Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen 7)
Page 161
Chains. Chains to draw the fragments together, to bind them together.
The Fallen God was a tool, nothing more.
But Rhulad Sengar had destroyed all that. In the reach of a child’s hand. And now, everything was dying. Poisoned. Crumbling into dissolution.
He reached the base of the scree, smooth round pebbles clacking beneath his clawed fingers. Coarse sand under his nails, wet, biting. My world.
Rain falling in wisps of mist, the pungent smell of moss and rotting wood. And on the wind… the sea.
Surmounting the steep slope of stones, the boles of Blackwood trees stood arrayed like sentinels.
There were no invasive demons here. This world was the world of the Tiste Edur.
The shadow of a gliding owl slipped over the glistening slide, crossing his intended path, and Hannan Mosag froze.
No. It cannot be. There is no-one alive to claim that title.
He is dead.
He was not even Tiste Edur!
And yet, who stood alone before Rhulad Sengar? Yes, she has his severed finger. The owl-most ancient of omens-the owl, to mark the coming of the one.
Yet anger surged within him.
It is for me to choose. Me! Mother Dark! Father Light! Guide me to the Throne of Shadow. Emurlahn reborn! It is this, I tell you both, this or the King in Chains, and behind him the Crippled God! Hear my offer!
‘Andii, Liosan, Edur, the Armies of the Tiste. No betrayal. The betrayals are done-bind us to our words as you have bound each other. Light, Dark and Shadow, the first elements of existence. Energy and void and the ceaseless motion of the ebb and flow between them. These three forces-the first, the greatest, the purest. Hear me. I would so pledge the Edur to this alliance! Send to me those who would speak for the Andii. The Liosan. Send them-bring your children together!
‘Mother Dark. Father Light. I await your word. I await…’
He could go no further.
Weeping, Hannan Mosag rested his head on the stones. As you say,’ he muttered. ‘I will not deny the omen. Very well, it is not for me to choose.
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Chains. Chains to draw the fragments together, to bind them together.
The Fallen God was a tool, nothing more.
But Rhulad Sengar had destroyed all that. In the reach of a child’s hand. And now, everything was dying. Poisoned. Crumbling into dissolution.
He reached the base of the scree, smooth round pebbles clacking beneath his clawed fingers. Coarse sand under his nails, wet, biting. My world.
Rain falling in wisps of mist, the pungent smell of moss and rotting wood. And on the wind… the sea.
Surmounting the steep slope of stones, the boles of Blackwood trees stood arrayed like sentinels.
There were no invasive demons here. This world was the world of the Tiste Edur.
The shadow of a gliding owl slipped over the glistening slide, crossing his intended path, and Hannan Mosag froze.
No. It cannot be. There is no-one alive to claim that title.
He is dead.
He was not even Tiste Edur!
And yet, who stood alone before Rhulad Sengar? Yes, she has his severed finger. The owl-most ancient of omens-the owl, to mark the coming of the one.
Yet anger surged within him.
It is for me to choose. Me! Mother Dark! Father Light! Guide me to the Throne of Shadow. Emurlahn reborn! It is this, I tell you both, this or the King in Chains, and behind him the Crippled God! Hear my offer!
‘Andii, Liosan, Edur, the Armies of the Tiste. No betrayal. The betrayals are done-bind us to our words as you have bound each other. Light, Dark and Shadow, the first elements of existence. Energy and void and the ceaseless motion of the ebb and flow between them. These three forces-the first, the greatest, the purest. Hear me. I would so pledge the Edur to this alliance! Send to me those who would speak for the Andii. The Liosan. Send them-bring your children together!
‘Mother Dark. Father Light. I await your word. I await…’
He could go no further.
Weeping, Hannan Mosag rested his head on the stones. As you say,’ he muttered. ‘I will not deny the omen. Very well, it is not for me to choose.
‘He shall be our Mortal Sword of Emurlahn-no, not the old title. The new one, to suit this age. Mortal Sword.’ Madness-why would he even agree? Letherii…
‘So be it.’
Dusk had arrived. Yet he felt a sliver of warmth against one cheek, and he lifted his head. The clouds had broken, there, to the east-a welling band of darkness.
And, to the west, another slash parting the overcast.
The lurid glow of the sun.
‘So be it,’ he whispered.
Bruthen Trana stepped back as the prostrate Warlock King flinched, Hannan Mosag’s legs drawing up like an insect in death.
A moment later, the warlock’s bloodshot eyes prised open. And seemed to see nothing for a moment. Then they flicked upward. ‘Warrior,’ he said thickly, then grimaced and spat a throatful of phlegm onto the grimy pavestones. ‘Bruthen Trana. K’ar Penath speaks boldly of your loyalty, your honour. You are Tiste Edur-as we all once were. Before-before Rhulad.’ He coughed, then pushed himself into a sitting position, raising his head with obvious effort to glower up at Bruthen Trana. ‘And so, I must send you away.’
‘Warlock King, I serve this empire-’
‘Errant take this damned empire! You serve the Tiste Edur!’
Bruthen Trana regarded the broken creature below, said nothing.
‘I know,’ Hannan Mosag said, ‘you would lead our warriors-through the palace above us. Room by room, cutting down every one of the Chancellor’s pernicious spies. Cutting Rhulad free of the snaring web spun about him-but that fool on his throne could not recognize freedom if it sprouted wings on his shoulders. He will see it as an attack, a rebellion. Listen to me! Leave the Chancellor to us!’
‘And Karos Invictad?’
‘All of them, Bruthen Trana. So I vow before you.’
‘Where do you wish me to go, Warlock King? After Fear Sengar?’
Hannan Mosag started, then shook his head. ‘No. But I
dare not speak the name of the one you must find. Here, in this realm, the Crippled God courses in my veins-where I travelled a few moments ago, I was free then. To understand. To… pray.’
‘How will I know where to look? How will I know when I find the one you seek?’
The Warlock King hesitated. He licked his lips, then said, ‘He is dead. But not dead. Distant, yet is summoned. His tomb lies empty, yet was never occupied. He is never spoken of, though his touch haunts us all again and again.’
Bruthen Trana raised a hand-not surprised to see that it trembled. ‘No more. Where shall I find the beginning of the path?’