlb the Silent Hunter and Halad the Giant. We are the Unbound, who once numbered seven. Now we are five. Soon we shall be seven again—there are fallen kin in this land. Some refuse the enemy. Some will not follow the one who leads nowhere.’
    Frowning, Masan Gilani shook her head. ‘You’ve lost me. No matter. I was sent to find you. Now we must return to the Bonehunters—my army—it’s where—’
    ‘Yes, she is the hunter of bones indeed,’ Urugal said. ‘Her hunt is soon complete. Ride on your beast. We shall follow.’
    She wiped water from her eyes. ‘Thought there’d be more of you,’ she muttered, gathering her reins and dragging her horse round. ‘Can you keep up?’ she asked over one shoulder.
    ‘You are the banner before us, mortal.’
    Masan Gilani’s frown deepened. She’d heard something like that before . . . somewhere.
     
    Four leagues to the northwest, Onos T’oolan suddenly halted, the first time in days. Something not far away had brushed his senses, but now it was gone.
T’lan Imass. Strangers.
He hesitated, as the more distant and altogether different wave of compulsion returned, insistent, desperate. He knew its flavour, had known its flavour for weeks now. This was what Toc the Younger had sought, what he had demanded of the First Sword.
    But he was no longer the friend Toc once knew, just as Toc was no longer the friend Tool himself remembered. The past was both dead and alive, but between them it was simply dead.
    The summons was Malazan. It was the claim of alliance as had been forged long ago, between the Emperor and the Logros T’lan Imass. Somewhere to the east, a Malazan force waited. Danger approached, and the T’lan Imass must stand with allies of old. Such was duty. Such was the ink of honour, written so deep as to stain the immortal soul.
    He defied the command. Duty was dead. Honour was a lie—see what the Senan had done to his wife, his children. Mortality was the realm of deceit; the sordid room of horror hid in the house of the living, its walls crusted and streaked, dark stains on the warped floor. Dust crowded the corners, dust made of skin flakes and snarls of hair, nail clippings and clots of phlegm. Every house had its secret room, where memories howled in the thick silence.
    He had once been of the Logros. He was no longer. He had one duty now and it was truly lifeless. Nothing would turn him aside, not the wishes of Toc the Younger, not the mad aspirations of Olar Ethil—oh yes, he knew she was close, far too clever to come within his reach, knowing well that he would kill her, destroy her utterly. Demands and expectations descended like that distant rain to the southwest, but it all washed from him and left no trace.
    There had been a time when Onos