A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

gate once more.
    Then Kilmandaros, the Elder Goddess, strode through.
    The ruined K'Chain Che'Malle demesne
after the fall of Silchas Ruin
    Trees were exploding in the bitter cold that descended like
a shroud, invisible yet palpable, upon this racked,
devastated forest.
    Gothos had no difficulty following the path of the battle,
the successive clashes of two Elder Gods warring with the
Soletaken dragon, and as the Jaghut traversed its mangled
length he brought with him the brutal chill of Omtose
Phellack, the Warren of Ice. Sealing the deal, as you asked of me, Mael. Locking the truth in place, to make it more than memory. Until the day that witnesses the shattering of Omtose Phellack itself . Gothos wondered, idly, if there had ever 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 product 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 mien.
    Scabandari, the Soletaken dragon, had been driven into
a hollow in the cliff-side 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's smile broadened, 'you will need me.'
    Mael snorted.
    'Why do I need you?' Kilmandaros asked