A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

round, to face that incessant, alien presence that had so hounded him. Felt himself open like an explosion.
    All right, you wanted my attention. You've got it. Listen, and listen well, Nightchill – whoever – whatever you really are. Maybe there have been Masters of the Deck before, long ago, whom you could pluck and pull to do your bidding. Hood knows, maybe you're the one – you and your Elder friends – who selected me this time round. But if so, oh, you've made a mistake. A bad one.
    I've been a god's puppet once before. But I cut those strings, and if you want details, then go ask Oponn. I walked into a cursed sword to do it, and I swear, I'll do it again – with far less mercy in my heart – if I get so much as a whiff of manipulation from you.
    He sensed cold amusement in reply, and the bestial blood within Paran responded. Raised hackles. Teeth bared. A deep, deadly growl.
    Sudden alarm.
    Aye, the truth of it. I won't be collared, Nightchill. And I tell you this, now, and you'd do well to take heed of these words. I'm taking a step forward. Between you and every mortal like me. I don't know what that man Gruntle had to lose, to arrive where you wanted him, but I sense the wounds in him – Abyss take you, is pain your only means of making us achieve what you want? It seems so. Know this, then: until you can find another means, until you can show me another way – something other than pain and grief – I'll fight you.
    We have our lives. All of us, and they're not for you to play with. Not Picker's life, not Gruntle's or Stonny's.
    You've opened this path, Nightchill. Connecting us. Fine. Good. Give me cause, and I'll come down it. Riding the blood of a Hound of Shadow – do you know, I think, if I wanted to, I could call the others with it. All of them.
    Because I understand something, now. Come to a realization, and one I know to be truth. In the sword Dragnipur . . . two Hounds of Shadow returned to the Warren of Darkness. Returned, Nightchill. Do you grasp my meaning? They were going home.
    And I can call them back, without doubt. Two souls of untamed Dark. Grateful souls, beloved spawn of destruction—
    A reply came, then, a woman's voice unknown to Paran. 'You have no idea what you threaten, mortal. My brother's sword hides far more secrets than you can contemplate.'
    He smiled. Worse than that, Nightchill. The hand now wielding Dragnipur belongs to Darkness. Anomander Rake, the son of the mother. The pathway has never been so straight, so direct or so short, has it? Should I tell him what has happened within his own weapon—
    'Should Rake learn that you found a way into Dragnipur and that you freed the two Hounds he had slain . . . he would lull you, mortal.'
    He might. He's already had a few chances to do so, and just reasons besides. Yet he stayed his hand. I don't think you under' stand the Lord of Moon's Spawn as well as you think you do. There is nothing predictable in Anomander Rake – perhaps that is what frightens you so.
    'Pursue not this course.'
    I will do whatever I have to, Nightchill, to cut your strings. In your eyes, we mortals are weak. And you use our weakness to justify manipulating us.
    'The struggle we face is far vaster – far deadlier – than you realize.'
    Explain it. All of it. Show me this vast threat of yours.
    'To save your sanity, we must not, Ganoes Paran.'
    Patronizing bitch.
    He sensed her anger flare at that. 'You say our only means of using you is through the deliverance of pain. To that we have but one answer: appearances deceive.'
    Keeping us ignorant is your notion of mercy?
    'Bluntly worded, but in essence, you are correct, Ganoes Paran.'
    A Master of the Deck cannot be left ignorant, Nightchill. If I am to accept this role and its responsibilities – whatever they might be and Hood knows, I don't yet know them – but if I am, then I need to know. Everything.
    'In time—'
    He sneered.
    'In time, I said. Grant us this small mercy, mortal. The struggle before us is no different from a military campaign – incremental engagements, localized contests. But the field of battle is no less than existence itself. Small victories are each in themselves vital contributions to the pandemic war we have chosen to undertake—'
    Who is 'we'?
    'The surviving Elder Gods . . . and others somewhat less cognizant of their role.'
    K'rul? The one responsible for Tattersail's rebirth?
    'Yes. My brother.'
    Your brother. But not the brother who forged Dragnipur.
    'Not