A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

blood. Your power can heal him as it has done me. Do you not still feel his' – malicious delight – 'touch?'
    Her laughter rasped in his head, rebounding bitter with
his stolen power.
    'Summon him, Errant. We need him.'
    'No.'
    'We need him! And a Shield Anvil – a T'orrud Segul in the language of the First Empire. Which of us shall choose? Oh, of course, you would claim that right for yourself. But I have a candidate. Another wrapped tight in webs of spite – I utter his name and so find a face to my deepest hatred – is that not well suited?
    'And yes, he still lives. Udinaas. Let us make of this priesthood a company of betrayers. Let us claim the Empty Throne – it was ever rightfully ours, Errant – beloved.
    'Udinaas. Claim him! Choose him! We can devour each other's souls across the span of a thousand years. Ten thousand!'
    'Leave me, damn you!'
    'Leave you? God of mine, I compel you!'
    The Errant fell to his knees, tilted his head back, and
screamed his rage.
    And the world trembled anew.
    He had forgotten. The chains. The wills locked in an
eternal tug of war. The flood waters of fierce emotion rising
again and again. The deathless drowning. I am in the world again. I surrendered my weakness, and am imprisoned by power. 'Only the weak and useless are truly free,' he
whispered.
    She heard him. 'No need to be so maudlin, Errant. Go back to the Cedance and see for yourself. Blood now flows between the Tiles. Between them all. The Warrens. The Cedance, at last, maps the truth of things. The truth of things. To use your words, the Tiles now . . . flow.
    'Can you not taste them? These new Warrens? Come, let us explore them, you and I, and choose our aspect. There are flavours . . . light and dark, shadow and death, life and . . . oh, what is this? The Jesters of Chance, an Unaligned, Oponn? Oponn – dear Errant, you have upstarts standing in your stead. These Twins play your game, Errant.
    'What will we do about that?'
    'Abyss take me,' the god groaned, sinking down onto the
cold, clammy pavestones.
    'Summon him, Errant. He is needed. Now. Summon our Mortal Sword.'
    'I cannot. You damned fool. He is lost to us.'
    'I possess—'
    'I know what you possess. Do you truly think it enough?
To wrest him from Mael's grasp? You stupid, pathetic bitch.
Now, cease this damned prayer, Destrai. Your every demand
weakens me – and that is not smart. Not now. Too soon. I
am . . . vulnerable. The Edur—'
    'The Edur warlocks tremble and start at shadows now – they do not know what has happened. All they know is blind terror—'
    'Silence!' the god bellowed. 'Who can reach through
those warlocks, you blubbering capabara? Leave me alone! Now! '
    He was answered with . . . nothing. Sudden absence, a
presence recoiling.
    'Better,' he snarled.
    Yet he remained, slumped onto the cold floor,
surrounded in darkness. Thinking. But even thoughts did
not come free, without a price.
    Abyss below, I think I have made a mistake. And now I must live with it.
    And make plans.
    Gadalanak stepped in behind and under his round-shield.
A huge hand grasped his arm, wrapping round it just below
his shoulder, and a moment later he was flying across the
compound, landing hard, skidding then rolling until he
crashed up against the wall.
    The Meckros warrior groaned, shook his head, then
released his short-handled double-bladed axe and reached
up to tug clear his helm. 'Not fair,' he said, wincing as he
sat up. He glared across at Karsa Orlong. 'The Emperor
couldn't have done that.'
    'Too bad for him,' the Toblakai rumbled in reply.
    'I think you tore something in my arm.'
    Samar Dev spoke from where she sat on a chair in the
shade, 'Best find a healer, then, Gadalanak.'
    'Who else will dare face me?' Karsa demanded, eyeing
the half-dozen other warriors as he leaned on his sword. All
eyes turned to the masked woman, who stood silent and
motionless, worn and weathered like a forgotten statue in
some ruin. She seemed indifferent to the attention. And
she had yet to draw her two swords.
    Karsa snorted. 'Cowards.'
    'Hold on,' the one named Puddy said, his scarred face
twisting. 'It ain't that, y'damned bhederin bull. It's your
style of fighting. No point in learning to deal with it, since
this Edur Emperor don't fight that way. He couldn't. I
mean, he ain't got the strength. Nor the reach. Besides, he's
civilized – you fight like an animal, Karsa, and you just
might take the bastard down – only you won't have to,
'cause I'll do it before you.'