A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

dead.
    'We will need to find a way through those mountains,'
Nimander said, squinting ahead.
    'God's Walk, Clip called them. An astounding fount of
unexpected knowledge, our grateful friend.'
    'Grateful? Ah, I see. Well, he wasn't there in spirit, was
he?'
    'No, too busy dancing from the spider's bite.'
    'It does little good to try describing what happened,'
Nimander said. 'To one who remains closed, words are
thinner than webs, easily swept aside.'
    'We should have lied.'
    Nimander looked over, brows lifting.
    Skintick grinned. 'Some wild tale of godly possession
and insane fanatics eager to splash the world with their
own blood. Us stumbling on to a path to paradise only to
find we're not welcome. Double-crossing a simpleton god
who misunderstood the notion of puppets – that they be
made of followers, not himself. A tale of poisoned wine
that was blood that was wine that was blood. Oh, and let's
not forget our glorious slaughter, that improbable collection
of lucky swings and pokes and the infernal bad luck of
our attackers. And then—'
    'Enough, Skin, please.'
    'Why did we bother, Nimander? Bother saving him?'
    Nimander's eyes remained on the distant mountains.
    'Aranatha says he is needed. Necessary.'
    'For what? And what would she know about it anyway?'
    'I wish I could answer those questions, Skin.'
    'I feel as if I am drowning in blood.'
    Nimander nodded. 'Yes. I feel the same. I think we all
do.'
    'I don't think Anomander Rake has it in him to throw
us a rope.'
    'Probably not.'
    This admission, so wise, shook Skintick. His fear was
accurate – their leader had changed. Does he even now
see clearly? Yet, if that is so, where is his despair? I do not
understand—
    'It feels like,' Nimander said, 'dying inside. That's what
it feels like.'
    'Don't say that, brother. Don't.'
    'Why not?'
    Only one of us can feel that way. Only one. I got there
first, damn you! It's mine! Abruptly, he barked a laugh. 'No
reason, in truth. No reason at all.'
    'You are acting strangely, Skin, did you know that?'
    He shrugged. 'We need to wash this blood off,
Nimander.'
    They rode on across the bleached salt flat. The day grew
hotter.
    Directly beneath the floor of the terondai , where blazed the
black sun, a vast chamber had been carved out of the bedrock.
When Anomander Rake, Lord of Black Coral and
Son of Darkness, wearied of the view from the keep's tower
and other high vantage points, he descended into this
womb in the rock, where darkness remained absolute.
    Such moments were rare, and even rarer that the
Lord should summon Endest Silann to meet him in the
subterranean cavern. His legs still stiff from the long trek
back to the city, the castellan made his way down the steep,
winding stairs, until at last he reached the base. Enormous
doors sealed the cave, scaled in beaten silver in patterns
suggesting the skin of dragons. Tarnished black, barring
the gleam of the scales' edges, the barrier was barely visible
to Endest Silann's failing eyes, and when he reached for the
heavy latch he was forced to grope for a moment before his
hand settled on the silver bar.
    Cold air gusted around him as he pulled one of the doors
open. A smell of raw stone, acrid and damp, the sound of
trickling water. He saw his Lord standing near the centre,
where an obelisk rose like a stalagmite from the floor. This
basalt edifice was carved square at the base, tapering to
an apex at twice the height of a Tiste Andii. On the side
facing Rake there was an indent, moulded to match the
sword he carried on his back.
    'It is not often,' said Anomander as Endest approached,
'that I feel the need to ease the burden of Dragnipur.'
    'Sire.'
    He watched as Anomander unsheathed the dread
sword and set it into the indentation. At once the obelisk
began sweating, thick, glistening beads studding the
smoothed surface, then racing down the sides. Something
like thunder groaned through the stone underfoot.
    Endest Silann sighed, leaned on his walking stick. 'The
stone, Lord, cannot long withstand that burden.' Yet you
can, and this so few understand, so few comprehend at all.
    'A few moments more,' Anomander Rake murmured.
    'Sire, that was not a chastisement.'
    A brief smile. 'But it was, old friend, and a wise one.
    Stone knows its own weight, and the limits of what it can
sustain. Be assured, I will not long abuse its generosity.'
    Endest Silann looked round, drawing in the sweet
darkness, so pure, so perfect. It is almost as we once knew.
Kharkanas, before she