Urugal’s broken rasp replied, ‘You have found that which was taken from us, Karsa Orlong. You have freed your gods.’
The Teblor watched the ghost of Urugal slowly take shape before him. A squat, heavy-boned warrior, shorter than a lowlander but much broader. The bones of his limbs were split-where Karsa could see between the taut straps of leather and hide that bound them, that held him together. More straps crossed his chest.
‘Karsa Orlong, you have found our weapons.’
The warrior shrugged. ‘If indeed they are among the thousands in the chambers beyond.’
‘They are. They did not fail us.’
‘But the Ritual did.’
Urugal cocked his head. His six kin were taking shape around him. ‘You understand, then.’
‘I do.’
‘Our physical forms approach, Karsa Orlong. They have journeyed far, bereft of spirit, held only by our wills-’
‘And the one you now serve,’ the Teblor growled.
‘Yes. The one we now serve. We have guided you in turn, Warleader. And now shall come your reward, for what you have given us.’
Siballe the Unfound now spoke. ‘We have gathered an army, Karsa Orlong. All the children sacrificed before the Faces in the Rock. They are alive, Warleader. They have been prepared. For you. An army. Your people are assailed. The lowlanders must be driven back, their armies annihilated. You shall sweep down with your legions, down into their lands, and reap destruction upon the lowlanders.’
‘I shall.’
‘The Seven Gods of the Teblor,’ Urugal said, ‘must now become Eight.’
The one named Halad-the largest of the seven by far, hulking, bestial-stepped forward. ‘You must now fashion a sword, Karsa Orlong. Of stone. The mines outside await you-we shall guide you in the knowledge-’
‘There is no need,’ Karsa said. ‘I have learned the many hearts of stone. The knowledge is mine, and so too shall the sword be mine. Those you fashion are well enough for your own kind. But I am Teblor. I am Thelomen Toblakai.’ With that he swung about and walked towards the monolithic pillar of flint.
‘That spar will defeat you,’ Halad said behind him. ‘To draw a long enough blade for a sword, you must strike from above. Examine this vein carefully, and you will see that, pure as it is, the flow of the stone is unforgiving. None of our kind has ever managed to draw forth a flake longer than our own height. The spar before you can no longer be worked; thus its abandonment. Strike and it shall shatter. And that failure shall stain your next efforts, and so weaken the sorcery of the making.’
Karsa stood before the brown, almost black, flint pillar.
‘You must fashion a fire at its base,’ Halad said. ‘Left to burn without cessation for a number of days and nights. There is little wood in the valley below, but in the Jhag Odhan beyond, the bhederin herds have travelled in their multitudes. Fire, Karsa Orlong, then cold water-’
‘No. All control is lost with that method, T’lan Imass. Your kind are not unique in knowing the truths of stone. This task is mine and mine alone. Now, enough words.’
‘The name you have given us,’ Urugal rasped, ‘how did you come by such knowledge?’
Karsa turned, face twisting into a sneer. ‘Foolish Teblor. Or so you believed. So you would have us. Fallen Thelomen Toblakai, but he who has fallen can rise once again, Urugal. Thus, you were once T’lan Imass. But now, you are the Unbound.’ The sneer became a snarl. ‘From wandering to hold. From hold to house.’
The warrior climbed the spar of flint. Perched on its top, he drew out his Malazan short-sword. A moment’s examination of the stone’s surface, then he leaned over to study the almost vertical sweep of flawless flint reaching down to the cave’s floor. Reversing the sword, Karsa began scraping the top of the pillar, a hand’s width in from the sharp edge. He could see the tracks of old blows-the T’lan Imass had tried, despite Halad’s words, but had failed.
Karsa continued roughing the surface where he would strike. In his mind, he spoke. Bairoth Gild. Delum Thord. Hear me, when none other can. One day, I shall break my chains, I shall free the souls that now hound me. You would not be among them, or so you said. Nor would I wish Hood’s embrace upon you. I have considered your desires in this. And have fashioned an alternative…
‘Warleader, Delum Thord and I understand your intent. Your genius never fails to astonish me, Karsa Orlong. Only with our consent will you succeed. And so you give us words and lo, we find our path forced. Hood’s embrace… or what you seek.’
Karsa shook his head. Not just me, Bairoth Gild. But you yourself. Do you deny it?
‘No, Warleader. We do not. Thus, we accept what you offer.’ Karsa knew that he alone could see the ghosts of his friends at this moment, as they seemed to dissolve, reduced to pure will, that then flowed down into the flint. Flowed, to find a shape, a form of cohesion…
Awaiting… He swept dust and grit from the roughened surface, then closed both hands about the short-sword’s stubby grip. He lifted the weapon high, fixing his gaze upon the battered striking platform, then drove the pommel down. A strange snapping sound-
Then Karsa was leaping forward, short-sword flung aside, down through the air, spinning as he dropped. His knees flexed to absorb the impact, even as he raised his hands to intersect the toppling spear of flint.
A spear almost as tall as the Teblor himself.
It fell away from the pillar, a flattened shard, and settled into his hands. A warm lick on his palms, and suddenly blood was running down his forearms. Karsa quickly backed up, lowering the blade to the floor. When he drew his hands away he saw that they had been cut down to the bone. Clever Bairoth, to drink my blood to seal the bargain.
‘You… surpass us,’ Halad whispered.
Karsa went to his pack and drew out a bundle of field dressings and a sewing kit. There would be no infection, of course, and he would heal swiftly. Still, he would need to close the cuts before he could hope to begin work on the huge blade’s edges, and hack out a grip of sorts.
‘We shall invest the weapon,’ Urugal announced behind him. ‘So that it cannot be broken.’
Karsa nodded.
‘We shall make you the Eighth God of the Teblor.’
‘No,’ he replied as he began working on his left hand. ‘I am not as you, Urugal. I am not Unbound. You yourself closed the chains about me. By your own hands, you saw to it that the souls of those I have slain will pursue me eternally. You have shaped my haunting, Urugal. Beneath such a curse, I can never be unbound.’
‘There is place for you none the less,’ Urugal said, ‘in the House of Chains.’
‘Aye. Knight of Chains, champion of the Crippled God.’
‘You have learned much, Karsa Orlong.’
He stared down at his bloodied hands. ‘I have, T’lan Imass. As you shall witness.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
How many times, dear traveller, will you walk the same path?
TO THE NORTH, THE DUST OF THE IMPERIAL ARMY OBSCURED THE forest-mantled hills of Vathar. It was late afternoon, the hottest part of the day, when the wind died and the rocks radiated like flatstones on a hearth. Sergeant Strings remained motionless beneath his ochre rain cloak, lying flat as he studied the lands to the southwest. Sweat streamed down his face to prickle in his iron-shot red beard.
After a long moment studying the mass of horse warriors that had emerged out of the dusty odhan in their wake, Strings lifted a gloved hand and gestured.