Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7)

A rumbling laugh. ‘You think I would not go quietly?’

‘I know it, Boar of Summer.’

‘True enough.’ Hesitation, then the war god said, ‘Offer me sanctuary, Errant, and I will yield to you a gift.’

‘Very well.’

‘No bargaining?’

‘No. I’ve not the energy. What is this gift, then?’

‘This: the Hold of the Beasts is awakened. I was driven out, you see, and there was need, necessity, insistence that some inheritor arise to take my place-to assume the voices of war. Treach was too young, too weak. And so the Wolves awoke. They flank the throne now-no, they are the throne.’

The Errant could barely draw breath at this revelation. A Hold, awakened7. From a mouth gone dry as dust, he said, ‘Sanctuary is yours, Boar of Summer. And, for your trail here, my fullest efforts at… misdirection. None shall know, none shall even suspect.’

‘Please, then, block those who call on me still. Their cries fill my skull-it is too much-’

‘Yes, I know. I will do what I can. Your name-do they call upon the Boar of Summer?’

‘Not often,’ the god replied. ‘Fener. They call upon Fener.’

The Errant nodded, then bowed low.

He passed through the stone wall and once more found himself in the disused corridor of the Old Palace. Awakened? Abyss below… no wonder the Cedance whirls in chaos. Wolves? Could it be…

This is chaos! It makes no sense! Feather Witch stared down at the chipped tiles scattered on the stone floor before her. Axe, bound to both Saviour and Betrayer of the Empty Hold. Knuckles and the White Crow circle the Ice Throne like leaves in a whirlpool. Elder of Beast Hold stands at the Portal of the Azath Hold. Gate of the Dragon and Blood’Drinker converge on the Watcher of the Empty Hold-but no, this is all madness. The Dragon Hold was virtually dead. Everyone knew this, every Caster of the Tiles, every Dreamer of the Ages. Yet here it vied for dominance with the Empty Hold-and what of Ice? Timeless, unchanging, that throne had been dead for millennia. White Crow-yes, I have heard. Some bandit in the reaches of the Bluerose Mountains now claims that title. Hunted by Hannan Mosag-that tells me there is power to that bandit’s bold claim. I must speak again to the Warlock King, the bent, broken bastard.

She leaned back on her haunches, wiped chilled sweat from her brow. Udinaas had claimed to see a white crow, centuries ago it seemed now, there on the strand beside the village. A white crow in the dusk. And she had called upon the Wyval, her lust for power overwhelming all caution. Udinaas-he had stolen so much from her. She dreamed of the day he was finally captured, alive, helpless in chains.

The fool thought he loved me-I could have used that. I should have. My own set of chains to snap shut on his ankles and wrists, to drag him down. Together, we could have destroyed Rhulad long before he came to his power. She stared down at the tiles, at the ones that had fallen face up-none of the others were in play, as the fates had decreed. Yet the Errant is nowhere to be seen-how can that be? She reached down to one of the face-down tiles and picked it up, looked at its hidden side. Shapefinder. See, even here, the Errant does not show his hand. She squinted at the tile. Fiery Dawn, these hints are new… Menandore. And I was thinking about Udinaas-yes, 1 see now. You waited for me to pick you up from this field. You are the secret link to all of this.

She recalled the scene, the terrible vision of her dream, that horrendous witch taking Udinaas and… Maybe the chains on him now belong to her. 1 did not think of that. True, he was raped, but men sometimes find pleasure in being such a victim. What if she is protecting him now? An immortal… rival. The Wyval chose him, didn’t it? That must mean something-it’s why she took him, after all. It must be.

In a sudden gesture she swept up the tiles, replacing them in their wooden box, then wrapping the box in strips of hide before pushing the package beneath her cot. She then drew from a niche in one wall a leather-bound volume, easing back its stained, mouldy cover. Her trembling fingers worked through a dozen brittle vellum pages before she reached the place where she had previously left off memorizing the names listed within-names that filled the entire volume.

Compendium of the Gods.

The brush of cool air. Feather Witch looked up, glared about. Nothing. No-one at the entrance, no unwelcome shadows in the corners-lanterns burned on all sides. There had been a taint to that unseemly breath, something like wax…

She shut the book and slid it back onto its shelf, then, heartbeat rapid in her chest, she hurried over to a single pavestone in the room’s centre, wherein she had earlier inscribed, with an iron stylus, an intricate pattern. Capture. ‘The Holds are before me,’ she whispered, closing her eyes. ‘I see Tracker of the Beasts, footfalls padding on the trail of the one who hides, who thinks to flee. But no escape is possible. The quarry circles and circles, yet is drawn ever closer to the trap. It pulls, it drags-the creature screams, but no succour is possible-none but my mercy-and that is never free!’ She opened her eyes, and saw a smudge of mist bound within the confines of the inscribed pattern. ‘I have you! Ghost, spy-show yourself!’