House of Chains (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #4)

House of Chains (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #4) Page 250

‘What of your new master, this Crippled God?’

‘He has abandoned me. It would appear that there are acceptable levels of imperfection-and unacceptable levels of imperfection. I have lost my usefulness.’

‘Another god that understands nothing of what it is to be a god,’ Karsa rumbled, walking over to his pack.

‘What will you do now, Karsa Orlong?’

‘I go in search of a horse.’

‘Ah, a Jhag horse. Yes, they can be found to the southwest of here, on the odhan. Rare. You may be searching for a long time.’

The Teblor shrugged. He loosened the strings that closed the mouth of the pack and walked over to the shambles that was Siballe. He lifted the part of her containing the head and right shoulder and arm.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Do you need the rest?’

‘No. What-’

Karsa pushed her head, shoulder and arm into his pack, then drew the strings once more. He would need a harness and a scabbard for the sword, but that would have to wait. He shrugged into the pack’s straps, then straightened and leaned the sword over his right shoulder.

A final glance around.

The hearth still raged with a sorcerous fire, though it had begun flickering more rapidly now, as if using up the last of its unseen fuel. He thought about kicking gravel over it to douse it, then shrugged and turned to the cave mouth.

As he came to the entrance, two figures suddenly rose before him, blocking the light.

Karsa’s sword whipped across his path, the flat of the blade thundering against both figures, sending them flying off the ledge.

‘Get out of my way,’ the warrior growled, stepping out into the sunlight.

He spared neither intruder another glance as he set off along the trail, where it angled southwest.

Trull Sengar groaned, then opened his eyes. He lifted his head, wincing at the countless sharp pains pressing into his back. That flint sword had thrown him down a scree of stone chips… although it had been hapless Onrack who had taken the brunt of the blow. Even so, his chest ached, and he feared his ribs were bruised, if not cracked.

The T’lan Imass was awkwardly regaining its feet a dozen paces away.

Trull spat and said, ‘Had I known the door was barred, I would have knocked first. That was a damned Thelomen Toblakai.’

The Tiste Edur saw Onrack’s head snap round to stare back up at the cave.

‘What is it?’ Trull demanded. ‘He’s coming down to finish us?’

‘No,’ the T’lan Imass replied. ‘In that cave… the Warren of Tellann lingers…’

‘What of it?’

Onrack began climbing the rock slide toward the cavern’s mouth.

Hissing his frustration, Trull clambered upward and followed, slowly, pausing every few steps until he was able to find his breath once more.

When he entered the cave he gave a shout of alarm. Onrack was standing inside a fire, the rainbow-coloured flames engulfing him. And the T’lan Imass held, in its right hand, the shattered remains of another of its kind.

Trull stepped forward, then his feet skidded out from under him and he fell hard onto a bed of sharp flint chips. Pain thundered from his ribs, and it was some time before he could breathe once more. Cursing, he rolled onto his side-gingerly-then carefully climbed upright. The air was hot as a forge.

Then the cavern was suddenly dark-the strange fire had gone out.

A pair of hands closed on Trull’s shoulders.

‘The renegades have fled,’ said Onrack. ‘But they are close. Come.’

‘Right, lead on, friend.’

A moment before they emerged into the sunlight, sudden shock raced through Trull Sengar. A pair of hands .

Karsa skirted the valley side, making his way along what passed for a trail. Countless rockslides had buried it every ten paces or so, forcing him to scramble across uncertain, shifting gravel, raising clouds of dust in his wake.

On second consideration, he realized that one of the two strangers who had blocked his exit from the cave had been a T’lan Imass. Not surprising, since the entire valley, with all its quarries, mines and tombs, was a site holy to them… assuming anything could be holy to creatures that were undead. And the other- not human at all. But familiar none the less. Ah, like the ones on the ship. The grey-skinned ones I killed .

Perhaps he should retrace his route. His sword had yet to drink real blood, after all. Barring his own, of course.

Ahead, the trail cut sharply upward, out of the valley. Thoughts of having to repeat this dust-fouled, treacherous route decided him. He would save the blooding of his sword for more worthy enemies. He made his way upward.