A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

bloodied face. Monkrat crept
closer and crouched down beside the body.
    'He lives. He will drown in his blood if I do not roll him
over, Urdo. What is your wish?'
    'Yes, push him over – I want him alive, for now at least.
Take his weapons, bind his limbs, then drag him to the
Sacred Tent.'
    Gradithan licked his lips, tasting the staleness of dried
kelyk. He wanted more, fresh, bitter and sweet, but he
needed his mind. Sharp, awake, aware of everything.
    As Monkrat directed two of his Urdomen to attend to
the Seerdomin, Gradithan set off for the Sacred Tent.
Sanctified ground, yes, but only temporary. Soon, they
would have the barrow itself. The barrow, and the ignorant
godling within it.
    Along the track, the once-worshippers of the Redeemer
knelt as he passed. Some moaned in the dregs of the
night's dance. Others stared at the mud in front of
their knees, heads hanging, brown slime drooling down
from their gaping mouths. Oh, this might seem like
corruption, but Gradithan wasn't interested in such
misconceptions.
    The Dying God was more important than Black Coral
and its morose overlords. More important than the
Redeemer and his pathetic cult. The Dying God's song was
a song of pain, and was not pain the curse of mortality?
    He had heard of another cult, a foreign one, devoted to
someone called the Crippled God.
    Perhaps , Monkrat had ventured that morning, there is a
trend.
    There was something blasphemous in that observation,
and Gradithan reminded himself that he would have to
have the mage beaten – but not yet. Gradithan needed
Monkrat, at least for now.
    He entered the Sacred Tent.
    Yes, she was still dancing, writhing now on the
earthen floor, too exhausted perhaps to stand, yet the
sensual motions were still powerful enough to take away
Gradithan's breath. It did not matter any more that she had
been a Child of the Dead Seed. No one could choose their
parents, after all. Besides, she had been adopted now. By the
Dying God, by the blessed pain and ecstasy it delivered.
    Let her dance on, yes, until the gate was forced open.
    Gradithan lifted his head, sniffed the air – oh, the blood
was being spilled, the sacrifice fast closing on the threshold. Close now.
    The Dying God bled. Mortal followers drank that blood.
Then spilled it out, transformed, so that the Dying God
could take it once more within himself. This was the
secret truth behind all blood sacrifice. The god gives and
the mortal gives back. All the rest . . . nothing more than
ornate dressing, nothing more than obfuscation.
    Die, my distant friends. Die in your multitudes. We are
almost there.
    'You are dying.'
    Seerdomin opened his eyes. An unfamiliar face stared
down at him.
    'You are bleeding into your brain, Segda Travos. They
mean to abuse you. Torture you with terrible sights – the
Urdo named Gradithan believes you a traitor. He wants
you to suffer, but you will deny him that pleasure, for you
are dying.'
    'Who – what . . .'
    'I am Itkovian. I am the Redeemer.'
    'I – I am sorry.'
    The man smiled and Seerdomin could see how that
smile belonged to these gentle features, the kind eyes. Such
compassion was . . . 'Wrong' .
    'Perhaps it seems that way, but you are strong – your
spirit is very strong, Segda Travos. You believe I am without
true compassion. You believe I embrace suffering out of
selfish need, to feed a hunger, an addiction.' Itkovian's soft
eyes shifted away. 'Perhaps you are right.'
    Seerdomin slowly sat up. And saw a domed sky that
glittered as if with millions upon millions of stars, a solid
cluster vying for every space, so that every splinter and
whorl of darkness seemed shrunken, in retreat. The vision
made his head spin and he quickly looked down. And
found he was kneeling on a ground composed entirely of
coins. Copper, tin, brass, a few sprinkles of silver, fewer still
of gold. Gems gleamed here and there. 'We are,' he said in
an awed whisper, 'within your barrow.'
    'Yes?' said Itkovian.
    Seerdomin shot the god a quick glance. 'You did not
know . . .'
    'Is knowing necessary, Segda Travos?'
    'I no longer use that name. Segda Travos is dead. I am
Seerdomin.'
    'Warrior Priest of the Pannion Seer. I see the warrior
within you, but not the priest.'
    'It seems I am not much of a warrior any more,' Seerdomin
observed. 'I was coming to save her.'
    'And now, my friend, you must fight her.'
    'What?'
    Itkovian pointed.
    Seerdomin twisted round where he knelt. A storm was
building, seeping up into the dome of offerings, and he