Crouched, she scanned the expanse of scintillating shimmering glare. At first she saw nothing: the stunning intensity of the sea of brightness blinded her to all else. ‘On the left,’ Leoman murmured. She edged her gaze aside, shaded her eyes. Movement there: a shadowy flickering among the silver-bright waves. A shape approaching like a dark flame almost lost amid all that brightness.
Over time the figure resolved itself into a tall man pushing his way to shore through the knee-high waves of liquid Vitr. Kiska surged to her feet. ‘It’s him!’
‘We don’t know …’ Leoman began, then some instinct made him throw himself round, hands going to the morningstars at his sides, and at the same time someone else spoke.
‘Yes. I do believe it is he.’
The hair on Kiska’s head actually rose. I know that voice! Slowly, dreading what she would find, she willed herself to turn round. There stood a haggard battered man in torn robes, his face scalded livid red and swollen. The Seven Cities mage and holy Faladan, Yathengar.
Ye gods — he was supposed to have been destroyed by the Liosan! How could he still live? The man who, to avenge himself against the Malazan Empire, summoned the Chaos Whorl, that in the end consumed him and Tayschrenn, flinging them both to this edge of creation. ‘You live!’ she gasped in shocked disbelief.
The rabid gaze swung to her. ‘So I wished you to never suspect. Ingrates! Did you not consider that I could follow where you-’
Leoman leapt upon him, his morningstars keening, only to fly aside, the weapons clashing together about his head. Kiska lunged as well, stave flashing in a thrust, but Yathengar merely tilted his head and the weapon flashed searingly hot and she cast it away, yelling her agony. Hands useless, she spun a backward kick. Her foot rebounded from the man’s torso, which seemed as hard as oak. He scowled his irritation, gesturing, and a vice-grip took her at the neck to lift her from the ground. He gestured with his other hand and Leoman lurched upright. The morningstars hung wrapped about his neck.
Starting forward, Yathengar marched the two of them along, each fighting for breath. ‘Let us go and say hello to our old friend, shall we? I’m sure he will be very pleased to see the two of you.’
They descended the rocks. Kiska fought to yell a warning. Leoman’s face darkened alarmingly, the veins at his neck swelling. At the shore the pressure eased off a touch. Perhaps Yathengar was worried they would expire before he could torment them any further. However, the grip at Kiska’s throat was still too fierce for any shout. The shambling creatures caught sight of them and scattered, gabbling their panic and terror. Kiska had no time for them: her gaze was fixed upon the slim man slowly advancing through the last of the shallow surf.
It was Tayschrenn, former High Mage of the Malazan Empire.
He’d changed, of course, as would be expected of anyone who had endured the passage he had experienced. His hair was now almost entirely grey, and short, as if growing out from having been shaved, or burned off. He’d lost weight. A simple shirt was loose upon him, hanging down over ragged trousers. Oddly he wasn’t wet. The glimmering Vitr merely ran from him in beads, like quicksilver.
But what troubled her was his expression: it was all open puzzlement. Not one hint of recognition touched his night-dark eyes.
‘Tayschrenn! You have eluded me for the last time,’ Yathengar called out.
The lean aristocratic head tilted to one side, apparently bewildered. ‘You are from my past then, are you?’
‘He is your enemy!’ Kiska managed to grind out, feeling as if her throat were tearing.
Snarling, Yathengar threw her and Leoman down, punching them into the sands.
‘So … I had enemies,’ Tayschrenn said, speaking almost to himself.
‘Do not take me for a fool! No play-acting will help you now.’
‘You are harming those two.’
‘This is as nothing compared to what I will do to you.’
‘What will you-’
But Yathengar had had enough of talk. He thrust with both hands. A storm of roaring energies engulfed Tayschrenn, who fell back into the Vitr, bellowing his pain. In the sands Kiska struggled to draw her long-knife.
Yet the smoking blackened figure that was Tayschrenn arose from the Vitr. ‘Why …’ He spat aside through blistered bleeding lips.
A howl of rage took everyone by surprise and Kiska snapped her head round to glimpse the giant demon launching itself upon Yathengar. An eruption of puissance threw the fearsome entity to the ground, where it lay groaning, the fur on its armoured torso smoking.
‘So …’ said Tayschrenn, agony making his voice faint, ‘you are a mage.’
Yathengar scowled, disbelief obvious on his ravaged face. ‘What is this …?’
Tayschrenn advanced a step. ‘Then you are my enemy …’
The mage’s hands fell, so startled was he by the statement. Tayschrenn lunged at him just as his huge friend had. This time the Seven Cities mage was too slow to react and the two went down grappling.
Kiska could only stare, baffled. What was he doing? Fighting? Why didn’t he just …
Then she realized — the man must have forgotten everything about his prior life. Everything. Perhaps he no longer even knew how to channel power. Gods! How could he defeat this madman? By punching him?
Perhaps strengthened by his insanity, Yathengar managed to raise his hands. Power rippled there, sizzling in Tayschrenn’s grip. At the same time the fist at Kiska’s throat eased and she sat up, drawing her knife. Leoman also rose. The morningstars hissed to life in his hands. But neither dared strike while the two mages squirmed in the sands.
Then Kiska realized even more. ‘The Vitr!’ she shouted to Tayschrenn. ‘He hasn’t touched the Vitr!’
Understanding, Tayschrenn heaved himself to one side. The two struggled while power lashed, searing the flesh of the ex-High Mage’s arms. They rolled into the thin anaemic surf. Tayschrenn fought to press Yathengar down while the mage wrestled to free his arms. Finally Tayschrenn managed to force the man into the wash.
Immediately, the silvery liquid burst into foaming hissing froth. Yathengar howled, jerking free of Tayschrenn. He lunged for the dry shore; the former High Mage yanked him back by his robes. Leoman saw an opening and moved to close, but Kiska shouted a warning. Leoman leapt back but not fast enough, and his sandals smoked. He dug his feet into the sands, almost dancing in panic.
Meanwhile Yathengar had fallen again into the Vitr and now writhed screaming and flailing. Tayschrenn grimly took hold of a leg to drag him further out. The writhing and screaming went on for a long time. The great demon arose, groggy, to stand to one side, and Kiska stood panting, shuddering with suppressed energy. The continuous distant shrieks and hoarse pleading mixed with vile threats made her wince. She sat heavily in the sands and Leoman joined her.
They had found Tayschrenn. Succeeded in an apparently impossible task. Followed him through the Whorl to the very edge of existence. And now he did not even recognize them.
Eventually, the tall figure re-emerged from the glare of the Vitr. Kiska climbed to her feet. The man favoured her and Leoman with a harsh, unforgiving gaze. Kiska couldn’t trust herself to speak; she was afraid that anything she might say would be wrong. ‘So,’ he began at last, musing, ‘you are from my past.’
Kiska swallowed to wet her throat, managed a faint, ‘Yes.’ Then, stronger, ‘You are needed-’ She stopped as he raised a hand to silence her. He examined that hand, and the other, turning them over before his face. Kiska noted that his flesh was healed. The Vitr appeared to have somehow restored him.
He continued to study his hands, flexing them. ‘And I take it that I, too, was a mage.’
‘Yes,’ Kiska breathed, knowing that she could not lie.
Leoman, to his credit, remained silent, his narrowed dark eyes travelling between them, observing, gauging. The demon was also silent, watching, its great taloned hands clenched, the lenses of its bulbous eyes flashing as it blinked.