A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

wound. Nimander kicked hard into his
leg, shin-high, breaking bones. As the man sagged away, he
pushed forward to close against yet another one.
    Sword against dagger was no contest. As the poor creature
toppled, sobbing from a mortal wound, Nimander whipped
his sword free and spun to meet the next attacker.
    There were none left standing.
    Skintick stood nearby, slamming his still bloodied
sword back into the scabbard at his belt, then crouching
to retrieve Clip. Desra, weapon dripping, hovered close to
Aranatha who, unscathed, walked past, gaze fixed on the
set of ornate doors marking some grand inner entranceway.
After a moment Desra followed.
    From the outer doors the frenzied sounds of fighting
continued, human shrieks echoing, bouncing in crazed
cacophony. Nimander looked back to see that Kedeviss
and Nenanda still held the portal, blood and bile spreading
beneath their boots to trace along the indents and impressions
of the tiles. Nimander stared at that detail, transfixed,
until a nudge from Skintick shook him free.
    'Come on,' Nimander said in a rasp, setting out into
Aranatha's wake.
    Desra felt her entire body surging with life. Not even sex
could match this feeling. A score of insane priests rushing
upon them, and the three of them simply cut them
all down. With barely a catch of breath – she had seen
Nimander slaughter the last few, with such casual grace
that she could only look on in wonder. Oh, he believed
himself a poor swordsman, and perhaps when compared to
Nenanda, or Kedeviss, he was indeed not their equal. Even
so – Bastion, your children should never have challenged us.
Should never have pushed us to this.
    Now see what you've done.
    She hurried after her brainless sister.
    Skintick wanted to weep, but he knew enough to save that
for later, for that final stumble through, into some future
place when all this was over and done with, when they
could each return to a normal life, an almost peaceful life.
    He had never been one for prayers, especially not to
Mother Dark, whose heart was cruel, whose denial was
an ever-bleeding wound in the Tiste Andii. Yet he prayed
none the less. Not to a god or goddess, not to some unknown
force at ease with the gift of mercy. No, Skintick
prayed for peace .
    A world of calm.
    He did not know if such a world existed, anywhere.
He did not know if one such as he deserved that world.
Paradise belonged to the innocent.
    Which was why it was and would ever remain . . .
empty.
    And that is what makes it a paradise.
    At the outer doors, the slaughter continued. Kedeviss saw
Nenanda smiling, and had she the time, she would have
slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to shake the glee from his
eyes. There was nothing glorious in this. The fools came
on and on, crushing each other in their need, and she and
Nenanda killed them one by one by one.
    Oh, fighting against absurd odds was something they
were used to; something they did damnably well. That was
no source of pride. Desperate defence demanded expedience
and little else. And the Tiste Andii were, above all
else, an expedient people.
    And so blood spilled down, bodies crumpled at their
feet, only to be dragged clear by the next ones to die.
    She killed her twentieth worshipper, and he was no
different from the nineteenth, no different from the very
first one, back there on the steps.
    Blood like rain. Blood like tears. It was all so pointless.
    Nenanda began laughing.
    Moments later, the worshippers changed their tactics.
    With frenzied screams they pushed forward en masse,
and those Nenanda and Kedeviss mortally wounded were
simply heaved ahead, dying, flailing shields of flesh and
bone. As the mob drove onward, the two Tiste Andii were
forced from the threshold—
    And the attackers poured in with triumphant shrieks.
    Nenanda stopped laughing.
    Nimander was at the inner doorway when he heard the
savage cries behind him. Spinning round, he saw Nenanda
and Kedeviss retreating under an onslaught of maddened
figures.
    'Skintick!'
    His cousin shifted Clip's body on to Nimander's
shoulders, then turned and, drawing his sword once more,
plunged into the mêlée.
    Nimander staggered into the passageway.
    Why? Why are we doing this? We deliver Clip to the Dying
God, like a damned sacrifice. Ahead, he saw Desra and
Aranatha approaching the far end, where it seemed there
was another chamber. The altar room – where he awaits
us— 'Stop!' he shouted.
    Only Desra glanced back.
    Aranatha strode within.
    The reek of burning kelyk