A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

once, as much
from boredom as from anything else. She'd lapped up her
share of blood.
    She might well do the same with this one named Clip
– if he ever returned to them, and there was no guarantee
of that. Yes, she would use him and people like him, who
imagined themselves strong but were, in truth, weak – or so
she would prove, eventually. Certainly, their blood didn't
taste any purer, any sweeter.
    She had made her discovery, after all, of one whose
strength was absolute. Before whom she herself felt weak
but in a most pleasant, most satisfying way – one to whom
she might surrender whatever she chose without fearing he
would one day use it against her. Not this one.
    Not Nimander Golit.
    Desra saw Kallor emerge from the ruin, his agitation
plain to see. Armour rustling, he marched between the
scarecrows and up on to the road. Reaching the wagon,
he pulled himself up with a worn boot on a wooden spoke,
then paused to stare down at Clip. 'You should throw this
fool away,' he said to Aranatha, who sat holding a thin
cloth stretched out over the unconscious figure.
    She smiled in answer and said nothing.
    Desra frowned at Kallor. 'Where are the others?'
    'Yes,' he replied with a sneer, 'the others.'
    'Well?'
    He lifted himself over the slats. 'The Jaghut decided to
use them – unfortunately for them.'
    Use? Nenanda swung round from where he sat on the bench.
'What Jaghut?' he demanded.
    But Desra was already turning away, rushing down
through the ditch and on to the withered field. Between
the toppled scarecrows—
    So who is this Dying God?
    Skintick, who knew himself well, who knew that his
imagination was the deadliest weapon he used against
himself, who knew how, in any situation, he might laugh
– a plunge into the depths of absurdity, a desperate attempt
to save his sanity – now found himself awakening on a dusty
platform, no more than twelve paces across, of limestone.
It was surrounded by olive trees, a grove of ancient twisted
boles and dark leathery leaves, the fruit clustered in
abundance. A warm wind slid over his naked form, making
the sun's heat – at least to begin with – less oppressive than
it should have been. The air smelled of salt.
    The stumps of columns encircled the platform. They had
been painted the deep hue of wine, but that had begun to
flake away, exposing raw yellow rock.
    Who is this Dying God?
    His head aching, Skintick slowly sat up, shielding his
eyes from the glare, but the sun's light rebounded from the
stone and there was no relief. Groaning, he pushed himself
to his feet, stood tottering. Gods, the pain in his head!
Pulsing, exploding in blinding flashes behind his eyes.
    Who is this Dying— There were corpses huddled beneath the trees – mostly
bones and rotted cloth, tufts of hair, skin-stretched skulls.
Once brightly coloured clothes, strange shoes, the glitter of
buttons and jewellery, gold on bared teeth.
    The sun felt . . . evil . As if its heat, its light, was somehow
killing him, lancing through his flesh, tearing through his
brain. He was growing ever sicker.
    There was, he suddenly understood, no one left alive
on this world. Even the trees were dying. The oceans were
burning away and death was everywhere. It could not be
escaped. The sun had become a murderer.
    Who is this—
    You could dream of the future. You could see it as but
a recognizable continuation of what can be seen around
you at this moment. See it as progress, a driven force with
blinding glory at the very end. Or each moment as the
pinnacle, at least until the next higher peak resolved itself.
A farmer sows to feed the vision of fruition, of abundance,
and the comfort that comes with a predictable universe
reduced to this upcoming season. Drip libations to remind
the gods that order exists.
    You could dream of, at least, a place for your son, your
daughter. Who would wish to deliver a child into a world of
mayhem, of inescapable annihilation? And did it matter if
death arrived as a force beyond the control of anyone, or as
the logical consequence of wilful stupidity? No it did not,
when there was no one left to ponder such questions.
    Fury and folly. Someone here had played the ultimate
practical joke. Seeded a world with life, witnessed its burgeoning,
and then nudged the sun to anger. Into a deadly
storm, a momentary cough of poison light, and the season
of life ended. Just so.
    Who is—
    The god dies when the last believer dies. Rising up
bloated and white, sinking down into unseen