A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

the nearest severed head, then tied it tight. 'Darkness would better suit them, all things considered ...'
    Karsa frowned. 'Why do you say that, Torvald Nom? Which would you prefer, the ability to see things around you, or darkness?'
    'These are Tiste Andii, apart from a few – and those few look far too much like me.'
    'Who are these Tiste Andii?'
    'Just a people. There are some fighting in Caladan Brood's liberation army on Genabackis. An ancient people, it's said. In any case, they worship Darkness.'
    Karsa, suddenly weary, sat down on the steps leading to the forecastle. 'Darkness,' he muttered. 'A place where one is left blind – a strange thing to worship.'
    'Perhaps the most realistic worship of all,' the Daru replied, wrapping another severed head. 'How many of us bow before a god in the desperate hope that we can somehow shape our fate? Praying to that familiar face pushes away our terror of the unknown – the unknown being the future. Who knows, maybe these Tiste Andii are the only ones among us all who see the truth, the truth being oblivion.' Keeping his eyes averted, he carefully gathered another black-skinned, long-haired head. 'It's a good thing these poor souls have no throats left to utter sounds, else we find ourselves in a ghastly debate.'
    'You doubt your own words, then.'
    'Always, Karsa. On a more mundane level, words are like gods – a means of keeping the terror at bay. I will likely have nightmares about this until my aged heart finally gives out. An endless succession of heads, with all-too-cognizant eyes, to wrap up in sealskin. And with each one I tie up, pop! Another appears.'
    'Your words are naught but foolishness.'
    'Oh, and how many souls have you delivered unto darkness, Karsa Orlong?'
    The Teblor's eyes narrowed. 'I do not think it was darkness
    that they found,' he replied quietly. After a moment, he looked away, struck
    silent by a sudden realization. A year ago he would have killed someone for
    saying what Torvald had just said, had he understood its intent to wound –
    which in itself was unlikely. A year ago, words had been blunt, awkward things,
    confined within a simple, if slightly mysterious world. But that flaw had
    been Karsa's alone – not a characteristic of the Teblor in general –
    for Bairoth Gild had flung many-edged words at Karsa, a constant source of
    amusement for the clever warrior though probably dulled by Karsa's own unawareness
    of their intent.
    Torvald Nom's endless words – but no, more than just
that – all that Karsa had experienced since leaving his village – had served as instruction on the complexity of the world. Subtlety had been a venomed serpent slithering unseen through his life. Its fangs had sunk deep many times, yet not once had he become aware of their origin; not once had he even understood the source of the pain. The poison itself had coursed deep within him, and the only answer he gave – when he gave one at all – was of violence, often misdirected, a lashing out on all sides.
    Darkness, and living blind. Karsa returned his gaze to the Daru kneeling and wrapping severed heads, there on the mizzen deck. And who has dragged the cloth from my eyes? Who has awakened Karsa Orlong, son of Synyg? Urugal? No, not Urugal. He knew that for certain, for the otherworldly rage he had felt in the cabin, that icy breath that had swept through him – that had belonged to his god. A fierce displeasure – to which Karsa had found himself oddly ... indifferent.
    The Seven Faces in the Rock never spoke of freedom. The Teblor were their servants. Their slaves.
    'You look unwell, Karsa,' Torvald said, approaching. 'I am sorry for my last words—'
    'There is no need, Torvald Nom,' Karsa said, rising. 'We should return to our—'
    He stopped as the first splashes of rain struck him, then the deck on all sides. Milky, slimy rain.
    'Uh!' Torvald grunted. 'If this is a god's spit, he's decidedly unwell.'
    The water smelled foul, rotten. It quickly coated the ship decks, the rigging and tattered sails overhead, in a thick, pale grease.
    Swearing, the Daru began gathering foodstuffs and watercasks to load into their dory below. Karsa completed one last circuit of the decks, examining the weapons and armour he had pulled from the grey-skinned bodies. He found the rack of harpoons and gathered the six that remained.
    The downpour thickened, creating murky, impenetrable walls on all sides of the ship. Slipping in the deepening muck, Karsa and