A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

that flowing net catch
her?
    Would it simply shatter? Or flow aside, opening up to
permit the downward plunge of a body frozen solid, lifeless,
eyes open but seeing nothing?
    She had a sudden thought, shivering up through her
doubts, her fears. And, with aching limbs, she began
dragging up the length of her chains, piling the links on
the beam in front of her.
    Was the Gate's cold of such power that it could snap
these links? If she heaved the heap into that Gate, as much
as she could, would the chains break ?
    And then?
    She snarled. Yes, and then what? Run like a hare, leave the
wagon far behind, flee the legions of chaos?
    And when the Gate itself is destroyed, where will I run then?
Will this world even exist?
    She realized then that such questions did not matter. To
be free, even if only for a moment, would be enough.
    Apsal'ara, the Mistress of Thieves. How good was she?
Why, she slipped the chains of Dragnipur!
    She continued piling up links of the chains, her breaths
coming in agonized, lung-numbing gasps.
    Draconus stumbled away from Pearl's side. He could not
bear the emotions the demon stirred to life within him. He
could not understand such a power to forgive, never mind
the sheer madness of finding something worthwhile in
this cursed realm. And to see Pearl standing there, almost
crushed beneath the twitching, dripping bodies of fallen
comrades, no, that too was too much.
    Kadaspala had failed. The pattern was flawed; it had no
power to resist what was about to assail them. It had been a
desperate gambit, the only kind Draconus had left, and he
could not even rail at the blind, legless Tiste Andii. None
of us were up to this.
    The moment Rake ceased killing things, we were doomed.
    And yet, he found he had no rage left in him when he
thought of Anomander Rake. In fact, he had begun to
understand, even sympathize with that exhausted desire
to end things. To end everything. The delusion was calling
it a game in the first place. That very founding principle
had assured ultimate failure. Bored gods and children with
appalling power, these were the worst sorts of arbiters in
this scheme of existence. They fought change even as they
forced it upon others; they sought to hold all they claimed
even as they struggled to steal all they could from rivals.
They proclaimed love only to kill it in betrayal and spite.
    Yes, Draconus understood Rake. Any game that played
with grief was a foul thing, an abomination. Destroy it.
Bring it all down, Rake. Rake, my heir, my son in spirit, my
unknown and unknowable inheritor. Do as you must.
    I stand aside.
    Oh, bold words.
    When the truth is, I have no choice.
    The force that suddenly descended upon the realm of
Dragnipur was of such magnitude that, for an instant,
Draconus believed the chaos had finally reached them,
and he was driven to his knees, stunned, half blinded. The
immense pressure bore down, excruciating, and Draconus
ducked his head, covered it with his arms, and felt his spine
bowing beneath a crushing presence.
    If there was sound, he heard nothing. If there was light,
he saw only darkness. If there was air, he could not draw it
into his lungs. He felt his bones groaning—
    The torture eased with the settling of a skeletal, long-fingered
hand on his right shoulder.
    Sounds rose once more, strangely muted. A renewed
storm of wailing terror and dismay. In front of Draconus
the world found its familiar details, although they seemed
ghostly, ephemeral. He was able, at last, to breathe deep
– and he tasted death.
    Someone spoke above him. 'He is indeed a man of his
word.'
    And Draconus twisted round, lifted his gaze – the hand
on his shoulder rasping away with a rustle of links – and
stared up at the one who had spoken. At Hood, the Lord
and High King of the Dead.
    'No!' Draconus bellowed, rising only to stagger back,
almost tripping on his chains. 'No! What has he done? By
the Abyss, what has Rake done?'
    Hood half raised his arms and seemed to be staring
down at the manacles enclosing his gaunt wrists.
    Disbelief collapsed into shock, and then raw horror. This
made no sense. Draconus did not understand. He could not
– gods – he could not believe—
    He spun round, then, and stared at the legions of chaos
– oh, they had been pushed back, a league or more, by the
arrival of this singular creature, by the power of Hood. The
actinic storm clouds had tumbled in retreat, building anew
and seeming to thrash in frustration – yes, an interlude had
been