A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

on the floor – he was
exploring, he said, and I had travelled so far . . . so far.'
    'Your worshippers—'
    'Are mostly dead. More to drink. All that blood, enough
to make a river, and the current can take me away from
here, can bring me back. All the way back. To make her pay for what she did !'
    Having come from chaos, it was no surprise that the god
was insane. 'Show yourself.'
    'The machine was broken, but I didn't know that. I rode
its back, up and up. But then something happened. An
accident. We fell a long way. We were terribly broken, both
of us. When they dragged me out. Now I need to make a
new version, just like you said. And you have brought me
one. It will do. I am not deaf to its thoughts. I understand
its chaos, its pains and betrayals. I even understand its
arrogance. It will do, it will do.'
    'You cannot have him,' said Nimander. 'Release him.'
    'None of these ones worked. All the power just leaks out.
How did he do it?'
    One of these dolls. He is one of these dolls. Hiding in the
multitude.
    The voice began singing again. Wordless, formless.
    He drew his sword.
    'What are you doing?'
    The iron blade slashed outward, chopping through the
nearest figures. Strings cut, limbs sliced away, straw and
grass drifting in the air.
    A cackle, and then: 'You want to find me? How many
centuries do you have to spare?'
    'As many as I need,' Nimander replied, stepping forward
and swinging again. Splintering wood, shattering clay.
Underfoot he ground his heel into another figure.
    'I'll be gone long before then. The river of blood you
provided me – my way out. Far away I go! You can't see it,
can you? The gate you've opened here. You can't even see
it.'
    Nimander destroyed another half-dozen dolls.
    'Never find me! Never find me!'
    A savage blur of weapons as Salind charged Seerdomin.
    Each blow he caught with his tulwar, and each blow thundered
up his arm, shot agony through his bones. He reeled
back beneath the onslaught. Three steps, five, ten. It was
all he could do simply to defend himself. And that, he
knew, could not last.
    The Redeemer wanted him to hold against this?
    He struggled on, desperate.
    She was moaning, a soft, yearning sound. A sound of want . Mace heads beat against his weapon, sword blades,
the shafts of spears, flails, daggers, scythes – a dozen arms
swung at him. Impacts thundered through his body.
    He could not hold. He could not—
    An axe edge tore into his left shoulder, angled up to
slam into the side of his face. He felt his cheekbone and
eye socket collapse inward. Blinded, Seerdomin staggered,
attempting a desperate counter-attack, the tulwar slashing
out. The edge bit into wood, splintering it. Something
struck him high on his chest, snapping a clavicle. As his
weapon arm sagged, suddenly lifeless, he reached across
and took the sword with his other hand. Blood ran down
from his shoulder – he was losing all strength.
    Another edge chopped into him and he tottered, then
fell on to his back.
    Salind stepped up to stand directly over him.
    He stared up into her dark, glittering eyes.
    After a moment Nimander lowered his sword. The Dying
God was right – this was pointless. 'Show yourself, you
damned coward!'
    Aranatha was suddenly at his side. 'He must be summoned,'
she said.
    'You expect him to offer us his name?'
    The Dying God spoke. 'Who is here? Who is here?'
    'I am the one,' answered Aranatha, 'who will summon
you.'
    'You do not know me. You cannot know me!'
    'I know your path,' she replied. 'I know you spoke
with the one named Hairlock, on the floor of the Abyss.
And you imagined you could do the same, that you
could fashion for yourself a body. Of wood, of twine, of
clay—'
    'You don't know me!'
    'She discarded you,' said Aranatha, 'didn't she? The fragment
of you that was left afterwards. Tainted child-like,
abandoned.'
    'You cannot know this – you were not there!'
Aranatha frowned. 'No, I was not there. Yet . . . the
earth trembled. Children woke. There was great need. You
were the part of her . . . that she did not want.'
    'She will pay! And for you – I know you now – and it is too
late!'
    Aranatha sighed. 'Husband, Blood Sworn to Nightchill,'
she intoned, 'child of Thelomen Tartheno Toblakai,
Bellurdan Skullcrusher, I summon you.' And she held out
her hand, in time for something to slap hard into its grip.
A battered, misshapen puppet dangled, one arm snapped
off, both legs broken away at the knees, a face barely
discernible, seemingly scorched by fire.