A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

poorly made, an icon of insipid flaws. A
broken fool once named Munug would writhe before it, in
obeisance, the High Priest of Pathos, the Prophet of Failure
– enough thematic unity, in fact, to give any king pause.
Kallor allowed himself a faint smirk. Yes, he was worthy of
such worship, and if in the end he wrested it body and soul
from the Crippled God, so be it.
    The temple his domain, the score of bent and maimed
priests and priestesses his court, the milling mob outside,
sharing nothing but chronic ill luck, his subjects. This, he
decided, had the makings of an immortal empire.
    Patience – it would not do, he realized, to seek to steal
the Fallen One's worshippers. There was no real need.
The gods were already assembling to crush the Crippled
fool once and for all. Kallor did not think they would fail
this time. Though no doubt the Fallen One had a few
more tricks up his rotted sleeve, not least the inherent
power of the cult itself, feeding as it did on misery and
suffering – two conditions of humanity that would persist
for as long as humans existed.
    Kallor grunted. 'Ah, fuck patience. The High King will
take this throne. Then we can begin the . . . negotiations.'
    He was no diplomat and had no interest in acquiring a
diplomat's skills, not even when facing a god. There would
be conditions, some of them unpalatable, enough to make
the hoary bastard choke on his smoke. Well, too bad.
    One more throne. The last he'd ever need.
    He resumed walking. Boots worn through. Dust wind-driven
into every crease of his face, the pores of his nose
and brow, his eyes thinned to slits. The world clawed at
him, but he pushed through. Always did. Always would.
    One more throne. Darujhistan.
    Long ago, in some long lost epoch, people had gathered
on this blasted ridge overlooking the flattened valley floor,
and had raised the enormous standing stones that now
leaned in an uneven line spanning a thousand paces or
more. A few had toppled here and there, but among the
others Samar Dev sensed a belligerent vitality. As if the
stones were determined to stand sentinel for ever, even as
the bones of those who'd raised them now speckled the
dust that periodically scoured their faces.
    She paused to wipe sweat from her forehead, watching
as Traveller reached the crest, and then moved off into the
shade of the nearest stone, a massive phallic menhir looming
tall, where he leaned against it with crossed arms. To
await her, of course – she was clearly slowing them down,
and this detail irritated her. What she lacked, she understood,
was manic obsession, while her companions were
driven and this lent them the vigour common to madmen.
Which, she had long since decided, was precisely what they
were.
    She missed her horse, the one creature on this journey
that she had come to feel an affinity with. An average
beast, a simple beast, normal, mortal, sweetly dull-eyed and
pleased by gestures of care and affection.
    Resuming her climb, she struggled against the crumbled
slope, forcing her legs between the sage brushes – too weary
to worry about slumbering snakes and scorpions, or hairy
spiders among the gnarled, twisted branches.
    The thump of Havok's hoofs drummed through the
ground, halting directly above her at the top of the slope.
Scowling, she looked up.
    Karsa's regard was as unreadable as ever, the shattered
tattoo like a web stretching to the thrust of the face behind
it. He leaned forward on his mount's neck and said, 'Do we
not feed you enough?'
    'Hood take you.'
    'Why will you not accept sharing Havok's back, witch?'
    Since he showed no inclination to move, she was forced
to work to one side as she reached the crest, using the sage
branches to pull herself on to the summit. Where she
paused, breathing hard, and then she held up her hands
to her face, drawing in the sweet scent of the sage. After
a moment she glanced up at the Toblakai. A number of
responses occurred to her, in a succession of escalating
viciousness. Instead of voicing any of them, she sighed and
turned away, finding her own standing stone to lean against
– noting, with little interest, that Traveller had lowered his
head and seemed to be muttering quietly to himself.
    This close to the grey schist, she saw that patterns had
been carved into its surface, wending round milky nodules
of quartz. With every dawn, she realized, this side of the
stone would seem to writhe as the sun climbed higher, the
nodes glistening. And the purpose of all that effort?