Sometimes, I'm a geeky little fan-boy. So here we go...
Now, she thought, the only thing left to do is die. She rolled onto her back.
With a growl the Barghast was standing beside her, ax raised high.
Lorn was in a good position to see the skeletal hand bursting from the earth beneath the Barghast. It grasped an ankle. Bones snapped and the warrior screamed. Vaguely, as she watched, she wondered where the other two savages had gone. All sounds of fighting seemed to have stopped, but the ground rumbled with a growing, urgent thunder.
The Barghast stared down at the hand crushing his shin. He screamed again as the wide, rippled blade of a flint sword shot up between his legs. The ax left the warrior's hands as he frantically brought them down in an effort to deflect the sword, twisting to one side and kicking out with his free leg. It all came too late. The sword impaled him, jamming against his hipbone and lifting him from the ground. His dying shriek rose skyward.
Lorn climbed to her feet with difficulty, her right arm hanging useless at her side. She identified the thundering sound as the beat of hoofs, and turned in the direction from which they came. A Malazan. As that fact sank in, she swung her attention from the rider and looked around. Both her guards were dead, and arrows jutted from two Barghast bodies.
She took a shallow breath - all she could manage as pain spread across her chest - and gazed upon the creature that had risen from the earth. It was cloaked in rotting furs, and it stood over the warrior's body, one leg still clutched in its hand. The other hand gripped the sword, which had been pushed the length of the Barghast's body, the point emerging from his neck.
The day promised to be hot. The Adjunct loosened the leather thongs between her breasts, revealing the fine mail hauberk beneath. By midday she would reach the first wellspring, where she would replenish her supply of water. She ran a hand across the surface of one of the bladders strapped to her saddle. It came away wet with condensation. She passed her hand across her lips.
The voice that spoke beside her jolted her in the saddle and her mount snorted in fear and sidestepped.
"I will walk with you," Onos T'oolan said, "for a time."
Lorn glared at the T'lan Imass. "I would rather you announced your arrival," she said tightly, "from a distance."
"As you wish." Onos T'oolan sank into the ground like so much dust.
The Adjunct cursed. Then she saw him waiting a hundred yards ahead of her, backlit by the rising sun. The crimson sky seemed to have cast a red flame about the warrior. The effect jangled her nerves, as if she looked upon a scene that touched her deepest, oldest memories - memories that went beyond her own life. The T'lan Imass stood unmoving until she reached him, then fell into step beside her.
The Jaghut swung around, eyes narrowing. "What game is this?"
The man smiled. "Why, Kruppe's game, of course."
A sound behind Raest alerted him, but too late. He spun - even as a massive flint sword crunched through his left shoulder, tearing a path that snapped ribs, sliced through sternum and spine. The blow dragged the Tyrant down and to one side. Raest sprawled, pieces of his body striking the ground around him. He stared up at the T'lan Imass.
Kruppe's shadow moved over Raest's face and the Tyrant met the mortal man's watery eyes.
"He is Clanless, of course. Unbound and beyond binding, yet the ancient call commands him still - to his dismay. Imagine his surprise at being found out. Onos T'oolan, Sword of the First Empire, is once more called upon by the blood that once warmed his limbs, his heart, his life of so very long ago."
The T'lan Imass spoke. "You have strange dreams, mortal."
..........
"As I said, things have changed," K'rul said quietly. "You have a choice, Raest. Onos T'oolan can destroy you. You have no understanding of what his title of Sword signifies - he is without equal in this world."
Forty paces from the tower he almost stumbled over a corpse. A fine layer of dust had thoroughly disguised its presence, and that dust, now disturbed by Toc's efforts to step clear, rose in a cloud. Cursing, the Malazan spat grit from his mouth.
Through the swirling, glittering haze, he saw that the bones belonged to a human. Granted, a squat, heavy-boned one. Sinews had dried nut-brown, and the furs and skins partially clothing it had rotted to mere strips. A bone helm sat on the corpse's head, fashioned from the frontal cap of a horned beast. One horn had snapped off some time in the distant past. A dust-sheathed two-handed sword lay nearby. Speaking of Hood's skull...
Toc the Younger scowled down at the figure. "What are you doing here? he demanded.
"Waiting," the T'lan Imass replied in a leather-rasp voice.
Toc searched his memory for the name of this undead warrior. "Onos T'oolan," he said, pleased with himself. "Of the Tarad Clan-"
"I am now named Tool. Clanless. Free."
Free? Free to do precisely what, you sack of bones? Lie around in wastelands?
"What happened to the Adjunct? Where are we?"
"Lost."
"Which question is that an answer to, Tool?"
"Both."
[conversation about Lorn and stuff]
"Can you at least stand up when you're talking to me." Before I give in to temptation.
The T'lan Imass rose with an array of creaking complaints, dust cascading from its broad, bestial form. Something glittered for the briefest of moments in the depthes of its eye sockets as it stared at Toc, then Tool turned and retrieved the flint sword.
Gods, better I'd insisted he just stay lying down. Parched leather skin, taut muscle and heavy bone...all moving about like something alive. Oh, how the Emperor loved them. An army he never had to feed, he never had to transport, an army that could go anywhere and do damn near anything. And no desertions - except for the one standing in front of me right now.
How do you punish a T'lan Imass deserter anyway?
"Your T'lan Imass was forged by a ritual of such power as this world has not seen in a long time, Toc the Younger. His stone sword alone is invested to an appalling degree - it cannot be broken, not even chipped, and it will cut through wards effortlessly. No warren can defend against it. I would not wager on any blade against it when in Tool's hands. And the creature himself. He is a champion of sorts, isn't he? Among the T'lan Imass, Tool is something unique. You have no idea of the power - the strength - he possesses."
Garath and Baaljagg arrived, bounding up to circle around Lady Envy. A moment later, a swirl of dust rose from the ochre grasses a few paces from where Toc crouched. Tool appeared, carrying across his shoulders the carcass of a pronghorn antelope, which he shrugged off to thump on the ground.
Toc saw no wounds on the animal. Probably scared it to death.
"Some stone is sand, some is water. Edged tools can be made of the stone that is water. Crushing tools are made of the stone that is sand, but only the hardest of those."
"And here I've gone through life thinking stone is stone."
"In our language, we possess many names for stone. Names that tell of its nature, names that describe its function, names for what has happened to it and what will happen to it, names for the spirit residing within it, names --"
"All right, all right! I see your point."
Toc caught Thurule's casual turn, gloved hands lifting. The unsheathing of his two swords was faster than the scout's eye could track, as was the whirling attack. Sparks flashed as bright steel struck flint. Tool was driven back a half-dozen paces as blow after blow rained down on his own blurred weapon. The two warriors vanished into the darkness beyond the hearth's lurid glow.
Wolf and dog barked, plunging after them.
"This is infuriating!" Lady Envy snapped.
Sparks exploded ten paces away, insufficient light for Toc to discern anything more than the vague twisting of arms and shoulders. He shot a glance at Mok and Senu. The latter still crouched at the hearth, studiously tending to the supper. The twin-scarred eldest stood motionless, watching the duel - though it seemed unlikely he could see any better than Toc could. Maybe he doesn't need to...
More sparks rained through the night.
[some conversation]
Another clash lit up the night.
[more conversation]
There was another loud thud from the darkness beyond the firelight, then silence.
[more conversation]
Tool had reappeared, his flint sword in his left hand, dragging Thurule's body by the collar with his right. The Seguleh's head lolled. Dog and wolf trailed the two, tails wagging.
"Have you killed my servant, T'lan Imass?" Lady Envy asked.
"I have not," Tool replied. "Broken wrist, broken ribs, a half-dozen blows to the head. I believe he will recover. Eventually."
"Well, that won't do at all, I'm afraid. Bring him here, please. To me."
"He is not to be healed magically," Mok said.
The Lady's temper snapped then. She spun, a wave of argent power surging out from her. It struck Mok, threw him back through the air. He landed with a heavy thud. The coruscating glare vanished. "Servants do not make demands of me! I remind you of your place, Mok. I trust once is enough." She swung her attention back to Thurule. "Heal him I shall. After all," she continued in a milder tone, "as any lady of culture knows, three is the absolute minimum when it comes to servants." She laid a hand on the Seguleh's chest.
Thurule groaned.
Toc glanced at Tool. "Hood's breath, you're all chopped up!"
"It has been a long time since I last faced such a worthy opponent," Tool said. "All the more challenging for using the flat of my blade."
"Onos is 'clanless man'. T' is 'broken'. Ool is 'veined' while lan is 'flint' and in combinations T'oolan is 'flawed flint'."
Toc stared at the T'lan Imass for a long moment. "Flawed flint."
"There are layers of meaning."
"I'd guessed."
"From a single core are struck blades, each finding its own use. If veins or knots of crystal lie hidden within the heart of the core, the shaping of the blades cannot be predicted. Each blow to the core breaks off useless pieces - hinge-fractured, step-fractured. Useless. Thus it was with the family in which I was born. Struck wrong, each and all."
"Tool, I see no flaws in you."
"In pure flint all the sands are aligned. All face in the same direction. There is unity of purpose. The hand that shapes such flint can be confident. I was of Tarad's clan. Tarad's reliance in me was misplaced. Tarad's clan no longer exists. At the Gathering, Logros was chosen to command the clans native to the First Empire. He had the expectation that my sister, a Bonecaster, would be counted among his servants. She defied the ritual, and so the Logros T'lan Imass were weakened. The First Empire fell. My two brothers, T'ber Tendara and Han'ith Iath, led hunters to the north and never returned. They too failed. I was chosen First Sword, yet I have abandoned Logros T'lan Imass. I travel alone, Aral Fayle, and thus am committing the greatest crime known among my people."
"Have you seen our abode? Apart from the canting floor and alarming views through the windows, it is quite sumptuous. I cannot abide discomfort, you know."
The T'lan Imass made no reply, continued staring northwestward.
"You're all alike," Lady Envy sniffed. "It took weeks to get Tool in a conversational mood."
"You have mentioned the name earlier. Who is Tool?"
"Onos T'oolan, First Sword. The last time I saw him, he was even more bedraggled than you, dear, so there's hope for you yet."
"Onos T'oolan. I saw him but once."
"The First Gathering, no doubt."
"Yes. He spoke against the ritual."
"So of course you hate him."
The T'lan Imass did not immediately reply. The structure shifted wildly beneath them, their end pitching down as the floe punched clear, then lifting upward once more. There was not even a waver to Lanas Tog's stance. She spoke. "Hate him? No. Of course I disagreed. We all did, and so he acquiesced. It is a common belief."
Lady Envy waited, then crossed her arms and asked, "What is?"
"That truth is proved by weight of numbers. That what the many believe to be right, must be so. When I see Onos T'oolan once more, I will tell him: he was the one who was right."
Outside the city's west wall, close to the shoreline's broken, jagged edge, a lazy swirl of dust rost from the ground, took form.
Tool slowly settled the flint sword into its shoulder-hook, his depthless gaze ignoring the abandoned shacks to either side and fixing on the massive stone barrier before him.
Dust on the wind could rise and sweep high over this wall. Dust could run in streams through the rubble fill beneath the foundation stones. The T'lan Imass could make his arrival unknown.
But the Pannion Seer had taken Aral Fayle. Toc the Younger. A mortal man...who had called Tool friend.
He strode forward, hide-wrapped feet kicking through scattered bones.
The time had come for the First Sword of the T'lan Imass to announce himself.
........
Even as the Bridgeburners began to bolt, a wall close to the K'Chain Che'Malle exploded onto the street. Another Hunter arrived within the dust and bricks that tumbled out, this one a chopped-up ruin, head swinging wildly - connected to neck by a thin strip of tendon - missing one arm, a leg ending in a stump at the ankle. The creature fell, pounded onto the cobbles, ribs snapping, and did not move.
The Bridgeburners froze in place.
As did the first K'Chain Che'Malle. Then it hissed and swung to face the ragged hole in the building's wall.
Through the dust stepped a T'lan Imass. Desiccated flesh torn, hanging in strips, the gleam of bone visible everywhere, a skull-helmed head that had once held horns. The flint sword in its hands was so notched it appeared denticulated.
Ignoring the Malazans, it turned to the other K'Chain Che'Malle.
The Hunter hissed and attacked.
Picker's eyes could not fully register the speed of the exchange of blows. All at once, it seemed, the K'Chain Che'Malle was toppling, a leg severed clean above what passed for a knee. A sword clanged on the cobbles as a dismembered arm fell. The T'lan Imass had stepped back, and now moved forward once more, an overhead chop that shattered bone down through shoulder, chest, then hip, bursting free to strike the cobbles in a spray of sparks.
The K'ell Hunter collapsed.
The lone T'lan Imass turned to face the keep, and began walking.
Splinters of bone struck the wall. Tool staggered back, crashing against the stone, sword falling from his hands, ringing on the flagstones.
Mok raised both weapons-
-and flew to one side, through the air, spinning, weapons sailing from his hands - to collide with a wall, then slide in a heap among shattered wood and metal.
Tool raised his head.
A huge black panther, lips peeled back in a silent snarl, slowly padded towards the unconscious Seguleh.
"No, sister."
The Soletaken hesitated, then glanced back.
"No. Leave him."
The panther swung round, sembled.
Yet the rage remained in Kilava's eyes as she strode towards Tool. "You were deffeated! You! The First Sword!"
Tool slowly lowered himself to collect his notched sword. "Aye."
"He is a mortal man!"
"Go to the Abyss, Kilava." He straightened, back scraping as he continued leaning against the wall.
"Let me kill him. Now. Then once more you shall have no worthy challenger."
"Oh, sister," Tool sighed. "Do you not realize? Our time - it has passed. We must relinquish our place in this world. Mok - that man you so casually struck from behind - he is the Third. The Second and the First are his masters with swords. Do you understand me, Kilava? Leave him...leave them all."
He slowly turned until he could see Toc the Younger.
The body, speared through on a shaft of wood, did not move.
"The ancient wolf-god is free," Kilava said, following his gaze. "Can you not hear it?"
"No. I cannot."
"That howl that fills another realm, the sound of birth. A realm...brought into existence by the Summoner. As for what now gives it life, something else, something else entire."
A scrape from the doorway.
Both swung their heads.
Another T'lan Imass stood beneath the arch. Impaled with swords, cold-hammered copper sheathing canines. "Where is she?"
Tool tilted his head. "Who do you seek, kin?"
"You are Onos T'oolan." The attention then shifted to Kilava. "And you are his sister, the One who Defied-"
Kilava's lip curled in contempt. "And so I remain."
"Onos T'oolan, First Sword, where is the Summoner?"
"I do not know. Who are you?"
"Lanas Tog. I must find the Summoner."
Tool pushed himself from the wall. "Then we shall seek her together, Lanas Tog."
"Fools," Kilava spat.
The patter of claws behind Lanas Tog - she wheeled, then backed away.
Baaljagg limped into the chamber. Ignoring everyone but Toc the Younger, the wolf approached the body, whimpered.
"He is free," Tool said to Baaljagg. "Your mate."
"She is not deaf to that howl," Kilava muttered. "Togg has passed into the Warren of Tellann. Then...to a place beyond. Brother, take that path, since you are so determined to find the Summoner. They converge, one and all."
"Come with us."
Kilava turned away. "No."
"Sister. Come with us."
She spun, face dark. "No! I've come for the Seer. Do you understand me? I've come-"
Tool's gaze fell to Toc's broken corpse. "For redemption. Yes. I understand. Find him, then."
"I shall! Now that I've saved you, I am free to do as I please."
Tool nodded. "And when you are done, sister, seek me out once more."
"And why should I?"
"Kilava. Blood-kin. Seek me out."
She was silent for a long moment, then she gave a curt nod.
Lanas Tog strode to Tool's side. "Lead me, then, First Sword."
The two T'lan Imass fell to dust, then that, too, vanished.
Ignoring the grim-faced soldiers on all sides, Toc - Anaster - reined in beside the small tent the Grey Swords had given him. Aye, I remember Anaster, and this may be his body, but that's all. He slipped from the saddle and entered it.
He hunted until he found the cask, hid it within a leather sack and slung that over a shoulder, then hurried back outside.
As he drew himself into the saddle once more, a man stepped up to him.
Toc frowned down at him. This was no Tenescowri, nor a Grey Sword. If anything, he looked, from his faded, tattered leathers and furs, to be Barghast.
Covered in scars - more scars of battle than Toc had ever seen on a single person before. Despite this, there was a comfort, there in his face - a gentleman's face, no more than twenty years of age, the features pronounced, heavy-boned, framed in long black hair devoid of any fetishes or braids. His eyes were a soft brown as he looked up at Toc.
Toc had never met this man before. "Hello. Is there something you wish?" he asked, impatient to be away.
The man shook his head. "I only sought to look upon you, to see that you were well."
He believes me to be Anaster. A friend of old, perhaps - not one of his lieutenants, though - I would have remembered this one. Well, I'll not disappoint him. "Thank you. I am."
"This pleases me." The man smiled, reached up and laid a hand on Toc's leg. "I will go, now, brother. Know that I hold you in my memory." Still smiling, he turned and strode away, passing through the midst of curious Grey Swords, heading north towards the forest.
Toc stared after him. Something...something about that walk...
"Mortal Sword-"
The Shield Anvil was approaching.
Toc gathered the reins. "Not now," he called out. "Later." He swung his horse round. "All right, you wretched hag, let's see how you gallop, shall we?" He drove his heels into the beast's flanks.
His sister awaited him at the edge of the forest. "You are done?" she asked him.
"I am."
They continued on, under the trees. "I have missed you, brother."
"And I you."
"You have no sword..."
"Indeed, I have not. Do you think I will need one?"
She leaned close to him. "Now more than before, I would think."
"Perhaps you are right. We must needs find a quarry."
"The Barghast Range. A flint the colour of blood - I will invest it, of course, to prevent its shattering."
"As you did once before, sister."
"Long ago."
"Aye, so very long ago."
On their long journey north, the White Face Barghast broke up into clans, then family bands, ranging far and wide as was their wont. Hetan walked with Cafal, lagging behind their father and his closest followers and angling some distance eastward.
The sun was warm on their heads and shoulders, the air fresh with the gentle surf brushing the shore two hundred paces to their right.
It was midday when she and her brother spotted the two travellers ahead. Close kin, Hetan judged as they drew nearer. Neither one particularly tall, but robust, both black-haired, walking very slowly side by side closer to the coastline.
They looked to be Barghast, but of a tribe or clan unknown to either Hetan or Cafal. A short while later they came alongside the two strangers.
Hetan's eyes focused on the man, studied the extraordinary scars crisscrossing his flesh. "We greet you, strangers!" she called out.
Both turned, clearly surprised that they had company.
Hetan now looked upon the man's face. That the woman beside him was his sister could be no more obvious.
Good. "You!" she called to the man, "what is your name?"
The man's smile made her heart catch. "Onos Toolan."
Hetan strode closer, offering a wink to the dark-haired woman, then settling her eyes once more on the man called Onos Toolan. "I see more than you imagine," she said in a low voice.
The young warrior cocked his head. "You do?"
"Aye, and what I see tells me you've not bedded a woman in a long time."
The man's eyes widened - oh, such lovely eyes, a lover's eyes - "Indeed," he said, his smile broadening.
Oh yes, my lover's eyes...
