A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

create for
you a way out.'
    'I understand, Nimander. Remain inside with me. Let
me set this stone.'
    'I don't know where this tower will take you,' Nimander
replied. 'Back to your realm, wherever that is, perhaps – but
not my home. Nothing I know. Besides, you carved this to
be pushed into place from outside – the angles—'
    'I can reshape it, Nimander.'
    I cannot go with you. 'In finding out where you are, Elder,
I become lost. You are the mason, the maker of the houses.
It is your task. You do not belong here.'
    'Nor do you.'
    'Don't I? There are Tiste Andii spirits out there. And
Tiste Edur. Even Liosan. The ones who fell in the first
wars, when dragons burst through every gate to slay, to
die. Listen to them out there! They have made peace with
one another – a miracle, and one I would be happy to
share.'
    'You are not a ghost. They will take you. They will fight
over you, a beginning of a new war, Nimander. They will
tear you to pieces.'
    'No, I will reason with them—'
    'You cannot.'
    Despair stirred awake in Nimander, as he saw the truth
of the Elder's words. Even here, he was not welcome. Even
here he would bring destruction. Yet, when they tear me limb
from limb, I will die. I will become just like them. A short war. 'Help me through the window,' he said, pulling himself up
on to the rough ledge.
    'As you wish. I understand, Nimander.'
    Yes, perhaps you do.
    'Nimander.'
    'Yes?'
    'Thank you. For this gift of creation.'
    'Next time you meet Gothos,' Nimander said as his
friend pushed him through the portal, 'punch him in the
face for me, will you?'
    'Yes, another good idea. I will miss you. You and your
good ideas.'
    He fell through on to a thick powdery slope, hastily
reaching up to grip the window's edge to keep from sliding.
Behind and below voices cried out in sudden hunger. He
could feel their will churning up to engulf him.
    A heavy scrape from the window and out came the
final stone, end first, grinding as it was forced through.
Catching Nimander by surprise. The weight pushed
against his fingers where he held tight and he swore in pain
as the tips were crushed, pinned – tearing one hand free
left nails behind, droplets of blood spattering. He scrabbled
for another handhold, then, voicing a scream, he tore loose
his other arm.
    Gods, how was he going to manage this? With two
mangled hands, with no firm footing, with a mob surging
frantic up the slope behind him?
    Inexorable, the stone ground its way out. He brought a
shoulder beneath it, felt the massive weight settling. His
arms began to tremble.
    Far enough now, yes, and he reached with one hand,
began pushing to one side the nearest end of the bloodslick
chunk of obsidian. He could see the clever angles now,
the planes and how everything would somehow, seemingly
impossibly, slide into perfect position. Push, some more
– not much – almost in place—
    Thousands, hundreds of thousands – a storm of voices,
screams of desperation, of dismay, of terrible horror – too
much! Please, stop! Stop!
    He was weakening – he would not make it – he could
not hold on any longer – with a sob he released his grip and
in the last moment, tottering, he pushed with both hands,
setting the stone – and then he was falling, back, down,
swallowed in cascading ash, stones, scouring chunks of
rough pumice. Down the slope he tumbled, buried beneath
ever more rubble. Hot. Suffocating. Blind. Drowning – and
one flailing hand was grasped, hard, by one and then two
hands – small – a woman's hands.
    His shoulder flared in pain as that grip tightened, pulled
him round. The collapsing hillside tugged at him, eager to
take him – he understood its need, he sympathized, yes,
and wanted to relent, to let go, to vanish in the crushing
darkness.
    The hands dragged him free. Dragged him by one bloody
arm. The storm of voices raged anew, closer now and
closing fast. Cold fingertips scrabbled against his boots,
nails clawing at his ankles and oh he didn't care, let them
take him, let them—
    He tumbled down on to damp earth. Gloom, silence but
for harsh breaths, a surprised grunt from nearby.
    Rolling on to his back, coughing through a mouth caked
in ash. Eyes burning—
    Desra knelt over him, her head down, her face twisted in
pain as she held her arms like two broken wings in her lap.
Skintick, rushing close to crouch beside him.
    'I thought – she—'
    'How long?' Nimander demanded. 'How could you have
waited so long? Clip—'
    'What? It's been but moments,