A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

back, step by step.
    And the Daughters of Draconus drew ever closer to their
prize.
    Their father's sword.
    A birthright long denied them. Of course, both Envy
and Spite understood the value of patience. Patience, yes,
in the fruition of their desires, their needs.
    The Hounds could not match them, not in power, nor
in savage will.
    The long wait was almost over.
    The sisters barely registered the quiet arrival of a carriage
well behind the Hounds. Alas, the same could not be said
for the one who stepped out from it and swung strangely
bestial eyes towards them.
    That steady, deadly regard reached through indeed.
    They halted their advance. Sorceries died away. The
Hounds, shedding blood that steamed in the dawn's
light, limped back in the direction of the fallen wielder of
Dragnipur.
    Envy and Spite hesitated. Desires were stuffed screaming
back into their tiny lockboxes. Plans hastily, bitterly
readjusted. Patience . . . ah, patience, yes, awakened once
more.
    Oh well, maybe next time.
    The vicious battle within the shell of the mostly demolished
building had ended. Heart fluttering with fear, Samar Dev
cautiously approached. She worked her way over the rubble
and splintered crossbeams, edged past an inner wall that
had remained mostly intact, and looked then upon the two
motionless leviathans.
    A faint cry rose from her. Awkwardly, she made her way
closer, and a moment later found herself half sitting, half
slumped against a fragmented slab of plastered wall, staring
down at the dying bear's torn and shredded head.
    The Hound was gasping as well, its back end buried beneath
the giant bear, red foam bubbling from its nostrils,
each breath shallower and wetter than the one before, until
finally, with a single, barely audible sigh, it died.
    Samar Dev's attention returned to the god that had so
haunted her, ever looming, ever testing the air . . . seeking
. . . what? 'What?' she asked it now in a hoarse whisper.
    'What did you want?'
    The beast's one remaining eye seemed to shift slightly
inside its ring of red. In it, she saw only pain. And loss.
    The witch drew out her knife. Was this the thing to
do? Should she not simply let it go? Let it leave this unjust,
heartless existence? The last of its kind. Forgotten by
all . . .
    Well, I will not forget you, my friend.
    She reached down with the knife, and slipped the
blade into the pool of blood beneath the bear's head. And
she whispered words of binding, repeating them over and
over again, until at last the light of life departed the god's
eye.
    Clutching two Hounds with a third one writhing in his
mouth, Tulas Shorn could do little more than shake the
beasts half senseless as the dragon climbed ever higher
above the mountains north of Lake Azure. Of course, he
could do one more thing. He could drop them from a great
height.
    Which he did. With immense satisfaction.
    'Wait! Wait! Stop it! Stop!'
    Iskaral Pust climbed free of the ruckus – the mound of
thrashing, snarling, spitting and grunting bhokarala, the
mass of tangled, torn hair and filthy robes and prickly toes
that was his wife, and he glared round.
    'You idiots! He isn't even here any more! Gah, it's too
late! Gah! That odious, slimy, putrid lump of red-vested
dung! No, get that away from me, ape.' He leapt to his feet.
His mule stood alone. 'What good are you?' he accused the
beast, raising a fist.
    Mogora climbed upright, adjusting her clothes. She then
stuck out her tongue, which seemed to be made entirely of
spiders.
    Seeing this, Iskaral Pust gagged. 'Gods! No wonder you
can do what you do!'
    She cackled. 'And oh how you beg for more!'
    'Aagh! If I'd known, I'd have begged for something
else!'
    'Oh, what would you have begged for, sweetie?'
    'A knife, so I could cut my own throat. Look at me. I'm
covered in bites!'
    'They got sharp teeth, all right, them bhokarala—'
    'Not them, month-old cream puff. These are spider
bites!'
    'You deserve even worse! Did you drug her senseless?
There's no other way she'd agree to—'
    'Power! I have power! It's irresistible, everybody knows
that! A man can look like a slug! His hair can stick out like
a bhederin's tongue! He can be knee-high and perfectly
proportioned – he can stink, he can eat his own earwax,
none of it matters! If he has power !'
    'Well, that's what's wrong with the world, then. It's why
ugly people don't just die out.' And then she smiled. 'It's
why you and me, we're made for each other! Let's have
babies, hundreds of babies!'
    Iskaral Pust ran to