A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

He had done all that was asked of him. He had
surrendered his flesh and blood, his heart and his very
bones, all to Hannan Mosag.
    There had been a promise, a promise of salvation, of vast
rewards for his loyalty – once the hated youngest son of
Tomad Sengar was torn down from the throne. They were
to track Fear Sengar, the traitor, the betrayer, and when the
net was finally closed around him it would not be Rhulad
smiling in satisfaction. No, Rhulad, the fool, knew nothing
about any of this. The gambit belonged to Hannan Mosag,
the Warlock King, who had had his throne stolen from
him. And it was Hannan who, with Fear Sengar in his
hands – and the slave, Udinaas – would work out
his vengeance.
    The Emperor needed to be stripped, every familiar face
twisted into a mask of betrayal, stripped, yes, until he was
completely alone. Isolated in his own madness.
    Only then—
    Ventrala froze, curled tight into a foetal ball, at soft
laughter spilling towards him . . . from inside his room!
    'Poor K'risnan,' it then murmured. 'You had no idea this
pale king of the orthen would turn on you, this strider of
battlefields. His road is a river of blood, you pathetic fool,
and . . . oh! look! his patience, his forbearance – it's all gone! '
    A wraith, here with him, whispering madness. 'Begone,' he
hissed, 'lest you share my fate! I did not summon you—'
    'No, you didn't. My chains to the Tiste Edur have been
severed. By the one out there. Yes, you see, I am his, not
yours. The White Crow's – hah, the Letherii surprised me
there – but it was the mice, K'risnan . . . seems a lifetime
ago now. In the forest north of Hannan Mosag's village.
And an apparition – alas, no-one understands, no-one takes note . But that is not my fault, is it?'
    'Go away—'
    'I cannot. Will not, rather. Can you hear? Outside? It's all
quiet now. Most of the Letherii got away, unfortunately.
Tumbling like drunk goats down the stairs, with their
captain among them – she was no fool. As for your Merude,
well, they're all dead. Now, listen! Boots in the hallway –
he's on his way!'
    The terror drained away from Ventrala. There was no
point, was there? At least, finally, he would be delivered
from this racked, twisted cage of a body. As if recalling the
dignity it had once possessed, that body now lurched into
motion, lifting itself into a sitting position, back pushed
into the corner – it seemed to have acquired its own will,
disconnected from Ventrala, from the mind and spirit that
held to that name, that pathetic identity. Hannan Mosag
had once said that the power of the Fallen One fed on all
that was flawed and imperfect in one's soul, which in turn
manifested in flesh and bone – what was then necessary was
to teach oneself to exult in that power, even as it twisted
and destroyed the soul's vessel.
    Ventrala, with the sudden clarity that came with
approaching death, now realized that it was all a lie. Pain
was not to be embraced. Chaos was anathema to a mortal
body. It ruined the flesh because it did not belong there.
There was no exaltation in self-destruction.
    A chorus of voices filled his skull, growing ever louder. The swords . . .
    There was a soft scuffing sound in the hallway beyond,
then the door squealed open.
    Orthen poured in, flowing like grey foam in the grainy
darkness. A moment later, the White Crow stepped into
view. The song of the two swords filled the chamber.
    Red, lambent eyes fixed on Ventrala.
    The Tiste Andii then sheathed his weapons, muting the
keening music. 'Tell me of this one who so presumes to
offend me.'
    Ventrala blinked, then shook his head. 'You think the
Crippled God is interested in challenging you, Silchas
Ruin? No, this . . . offence . . . it is Hannan Mosag's, and his
alone. I understand that now, you see. It's why my power is
gone. Fled. The Crippled God is not ready for the likes of
you.'
    The white-skinned apparition was motionless, silent, for
a time. Then he said, 'If this Hannan Mosag knows my
name, he knows too that I have reason to be affronted. By
him. By all the Tiste Edur who have inherited the rewards
of Scabandari's betrayal. Yet he provokes me.'
    'Perhaps,' Ventrala said, 'Hannan Mosag presumed the
Crippled God's delight in discord was without restraint.'
    Silchas Ruin cocked his head. 'What is your name,
K'risnan?'
    Ventrala told him.
    'I will let you live,' the Tiste Andii said, 'so that you may
deliver to Hannan Mosag my words. The Azath cursed me
with visions, its own memories,