“Do I follow in your steps, Lord? Do I seek out new battles, new games to play in the company of Ascendants? Are you rewarded in spirit for your efforts?”
“Sometimes,” Rake said quietly. “But mostly, no, I am not.”
The hooded face turned to the Tiste Andii. “Then why?”
“I know no other way of living.”
“I have no means of assisting you this night, Anomander Rake. I am manifest in this sanctified place, and manifest in a lone mortal’s dreams, but nowhere else.”
“I will do my best, then,” Rake said, “to avoid damaging your temple.”
K’rul bowed, then vanished.
Alone once again, Rake turned his attention to the street below. An apparition arrived. It paused to sniff the air, then began changing—veering. A Lord of the Galayn, and a Soletaken.
“Well,” the Lord of Moon’s Spawn growled, “so am I.” The Tiste Andii spread his arms wide, then rose upward. Kurald Galain sorcery swirled around him, blending his clothing, his massive sword, drawing all inward to the shape he now climbed toward. The veering was smooth, eloquent, as jet-black wings unfolded from his shoulders. Flesh and bone surged in size, changed in shape.
As he flew higher, eyes fixed on the stars, Anomander Rake became a black dragon, silver-maned and dwarfing even Silanah. His eyes gleamed silver, the vertical slits of the pupils dilating. His breath gusted in heavy grunts, the snap of his wings loud amid the deep groan of muscle on bone. His chest swelled to draw in the cold, dry air, and power filled his being.
Rake climbed ever higher, slipping through a stray cloud that scudded in darkness over the city. When he finally tilted his wings forward and caressed the surface of a wayward wind, he looked down on a city that glimmered like a mottled copper coin at the bottom of a pellucid pond.
Sorcery flared occasionally, centered mostly in the Estate District, and Rake sensed death within those emanations. He considered the message delivered by Serrat, courtesy of a foul mage he’d thought a thousand leagues away. Was the sorcery the work of these unwelcome intruders? He rumbled in frustration—he would deal with them later. Before him now was a battle. The Empress and her Empire had challenged him again and again, willful in the desire to test his strength. Each time he’d withdrawn, unwilling to commit himself. Very well, Empress, my patience is at an end.
The membrane of his wings tautened, the joints creaking, as he grunted a straining breath. He hung almost motionless for a second studying the great city beneath him. Then, tucking in his wings, Anomander Rake, the Son of Darkness and Lord of Moon’s Spawn, plummeted.
Kalam knew the pattern of detonation the saboteurs would follow. He skirted one side of the street as he ran. So what if Moon’s Spawn hung over them as if ready to descend on the city and crush the life from it like a god’s heel—Fiddler and Hedge wouldn’t give a damn. They had a job to do.
The assassin cursed every stubborn bone in their heads. Why didn’t they run away like normal, sane people? He came to a corner and crossed the intersection diagonally. Ahead, at the far end of the street, rose Majesty Hill. As he reached the corner he almost collided with the two saboteurs. Fiddler darted to one side of him, Hedge to the other, running as if not even recognizing him, terror plain on their faces.
Kalam reached back and with each hand grasped a cloak’s hood. Then he grunted in pain as the two men jerked him backward and off his feet. “Damn you bastards!” he yelled. “Hold it!”
“It’s Kal!” Hedge yelled.
Kalam twisted around to find a rusty shortsword inches from his face, with Fiddler’s white face and wide eyes immediately behind it. “Put that piece of junk away,” the assassin snapped. “You want to give me an infection?”
“We’re getting out of here!” Hedge hissed. “Forget the damn mines! Forget everything!”
Still gripping their cloaks, Kalam shook them both. “Calm down. What’s happened?”
Fiddler moaned and pointed up the street.
Turning, Kalam stiffened.
A twelve-foot-tall creature shambled down the middle of the road, hunched shoulders wrapped in a glittering cape with a high cowl. A two-bladed ax was slung in its wide dragon-hide belt, its handle as long as Kalam was tall. The creature’s wide, squat face held two slitted eyes.
“Oh, Hood’s Gates and back,” the assassin muttered. “That’s Tayschrenn’s precious lord.” He pushed the two saboteurs around the corner. “Get moving. Back to Simtal’s estate.” Neither objected, and moments later were running as fast as they could down the street. Kalam crouched at the corner and waited for the Galayn lord to come into view. When it did, he blanched. “Soletaken.”
The Galayn was assuming a form better suited to wholesale destruction. The dun-brown dragon paused, its wingtips brushing the buildings on either side. Its rumble trembled the cobbles.
Kalam watched as the creature tensed its limbs, then rose upward on a wave of power. The darkness swallowed it. “Hood’s Breath,” he said. “Now things are going to get messy.” He whirled and ran to catch up with the saboteurs.
The Coin Bearer came to a street lined with walled estates. He slowed his pace, studying each structure he passed.
The time had come, the Adjunct knew. Before the boy had a chance to get inside one of those places, where he might find protection. She adjusted her grip on the sword, padding in silence not fifteen feet behind him.
She drew a long, deep breath, then surged forward, sword’s point extended.
At the sharp, ringing clang of metal immediately behind him, Crokus dived forward. He dipped a shoulder and rolled, regaining his feet. He cried out in shock. The woman who had attacked Coll in the hills was in a whirlwind exchange with a tall, round-shouldered man with two scimitars.
The thief’s jaw dropped as he watched the fight. As good as the woman had shown herself against Coll, she was now being driven back as a flurry of attacks swept around her. They both moved so quickly that Crokus could not even see the parries, or the blades themselves, but as he watched, he saw the blossoming of wounds on the woman—her arms, legs, chest. Her expression held complete disbelief.
Then a voice chuckled beside him, “He’s good, ain’t he?”
Crokus whirled to see a tall, thin man, wearing a gray and crimson longcoat, his hands in its pockets. He swung a narrow hatchet face to the thief and grinned. “You headin’ somewhere, boy? Somewhere safe?”
Crokus nodded numbly.
The man’s grin widened. “I’ll escort you, then. And don’t worry, you’re covered from the roofs, too. Cowl’s up there, damn his snakeskin hide. But he’s a powerful mage, anyway. Serrat was furious, I hear. Let’s walk, then.”
Crokus let the man take his arm and lead him away from the duel. The thief cast a glance over his shoulder. The woman was trying to disengage now, her left arm hanging useless and glistening in the gaslight. Her opponent continued pressing, silent as a ghost.
“Don’t worry,” the man beside him said, pulling him along. “That’s Corporal Blues. He lives for this stuff.”
“C-Corporal?”
“We’ve been covering your back, Coin Bearer.” The man’s other hand reached up to his collar, which he turned back to reveal a brooch. “The name’s Fingers, Sixth Blade, Crimson Guard. You’re being protected, boy, compliments of Prince K’azz and Caladan Brood.”
Crokus stared, then he scowled. “Coin Bearer? What’s that mean? I think you’ve got the wrong person.”
Fingers laughed dryly. “We figured you was walking blind and dumb, boy. The only explanation. You’ve got other people trying to protect you, too, you know. There’s a coin in your pocket, probably two-headed, right?” He grinned at the thief’s stunned expression. “It’s Oponn’s own. You’ve been serving a god and you didn’t even know it! How’s your luck been, lately?” He laughed again.
Crokus stopped at a gate.
“This is the place, then?” Fingers asked, glancing at the estate rising behind the compound wall. “Well, there
’s a powerful mage living in there, ain’t there? Well,” he released the thief’s arm, “you should be safe enough inside. Good luck, boy, and I mean that. But listen,” Fingers’ eyes hardened, “if your luck goes sour, you dump that coin, y’ hear?”
Confusion flickered across Crokus’s face. “Thank you, sir.”
“Our pleasure,” Fingers said, as he placed his hands in his pockets again. “Get a move on, then.”
The Adjunct broke away, taking a cut across her right shoulder blade as she did so. She ran, blood spraying with the effort, and the man did not pursue.
What a fool she’d been! Thinking that the Coin Bearer wasn’t protected! But who was that man? Never before had she faced such a swordsman, and the most appalling thing was that he had fought without the aid of sorcery. For once, her Otataral blade and her skill had not been enough.
She staggered, half blind, down the street, then wheeled round a corner. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of movement. The Adjunct threw her back to a wall and raised her sword again.
A large woman stood before her, regarding her quizzically. “Looks to me,” she drawled, “like you’re already done.”
“Leave me be,” Lorn gasped.
“Can’t do it,” Meese said. “We been on you since Circle Breaker picked you up at the gate. The Eel says you’ve got some things t’ pay for, lady. And we’re here to collect.”
As soon as the woman said that, the Adjunct sensed another presence, immediately on her left. She cried out as she tried to spin into a defensive crouch, and in the cry was an overwhelming sense of frustration and despair. What a waste! she cursed. No, not like this!
Even as that thought thundered through her head, both women attacked. She parried the blade coming at her from the left, but could only watch in horror as the woman who’d spoken revealed two blades, both driving for her chest.
The Adjunct screamed in rage as the weapons punched into her. Her sword clanged and bounded as it struck the cobbles. Hands groping, Lorn slid down the wall. “Who?” she managed, a blind need behind the word. “Who?”
One of the women bent low over her. “What’s that?”
Anguish filled Lorn’s face, the corners of her mouth drooping as her eyes closed. “Who?” she asked again. “Who is this Eel?”
“Let’s go, Meese,” the woman said, ignoring the body at her feet.
Paran found her sprawled on the grimy cobbles of an alley-mouth. Something had drawn him to her unerringly, a final closing of the mysterious link between them. Her sword was beside her, the grip slick with blood, its edges gouged and nicked. The captain crouched beside her.
“You made it a hard fight,” he whispered, “for what that is worth.”
He watched her eyes flicker open. She stared up at him as recognition arrived. “Captain. Ganoes.”
“Adjunct.”
“They have killed me.”
“Who?”
She managed a stained smile. “I don’t know. Two women. Looked like . . . thieves. Thugs. Do you see . . . the irony, Ganoes Paran?”
Thin-lipped, he nodded.
“No . . . glorious end . . . for the Adjunct. If you’d come . . . a few minutes sooner . . .”
The captain said nothing. He watched the life leave Lorn, feeling nothing. Ill luck, knowing me, Adjunct. I’m sorry for that. Then he collected the Otataral sword and slipped it into his scabbard.
Above him two voices spoke in unison. “You gave him our sword.”
He straightened to find himself facing Oponn. “The Rope took it from me, to be more precise.”
The Twins could not conceal their fear. They looked upon Paran with something akin to pleading. “Cotillion spared you,” the sister said, “the Hounds spared you. Why?”
Paran shrugged. “Do you blame the knife, or the hand wielding it?”
“Shadowthrone never plays fair,” the brother whined, hugging himself.
“You and Cotillion both used mortals,” the captain said, baring his teeth, “and paid for it. What do you want from me? Sympathy? Help?”
“That Otataral blade—” the sister said.
“Will not be used to do your dirty work,” Paran finished. “You’d best flee, Oponn. I imagine even now Cotillion has given Shadowthrone the sword Chance, and the two are putting their heads together to plan how best to use it.”
The Twin Jesters flinched.
Paran laid a hand over the sword’s sticky grip. “Now. Else I return Cotillion’s favor.”
The gods vanished.
The captain drew a deep breath. He turned once again to Lorn.
Her armor removed, she proved light in his arms.
The air roared around Anomander Rake as he plummeted, but he made no other sound, his Warren drawn in tight around him. Below, now sweeping lazy circles over Darujhistan, was the dun dragon—Rake’s equal in size, with the power to match.
But it was a fool, hunting for him in the streets below.
Rake carefully spread his wings, angling toward the Galayn lord. His hind limbs reached down, talons spreading. He drew in the air around him, preparing for a burst of power. He was Kurald Galain, Tiste Andii, and darkness was his home.
The Galayn lord was immediately beneath him now, growing larger with incredible speed. Rake opened his mouth, head snapping back as he bit into a wall of air. This sound brought the dun dragon’s gaze upward, but it was already too late.
Chapter Twenty-four
I am the House
imprisoning in my birth
demonic hearts,
so locked in each chamber
some trembling enraged
antiquity.
And these roots of stone
spread the deepest cracks
in parched ground
holding forever the dream
of fruit, ah, pilgrims
come to my door
and starve . . .
AZATH (II.III)
ADAEPHON (B.?)
The compound beyond the gate was empty. Crokus ran across it, wondering if he was too late. He bounded up the steps and reached for the door latch. A burst of energy flung him backward.
Dazed, the thief found himself sitting on the paving stones before the steps, his flesh tingling. At the door a deep crimson glow slowly faded. A ward. “Hood!” he hissed, climbing to his feet. He’d run into barriers like these before, in the Higher Estates. There was no way to get through them.
Cursing again, Crokus whirled and raced to the gate. He emerged onto the street and looked around, seeing no one. If those Crimson Guard still protected him, they weren’t showing themselves.
There was a slight chance that the garden entrance to Baruk’s estate was unguarded by magic—a very slight chance. He ran down the street and turned into the first alley to his right. There’d be a wall to scale, but he did not consider that much of an obstacle.
He came to the alley’s end and skidded to a halt on the street beyond. The wall was high, he saw. He’d need a running start. Crokus trotted across the street, trying to catch his breath. What was the point of all this? Couldn’t Baruk take care of himself, after all? Wasn’t he a High Mage, and hadn’t even Fingers commented on the alchemist’s sorcerous defenses?
He hesitated, scowling at the wall opposite him.
At that moment a piercing, earth-shaking scream was loosed directly above the street. Crokus threw himself against the wall behind him as an enormous shape descended into the gaslight. Filling the street, it struck the ground less than twenty yards to the thief’s left. He was thrown from his feet by the impact. Stones shattered.
He ducked beneath the hail of bricks and cobbles, then, as the scatter of rubble diminished, he jumped to his feet.
A dragon, its wings tattered and streaked with blood, slowly regained its feet in the street, wagging its massive wedge-shaped head from side to side. Along its brown flanks, scales had been torn away, revealing deep puncture wounds. Its neck and shoulders glistened with blood.
Crokus saw that the wall beyond it—Baruk’s—had been obliterated, opening the garden to his view. Snapped tree trunks rose amid steaming earth. A raised patio marked the approach of the estate’s back entrance. Two toppled statues lay in pieces before the doors.
The dragon looked stunned. Crokus tensed. Now was the time to move. Almost disbelieving his own temerity, the thief darted into the street behind the creature, hoping to reach the cover of the garden. His gaze remained on the dragon as he ran, his thoughts on the coin of luck in his pocket.
Then, before his eyes, the creature’s shape changed, drawing into itself in a shimmering haze. Crokus slowed, then stopped, unable to pull away his attention. His heart hammered against his ribs, as if seeking escape. Each drawn breath was a painful gasp. His luck, he told himself in terror, had just ended.
The shimmering faded, and a giant man-shaped apparition now stood on the street, cloaked and cowled.
Crokus tried to will himself to move, but his body refused to obey. He stared, eyes widening, as the demon turned to him. It snarled and removed an enormous ax from its belt. Hefting the weapon, it spoke in a deep, soft voice. “What reason to continue this?” it asked reasonably. “The Empress permits your escape, Lord. Once again she grants you mercy. Accept it, and leave.”
“Good idea,” the thief whispered. Then he frowned, for the demon’s attention, he now saw, was directed past him.
A man spoke behind him. “We run no further, Galayn.”
A hand fell on the thief’s shoulder, breaking the spell of immobility. Crokus ducked and spun to one side, then looked up into shifting, indigo eyes set in a black, narrow face.
“Flee, mortal,” the silver-haired man said, drawing a two-handed sword from the scabbard slung between his shoulder-blades. The black weapon seemed almost invisible, as if it swallowed all light that found it.
“You were at the fête!” Crokus blurted.
The man’s eyes flickered, as if seeing him for the first time. “Coin Bearer,” he said, with a wry smile, “fear not. Brood has convinced me to spare you, at least for the moment. Begone, child.” His gaze returned to the Galayn lord. “This will be a close thing.”
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 65