Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) 54
The Imass, and his three-hundred-thousand-year-old words, had given to Lorn a sense of futility. And it worked on her, it threatened to overwhelm her.
She'd given the boy his life, surprising both him and herself. Lorn smiled ruefully. Prediction had become a privilege now lost to her. Never mind the outside world, she could not even guess her own actions, or the course of her thoughts.
Was this the true nature of emotion? she wondered. The great defier of logic, of control-the whims of being human. What lay ahead?
“Adjunct.”
Startled, Lorn looked up to see Tool standing over her. Frost covered the warrior, steaming in the heat.
“You have been wounded.”
“A skirmish,” she said gruffly, almost embarrassed. “It's over now.” She pressed the poultice against the wound then wrapped cloth around her shoulder. It was an awkward effort, since she could use only one hand.
Tool knelt beside her. “I will assist you, Adjunct.”
Surprised, Lorn studied the warrior's death's face. But his next words wiped out any thought of the Imass revealing compassion.
“We have little time, Adjunct. The opening awaits us.”
An expressionless mask settled over her face. She jerked a nod as Tool finished, his withered, shredded hands-the nails blunt, polished brown and curved-deftly tying a knot with the strips of cloth. “Help me to my feet,” she commanded.
The marker had been shattered, she saw, as the Imass guided her forward. Apart from this, however, all looked unchanged. “Where is this opening?” she asked.
Tool halted before the broken stones. “I will lead, Adjunct. Follow closely behind me. When we are within the tomb, unsheath your sword. The deadening effect will be minimal, yet it will slow the Jaghut's return to consciousness. Enough for us to complete our efforts.”
Lorn drew a deep breath. She shrugged off her doubts. There was no turning back now. Had there ever been such a chance? The question, she realized, was a moot one: the course had been chosen for her. “Very well,” she said. “Lead on, Tool.”
The Imass spread out his arms to the sides. The hillside before them blurred, as if a curtain of wind-blown sand rose before it. A churning wind roiled through this strange mist. Tool stepped forward.
Following, Lorn at first recoiled at the stench that wafted into her, a stench of air poisoned by centuries of pulsing sorcery, countless wards dispersed by Tool's Tellann powers. She pushed ahead, her eyes fixing on the Imass's broad, tattered back.
They entered the hillside. A rough corridor, leading into darkness, appeared before them. Frost limned the stacked boulders forming the walls and ceiling. As they went further, the air grew bitter cold, stripped of scents, and thick green and white ropes of ice tracked the walls. The floor, which had been frozen, packed earth, became slabs of stone, slick with ice.
Numbness seeped into Lorn's extremities and her face. She saw her breath curl in a white stream, drawn inward to the darkness beyond. The corridor narrowed and she saw strange symbols painted on and within the ice streaking the walls, dull red ochre in colour. These markings brushed something deep inside her-she almost recognized them, but as soon as she concentrated on doing so, the sensation of familiarity vanished.
Tool spoke. “My people have visited here before,” he said, pausing to look at the Adjunct over one shoulder. “They added their own wards to those of the Jaghut who imprisoned this Tyrant.”
Lorn was irritated. “What of it?”
The Imass stared at her in silence, then replied, dully, “Adjunct, I believe I know the name of this Jaghut Tyrant. I am now beset by doubts. It should not be freed. Yet, like you, I am compelled.”
Lorn's breath caught.
“Adjunct,” Tool continued, “I acknowledge the ambivalence you have been feeling. I share it. When this is done, I shall leave.”
She was confused. “Leave?”
Tool nodded. “Within this tomb, and with what we will do, my vows are ended. They will bind me no longer. Such is the residual power of this sleeping Jaghut. And for that, I am thankful.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Adjunct, you are welcome to accompany me.”
Lorn opened her mouth, but could think of no immediate reply so shut it again.
“I ask that you consider my offer, Adjunct. I shall journey in search of an answer, and I shall find it.”
Answer? To what? she wanted to ask. Yet something stopped her, a surge of fear that said to her: You don't want to know. Remain ignorant in this. “Let's get on with it,” she grated.