A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

of disorder. Karsa Orlong, this is the only worthy truth, the greatest of all truths. What do the gods themselves worship, but perfection? The unattainable victory over nature, over nature's uncertainty. There are many words for this struggle. Order against chaos, structure against dissolution, light against dark, life against death. But they all mean the same thing.'
    The broken-necked T'lan Imass spoke in a whisper, his words a droning chant. 'The ranag has fallen lame. Is distanced from the herd. Yet walks on in its wake. Seeking the herd's protection. Time will heal. Or weaken. Two possibilities. But the lame ranag knows naught but stubborn hope. For that is its nature. The ay have seen it and now close. The prey is still strong. But alone. The ay know weakness. Like a scent on the cold wind. They run with the stumbling ranag. And drive it away from the herd. Still, it is stubborn hope. It makes its stand. Head lowered, horns ready to crush ribs, send the enemy flying. But the ay are clever. Circle and attack, then spring away. Again and again. Hunger wars with stubborn hope. Until the ranag is exhausted. Bleeding. Staggering. Then the ay all attack at once. Nape of neck. Legs. Throat. Until the ranag is dragged down. And stubborn hope gives way, Karsa Orlong. It gives way, as it always must, to mute inevitability.'
    The Teblor bared his teeth. 'Yet your new master would harbour that lame beast. Would offer it a haven.'
    'You cross the bridge before we have built it, Karsa Orlong,' Urugal said. 'It seems Bairoth Gild taught you how
to think, before he himself failed and so died. You are indeed worthy of the name Warleader.'
    'Perfection is an illusion,' 'Siballe said. 'Thus, mortal and immortal alike are striving for what cannot be achieved. Our new master seeks to alter the paradigm, Karsa Orlong. A third force, to change for ever the eternal war between order and dissolution.'
    'A master demanding the worship of imperfection,' the Teblor growled.
    'Siballe's head creaked in a nod. 'Yes.'
    Karsa realized he was thirsty and walked over to his pack, retrieving a waterskin. He drank deep, then returned to his sword. He closed both hands about the grip and lifted it before him, studying its rippled length.
    'An extraordinary creation,' Urugal said. 'If Imass weapons could have a god ...'
    Karsa smiled at the T'lan Imass he had once knelt before, in a distant glade, in a time of youth – when the world he saw was both simple and ... perfect. 'You are not gods.'
    'We are,' Urugal replied. 'To be a god is to possess worshippers.'
    'To guide them,' 'Siballe added.
    'You are wrong, both of you,' Karsa said. 'To be a god is to know the burden of believers. Did you protect? You did not. Did you offer comfort, solace? Were you possessed of compassion? Even pity? To the Teblor, T'lan Imass, you were slavemasters, eager and hungry, making harsh demands, and expecting cruel sacrifices – all to feed your own desires. You were the Teblor's unseen chains.' His eyes settled on 'Siballe. 'And you, woman, 'Siballe the Unfound, you were the taker of children.'
    'Imperfect children, Karsa Orlong, who would otherwise have died. And they do not regret my gifts.'
    'No, I would imagine not. The regret remains with the mothers and fathers who surrendered them. No matter how brief a child's life, the love of the parents is a power that should not be denied. And know this, 'Siballe, it is immune
to imperfection.' His voice was harsh to his own ears, grating out from a constricted throat. 'Worship imperfection, you said. A metaphor you made real by demanding that those children be sacrificed. Yet you were – and remain – unmindful of the most crucial gift that comes from worship. You have no understanding of what it is to ease the burdens of those who would worship you. But even that is not your worst crime. No. You then gave us your own burdens.' He shifted his gaze. 'Tell me, Urugal, what have the Teblor done to deserve that?'
    'Your own people have forgotten—'
    'Tell me.'
    Urugal shrugged. 'You failed.'
    Karsa stared at the battered god, unable to speak. The sword trembled in his hands. He had held it up for all this time, and now, finally, its weight threatened to drag his arms down. He fixed his eyes on the weapon, then slowly lowered the tip to rest on the stone floor.
    'We too failed, once, long ago,' 'Siballe said. 'Such things cannot be undone. Thus, you may surrender to it, and so suffer beneath its eternal torment. Or you