A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

Nimander had no choice but to act alone, to trust in
the others to follow.
    He knew they were watching him, his every move,
studying his face for any telltale expression, for every silent
message, and this meant he had to hold himself in check.
He had to guard himself against revealing anything, lest
one of them misunderstand and so make a fatal mistake,
and all of this was wearing him down.
    Something lifted noisily from the black water. A span of
darkness, vertical, its upper edges dripping, fast dissolving.
    'Follow me,' Clip gasped. 'Quickly!'
    Nimander rose and tugged Skintick back – 'Everyone,
stay behind me' – and, seeing Clip lunge forward and
vanish within the Gate, he hurried forward.
    But Nenanda reached the portal before him, rushing in
even as he drew his sword.
    Cursing under his breath, Nimander darted after him.
    The Gate was collapsing. Someone shrieked in his
wake.
    Nimander staggered on slippery, uneven bedrock, half
blinded by streaks of luminescence that scattered like cut
webs. He heard a gasping sound, almost at his feet, and a
moment later stumbled against something that groaned.
    Nimander reached down, felt a body lying prone. Felt
something hot and welling under one palm – the slit of a
wound, the leaking of blood. 'Nenanda?'
    Another gasp, and then, 'I'm sorry, Nimander – I saw
– I saw him reaching for his dagger, even as he stepped
through – I saw – he knew, he knew you were following,
you see – he—'
    From somewhere ahead there came a hollow laugh. 'Do
you imagine me an idiot, Nimander? Too bad it wasn't you.
It should have been you. But then, this way it's just one
more death for you to carry along.'
    Nimander stared but could see nothing. 'You still need
us!'
    'Maybe, but it's too risky to have you so close. When I see
a viper, I don't invite it into my belt-pouch. So, wander lost
in here . . . for ever, Nimander. It won't feel very different
from your life before this, I expect.'
    'The god within you,' Nimander said, 'is a fool. My Lord
will cut it down and you with it, Clip. You don't know him.
You don't know a damned thing!'
    Another laugh, this one much farther away.
    Nimander wiped the tears from his cheeks with his free
forearm. Beneath his palm, the pulse of blood from the
wound had slowed.
    Too many failures. Too many defeats.
    A soul carries a vessel of courage. It cannot be refilled.
Every thing that takes from it leaves less behind.
    What do I have left?
    Whatever it was, the time had come to drink deep, to
use it all. One last time. Nimander straightened.
    'Desra? Skintick? Anyone?'
    His words drew echoes, and they were the only replies
he received.
    Nimander drew his sword, and then set out. In the direction
of that mocking laughter.
    Ribbons of light swam in the air on all sides.
    He encountered no walls, felt no wayward currents
of air. The folded bedrock beneath his feet undulated
randomly, angling neither upward nor downward for long,
uneven enough to make him stumble every now and then,
and once to land on his knees with a painful, stinging
jolt.
    Lost. Not a single sound to betray where Clip might be
now.
    Yes, this was a clever end for Nimander, one that must
have given Clip moments of delicious anticipation. Lost
in darkness. Lost to his kin. To his Lord, and to a future
that now would never arrive. So perfect, so precise, this
punishment—
    'Enough of that, you pathetic creature.'
    Phaed.
    'They're here, you fool. As lost as you.'
    What? Who? Leave me be. I told you, I'm sorry. For what
happened to you, for what I tried to do. I'm sorry—
    'Too late for that. Besides, you don't understand. I lived in
fear. I lived in perpetual terror. Of everything. Of all of you.
That I'd be found out. Can you imagine, Nimander, what that
was like? To live was torture, to dread an end even worse. Oh,
I knew it was coming. It had to. People like me win for only
so long, before someone notices – and then his face fills with
disgust, and he crushes me underfoot.
    'Or throws me out of a window.'
    Please, no more—
    'They're here. Desra, Skintick. Sweet Aranatha. Find
them.'
    How?
    'I can't do this for you. Shouts will go unheard. There are
layers to this place. Layers and layers and layers. You could
have walked right through one of them and known nothing.
Nimander Golit, the blood of our Lord is within you. The blood
of Eleint, too – is that the secret? Is that the one weapon Clip
did not know you possess? How could he know? How could
anyone? We have