A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

march to the altar the previous day.
Nenanda believed the old man was dead. He believed
they would find his body, cold and pale, lying on the tiled
floor somewhere within the building. For some reason,
Nimander did not think that likely.
    Skintick whispered behind him, 'Well? It's nearing
dawn, Nimander.'
    What awaited them? There was only one way to find
out. 'Let's go.'
    All at once, with their first strides out into the concourse,
the air seemed to swirl, thick and heavy. Nimander
found he had to push against it, a tightness forming in his
throat and then his chest.
    'They're burning the shit,' Skintick hissed. 'Can you
smell it? The kelyk—'
    'Quiet.'
    Fifteen, twenty paces now. Silence all around. Nimander
set his eyes on the entrance to the altar, the steps glistening
with dew or something far worse. The black glyphs seemed
to throb in his eyes, as if the entire structure was breathing.
He could feel something dark and unpleasant in his veins,
like bubbles in his blood, or seeds, eager to burst into life.
He felt moments from losing control.
    Behind him, hard gasping breaths – they were all feeling
this, they were all—
    'Behind us,' grunted Nenanda.
    And to the sides, crowds closing in from every street and
alley mouth, slowly, dark shapes pushing into the square. They look like the scarecrows, cut loose from their stakes
– Mother's blessing—
    Forty strides, reaching the centre of the concourse.
Every avenue closed to them now, barring that to the
building itself.
    'We're being herded,' said Kedeviss, her voice tight.
'They want us inside.'
    Nimander glanced back, down upon the limp form of
Clip, the man's head hanging and hair trailing on the
ground. Clip's eyes were half open. 'Is he still alive?'
    'Barely,' said Kedeviss.
    Hundreds of figures drew yet closer, blackened eyes
gleaming, mouths hanging open. Knives, hatchets, pitchforks
and hammers dangled down from their hands. The
only sound that came from them was the shuffle of their
bare feet.
    Twenty paces now from the steps. To the right and left,
and in their wake, the worshippers in the front lines began
lifting their weapons, then those behind them followed
suit.
    'Skintick,' said Nimander, 'take Clip by yourself.
Aranatha, his weapons. Desra, ward your sister. Kedeviss,
Nenanda, prepare to rearguard – once we're inside, hold
them at the entrance.'
    Two against a thousand or more. Fanatics, fearless and
senseless – gods, we are unleashed.
    He heard a pair of swords rasp free of scabbards. The
sound sliced through the air, and it was as if the cold iron
touched his brow, startling him awake.
    The crowd was close now, a bestial growl rising.
    Nimander reached the first step. 'Now!'
    They rushed upward. Skintick was immediately behind
Nimander, Clip on his hunched back as he gripped one
wrist and one thigh. Then Aranatha, flowing up the
steps like an apparition, Desra in her wake. Nenanda and
Kedeviss, facing the opposite way with swords held ready,
backed up more slowly.
    The front ranks of worshippers moaned and then surged
forward.
    Iron rang, clashed, thudded into flesh and bone. Nimander
plunged through the entranceway. There was no
light – every torch in its sconce had been capped – yet his
eyes could penetrate the gloom, in time to see a score of
priests rushing for him.
    Shouting a warning, Nimander unsheathed his sword—
    The fools were human. In this darkness they were
half blind. He slashed out, saw a head roll off shoulders,
the body crumpling. A back swing intercepted an arm
thrusting a dagger at his chest. The sword's edge sliced
through wrist bones and the severed hand, still gripping
the weapon, thumped against his chest before falling away.
Angling the sword point back across his torso, Nimander
stabbed the one-handed priest in the throat.
    In his peripheral vision he caught Clip's form rolling on
to the floor as Skintick freed his arms to defend himself.
    The sickly sound of edge biting meat echoed in the
chamber, followed by the spatter of blood across tiles.
    Nimander stop-thrust another charging priest, the point
pushing hard between ribs and piercing the man's heart. As
he fell he sought to trap the sword but Nimander twisted
round and with a savage tug tore his weapon free.
    A knife scraped the links of his chain hauberk beneath
his left arm and he pulled away and down, cross-stabbing
and feeling the sword punch into soft flesh. Stomach acids
spurted up the blade and stung his knuckles. The priest
folded round the