My own spell. She recalled now: a gesture of compassion, a spell of: preservation. Is this my way out? Hood's Breath, is it even possible? She thought of Hairlock, the journey from the dying body to a lifeless vessel. Shedenul, have mercy on us:
The sorceress stepped back and opened her Warren. High Thyr magic blazed around her. She saw Bellurdan stagger back then steady himself. He screamed something, but she could not hear him. Then he charged at her.
She regretted the Thelomen's fatal courage as the fire blackened the world around her, even as she opened her arms and embraced him.
Lorn strode to Tool's side. The T'lan Imass faced west, and a tension swirled about him that she could almost see.
“What is it?” she asked, her eyes on the white fountain of fire rising above the horizon. “I've never seen anything like that.”
“Nor I,” Tool replied. “It is within the barrier I have cast around us.”
“But that's impossible,” the Adjunct snapped.
“Yes, impossible to last this long. Its source should have been consumed almost instantly. Yet:” The T'lan Imass fell silent.
There was no need for Tool to finish his sentence. The pillar of fire still raged in the night sky as it had for the past hour. The stars swam in the inky darkness around it, magic swirling in a frenzy as if from a bottomless well. On the wind was a smell that left Lorn slightly nauseous. “Do you recognize the Warren, Thol?”
“Warrens, Adjunct. Tellann, Thyr, Denul, Uriss, Tennes, Thelomen Toblakai, Starvald Demelain:”
“Starvald Denielain, what in Hood's Name is that?”
“Elder.”
“I thought there were but three Elder Warrens, and that's not one of them.”
“Three? No, there were many, Adjunct, all born of one. Starvald Demelain.”
Lorn wrapped her cloak tighter about herself, eyes on the column of fire. “Who could manage such a conjuring?”
“There was one: once. Of worshippers there are none left, so he is no more. I have no answer to your question, Adjunct.” The Imass staggered as the pillar bloomed outwards, then winked out. A distant thundering rumble reached them.
“Gone,” Lorn whispered.
“Destroyed,” Tool said. The warrior cocked his head. “Strange, the source is indeed destroyed. But something has also been born. I sense it, a new presence.”
Lorn checked her sword. “What is it?” she demanded.
Tool shrugged. “New. It flees.”
Was this cause for worry? Lorn scowled and turned to the T'lan Imass, but he had already left her side, and was now striding back to their campfire. The Adjunct glanced once more at the western horizon. There was a cloud, blotting out the stars. It looked huge. She shivered.
It was time to sleep. The Imass would stand guard, so she need not worry about surprise visitors. The day had been long, and she'd overrationed her water; she felt weak, an unfamiliar sensation. Her scowl deepened as she walked to the camp. Tool, standing immobile beside the flames, reminded her of his arrival two days ago. The fiery glimmer that jumped along his withered flesh-and-bone helm once again triggered something primordial in her mind, and with it came a deep, unreasoning fear of darkness. She stepped close to the Imass. “Fire is life,” she whispered, the phrase seeming to rise from the depths of instinct.
Tool nodded. “Life is fire,” he said. “With such words was born the First Empire. The Empire of Imass, the Empire of Humanity.” The warrior turned to the Adjunct. “You've done well, my child.”
The grey pall of smoke hung unmoving over Blackdog Forest a dozen leagues north of her as Crone dipped her splayed tail and sank wearily towards the army encamped on the Rhivi Plain.
The tents marched outward like spokes from a central fortified hub where stood a large canopy, rippling in the morning breeze. Towards this centre the Great Raven descended. Her sharp gaze marked Rhivi plainsmen moving among the aisles. Off on the eastern rim fluttered the banners of the Catlin Horse, green and silver to mark the mercenary contingent of Caladan Brood's main army. By far the greatest proportion of soldiers, however, were Tiste And? — Anomander Rake's people, dwellers of the city within Moon's Spawn-their tall, dark-clad forms moving like shadows between the tents.
Wheeled tracks led north to the forest fringes: supply routes to entrenchments once held by the Malazans and now marking Brood's front lines. Rhivi-driven carts moved forward; an endless stream of supplies, while other wagons, laden with the dead and the wounded, entered the camp in a grim flow.
Crone cackled. Magic bled from the main tent and stained the dusty air with a heavy, turgid magenta, the colour of the Uriss Warren, earth magic. Her wings now felt light and held a youthful spring as she beat the air. “Ahhh,” Crone sighed, “magic.” Sweeping through the wards and traps, the Great Raven glided over the tent and thrummed rapidly as she dropped outside the entrance.
