A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

itself. Gothos wondered, idly, if there had been a
time when he believed that such a shattering would not come to pass. That the Jaghut, in all their perfected
brilliance, were unique, triumphant in eternal domination.
A civilization immortal, when all others were doomed.
    Well, it was possible. He had once believed that all of
existence was under the benign control of a caring
omnipotence, after all. And crickets exist to sing us to sleep, too. There was no telling what other foolishness might have
crept into his young, naive brain all those millennia
ago.
    No longer, of course. Things end. Species die out. Faith
in anything else was a conceit, the produce of unchained
ego, the curse of supreme self-importance.
    So what do I now believe?
    He would not permit himself a melodramatic laugh in
answer to that question. What was the point? There was no
one nearby who might appreciate it. Including himself. Yes,
I am cursed to live with my own company.
    It's a private curse.
    The best kind.
    He ascended a broken, fractured rise, some violent uplift
of bedrock, where a vast fissure had opened, its vertical sides
already glistening with frost when Gothos came to the edge
and looked down. Somewhere in the darkness below, two
voices were raised in argument.
    Gothos smiled.
    He opened his warren, made use of a sliver of power to
fashion a slow, controlled descent towards the gloomy base
of the crevasse.
    As Gothos neared, the two voices ceased, leaving only a
rasping, hissing sound, pulsating – the drawing of breath on
waves of pain, and the Jaghut heard the slithering of scales
on stone, slightly off to one side.
    He alighted atop broken shards of rock, a few paces from
where stood Mael, and, ten paces beyond him, the huge
form of Kilmandaros, her skin vaguely luminescent – in a
sickly sort of way – standing with hands closed into fists, a
belligerent cast to her brutal mein.
    Scabandari, the Soletaken Dragon, had been driven into a
hollow in a cliffside and now crouched, splintered ribs no
doubt making every breath an ordeal of agony. One wing
was shattered, half-torn away. A hind limb was clearly broken,
bones punched through flesh. Its flight was at an end.
    The two Elders were now eyeing Gothos, who strode
forward, then spoke. 'I am always delighted,' he said, 'when
a betrayer is in turn betrayed. In this instance, betrayed by
his own stupidity. Which is even more delightful.'
    Mael, Elder God of the Seas, asked, 'The Ritual ... are
you done, Gothos?'
    'More or less.' The Jaghut fixed his gaze on Kilmandaros.
'Elder Goddess. Your children in this realm have lost their
way.'
    The huge bestial woman shrugged, and said in a faint,
melodic voice, 'They're always losing their way, Jaghut.'
    'Well, why don't you do something about it?'
    'Why don't you?'
    One thin brow lifted, then Gothos bared his tusks in a
smile. 'Is that an invitation, Kilmandaros?'
    She looked over at the dragon. 'I have no time for this. I
need to return to Kurald Emurlahn. I will kill him now—'
and she stepped closer.
    'You must not,' Mael said.
    Kilmandaros faced him, huge hands opening then closing
again into fists. 'So you keep saying, you boiled crab.'
    Shrugging, Mael turned to Gothos. 'Explain it to her,
please.'
    'How many debts do you wish to owe me?' the Jaghut
asked him.
    'Oh now really, Gothos!'
    'Very well. Kilmandaros. Within the Ritual that now
descends upon this land, upon the battlefields and these ugly
forests, death itself is denied. Should you kill the Tiste Edur
here, his soul will be unleashed from his flesh, but it will
remain, only marginally reduced in power.'
    'I mean to kill him,' Kilmandaros said in her soft voice.
    'Then,' Gothos' smile broadened, 'you will need me.'
    Mael snorted.
    'Why do I need you?' Kilmandaros asked the Jaghut.
    He shrugged. 'A Finnest must be prepared. To house, to
imprison, this Soletaken's soul.'
    'Very well, then make one.'
    'As a favour to you both? I think not, Elder Goddess. No,
alas, as with Mael here, you must acknowledge a debt. To
me.'
    'I have a better idea,' Kilmandaros said. 'I crush your skull
between a finger and thumb, then I push your carcass down
Scabandari's throat, so that he suffocates on your pompous
self. This seems a fitting demise for the both of you.'
    'Goddess, you have grown bitter and crabby in your old
age,' Gothos said.
    'It is no surprise,' she replied. 'I made the mistake of trying
to save Kurald Emurlahn.'
    'Why bother?' Mael asked her.
    Kilmandaros bared jagged