A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

beneath
him, hands thrusting out to catch himself. Grey air, a
charnel stench, and Paran lifted his head. Before him stood
a gate, a mass of twisted bones and pale, bruised flesh,
dangling strands of hair, innumerable staring eyes, and
beyond it was grey, murky oblivion.
    'Oh, Hood.'
    He was at the very threshold. He had damned near flung
himself right through—
    A figure appeared in the portal, black-cloaked, cowled,
tall. This isn't one of his servants. This is the hoary old bastard
himself —
    'Is there time for such unpleasant thoughts, mortal?' The
voice was mild, only faintly rasping. 'With what is about to
happen ... well, Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck of
Dragons, you have positioned yourself in a most unfortunate
place, unless you wish to be trampled by the
multitudes who shall momentarily find themselves on this
path.'
    'Oh, be quiet, Hood,' Paran hissed, trying to climb to his
feet, then stopping when he realized that doing so would
not be a good idea. 'Help me. Us. Stop what's coming – it'll
destroy—'
    'Far too much, yes. Too many plans. I can do little, however.
You have sought out the wrong god.'
    'I know. I was trying for Mael.'
    'Pointless ...' Yet, even as Hood spoke that word, Paran
detected a certain ... hesitation.
    Ah, you've had a thought.
    'I have. Very well, Ganoes Paran, bargain.'
    'Abyss take us – there's no time for that!'
    'Think quickly, then.'
    'What do you want? More than anything else, Hood. What do you want?'
    And so Hood told him. And, among the corpses, limbs
and staring faces in the gate, one face in particular suddenly
grew animate, its eyes opening very wide – a detail neither
noticed.
    Paran stared at the god, disbelieving. 'You can't be
serious.'
    'Death is always serious.'
    'Oh, enough with the portentous crap! Are you certain?'
    'Can you achieve what I ask, Ganoes Paran?'
    'I will. Somehow.'
    'Do you so vow?'
    'I do.'
    'Very well. Leave here. I must open this gate.'
    'What? It is open!'
    But the god had turned away, and Paran barely heard
Hood's reply: 'Not from this side.'
     
    Chaur squealed as a hail of firestones struck the roiling
waters barely a ship's-breadth away. Explosions of steam, a
terrible shrieking sound tearing through the air. Cutter
pushed hard on the steering oar, trying to scull the wallowing
craft – but he didn't have the strength for that. The Grief wasn't going anywhere. Except, I fear, to the bottom.
    Something struck the deck; a thud, splintering, reverberations
trembling the entire hull, then steam was billowing
from the fist-sized hole. The Grief seemed to sag beneath
them.
    Cursing, Barathol scrambled to the breach, dragging a
bundle of spare sailcloth. Even as he sought to push it down
into the hole, two more stones struck the craft, one up front
tearing away the prow, another – a flash of heat against
Cutter's left thigh and he looked down to see steam then
water gushing up.
    The air seethed like the breath from a forge. The entire
sky overhead seemed to be on fire.
    The sail above them was burning, ripped through.
    Another concussion, and more than half of the port rail
was simply gone, pulverized wood a mist drifting away,
flaring with motes of flame.
    'We're sinking!' Scillara shouted, grasping hold of the
opposite rail as the Grief' s deck tilted alarmingly.
    Cargo shifted – too many supplies – we got greedy – making
the dying craft lean further.
    The wrapped corpse of Heboric rolled towards the
choppy waves.
    Crying out, Cutter sought to make his way towards it,
but he was too far away – the cloth-wrapped form slid down
into the water—
    And, wailing, Chaur followed it.
    'No!' Barathol yelled. 'Chaur – no!'
    The mute giant's huge arms closed about the corpse, a
moment before both simply slipped from sight.
     
    Sea. Bara called it sea. Warm now, wet. Was so nice. Now,
sky bad, and sea bad – up there – but nice now. Here. Dark,
night, night is coming, ears hurt. Ears hurt. Hurt. Bara said
never breathe in sea. Need to breathe now. Oh, hurt! Breathe!
    He filled his lungs, and fire burst through his chest, then
... cool, calm, the spasms slowing. Darkness closed in
round him, but Chaur was no longer frightened by that.
The cold was gone, the heat was gone, and numbness filled
his head.
    He had so loved the sea.
    The wrapped body in his arms pulled ever down, and the
limbs that had been severed and that he had collected
when Bara told him to, seemed to move about within as the
canvas stretched, lost