Dust of Dreams

lie to mortal ambitions and dreams, to every aspiration of just rule, of equity. Of peace and prosperity.
    You will turn it all into dust—every dream, nothing but dust, sifting down through their hands.
    But, Elder God, these humans—they have left you behind. They don’t need you to turn to dust all their dreams. They don’t need anyone else to do that.
‘This,’ he said, facing Errastas, ‘is what we should intend.’
    The Errant’s brows rose, his solitary eye bright. ‘What, pray tell?’
    ‘To stand before our children—the young gods—and tell them the truth.’
    ‘Which is?’
    ‘Everything they claim as their own can be found in the mortal soul. Those gods, Errastas, are not needed. Like us, they have no purpose. None at all. Like us, they are a waste of space. Irrelevant.’
    The Errant’s hands twitched. He flung away the pebbles. ‘Is misery all we get from you, Knuckles? We have not yet launched our war and you’ve already surrendered.’
    ‘I have,’ agreed Sechul Lath, ‘but that is a notion you do not fully understand. There is more than one kind of surrender—’
    ‘Indeed,’ snapped the Errant, ‘yet the face of each one is the same—a coward’s face!’
    Knuckles eyed him, amused.
    Errastas made a fist. ‘What,’ he said in a low rasp, ‘is so funny?’
    ‘The one who surrenders to his own delusions is, by your terms, no less a coward than any other.’
    Kilmandaros straightened. She had taken upon herself the body of a Tel Akai, still towering above them but not quite as massively as before. She smiled without humour at the Errant. ‘Play no games with this one, Errastas. Not bones, not words. He will tie your brain in knots and make your head ache.’
    Errastas glared at her. ‘Do you think me a simpleton?’
    The smile vanished. ‘Clearly, you think that of me.’
    ‘When you think with your fists, don’t complain when you appear to others as witless.’
    ‘But I complain with my fists as well,’ she replied. ‘And when I do, even you have no choice but to listen, Errastas. Now, best be careful, for I feel in the mood for complaining. We have stood here all night, whilst the ether beyond this place has stirred something to life—my nerves are on fire, even here, where all lies in lifeless ruin. You say you have summoned the others. Where are they?’
    ‘Coming,’ the Errant replied.
    ‘How many?’
    ‘Enough.’
    Knuckles started. ‘Who defies you?’
    ‘It is not defiance! Rather—must I explain myself?’
    ‘It might help,’ said Sechul Lath.
    ‘I am not defied by choice. Draconus—within Dragnipur it’s not likely he hears anything. Grizzin Farl is, I think, dead. His corporeal flesh is no more.’ He hesitated, and then added with a scowl, ‘Ardata alone has managed to evade me, but she was never of much use anyway, was she?’
    ‘Then where—’
    ‘I see one,’ Kilmandaros said, pointing to the north. ‘Taste of the blood, she was wise to take that shape! But oh, I can smell the stench of Eleint upon her!’
    ‘Restrain yourself,’ Errastas said. ‘She’s been dead too long for you to smell anything.’
    ‘I said—’
    ‘You imagine, nothing more. Tiam’s daughter did not outlive her mother—this thing has embraced the Ritual of Tellann—she is less than she once was.’
    ‘Less,’ said Knuckles, ‘and more, I think.’
    Errastas snorted, unaware of Sechul Lath’s deliberate mockery.
    Kilmandaros was visibly shaking with her fury. ‘It was
her
,’ she hissed. ‘Last night. That singing—
she awakened the ancient power! Olar Ethil!
’
    Sechul Lath could see sudden worry on the Errant’s face. Already, things were spiralling out of his control.
    A voice spoke behind them. ‘I too felt as much.’
    They turned to see Mael standing beside the sinkhole. He had an old man’s body and an old man’s face and the watery eyes he fixed on the Errant were cold. ‘This is already unravelling, Errant. War is like that—all the players lose control. “Chaos takes the sword.’ ”
    Errastas snorted a second time. ‘Quoting Anomander Rake? Really, Mael. Besides he spoke that in prophecy. The other resonances came later.’
    ‘Yes,’ muttered Mael, ‘about that prophecy . . .’
    Sechul Lath waited for him to continue but Mael fell silent, squinting now at Olar Ethil. She had long ago chosen the body of an Imass woman, wide-hipped, heavy-breasted. When Knuckles had last seen her, he recalled, she was still mortal. He