A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

entranceway.
Whirling, he set off along the corridor. When horror
stalked the world, it seemed that every grisly truth was laid
bare. Life's struggle ever ended in failure. No victory was
pure, or clean. Triumph was a comforting lie and always
revealed itself to be ephemeral, hollow and short-lived. This
is what assailed the spirit when coming face to face with
horror.
    And so few understood that. So few . . .
    He clawed through foul smoke, heard his own heartbeat
slowing, dragging even as his breaths faded. What – what
is happening? Blindness. Silence, an end to all motion.
Skintick sought to push forward, only to find that desire
was empty when without will, and when there was no
strength, will itself was a conceit. Glyphs flowed down like
black rain, on his face, his neck and his hands, streaming
hot as blood.
    Somehow, he fought onward, his entire body dragging
behind him as if half dead, an impediment, a thing worth
forgetting. He wanted to pull free of it, even as he understood
that his flesh was all that kept him alive – yet he
yearned for dissolution, and that yearning was growing
desperate.
    Wait. This is not how I see the world. This is not the game I
choose to play – I will not believe in this abject . . . surrender.
    It is what kelyk offers. The blood of the Dying God delivers
escape – from everything that matters. The invitation is so
alluring, the promise so entrancing.
    Dance! All around you the world rots. Dance! Poison into
your mouths and poison out from your mouths. Dance, damn
you, in the dust of your dreams. I have looked into your eyes
and I have seen that you are nothing. Empty.
    Gods, such seductive invitation!
    The recognition sobered him, abrupt as a punch in the
face. He found himself lying on the tiles of the corridor, the
inner doors almost within reach. In the chamber beyond
darkness swirled like thick smoke, like a storm trapped beneath
the domed ceiling. He heard singing, soft, the voice
of a child.
    He could not see Nimander, or Desra or Aranatha. The
body of Clip was sprawled not five paces in, face upturned,
eyes opened, fixed and seemingly sightless.
    Trembling with weakness, Skintick pulled himself forward.
    The moment he had bulled his way into the altar chamber,
Nimander had felt something tear, as if he had plunged
through gauze-thin cloth. From the seething storm he
had plunged into, he emerged to sudden calm, to soft light
and gentle currents of warm air. His first step landed on
something lumpy that twisted beneath his weight. Looking
down, he saw a small doll of woven grasses and twigs. And,
scattered on the floor all round, there were more such
figures. Some of strips of cloth, others of twine, polished
wood and fired clay. Most were broken – missing limbs, or
headless. Others hung down from the plain, low ceiling,
twisted beneath nooses of leather string, knotted heads
tilted over, dark liquid dripping.
    The wordless singing was louder here, seeming to emanate
from all directions. Nimander could see no walls – just
floor and ceiling, both stretching off into formless white.
    And dolls, thousands of dolls. On the floor, dangling
from the ceiling.
    'Show yourself,' said Nimander.
    The singing stopped.
    'Show yourself to me.'
    'If you squeeze them,' said the voice – a woman's or a
young boy's – 'they leak. I squeezed them all. Until they
broke.' There was a pause, and then a soft sigh. 'None
worked.'
    Nimander did not know where to look – the mangled
apparitions hanging before him filled him with horror now,
as he saw their similarity to the scarecrows of the fields outside
Bastion. They are the same. They weren't planted rows,
nothing made to deliver a yield. They were . . . versions.
    'Yes. Failing one by one – it's not fair. How did he do
it?'
    'What are you?' Nimander asked.
    The voice grew sly, 'On the floor of the Abyss – yes,
there is a floor – there are the fallen. Gods and goddesses,
spirits and prophets, disciples and seers, heroes and queens
and kings – junk of existence. You can play there. I did. Do
you want to? Do you want to play there, too?'
    'No.'
    'All broken, more broken than me.'
    'They call you the Dying God.'
    'All gods are dying.'
    'But you are no god, are you?'
    'Down on the floor, you never go hungry. Am I a god
now? I must be. Don't you see? I ate so many of them. So
many parts, pieces. Oh, their power, I mean. My body
didn't need food. Doesn't need it, I mean, yes, that is fair to
say. It is so fair to say. I first met him