A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

assailed Nimander and he
stumbled as he moved forward beneath the slack, dragging
weight of Clip's unconscious form. The raw glyphs swarmed
on the walls to either side. Projecting busts of some past
deity showed battered faces, sections crushed and others
sheared off by recent demolition. Lone eyes leered down.
Half-mouths smiled with a jester's crook. Passing by one
after another.
    Trembling, Nimander forced himself forward. He saw
Desra stride after Aranatha.
    The glyphs began weeping, and all at once he felt as if
time itself was dissolving. Sudden blindness, the terrible
sounds of fighting behind him diminishing, as if pulled far
away, until only the rush of blood remained, a storm in his
head.
    Through which, faintly and then rising, came a child's
voice. Singing softly.
    Seerdomin emerged from Night, squinted against the
mid-morning glare. Silver clouds ahead, heaped above
the barrow like the sky's detritus. Rain slanted down on
the mound.
    Tulwar in his hand, he hurried on, boots slipping in the
salt-crusted mud of the track.
    She had gone out, alone.
    Spinnock Durav – the only friend he had left – had professed
his love for her. But he had not understood – yes, she
would refuse his help. But such refusal must be denied. He
should have comprehended that.
    Gods below, this was not Seerdomin's fight. She was not
his fight.
    Yet he found himself driven on, cold with fear, feverish
with dread, and everything that he saw around him seemed
to scream its details, as if even the mundane truths could
burn, could sting like acid in his eyes. Ruts and broken
spokes, potsherds, pools of opaque water, exposed roots like
the hackles of the earth – each one ferociously demanding
his attention. We are as it is , they seemed to shout, we are
all there is! We are—
    Not his fight, but Spinnock had not understood. He
was Tiste Andii. He was a creature of centuries and what
was avoided one day could be addressed later – decades,
millennia, ages later. In their eyes, nothing changed.
    Nothing could change. They were a fallen people. The
dream of getting back up had faded to dust.
    She had gone out. Alone. Out where the conspirators
strutted in the light of day, insanely plotting the return
of suffering. Where they abused the sanctuary of an
indifferent god. Maybe she was now back among her kind
– if that was true, then Spinnock Durav deserved to hear
the truth of that.
    A rat slithered into the ditch a few strides ahead. He
drew closer to the filth of the encampment, its stench so
foul not even the rain could wash it away.
    Would he be challenged? He hoped so. If the conspirators
hid themselves, he might have trouble rooting them
out. And if she decided to hide, well, he would have to kick
through every decrepit hut and shelter, into every leaking
tent and rust-seized wagon.
    Birdsong drifted down from the trees of the slope on
the opposite side of the camp, the sound startlingly clear.
Tendrils of smoke from rain-dampened hearths undulated
upward, each one solid as a serpent in Seerdomin's eyes.
He was, he realized, walking into their nest.
    But Spinnock, you need not do this, you need not even know
of this. This is a human affair, and if she is willing then yes, I
will drag her free of it. Back to you. One can be saved and that
should be enough.
    He wondered if the Redeemer ever saw things that way.
Taking one soul into his embrace with a thousand yearning
others looking on – but no, he did not choose, did not
select one over another. He took them all.
    Seerdomin realized he did not care either way. This god
was not for him. Redemption had never been his reason for
kneeling before that barrow. I was lonely. I thought he might
be the same. Damn you, High Priestess, why didn't you just
leave me alone?
    Not my mess.
    Spinnock, you owe me, and you will never know. I will say
nothing – let this rain wash the blood from my hands—
    He had begun this march half drunk, but nothing of
that remained. Now, everything was on fire.
    Reaching the slope of the camp's main avenue, he began
the ascent. The rain was fine as mist, yet he was quickly
soaked through, steam rising from his forearms. The
ground gave queasily beneath his boots with every step.
He arrived at the crest leaning far forward, scrabbling in
his haste.
    Straightening, something flashed into his vision. He
heard a snap, a crunch that exploded in his head, and then
nothing.
    Gradithan stood over the sprawled form of Seerdomin,
staring down at the smashed,