He stumbled to one side.
She had halted at the very edge of an enormous altar chamber. Where a bizarre, ethereal pattern was raining down from the domed ceiling, countless linked filaments of black threads, slowly descending, even as other tendrils rose from the floor itself.
And Nimander heard her whisper, ‘The Gate. How…oh, my dearest son…oh, Anomander…’
Clip stood in the centre of the chamber, and he turned round upon the arrival of Aranatha and Nimander.
The rings spun out on their lengths of chain – and then stopped, caught in the pattern, the chains shivering taut.
Sudden agony lit Clip’s face.
There was a snap as the looped chain bit through his index finger – and the rings spun and whirled up and away, speared in the pattern. Racing along every thread, ever faster, until they were nothing but blurs, and then even that vanished.
Nimander stepped past Aranatha and leapt forward, straight for Clip.
Who had staggered to one side, looking down – as if seeking his severed finger somewhere at his feet. On his face, shock and pain, bewilderment—
He had ever underestimated Nimander. An easy mistake. Mistakes often were.
So like his sire, so slow to anger, but when that anger arrived…Nimander grasped Clip by the front of his jerkin, swung him off his feet and in a single, ferocious surge sent him sprawling, tumbling across the floor.
Awakening the Dying God. Blazing with rage, it regained its feet and whirled to face Nimander.
Who did not even flinch as he prepared to advance to meet it, unsheathing his sword.
A fluttering touch on his shoulder stayed him.
Aranatha – who was no longer Aranatha – stepped past him.
But no, her feet were not even touching the floor. She rose yet higher, amidst streams of darkness that flowed down like silk, and she stared down upon the Dying God.
Who, finding himself face to face with Mother Dark – with the Elder Goddess in the flesh – quailed. Shrinking back, diminished.
She does not reach through – not any more. She is here. Mother Dark is here.
And Nimander heard her say, ‘Ah, my son…I accept.’
The Gate of Darkness wandered no more. Was pursued no longer. The Gate of Darkness had found a new home, in the heart of Black Coral.
Lying in a heap of mangled flesh and bone, dying, Endest Silann rose from the river – thing of memory and of truth, that had kept him alive for so long – and opened his eyes. The High Priestess knelt at his side, one hand brushing his cheek. ‘How,’ she whispered, ‘how could he ask this of you? How could he know—’
Through his tears, he smiled. ‘All that he has ever asked of us, of me, and Spinnock Durav, and so many others, he has given us in return. Each and every time. This…this is his secret. Don’t you understand, High Priestess? We served the one who served us.’
He closed his eyes then, as he felt another presence – one he had never imagined he would ever feel again. And in his mind, he spoke, ‘For you, Mother, he did this. For us, he did this. He has brought us all home. He has brought us all home.’
And she replied in his mind then, her voice rising from the depths below, from the river where he had found his strength. His strength to hold, one last time. As his Lord had asked him to. As his Lord had known he would do. She said, I understand. Come to me, then.
The water between us, Endest Silann, is clear.
The water is clear.
As the ruined, lifeless remnant that had once been Seerdomin was flung to one side, Salind prepared to resume her attack, at last upon the Redeemer himself—
The god who had once been Itkovian – silent, wondering witness to a defence of unimaginable courage – now lifted his head. He could feel a presence. More than one. A mother. A son. Apart for so long, and now they were entwined in ways too mysterious, too ineffable, to grasp. And then, in a flood, he was made to comprehend the truth of gifts, the truth of redemption. He gasped.
‘I am…shown. I am shown…’
And down he marched to meet her.
‘Thank you, Anomander Rake, for this unexpected gift. My hidden friend. And…fare you well.’
The Redeemer, on his barrow of worthless wealth, need not stand outside, need not face Darkness. No, he could walk forward now, into that realm.
Down through the thinning, watery rain to where she stood, uncertain, trembling, on the very edge of abandonment.
He took Salind into his embrace.
And, holding her close, he spoke these words: ‘Bless you, that you not be taken. Bless you, that you begin in your time and that you end in its fullness. Bless you, in the name of the Redeemer, in my name, against the cruel harvesters of the soul, the takers of life. Bless you, that your life and each life shall be as it is written, for peace is born of completion.’
Against this, the Dying God had no defence. In this embrace, the Dying God came to believe that he had not marched to the Redeemer, but that the Redeemer had summoned him. An invitation he could not have seen, nor recognized. To heal what none other could heal.
Here in this pure Darkness. At the very Gate of Mother Dark, there was, in fact, no other possible place for rebirth.
The Dying God simply…slipped away.
And Salind, why, she felt soft in his arms.
The Redeemer leaves judgement to others. This frees him, you see, to cleanse all.
And the water is clear between them.
The ashes drifted down upon a still, silent scene. The legions of chaos were gone from Dragnipur, their quarry vanished. The wagon stood motionless, riven with fissures. Draconus looked round and he could see how few of the Chained were left. So many obliterated, devoured. His gaze settled for a moment upon the patch of ground where the demon Pearl had made its stand, where it had fallen, defiant to the very end.
He saw the soldier named Iskar Jarak, sitting astride his horse and staring up at the place where Anomander Rake had been, there on top of the now motionless, silent bodies – not one of whom bore any remnant of the vast tattoo.
Draconus walked up to stand beside him. ‘You knew him, didn’t you?’
Iskar Jarak nodded. ‘He called me a friend.’
Draconus sighed. ‘I wish I could say the same. I wish…I wish I could have known him better than I did.’ He heard someone approaching and turned to see Hood. ‘Lord of Death, now what? We remain chained; we cannot leave as did the Bridgeburners and the Grey Swords. There are too few of us to pull the wagon, even had we anywhere to go. I see, I understand what Rake has done, and I do not hold him any ill will. But now, I find myself wishing I had joined the others. To find an end to this—’
Iskar Jarak grunted and then said, ‘You spoke true, Draconus, when you said you did not know him well.’
Draconus scowled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He means,’ said Hood, ‘we now come to the final act in this bargain. He has been true to his word, but now what comes is out of his hands. He wrought a promise, yes, but will that suffice?’
‘Shame on you, Hood,’ said Iskar Jarak, gathering up the reins. ‘There is not a fool out there who would betray the Son of Darkness, not in this, not even now – though he has left us, though he has returned to his Mother’s realm.’
‘You chastise me, Iskar Jarak?’
‘I do.’
The Jaghut snorted. ‘Accepted,’ he said.
Barathol sat on the cobbles, feeling as if every bone in his body was fractured, as if every muscle was bruised. He wanted to throw up, but struggled against the impulse, lest the convulsions kill him. He glanced yet again at that sprawled corpse with the sword embedded in its face and skull. He could see the broad, deep puncture wounds on one thigh, where the Hound had picked it up. No blood leaked from them.
Antsy came over and crouched down. ‘Look at what we run into here. There’s beast blood everywhere, and you, y’damned idiot, you stood down one of them monsters – with a damned axe!’
‘Help
me up, will you?’
Antsy stared, then sighed. ‘We’d need the ox for that – you’re big as a bhederin. Fine, I’ll squat here and you try using me like I was a ladder, but don’t blame me if my knees buckle.’
Another carriage had drawn up a short time earlier, and before it stood the High Alchemist Baruk – the one who’d turned them away – and beside him a warrior with Barghast blood, an enormous hammer strapped to his back. This one walked up to stare down at the dead Tiste Andii.
Barathol pulled himself upright, Antsy grunting under his weight, and then straightened with a soft word of thanks. He glanced over to study the others still remaining. The Toblakai warrior and the woman who seemed to be his companion. The two other Toblakai, young women – possibly even children – who might have been sisters, and a large dog bearing more scars than seemed possible. Great Ravens still lined the roof edges, or huddled like black, demonic gnomes on the street itself, silent as wraiths.
The dawn’s golden sunlight streamed through the smoke hanging over the city, and he could hear nothing of the normal wakening bustle that should have already begun filling Darujhistan’s streets.
Beyond this immediate gathering, others were appearing. Citizens, guards, blank-faced and empty of words, numb as refugees, none drawing too close but seemingly unwilling to leave.
The High Alchemist was standing a respectful distance away from the Barghast and the dead Tiste Andii, watching with sorrow-filled eyes. He then spoke, ‘Caladan Brood, what he sought must—’
‘Wait,’ rumbled the Barghast. ‘It must wait.’ He bent down then, reached out and grasped hold of the black-bladed sword. And, with little ceremony, he worked the weapon loose, and then straightened once more.
It seemed everyone present held their breath.
Caladan Brood stared down at the weapon in his hands. Then, Barathol saw, the warrior’s mouth twisted into a faint snarl, filed teeth gleaming. And he turned round and walked to the carriage, where he opened the side door and tossed the sword inside. It clanged, thumped. The door clicked shut.
The Barghast glared about, and then pointed. ‘That ox and cart.’
‘Caladan—’
‘I will have my way here, Baruk.’ His bestial eyes found Barathol. ‘You, help me with him.’
Barathol bit back every groan as he took hold of the Tiste Andii’s feet, watching as Brood forced his hands beneath the corpse’s shoulders, down under the arms. Together, they lifted the body.
Antsy had brought the cart close and he now stood beside the ox, his expression miserable.
They laid the body of Anomander Rake on the slatted bed with its old blood stains. Brood leaned over it for a long moment. And then he drew himself upright once more and faced the High Alchemist. ‘I shall build him a barrow. West of the city.’
‘Caladan, please, that can wait. We have to—’
‘No.’ He moved to where Antsy stood and with one hand pushed the Falari away from the ox, grasping hold of the yoke. ‘I will do this. None other need be burdened with this journey. It shall be Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake, together one last time.’
And so the ox began its fateful walk. A warrior at its side, the corpse of another in the cart.
The procession was forced to halt but once, not ten paces from where it started, as a short, round man in a red waistcoat had positioned himself directly in its path. Caladan Brood looked up, frowned.
The short, round man then, with surprising grace, bowed, before backing to one side.
Brood said nothing, simply tugging the ox into motion once again.
It was said that he had saved Darujhistan. Once, years ago, and now again. The Lord of Moon’s Spawn, who on this night brought darkness down, darkness and cold, down upon the raging fires. Who somehow crushed the life from a growing conflagration of destruction. Saving the lives of everyone. It was said he single-handedly banished the demon Hounds. It was said, upon the instant of his death, the heart of the moon broke. And proof of that still lingered in the sky.
Who killed him? No one was sure. Rumours of Vorcan’s return fuelled speculation of some vicious betrayal. A Malazan contract. A god’s blind rage. But clearly it was fated, that death, for did not the worshippers of Dessembrae emerge from their temple last night? Was that not a time for the Lord of Tragedy? Oh, but it was, yes, it surely was.
And so, unbidden, people came out on to the streets. They lined the route taken by Caladan Brood to await his passing, the warrior, the ox, the cart. And when he did, he was watched in silence; and when the procession had passed, the people fell into his wake, becoming a river of humanity.
On this morning, Darujhistan was like no other city. No hawkers called out their wares. Market stalls remained shut. No fisher boats slipped their moorings and set out on the mirror waters of the lake. Looms stayed motionless, spindles unspun. And, from every temple, bells began their toll. Discordant, sonorous, building like a broken echo, as if the city itself had found a voice, and that voice, so filled with the chaos of grief, would now speak for every citizen, for the priests and priestesses, for the very gods in their temples.
Amidst the clanging bells, Great Ravens rose into the smoky sky, wheeling above rooftops, forming a caterwauling, grisly escort. At first there were but hundreds, and then there were thousands. Swirling in a mass, as if drawn to deliver darkness to Darujhistan, as if to shroud the body below.
And, just beyond Worrytown, ascending the first of the Gadrobi Hills, a lone swordsman paused and half turned a ravaged face to the fretful music of those bells, those birds, and whatever might have been there, in his eyes, well, there was no one to witness it.
And so he set his back to Darujhistan and resumed his journey. That he had nowhere to go, at least for the moment, was without relevance. Solitude finds its own path, for the one who will not share burdens. And loneliness is no fit companion for the eternally lost, but it is the only one they know.
At this moment, another lone figure, clad in chain, sat in a tavern in Worrytown. The notion of witnessing the procession in the city was proving too…unpalatable. Kallor despised funerals. Celebrations of failure. Wallowing in pathos. Every living soul standing there forced to stare into mortality’s grinning face – no, that was not for Kallor.
He preferred kicking that piss-grinning, shit-reeking bastard face, right between the fucking eyes.
The tavern was empty, since it seemed no one else shared his sentiments, and that was fine with him. It had always been fine with him.
Or so he told himself, as he stared down into his stolen tankard of bad ale, and listened to those infernal bells and those oversized vultures. And that chorus was hauntingly familiar. Death, ruin, grief. ‘Hear that?’ he said to his tankard, ‘they’re playing our song.’
Blend walked into K’rul’s Bar and found it empty, save for the hunched figure of the historian, who sat at his chosen table, staring at the stained, pitted wood. She walked over and looked down at him. ‘Who died?’
Duiker did not look up. ‘Not who, Blend. More like what. What died? More, I think, than we’ll ever know.’
She hesitated. ‘Have you checked on Picker?’
‘She walked out of here a quarter-bell ago.’
‘What?’
‘Said she’d be back.’
‘That’s it? That’s all she said?’
‘Something else. Something about “them damned torcs”.’ He finally glanced up, his eyes bleak as ever. ‘Sit down, Blend. Please. I don’t like being alone, not right now. She’ll be back.’
At that moment a bell began ringing overhead and both Malazans ducked at the deafening clangour.
‘Gods below!’ swore Blend. ‘Who’s up in the belfry?’
Duiker was frowning. ‘The only other person here is Scillara. I suppose…’ and then he fell silent, and the wasted misery in his eyes deepened.
Blend sat down. ‘She’d better get tired soon, or I’ll have to go up there.’
They sat, weathering the clanging
. Blend studied Duiker, wondering at his ever-deepening despondency. And then a realization struck her. ‘I thought we unshipped that bell.’
‘We did, Blend. It’s in the cellar.’
‘Oh.’
No wonder he looked so wretched.
‘Plan on cutting off its head?’ Samar Dev asked.
Karsa Orlong was standing over the Hound he had killed. At her question he grunted. ‘I could use a kitchen knife to finish the job. See how my blade cut through that spine? Like chopping down a tree.’
She found she was trembling, decided it was exhaustion. ‘They’re your daughters, aren’t they?’
Karsa glanced over at the two Toblakai girls, who stood watching, silent, expectant. ‘I raped a mother and a daughter.’
‘Ah, well, isn’t that nice.’
‘It was my right.’
‘Funny, that.’
‘What?’
‘That idea of “rights”. The way that claiming a right so often results in someone else losing theirs. At which point it all comes down to who’s holding the biggest sword.’
‘I won that right when I killed their men. This was tribal war, witch.’ He paused. ‘And I was young.’
‘Gods below, you’re actually telling me you have regrets?’
The Toblakai turned away from the dead Hound and faced his daughters. ‘I have many,’ he answered. ‘But, not these two.’
‘And if they feel differently about it, Karsa?’
‘Why should they? I gave them life.’
‘I think,’ Samar Dev said, ‘that I shall never understand you.’ She eyed the girls. ‘Do they know what we’re saying? Of course not, they couldn’t have learned any Seven Cities language. I’ve not seen you speak to them, Karsa. What are you waiting for?’
‘I am waiting,’ he replied, ‘for when I can think of something to say.’
At that moment another woman emerged from an alley mouth and, gaze fixed on Karsa Orlong, walked over. ‘Toblakai,’ she said, ‘I have a message to deliver to you.’ She was speaking Malazan.
‘I don’t know you,’ Karsa said to her in the same language.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 817