A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

within that building was resisting. Was it Rake
himself? Clip dearly hoped so, and if it was true, then the
so-called Son of Darkness was weak, pathetic, and but
moments from annihilation. Clip might have harboured
demands and accusations once, all lined up and arrayed
like arrows for the plucking. Bowstring thrumming, barbed
truths winging unerringly through the air to strike home
again and again. Yes, he had imagined such a scene. Had
longed for it.
    What value hard judgement when there was no one to
hurt with it? Where was satisfaction? Pleasure in seeing
the wounds? No, hard judgement was like rage. It thrived
on victims. And the delicious flush of superiority in the
delivery.
    Perhaps the Dying God would reward him, for he so
wanted victims. He had, after all, so much rage to give
them. Listen to me, Lord Rake. They slaughtered everyone
in the Andara. Everyone! And where were you, when your
worshippers were dying? Where were you? They called upon
you. They begged you.
    Yes, Clip would break him. He owed his people that
much.
    He studied the temple as he approached, and he could
sense familiarity in its lines, echoes of the Andara, and
Bluerose. But this building seemed rawer, cruder, as if the
stone inadvertently mimicked rough-hewn wood. Memories
honoured? Or elegance forgotten? No matter.
    An instant's thought shattered the temple doors, and he
felt the one within recoil in pain.
    He ascended the steps, walked through the smoke and
dust.
    Rings spinning, kelyk streaming.
    The domed roof was latticed with cracks, and the rain
poured down in thick, black threads. He saw a woman
standing at the back, her face a mask of horror. And he saw
an old man down on his knees in the centre of the mosaic
floor, his head bowed.
    Clip halted, frowned. This was his opponent? This useless,
broken, feeble thing?
    Where was Anomander Rake?
    He . . . he is not here. He is not even here! I am his Mortal
Sword! And he is not even here!
    He screamed in fury. And power lashed out, rushing in
a wall that tore tesserae from the broad floor as it ripped
its way out from him, that shattered the pillars ringing the
chamber so that they toppled back like felled trees. That
engulfed the puny old man—
    Endest Silann groaned under the assault. Like talons, the
Dying God's power sank deep into him, shredding his insides.
This was too vast to resist. He yielded ground, pace
hastening, moments from a rout, a terrified, fatal flight—
    But there was nowhere to go. If he fell now, every Tiste
Andii in Black Coral would be lost. Saemankelyk would
claim them all, and the city itself would succumb to that
dread stain. Kurald Galain would be corrupted, made to
feed an alien god's mad hunger for power.
    And so, amidst a broken chorus of snapping bones and
splitting flesh, Endest Silann held on.
    Desperate, searching for a source of strength – anything,
anyone – but Anomander Rake was gone. He had raged
with power like a pillar of fire. He had been indomitable,
and in reaching out a hand to settle firm on a shoulder, he
could make his confidence a gift. He could make the ones
who loved him do the impossible.
    But now, he was gone.
    And Endest Silann was alone.
    He felt his soul withering, dying under this blistering
assault.
    And, from some vast depth, the old man recalled . . . a
river.
    Defiant of all light, deep, so deep where ran the currents
– currents that no force could contain. He could slip into
those sure streams, yes, if he but reached down . . .
    But the pain, it was so fierce. It demanded all of him. He
could not claw free of it, even as it devoured him.
    The river – if he could but reach it –
    The god possessing Clip laughed. Everything was within
his grasp. He could feel his cherished High Priestess,
so lovingly usurped from the Redeemer's clutches, so
thoroughly seduced into the mindless dance of oblivion, the
worship of wasted lives – she was defeating the Redeemer's
lone guardian – he was falling back step by step, a mass of
wounds, a dozen of them clearly fatal, and though somehow
he still stood, still fought, he could not last much longer.
    The god wanted the Redeemer. A more worthy vessel
than the one named Clip, which was so venal in its
thoughts, so miserable in its hurts. No better than a child
burned by neglect, and now all it dreamed of was lashing
out.
    It believed it had come to confront its father, but there
was no father here. There never had been. It had believed
it was chosen to deliver justice, but the