Tattersail stood on the hill's crest, sweat running down under her clothing, and watched the soldiers on the plain before facing her meager cadre. At full strength, six mages should have been arrayed behind her, but there were only two. Off to one side Hair-lock waited, wrapped in the dark gray rain- cloak that was his battle attire--looking smug.
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Calot nudged Tattersail and jerked his head toward Hairlock. "What's he so happy about?"
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"Hairlock," Tattersail called. The man swung his head. "Were you right about the three High Mages?"
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He smiled, then turned away again.
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"I hate it when he's hiding something. Calot said.
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The sorceress grunted. "He's added something up, all right. What's so particular about Nightchill, Bellurdan, and A'Karonys? Why did Tayschrenn pick them and how did Hairlock know he'd pick them?"
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"Questions, questions." Calot sighed. "All three are old hands at this kind of stuff. Back in the days of the Emperor they each commanded a company of Adepts-when the Empire had enough mages in the ranks to form actual companies. A'Karonys climbed through the ranks in the Falari Campaign, and Bellurdan and Nightchill were from before even then-came down from Fenn on the Quon mainland during the unification wars."
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"All old hands," Tattersail mused, "as you said. None have been active lately, have they? Their last campaign was Seven Cities—"
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"Where A Karonys took a beating in the Panpot'sun Wastes—"
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"He was left hanging-the Emperor had just been assassinated. Everything was chaotic. The T'lan I-mass refused to acknowledge the new Empress, marched themselves off into the Jhag Odhan.
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"Rumor has it they're back, at half- strength whatever they ran into out there wasn't pleasant."
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Tattersail nodded. "Nightchill and Bellurdan were told to report to Nathilog, left sitting on their hands for the past six, seven years—"
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"Until Tayschrenn sent the Thelomen off to Genabaris, to study a pile of ancient scrolls, of all things.
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"I'm frightened," Tattersail admitted. "Very frightened. Did you see Dujek's face? He knew something a realization, and it hit him like a dagger in the back.
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"Time to work, " Hairlock called.
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Calot and Tattersail swung around.
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A shiver ran through her. Moon's Spawn had been revolving steadily for the last three years. It had just stopped. Near its very top, on the side facing them, was a small ledge, and a shadowed recess had appeared. A portal. No movement showed yet. "He knows," " she whispered.
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"And he isn't running," Calot added.
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Down on the first hill, High Mage Tayschrenn rose and lifted his arms out to the sides. A wave of golden flame spanned his hands, then rolled upward, growing as it raced toward Moon's Spawn. The spell crashed against the black rock, sending chunks hurtling out, then down. A rain of death descended into the city of Pale, and among the Malazan legions waiting in the plain.
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"It's begun," Calot breathed.
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Silence answered Tayschrenn's first attack, save for the faint scatter of rubble on the city's tiled rooftops and the distant cries of wounded soldiers on the plain. Everyone's eyes were trained upward.
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The reply was not what anyone expected. A black cloud enshrouded Moon's Spawn, followed by faint shrieking. A moment later the cloud spread out, fragmenting, and Tatter-sail realized what she was seeing.
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Ravens.
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Thousands upon thousands of Great Ravens. They must have nested among the crags and pocks in the Moon's surface. Their shrieks grew more defined, a caterwaul of out-rage. They wheeled out from the Moon, their fifteen-foot wingspans catching the wind and lifting them high above the city and plain.
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Fear lurched into terror in Tattersail's heart.
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Hairlock barked a laugh and whirled to them. "These are the Moon's messengers, colleagues!" Madness glittered in his eyes. "These carrion birds!" He flung back his cloak and raised his arms.
"Imagine a lord who's kept thirty thousand Great Ravens well fed!"
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A figure had appeared on the ledge before the portal, its arms upraised, long silver hair blowing from its head.
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Mane of Chaos. Anomander Rake. Lord of the black-skinned Tiste Andi, who has looked down on a hundred thousand winters, who has tasted the blood of dragons, who leads the last of his kind, seated in the Throne of Sorrow and a kingdom tragic and fey -a kingdom with no land to call its own.
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Anomander Rake looked tiny against the backdrop of his edifice, almost insubstantial at this distance. The illusion was about to be shattered. She gasped as the aura of his power bloomed outward-to see it at such a distance "Channel your Warrens," Tattersail commanded, her voice cracking. "Now!"
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Even as Rake gathered his power, twin balls of blue fire raced upward from the center hill. They struck the Moon near its base and rocked it. Tayschrenn launched another wave of gilden flames, crashing with amber spume and red-tongued smoke.
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The Moon's lord responded. A black, writhing wave rolled down to the first hill. The High Mage was buffeted to his knees deflecting it, the hilltop around him blighted as the necrous power rolled down the slopes, engulfing nearby ranks of soldiers. Tattersail watched as a midnight flash swallowed the hapless men, followed by a thump that thundered through the earth. When the flash dissipated, the soldiers lay in rotting heaps, mown down like stalks of grain.
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Kurald Galain sorcery. Elder magic, the Breath of Chaos.
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Her breaths coming fast and tight in her chest, Tattersail felt her Thyr Warren flow into her. She shaped it, muttering chain-words under her breath, then unleashed the power. Calot followed, drawing from his Mockra Warren. Hair-lock surrounded himself in his own. mysterious source, and the cadre entered the fray.
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Everything narrowed down for Tattersail from then on, yet a part of her mind remained distant, held on a leash of terror, observing with a kind of muffled vision all that happened around her.
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The world became a living nightmare, as sorcery flew upward to batter Moon's Spawn, and sorcery rained downward, indiscriminate and devastating. Earth rose skyward in thundering columns. Rocks ripped through men like hot stones through snow. A downpour of ash descended to cover the living and dead alike. The sky dimmed to pallid rose, the sun a coppery disc behind the haze.
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She saw a wave sweep past Hairlock's defenses, cutting him in half. His howl was more rage than pain, instantly muted as virulent power washed over Tattersail and she found her own defenses assailed by the sor-cry's cold, screaming will as it sought to destroy her. She reeled back, brought up short by Calot as he added his Mockra power to bolster her faltering parries. Then the assault passed, sweeping on and down the hill to their left.
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Tattersail had fallen to her knees. Calot stood over her, chaining words of power around her, his face turned away from Moon's Spawn, fixed on something or someone down below on the plain. His eyes were wide with terror.
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Too late Tattersail understood what was happening. Calot was defending her at his own expense. A final act, even as he watched his own death erupt around him. A blast of bright fire engulfed him. Abruptly the net of protection over Tattersail vanished. A wash of crackling heat from where Calot had stood sent her tumbling to one side. She felt more than heard her own shriek, and her sense of distance closed in then, a layer of mental defense obliterated.
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Spitting dirt and ashes, Tattersail climbed to her feet and fought on, no longer launching attacks, just struggling to remain alive. Some-where in the back of her head a voice was screaming, urgent, panicked. Calot had faced the plain not Moon's Spawn--he'd faced right! Hairlock had been struck from the plain!
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