A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

bowed to our command. And what happened? They destroyed everything!'
    'I don't—'
    'Understand? I see that! They are conjurations – manifestations
– they exist to warn you. They are the proof that all
that you think to enslave will turn on you .' And it backed
away. 'The end begins again, it begins again.'
    Cotillion stepped forward. 'Light, Dark and Shadow
– these three – are you saying—'
'Three?' Tulas Shorn laughed with savage bitterness.
'What then of Life? Fire and Stone and Wind? What,
you fools, of the Hounds of Death? Manifestations, I said. They will turn – they are telling you that! That is why they
exist! The fangs, the fury – all that is implacable in nature
– each aspect but a variation, a hue in the maelstrom of
destruction!'
    Tulas Shorn was far enough away now, and the Tiste
Edur began veering into a dragon.
    As one, all seven Hounds surged forward – but they
were too late, as the enormous winged creature launched
skyward, rising on a wave of appalling power that sent
Cotillion staggering back; that blew through Shadowthrone
until he seemed half shredded.
    The Soletaken dragon rose higher, as if riding on a
column of pure panic, or horror. Or dismay. A pillar
reaching for the heavens. Far above, the Great Ravens
scattered.
    Recovering, Cotillion turned on Shadowthrone. 'Are we
in trouble?'
    The ruler of High House Shadow slowly collected himself
back into a vaguely human shape. 'I can't be sure,' he
said.
    'Why not?'
    'Why, because I blinked.'
    Up ahead, the Hounds had resumed their journey. Lock
loped a tad too close alongside Shan and she snarled the
beast off.
    Tongue lolled, jaw hanging in silent laughter.
    So much for lessons in hubris.
    There were times, Kallor reflected, when he despised his
own company. The day gloried in its indifference, the sun
a blinding blaze tracking the turgid crawl of the landscape.
The grasses clung to the hard earth the way they always
did, seeds drifting on the wind as if on sighs of hope. Tawny
rodents stood sentinel above warren holes and barked
warnings as he marched past. The shadows of circling
hawks rippled across his path every now and then.
    Despising himself was, oddly enough, a comforting
sensation, for he knew he was not alone in his hate.
He could recall times, sitting on a throne as if he and
it had merged into one, as immovable and inviolate as
one of the matching statues outside the palace (any one
of his innumerable palaces), when he would feel the
oceanic surge of hate's tide. His subjects, tens, hundreds
of thousands, each and every one wishing him dead, cast
down, torn to pieces. Yet what had he been but the perfect,
singular representative of all that they despised within
themselves? Who among them would not eagerly take his
place? Casting down foul judgements upon all whose very
existence offended?
    He had been, after all, the very paragon of
acquisitiveness. Managing to grasp what others could
only reach for, to gather into his power a world's arsenal of
weapons, and reshape that world in hard cuts, to make of
it what he willed – not one would refuse to take his place.
Yes, they could hate him; indeed, they must hate him,
for he embodied the perfection of success, and his very
existence mocked their own failures. And the violence he
delivered? Well, watch how it played out in smaller scenes
everywhere – the husband who cannot satisfy his wife, so
he beats her down with his fists. The streetwise adolescent
bully, pinning his victim to the cobbles and twisting
the hapless creature's arm. The noble walking past the
starving beggar. The thief with the avaricious eye – no,
none of these is any different, not in their fundamental
essence.
    So, hate Kallor even as he hates himself. Even in that, he
will do it better. Innate superiority expressed in all manner
of ways. See the world gnash its teeth – he answers with a
most knowing smile.
    He walked, the place where he had begun far, far behind
him now, and the place to where he was going drawing ever
closer, step by step, as inexorable as this crawling landscape.
Let the sentinels bark, let the hawks muse with wary eye.
Seeds ride his legs, seeking out new worlds. He walked, and
in his mind memories unfolded like worn packets of parchment,
seamed and creased; scurried up from the bottom of
some burlap sack routed as rats, crackling as they opened
up in a rain of flattened moths and insect carcasses.
    Striding white-faced and blood-streaked down a jewel-studded
hallway,