The Malazan Empire, page 529
‘Tell her,’ Paran said, ‘I come to make an offering.’
The head cocked to one side. ‘You seek to appease the Grey Goddess?’
‘In a manner of speaking. But I should tell you, we have very little time.’
‘Very little? Why?’
‘Take me to her and I will explain. But quickly.’
‘She does not fear you.’
‘Good.’
The man studied Paran for a moment longer, then he gestured with his scythe. ‘Follow, then.’
There had been plenty of altars before which she had knelt over the years, and from them, one and all, Torahaval Delat had discovered something she now held to be true. All that is worshipped is but a reflection of the worshipper. A single god, no matter how benign, is tortured into a multitude of masks, each shaped by the secret desires, hungers, fears and joys of the individual mortal, who but plays a game of obsequious approbation.
Believers lunged into belief. The faithful drowned in their faith.
And there was another truth, one that seemed on the surface to contradict the first one. The gentler and kinder the god, the more harsh and cruel its worshippers, for they hold to their conviction with taut certainty, febrile in its extremity, and so cannot abide dissenters. They will kill, they will torture, in that god’s name. And see in themselves no conflict, no matter how bloodstained their hands.
Torahaval’s hands were bloodstained, figuratively now but once most literally. Driven to fill some vast, empty space in her soul, she had lunged, she had drowned; she had looked for some external hand of salvation – seeking what she could not find in herself. And, whether benign and love-swollen or brutal and painful, every god’s touch had felt the same to her – barely sensed through the numbed obsession that was her need.
She had stumbled onto this present path the same way she had stumbled onto so many others, yet this time, it seemed there could be no going back. Every alternative, every choice, had vanished before her eyes. The first strands of the web had been spun more than fourteen months ago, in her chosen home city Karashimesh, on the shores of the inland Karas Sea – a web she had since, in a kind of lustful wilfulness, allowed to close ever tighter.
The sweet lure from the Grey Goddess, in spirit now the poisoned lover of the Chained One – the seduction of the flawed had proved so very inviting. And deadly. For us both. This was, she realized as she trailed Bridthok down the Aisle of Glory leading to the transept, no more than the spreading of legs before an inevitable, half-invited rape. Regret would come later if at all.
Perhaps, then, a most appropriate end.
For this foolish woman, who never learned how to live.
The power of the Grey Goddess swirled in thick tendrils through the battered-down doorway, so virulent as to rot stone.
Awaiting Bridthok and Torahaval at the threshold were the remaining acolytes of this desperate faith. Septhune Anabhin of Omari; and Sradal Purthu, who had fled Y’Ghatan a year ago after a failed attempt to kill that Malazan bitch, Dunsparrow. Both looked shrunken, now, some essence of their souls drained away, dissolving in the miasma like salt in water. Pained terror in their eyes as both turned to watch Bridthok and Torahaval arrive.
‘Sribin is dead,’ Septhune whispered. ‘She will now choose another.’
And so she did.
Invisible, a hand huge and clawed – more fingers than could be sanely conceived – closed about Torahaval’s chest, spears of agony sinking deep. A choked gasp burst from her throat and she staggered forward, pushing through the others, all of whom shrank back, gazes swimming with relief and pity – the relief far outweighing the pity. Hatred for them flashed through Torahaval, even as she staggered into the altar chamber; eyes burning in the acid fog of pestilence she lifted her head, and looked upon Poliel.
And saw the hunger that was desire.
The pain expanded, filled her body – then subsided as the clawed hand withdrew, the crusted talons pulling loose.
Torahaval fell to her knees, slid helplessly in her own sweat that had pooled on the mosaic floor beneath her.
Ware what you ask for. Ware what you seek.
The sound of horse hoofs, coming from the Aisle of Glory, getting louder.
A rider comes. A rider? What – who dares this – gods below, thank you, whoever you are. Thank you. She still clung to the edge. A few breaths more, a few more…
Sneering, Brokeface pushed past the cowering priests at the threshold. Paran scanned the three withered, trembling figures, and frowned as they each in turn knelt at the touch of his regard, heads bowing.
‘What ails them?’ he asked.
Brokeface’s laugh hacked in the grainy air. ‘Well said, stranger. You have cold iron in your spine, I’ll give you that.’
Idiot. I wasn’t trying to be funny.
‘Get off that damned horse,’ Brokeface said, blocking the doorway. He licked his misshapen lips, both hands shifting on the shaft of the scythe.
‘Not a chance,’ Paran said. ‘I know how you take care of horses.’
‘You cannot ride into the altar chamber!’
‘Clear the way,’ Paran said. ‘This beast does not bother biting – it prefers to kick and stamp. Delights in the sound of breaking bones, in fact.’
As the horse, nostrils flared, stepped closer to the doorway, Brokeface flinched, edged back. Then he bared his crooked teeth and hissed, ‘Can’t you feel her wrath? Her outrage? Oh, you foolish man!’
‘Can she feel mine?’
Paran ducked as his horse crossed the threshold. He straightened a moment later. A woman writhed on the tiles to his left, her dark skin streaked in sweat, her long limbs trembling as the plague-fouled air stroked and slipped round her, languid as a lover’s caress.
Beyond this woman rose a dais atop three broad, shallow steps on which were scattered the broken fragments of the altarstone. Centred on the dais, where the altar had once stood, was a throne fashioned of twisted, malformed bones. Commanding this seat, a figure radiating such power that her form was barely discernible. Long limbs, suppurating with venom, a bared chest androgynous in its lack of definition, its shrunken frailty; the legs that extended outward seemed to possess too many joints, and the feet were three-toed and taloned, raptorial yet as large as those of an enkar’al. Poliel’s eyes were but the faintest of sparks, blurred and damp at the centre of black bowls. Her mouth, broad and the lips cracked and oozing, curled now into a smile.
‘Soletaken,’ she said in a thin voice, ‘do not frighten me. I had thought, for a moment…but no, you are nothing to me.’
‘Goddess,’ Paran said, settling back on his horse, ‘I remain turned away. The choice is mine, not yours, and so you see only what I will you to see.’
‘Who are you? What are you?’
‘In normal circumstances, Poliel, I am but an arbiter. I have come to make an offering.’
‘You understand, then,’ the Grey Goddess said, ‘the truth beneath the veil. Blood was their path. And so we choose to poison it.’
Paran frowned, then he shrugged and reached into the folds of his shirt. ‘Here is my gift,’ he said. Then hesitated. ‘I regret, Poliel, that these circumstances…are not normal.’
The Grey Goddess said, ‘I do not understand—’
‘Catch!’
A small, gleaming object flashed from his hand.
She raised hers in defence.
A whispering, strangely thin sound marked the impact. Impaling her hand, a shard of metal. Otataral.
The goddess convulsed, a terrible, animal scream bursting from her throat, ripping the air. Chaotic power, shredding into tatters and spinning away, waves of grey fire charging like unleashed creatures of rage, mosaic tiles exploding in their wake.
On a bridling, skittish horse, Paran watched the conflagration of agony, and wondered, of a sudden, whether he had made a mistake.
He looked down at the mortal woman, curled up on the floor. Then at her fragmented shadow, slashed through by…nothing. Well, I knew that much. Time’s nearly up.
A different throne, this one so faint as to be nothing more than the hint of slivered shadows, sketched across planes of dirty ice – oddly changed, Quick Ben decided, from the last time he had seen it.
As was the thin, ghostly god reclining on that throne. Oh, the hood was the same, ever hiding the face, and the gnarled black hand still perched on the knotted top of the bent walking stick – the perch of a scavenger, like a one-legged vulture – and emanating from the apparition that was Shadowthrone, like some oversweet incense reaching out to brush the wizard’s senses, a cloying, infuriating…smugness. Nothing unusual in all of that. Even so, there was…something…
‘Delat,’ the god murmured, as if tasting every letter of the name with sweet satisfaction.
‘We’re not enemies,’ Quick Ben said, ‘not any longer, Shadowthrone. You cannot be blind to that.’
‘Ah but you wish me blind, Delat! Yes yes yes, you do. Blind to the past – to every betrayal, every lie, every vicious insult you have delivered foul as spit at my feet!’
‘Circumstances change.’
‘Indeed they do!’
The wizard could feel sweat trickling beneath his clothes. Something here was…what?
Was very wrong.
‘Do you know,’ Quick Ben asked, ‘why I am here?’
‘She has earned no mercy, wizard. Not even from you.’
‘I am her brother.’
‘There are rituals to sever such ties,’ Shadowthrone said, ‘and your sister has done them all!’
‘Done them all? No, tried them all. There are threads that such rituals cannot touch. I made certain of that. I would not be here otherwise.’
A snort. ‘Threads. Such as those you take greatest pleasure in spinning, Adaephon Delat? Of course. It is your finest talent, the weaving of impossible skeins.’ The hooded head seemed to wag from side to side as Shadowthrone chanted, ‘Nets and snares and traps, lines and hooks and bait, nets and snares and—’ Then he leaned forward. ‘Tell me, why should your sister be spared? And how – truly, how – do you imagine that I have the power to save her? She is not mine, is she? She’s not here in Shadow Keep, is she?’ He cocked his head. ‘Oh my. Even now she draws her last few breaths…as the mortal lover of the Grey Goddess – what, pray tell, do you expect me to do?’
Quick Ben stared. The Grey Goddess? Poliel? Oh, Torahaval…‘Wait,’ he said, ‘Bottle confirmed it – more than instinct – you are involved. Right now, wherever they are, it has something to do with you!’
A spasmodic cackle from Shadowthrone, enough to make the god’s thin, insubstantial limbs convulse momentarily. ‘You owe me, Adaephon Delat! Acknowledge this and I will send you to her! This instant! Accept the debt!’
Dammit. First Kalam and now me. You bastard, Shadowthrone – ‘All right! I owe you! I accept the debt!’
The Shadow God gestured, a lazy wave of one hand.
And Quick Ben vanished.
Alone once again, Shadowthrone settled back in his throne. ‘So fraught,’ he whispered. ‘So…careless, unmindful of this vast, echoing, mostly empty hall. Poor man. Poor, poor man. Ah, what’s this I find in my hand?’ He looked over to see a short-handled scythe now gripped and poised before him. The god narrowed his gaze, looked about in the gloomy air, then said, ‘Well, look at these! Threads! Worse than cobwebs, these! Getting everywhere – grossly indicative of sloppy…housekeeping. No, they won’t do, won’t do at all.’ He swept the scythe’s blade through the sorcerous tendrils, watched as they spun away into nothingness. ‘There now,’ he said, smiling, ‘I feel more hygienic already.’
Throttled awake by gloved hands at his throat, he flailed about, then was dragged to his knees. Kalam’s face thrust close to his own, and in that face, Bottle saw pure terror.
‘The threads!’ the assassin snarled.
Bottle pushed the man’s hands away, scanned the sandy tableau, then grunted. ‘Cut clean, I’d say.’
Standing nearby, Fiddler said, ‘Go get him, Bottle! Find him – bring him back!’
The young soldier stared at the two men. ‘What? How am I supposed to do that? He should never have gone in the first place!’ Bottle crawled over to stare at the wizard’s blank visage. ‘Gone,’ he confirmed. ‘Straight into Shadowthrone’s lair – what was he thinking?’
‘Bottle!’
‘Oh,’ the soldier added, something else catching his gaze, ‘look at that – what’s she up to, I wonder?’
Kalam pushed Bottle aside and fell to his hands and knees, glaring down at the dolls. Then he shot upright. ‘Apsalar! Where is she?’
Fiddler groaned. ‘No, not again.’
The assassin had both of his long-knives in his hands. ‘Hood take her – where is that bitch?’
Bottle, bemused, simply shrugged as the two men chose directions at random and headed off. Idiots. This is what they get, though, isn’t it? For telling nobody nothing! About anything! He looked back down at the dolls. Oh my, this is going to be interesting, isn’t it…?
‘The fool’s gone and killed himself,’ Captain Sweetcreek said. ‘And he took our best healer with him – right through Hood’s damned gate!’
Hurlochel stood with crossed arms. ‘I don’t think—’
‘Listen to me,’ Sweetcreek snapped, her corporal Futhgar at her side nodding emphatically as she continued. ‘I’m now in command, and there’s not a single damned thing in this whole damned world that’s going to change—’
She never finished that sentence, as a shriek rang out from the north side of the camp, then the air split with thunderous howls – so close, so loud that Hurlochel felt as if his skull was cracking open. Ducking, he spun round to see, cartwheeling above tent-roofs, a soldier, his weapon whipping away – and now the sudden snap of guy-ropes, the earth trembling underfoot—
And a monstrous, black, blurred shape appeared, racing like lightning over the ground – straight for them.
A wave of charged air struck the three like a battering ram a moment before the beast reached them. Hurlochel, all breath driven from his lungs, flew through the air, landing hard on one shoulder, then rolling – caught a glimpse of Captain Sweetcreek tossed to one side, limp as a rag doll, and Futhgar seeming to vanish into the dirt as the midnight creature simply ran right over the hapless man—
The Hound’s eyes—
Other beasts, bursting through the camp – horses screaming, soldiers shrieking in terror, wagons flung aside before waves of power – and Hurlochel saw one creature – no, impossible—
The world darkened alarmingly as he lay in a heap, paralysed, desperate to draw a breath. The spasm clutching his chest loosed suddenly and sheer joy followed the sweet dusty air down into his lungs.
Nearby, the captain was coughing, on her hands and knees, spitting blood.
From Futhgar, a single piteous groan.
Pushing himself upright, Hurlochel turned – saw the Hounds reach the wall of G’danisban – and stared, eyes wide, as a huge section of that massive barrier exploded, stone and brick facing shooting skyward above a billowing cloud of dust – then the concussion rolled over them—
A horse galloped past, eyes white with terror—
‘Not us!’ Sweetcreek gasped, crawling over. ‘Thank the gods – just passing through – just—’ She began coughing again.
On watery legs, Hurlochel sank down onto his knees. ‘It made no sense,’ he whispered, shaking his head, as buildings in the city beyond rocked and blew apart—
‘What?’
He looked across at Sweetcreek. You don’t understand – I looked into that black beast’s eyes, woman! ‘I saw…I saw—’
‘What?’
I saw pure terror—
The earth rumbled anew. A resurgence of screams – and he turned, even as five huge shapes appeared, tearing wide, relentless paths through the encamped army – big, bigger than – oh, gods below—
‘He said to wait—’ Noto Boil began, then wailed as his horse flinched so hard he would later swear he heard bones breaking, then the beast wheeled from the temple entrance and bolted, peeling the cutter from its back like a wood shaving.
He landed awkwardly, felt and heard ribs crack, the pain vanishing before a more pressing distress, that being the fish spine lodged halfway down his throat.
Choking, sky darkening, eyes bulging—
Then the girl hovering over him. Frowning for a lifetime.
Stupid stupid stupid—
Before she reached into his gaping mouth, then gently withdrew the spine.
Whimpering behind that first delicious breath, Noto Boil closed his eyes, becoming aware once again that those indrawn breaths in fact delivered stabbing agony across his entire chest. He opened tear-filled eyes.
The girl still loomed over him, but her attention was, it seemed, elsewhere. Not even towards the temple entrance – but down the main avenue.
Where someone was pounding infernal drums, the thunder making the cobbles shiver and jump beneath him – causing yet more pain –
And this day started so well…
‘Not Soletaken,’ Paran was saying to the goddess writhing on her throne, the pierced hand and its otataral spike pinning her here, to this realm, to this dreadful extremity, ‘not Soletaken at all, although it might at first seem so. Alas, Poliel, more complicated than that. My outrider’s comment earlier, regarding my eyes – well, that was sufficient, and from those howls we just heard, it turns out the timing is about right.’
The captain glanced down once more at the woman on the tiles. Unconscious, perhaps dead. He didn’t think the Hounds would bother with her. Gathering the reins, he straightened in his saddle. ‘I can’t stay, I’m afraid. But let me leave you with this: you made a terrible mistake. Fortunately, you won’t have long to regret it.’
Concussions in the city, coming ever closer.
‘Mess with mortals, Poliel,’ he said, wheeling his horse round, ‘and you pay.’
The man named Brokeface – who had once possessed another name, another life – cowered to one side of the altar chamber’s entranceway. The three priests had fled back down the hallway. He was, for the moment, alone. So very alone. All over again. A poor soldier of the rebellion, young and so proud back then – shattered in one single moment.
