Mape lay on the knoll like something dead, but the Nacht’s head slowly turned as Withal and Rhulad strode into view. She had stolen a hammer from the smithy some time back, to better facilitate her destruction of Pule’s nests, and now carried it with her everywhere. Withal watched askance as the gnarled, black-skinned creature lifted the hammer into view, eyes still fixed on him and the Tiste Edur, as if contemplating murder.
Of the three Nachts, Mape made him the most nervous. Too much intelligence glittered in her small black eyes, too often she watched with something like a smile on her apish face. And the strength the creatures had displayed was sufficient to make any man worried. He knew Mape could tear his arms from his shoulders, were she so inclined.
Perhaps the Crippled God had bound them, as demons could be bound, and it was this and this alone that kept the beasts from Withal’s throat. An unpleasant notion.
‘What’s to stop me,’ Rhulad asked in a growl, ‘from driving the sword right through his scrawny chest?’
‘Do not ask that question of me, Edur. Only the Crippled God can answer it. But I don’t think it could ever be that easy. He’s a clever bastard, and there in that tent his power is probably absolute.’
‘The vastness of his realm,’ Rhulad said, sneering.
Yes. Now why do those words, said in that way, interest me?
The ragged canvas shelter was directly ahead, smoke drifting from the side that had been drawn open. As they approached, the air grew hotter, drier, the grasses withered and bleached underfoot. The earth seemed strangely blighted.
They came opposite the entrance. Within, the god’s huddled form in the gloom. Tendrils of smoke rising from the brazier.
A cough, then, ‘Such anger. Unreasonable, I think, given the efficacy of my gift.’
‘I don’t want to go back,’ Rhulad said. ‘Leave me here. Choose someone else.’
‘Unwitting servants to our cause appear…from unexpected sources. Imagine, an Avowed of the Crimson Guard. Be glad it was not Skinner, or indeed Cowl. They would have taken more notice of you, and that would not have been a good thing. We’re not yet ready for that.’ A hacking cough. ‘Not yet ready.’
‘I’m not going back.’
‘You detest the flesh given you. I understand. But, Rhulad Sengar, the gold is your payment. For the power you seek.’
‘I want nothing more of that power.’
‘But you do,’ the Crippled God said, clearly amused. ‘Consider the rewards already reaped. The throne of the Tiste Edur, the woman after whom you lusted for years—now in your possession, to do with as you please. Your brothers, bowing one and all before you. And a burgeoning prowess with the sword—’
‘It’s not mine, though, is it? It is all I can do to hold on! The skill does not belong to me—and all can see that! I have earned nothing!’
‘And what value is all that pride you seek, Rhulad Sengar? You mortals baffle me. It is a fool’s curse, to measure oneself in endless dissatisfaction. It is not for me to guide you in the rule of your empire. That task belongs to you and you alone. There, make that your place of pride. Besides, has not your strength grown? You have muscles now surpassing your brother Fear’s. Cease your whimpering, Edur.’
‘You are using me!’
The Crippled God laughed. ‘And Scabandari Bloodeye did not? Oh, I know the tale now. All of it. The seas whisper old truths, Rhulad Sengar. Revered Father Shadow, oh, such an absurd conceit. Murderer, knife-wielder, betrayer—’
‘Lies!’
‘—who then led you into your own betrayal. Of your once-allies, the Tiste Andii. You fell upon them at Scabandari’s command. You killed those who had fought alongside you. That is the legacy of the Tiste Edur, Rhulad Sengar. Ask Hannan Mosag. He knows. Ask your brother, Fear. Your mother—the women know. Their memory has been far less…selective.’
‘No more of this,’ the Edur pleaded, clawing at his face. ‘You would poison me with dishonour. That is your purpose…for all you say.’
‘Perhaps what I offer,’ the Crippled God murmured, ‘is absolution. The opportunity to make amends. It is within you, Rhulad Sengar. The power is yours to shape as you will. The empire shall cast your reflection, no-one else’s. Will you flee from that? If that is your choice, then indeed I shall be forced to choose another. One who will prove, perhaps, less honourable.’
The sword clattered at Rhulad’s feet.
‘Choose.’
Withal watched, saw the Edur’s expression change.
With a scream, Rhulad snatched up the weapon and lunged—
—and was gone.
Rasping laughter. ‘There is so little, Withal, that surprises me any more.’
Disgusted, the Meckros turned away.
‘A moment, Withal. I see your weariness, your displeasure. What is it that plagues you so? That is what I ask myself.’
‘The lad doesn’t deserve it—’
‘Oh, but he does. They all do.’
‘Aye,’ Withal said, eyes level as he stared at the Crippled God, ‘that does seem to be the sole judgement you possess. But it’s hardly clean, is it?’
‘Careful. My gratitude for what you have done for me wears thin.’
‘Gratitude?’ Withal’s laugh was harsh. ‘You are thankful after compelling me into doing your bidding. That’s a good one. May you be as generous of thought after I force you into killing me.’ He studied the hooded figure. ‘I see your problem, you know. I see it now, and curse myself for having missed it before. You have no realm to command, as do other gods. So you sit there, alone, in your tent, and that is the extent of your realm, isn’t it? Broken flesh and foul, stifling air. Skin-thin walls and the heat the old and lame desire. Your world, and you alone in it, and the irony is, you cannot even command your own body.’
A wretched cough, then, ‘Spare me your sympathy, Meckros. I have given the problem of you considerable thought, and have found a solution, as you shall soon discover. When you do, think on what you have said to me. Now, go.’
‘You still don’t understand, do you? The more pain you deliver to others, god, the more shall be visited upon you. You sow your own misery, and because of that whatever sympathy you might rightly receive is swept away.’
‘I said go, Withal. Build yourself a nest. Mape’s waiting.’
They emerged onto a windswept sward with the crashing waves of the sea on their right and before them the delta of a broad river. On the river’s other side stood a walled city.
Seren Pedac studied the distant buildings, the tall, thin towers that seemed to lean seaward. ‘Old Katter,’ she said. ‘We’re thirty leagues south of Trate. How is that possible?’
‘Warrens,’ Corlo muttered, sagging until he sat on the ground. ‘Rotted. Septic, but still, a warren.’
The Acquitor made her way down to the beach. The sun was high and hot overhead. I must wash. Get clean. The sea…
Iron Bars followed, in one hand the encrusted object where the spirit of a Tiste Andii woman now resided.
She strode into the water, the foaming waves thrashing round her shins.
The Avowed flung the object past her—a small splash not far ahead.
Thighs, then hips.
Clean. Get clean.
To her chest. A wave rolled, lifted her from the bottom, spun and flung her towards the shore. She clawed herself round until she could push forward once again. Cold salty water rising over her face. Bright, sunlit, silty water, washing sight from her eyes. Water biting at scabbed wounds, stinging her broken lips, water filling her mouth and begging to be drawn inside.
Like this.
Hands grasped her, pulled her back. She fought, but could not break loose.
Clean!
Her face swept by cold wind, eyes blinking in painful light. Coughing, weeping, she struggled, but the hands dragged her remorselessly onto the beach, flung her onto the sand. Then, as she tried to claw free, arms wrapped tight about her, pinning her own arms, and a voice gasped close to her ear,
‘I know, lass. I know what it’s about. But it ain’t the way.’
Heaving, helpless sobs, now.
And he held her still.
‘Heal her, Corlo.’
‘I’m damn near done—’
‘Now. And sleep. Make her sleep—’
No, you can’t die. Not again. I have need of you.
So many layers, pressing down upon these indurative remnants, a moment of vast pressure, the thick, so thick skin tracing innumerable small deaths. And life was voice, not words, but sound, motion. Where all else was still, silent. Oblivion waited when the last echo faded.
Dying the first time should have been enough. This world was foreign, after all. The gate sealed, swept away. Her husband—if he still lived—was long past his grief. Her daughter, perhaps a mother herself by now, a grandmother. She had fed on draconic blood, there in the wake of Anomander. Somewhere, she persisted, and lived free of sorrow.
It had been important to think that way. Her only weapon against insanity.
No gifts in death but one.
But something held her back.
Something with a voice. These are restless seas indeed. I had not thought my questing would prove so…easy. True, you are not human, but you will do. You will do.
These remnants, suddenly in motion, grating motion. Fragments, particles too small to see, drawing together. As if remembering to what they had once belonged. And, within the sea, within the silts, waited all that was needed. For flesh, for bone and blood. All these echoes, resurrected, finding shape. She looked on in horror.
Watched, as the body—so familiar, so strange—clawed its way upward through the silts. Silts that lightened, thinned, then burst into a plume that swirled in the currents. Arms reaching upward, a body heaving into view.
She hovered near, compelled to close, to enter, but knowing it was too soon.
Her body, which she had left so long ago. It was not right. Not fair.
Scrambling mindlessly along the sea bottom. Finned creatures darting in and out of sight, drawn to the stirred-up sediments, frightened away by the flailing figure. Multi-legged shapes scrabbling from its path.
A strange blurring, passed through, and then sunlight glittered close overhead. Hands broke the surface, firm sand underfoot, sloping upward.
Face in the air.
And she swept forward, plunged into the body, raced like fire within muscle and bone.
Sensations. Cold, a wind, the smell of salt and a shoreline’s decay.
Mother Dark, I am…alive.
The voice of return came not in laughter, but in screams.
All had gathered as word of the emperor’s death spread. The city was taken, but Rhulad Sengar had been killed. Neck snapped like a sapling. His body lay where it fell, with the slave Udinaas standing guard, a macabre sentinel who did not acknowledge anyone, but simply stared down at the coin-clad corpse.
Hannan Mosag. Mayen with Feather Witch trailing. Midik Buhn, now blooded and a warrior in truth. Hundreds of Edur warriors, blood-spattered with glory and slaughter. Silent, pale citizens, terrified of the taut expectancy in the smoky air.
All witness to the body’s sudden convulsions, its piercing screams. For a ghastly moment, Rhulad’s neck remained broken, rocking his head in impossible angles as he staggered to his feet. Then the bone mended, and the head righted itself, sudden light in the hooded eyes.
More screams, from Letherii now. Figures fleeing.
Rhulad’s ragged shrieks died and he stood, wavering, the sword trembling in his hands.
Udinaas spoke. ‘Emperor, Trate is yours.’
A sudden spasm, then Rhulad seemed to see the others for the first time. ‘Hannan Mosag, settle the garrison. The rest of the army shall camp outside the city. Send word to your K’risnan with the fleet: they are to make for Old Katter.’
The Warlock King stepped close and said in a low voice, ‘It is true, then. You cannot die.’
Rhulad flinched. ‘I die, Hannan Mosag. It is all I know, dying. Leave me now. Udinaas.’
‘Emperor.’
‘I need—find—I am…’
‘Your tent awaits you and Mayen,’ the slave said.
‘Yes.’
Midik Buhn spoke, ‘Emperor, I shall lead your escort.’
His expression confused, Rhulad looked down at his body, the smeared, crusted coins, the spattered furs. ‘Yes, brother Midik. An escort.’
‘And we shall find the one who…did this, sire…to you.’
Rhulad’s eyes flashed. ‘He cannot be defeated. We are helpless before him. He lies…’
Midik was frowning. He glanced at Udinaas.
‘Emperor,’ the slave said, ‘he meant the one who killed you and your kin. Here in this street.’
Clawing at his face, Rhulad turned away. ‘Of course. He wore…crimson.’
Udinaas said to Midik, ‘I will give you a detailed description.’
A sharp nod. ‘Yes. The city will be searched.’
But he’s gone, you fool. No, I don’t know how I know. Still, the man’s gone. With Seren Pedac. ‘Of course.’
‘Udinaas!’ A desperate gasp.
‘I am here, Emperor.’
‘Take me out of this place!’
It was known, now, and soon the Ceda would learn of it. But would he understand? How could he? It was impossible, insane.
He can do nothing. Will he realize this?
The warrior in gold trailed the slave, step by step, through the fallen city, Mayen and Feather Witch in their wake. Midik Buhn and a dozen warriors flanked them all, weapons at the ready. The passage was uncontested.
Withal sat on a bench in his smithy. Plain walls, stone and plaster, the forge cold and filled with ash. Paved floor, the small workshop three-walled, the open side facing onto a fenced compound where stood a cut-stone-rimmed well, a quenching trough, firewood and a heap of tailings and slag. A hut on the opposite side housed his cot and nothing else.
The extent of his world. Mocking reminder of his profession, the purpose behind living.
The Crippled God’s voice whispered in his mind, Withal. My gift. I am not without sympathy, no matter what you might think. I understood. Nachts are poor company for a man. Go, Withal, down to the beach. Take possession of my gift.
He slowly rose, bemused. A boat? A raft? A damned log I could ride out with the tide? He made his way outside.
And heard the Nachts, chattering excitedly down on the strand.
Withal walked to the verge, and stood, looking down.
A woman was staggering from the water. Tall, black-skinned, naked, long red hair.
And the Meckros turned round, strode away.
‘You bastard—’
The Crippled God replied in mock consternation, Is this not what you want? Is she too tall for you? Her eyes too strange? Withal, I do not understand….
‘How could you have done this? Take possession, you said. It’s all you know, isn’t it? Possession. Things to be used. People. Lives.’
She needs your help, Withal. She is lost, alarmed by the Nachts. Slow to recall her flesh.
‘Later. Leave me alone, now. Leave us both alone.’
A soft laugh, then a cough. As you wish. Disappointing, this lack of gratitude.
‘Go to the Abyss.’
No reply.
Withal entered the hut, stood facing the cot for a time, until he was certain that the Crippled God was not lurking somewhere in his skull. Then he lowered himself to his knees and bowed his head.
He hated religion. Detested gods. But the nest was empty. The nest needed tearing apart. Rebuilding.
The Meckros had a host of gods for the choosing. But one was older than all the others, and that one belonged to the sea.
Withal began to pray.
In Mael’s name.
Chapter Seventeen
None had seen the like. Chorum’s Mill was a
Marvel of invention. Wheels upon wheels,
Granite and interlocking gears, ax
les and
Spokes and rims of iron, a machine that climbed
From that fast river three full levels and ground
The finest flour Lether had ever seen—
Some say it was the rain, the deluge that filled
The water’s course through the mill’s stony toes.
Some say it was the sheer complexity that was
The cause of it all, the conceit of a mortal man’s
Vision. Some say it was the Errant’s nudge, fickle
And wayward that voiced the sudden roar that dawn,
The explosions of stone and the shrieks of iron,
And the vast wheels breaking free and bursting
Through the thick walls, and the washing women
Downstream the foam at their thighs looked up
To see their granite doom rolling down—
Not a wrinkle left, not a stain survived, and old
Misker, perched on Ribble the Mule, well the mule
Knew its place as it bolted and leapt head-first
Down the well, but poor old Misker hugged the
Draw pail on its rope and so swung clear, to
Skin his knees on the round’s cobbles and swear
Loud, the boisterous breath preceding the fateful
Descent of toothy death the gear wheel, tall as any
Man but far taller than Misker (even perched on
His mule) and that would not be hard once it was
Done with him, why the rat—oh, did I forget to
Mention the rat?
EXCERPT FROM THE RAT’S TAIL (THE CAUSE OF IT ALL)
CHANT PRIP
Stumbling in the gloom, the drunk had fallen into the canal. Tehol had mostly lost sight of him from his position at the edge of the roof, but he could hear splashing and curses, and the scrabbling against the rings set in the stone wall.
Sighing, Tehol glanced over at the nameless guard Brys had sent. Or one of them, at least. The three brothers looked pretty much identical, and none had given their names. Nothing outward or obvious to impress or inspire fear. And, by the unwavering cast of their lipless, eyeslitted expressions, sadly unqualified as welcome company.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 427