A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

got in your way, my cries for mercy for your fellow citizens – oh, how that enraged you.
    His thoughts fell silent. The hairs on the back of his
neck rose. What is this? I am not alone.
    A soft laugh from one of the passageways. He slowly
turned.
    The man crouched there was more ogre than human,
broad shoulders covered in bristly black hair, a bullet head
thrust forward on a short neck. The bottom half of the face
was strangely pronounced beneath long, curling moustache
and beard, and large yellowed tusks jutted from the lower
jaw, pushing clear of lip and thick, ringleted hair. Stubby,
battered hands hung down from long arms, the knuckles on
the floor.
    From the apparition came a bestial, rank stench.
    The Errant squinted, seeking to pierce the gloom
beneath the heavy brows, where small narrow-set eyes
glittered dull as rough garnets. 'This is my temple,' he said.
'I do not recall an open invitation to . . . guests.'
    Another low laugh, but there was no humour in it, the
Errant realized. Bitterness, as thick and pungent as
the smell stinging the god's nostrils.
    'I remember you,' came the creature's voice, low and
rumbling. 'And I knew this place. I knew what it had been.
    It was . . . safe. Who recalls the Holds, after all? Who knew
enough to suspect? Oh, they can hunt me down all they
want – yes, they will find me in the end – I know this.
Soon, maybe. Sooner, now that you have found me, Master
of the Tiles. He might have returned me, you know, along
with other . . . gifts. But he has failed.' Another laugh, this
time harsh. 'A common demise among mortals.'
    Though he spoke, no words emerged from the ogre's
mouth. That heavy, awkward voice was in the Errant's
head, which was all for the best – those tusks would have
brutalized every utterance into near incomprehensibility.
'You are a god.'
    More laughter. 'I am.'
    'You walked into the world.'
    'Not by choice, Master of the Tiles. Not like you.'
    'Ah.'
    'And so my followers died – oh, how they have died.
Across half the world, their blood soaked the earth. And I
could do nothing. I can do nothing.'
    'It is something,' the Errant observed, 'to hold yourself to
such a modest form. But how much longer will that control
last? How soon before you burst the confines of this temple
of mine? How long before you heave yourself into the
view of all, shouldering aside the clouds, shaking
mountains to dust—'
    'I will be long from here before then, Master of the Tiles.'
    The Errant's smile was wry. 'That is a relief, god.'
    'You have survived,' the god now said. 'For so long.
How?'
    'Alas,' said the Errant, 'my advice to you would be useless.
My power quickly dissipated. It had already been
terribly wounded – the Forkrul Assail's pogroms against my
faithful saw to that. The thought of another failure like
that one was too much . . . so I willingly relinquished most
of what remained to me. It made me ineffectual, beyond,
perhaps, this city and a modest stretch of river. And so not
a threat to anyone.' Not even you, tusked one. 'You, however,
cannot make a similar choice. They will want the raw
power within you – in your blood – and they will need it
spilled before they can drink, before they can bathe in
what's left of you.'
    'Yes. One last battle awaits me. That much, at least, I do
not regret.'
    Lucky you. 'A battle. And . . . a war?'
    Amusement in his thoughts, then, 'Oh, indeed, Master
of the Tiles. A war – enough to make my heart surge with
life, with hunger. How could it not? I am the Boar of
Summer, Lord of the Hosts on the Field of Battle. The
chorus of the dying to come . . . ah, Master, be glad it will
be nowhere close—'
    'I am not so sure of that.'
    A shrug.
    The Errant frowned, then asked, 'How long do you
intend to remain here, then?'
    'Why, as long as I can, before my control crumbles – or I
am summoned to my battle, my death, I mean. Unless, of
course, you choose to banish me.'
    'I would not risk the power revealed by that,' the Errant
said.
    A rumbling laugh. 'You think I would not go quietly?'
    'I know it, Boar of Summer.'
    'True enough.' Hesitation, then the war god said,
'Offer me sanctuary, Errant, and I will yield to you a gift.'
    'Very well.'
    'No bargaining?'
    'No. I've not the energy. What is this gift, then?'
    'This: the Hold of the Beasts is awakened. I was driven
out, you see, and there was need, necessity, insistence that
some inheritor arise to take my place – to assume the voices
of war. Treach was too young, too weak. And