Toll the Hounds Part 129

Someone 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 G.o.d 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. 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 This was his opponent? This useless, broken, feeble thing? 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 a.s.sault. Like talons, the Dying G.o.d'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 succ.u.mb to that dread stain. Kurald Galain would be corrupted, made to feed an alien G.o.d'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 a.s.sault.

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 G.o.d 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 ma.s.s of wounds, a dozen of them clearly fatal, and though somehow he still stood, still fought, he could not last much longer.

The G.o.d 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 one named Clip who had never seen justice did not understand its true meaning, which ever belonged solely and exclusively within the cage of one's own soul.

No, the G.o.d's need for Clip was coming to an end. This vessel would be given over to saemankelyk, no different from all the others. To dance, to lie above the High Priestess and gush black s.e.m.e.n into her womb a deed without pleasure, for all pleasure was consumed by the Dying G.o.d's own blood, by the sweet kelyk. And she would swell with the immortal gifts a thousand times, ten thousand times.

The sweetest poison, after all, is the one eagerly shared.

The G.o.d advanced on the kneeling old man. Time to kill the fool.

Aranatha's hand was cool and dry in Nimander's grasp as she led him through an unknown realm that left him blind, stumbling, like a dog beaten senseless, the leash of that hand tugging him on and on.

'Please,' he whispered, 'where are we going?'

'To battle,' she replied, and her voice was almost unrecognizable.

Nimander felt a tremor of fear. Was this even Aranatha? Perhaps some demon had taken her place yet the hand, yes, he knew it. Unchanged, so familiar in its ethereal touch. Like a glove with nothing in it but no, he could feel it, firm, solid. Her hand, like everything else about her, was a mystery he had come to love.

The kiss she had given him what seemed an eternity ago he could feel it still, as if he had tasted something alien, something so far beyond him that he had no hope of ever understanding, of ever recognizing what it might be. A kiss, sweet as a blessing but had it been Aranatha who had blessed him?

'Aranatha-'

'We are almost there oh, will you defend me, Nimander? I can but reach through, not far, with little strength. It is all I have ever been able to do. But now . . . she insists. She commands.' commands.'

'Who?' he asked, suddenly chilled, suddenly shivering. 'Who commands you?'

'Why, Aranatha.'

But then 'Who who are you?' 'Who who are you?'

'Will you defend me, Nimander? I do not deserve it. My errors are legion. My hurt I have made into your curse, a curse upon every one of you. But we are past apologies. We stand in the dust of what's done.'

'Please-'

'I do not think enough of me can reach through not against him him. I am sorry. If you do not stand in his way, I will fall. I will fail. I feel in your blood a whisper of . . . someone. Someone dear to me. Someone who might have withstood him him.

'But he does not await us. He is not there to defend me. What has happened? Nimander, I have only you.'

The small hand, that had felt dry and cool and so oddly rea.s.suring in its remoteness, now felt suddenly frail, like thin porcelain.

She does not guide me.

She holds on.

He sought comprehension from all that she had said. The blood of someone dear. She cannot reach through, not enough to make her powerful enough against Clip, against the Dying G.o.d. She she is not Aranatha. The blood of someone dear. She cannot reach through, not enough to make her powerful enough against Clip, against the Dying G.o.d. She she is not Aranatha.

'Nimander, I have only you.'

'We stand in the dust of what's done.'

'Nimander, we have arrived.'

Tears streamed down Seerdomin's ravaged face. Overwhelmed by the helplessness, by the futility of his efforts against such an enemy, he rocked to every blow, staggered in retreat, and if he was laughing and G.o.ds, he was there was no humour in that terrible sound.

He hadn't had much pride to begin with or so he had made his pose, there before the Redeemer, one of such humility but no soldier with any spine left did not hold to a secret conviction of prowess. And although he had not lied when he'd told himself he was fighting for a G.o.d he did not believe in, well, a part of him was una.s.sailed by that particular detail. As if it'd make no difference. And in that was revealed the secret pride he had harboured.

He would surprise her. He would astonish her by resisting far beyond what she could have antic.i.p.ated. He would fight the b.i.t.c.h to a standstill.

How grim, how n.o.ble, how poetic. Yes, they would sing of the battle, all those shining faces in some future temple of white, virgin stone, all those shining eyes so pleased to share heroic Seerdomin's triumphant glory.

He could not help but laugh.

She was shattering him piece by pathetic piece. It was a wonder any part of his soul was left that could still recognize itself.

See me, Spinnock Durav, old friend. n.o.ble friend. And let us share this laugh.

At my stupid posing.

I am mocked, friend, by my own pride. Yes, do laugh, as you so wanted to do each and every time you defeated me on our tiny field of battle, there on the stained table in that damp, miserable tavern.

You did not imagine how I struggled to hold on to that pride, defeat after defeat, crushing loss after crushing loss.

So now, let us cast aside our bland masks. Laugh, Spinnock Durav, as you watch me lose yet again.

He had not even slowed her down. Blades smashed into him from all sides, three, four at a time. His broken body did not even know where to fall her attacks were all that kept him standing.

He'd lost his sword.

He might even have lost the arm and hand that had been wielding it. There was no telling. He had no sense beyond this knot of mocking knowledge. This lone inner eye unblinkingly fixed on its pathetic self.

And now, at last, she must have flung away all her weapons, for her hands closed round his throat.

He forced his eyes open, stared into her laughing face- Oh.

I understand now. It was you laughing.

You, not me. You I was hearing. Yes, I understand now- That meant that he, why, he'd been weeping. So much for mockery. The truth was, there was nothing left in him but self-pity. Spinnock Durav, look away now. Please, look away. Spinnock Durav, look away now. Please, look away.

Her hands tightening round his throat, she lifted him from the ground, held him high. So she could watch his face as she choked the last life from him. Watch, and laugh in his face of tears.

The High Priestess stood with hands to her mouth, too frightened to move, watching the Dying G.o.d destroy Endest Silann. He should have crumbled by now, he should have melted beneath that onslaught. And indeed it had begun. Yet, somehow, unbelievably, he still held on.

Making of himself a final, frail barrier between the Tiste Andii and this horrendous, insane G.o.d. She cowered in its shadow. It had been hubris, mad hubris, to have believed they could withstand this abomination. Without Anomander Rake, without even Spinnock Durav. And now she sensed every one of her kin being driven down, unable to lift a hand in self-defence, lying with throats exposed, as the poison rain flooded the streets, bubbled in beneath doors, through windows, eating the tiles of roofs as if it was acid, to stream down beams and paint brown every wall. Her kin had begun to feel the thirst, had begun to desire that deadly first sip as she had.

And Endest Silann held the enemy back.

Another moment.

And then yet another- In the realm of Dragnipur, every force had ceased fighting. Every force, every face Draconus, Hood, Iskar Jarak, the Chained, the burning eyes of the soldiers of chaos all turned to stare at the sky above the wagon.

And at the lone figure standing tall on the mound of bodies.

Where something extraordinary had begun.

The tattooed pattern had lifted free of the tumbled, wrinkled canvas of skins as if the layer that had existed for all to see was now revealed as but one side, one facet, one single dimension, of a far greater manifestation. Which now rose, unfolding, intricate as a perfect cage, a web of gossamer, glistening like wet strokes of ink suspended in the air around Anomander Rake.

He slowly raised his arms.

Lying almost at Rake's feet, Kadaspala twisted in a frenzy of joy. Revenge and revenge and yes, revenge.

Stab! Dear child! Now stab, yes and stab and stab- Ditch, all that remained of him, stared with one eye. He saw an elongated, tattoo-swarmed arm lifting clear, saw the knife in its hand, hovering like a rearing serpent behind Rake's back. And none of this surprised him.

The child-G.o.d's one purpose. The child-G.o.d's reason to exist.

And he was its eye. There to look upon its soul inward and outward. To feel its heart, and that heart overflowed with life, with exultation. To be born and to live was such a gift! To see the sole purpose, to hold and drive the knife deep- And then?

And then . . . it all ends. it all ends.

Everything here. All of them. These bodies so warm against me. All, betrayed by the one their very lives have fed. Precious memories, host of purest regrets but what, above all else, must always be chained to each and every soul? Why, regrets, of course. For ever chained to one's own history, one's own life story, for ever dragging that creaking, tottering burden . . .

To win free of those chains of regret is to shake free of humanity itself. And so become a monster.

Sweet child G.o.d, will you regret this?

'No.'

Why not?

'There . . . there will be no time.'

Yes, no time. For anyone. Anything. This is your moment of life your birth, your deed, your death. By this you must measure yourself, in this handful of breaths.

Your maker wants you to kill.

You are born now. Your deed awaits. Your death hovers just beyond it. Child G.o.d, what will you do?

And he felt the G.o.d hesitate. He felt it awaken to its own self, and to the freedom that such awakening offered. Yes, its maker had sought to shape it. Sire to child, an unbroken stream of hate and vengeance. To give its own imminent death all the meaning it demanded.

Fail in this, and that death will have no meaning at all. 'Yes. But, if I die without achieving what I am made to do-'

The G.o.d could sense the power that had lifted clear now rushing down from this extraordinary Tiste Andii with the silver hair, rushing down along the traceries of the countless bodies travelling the strands of the vast web. Down, and down, into that Gate.

What was he doing?

And Ditch smiled as he answered. Friend, know this for certain. Whatever Anomander Rake now attempts to do, he does not do it for himself. Friend, know this for certain. Whatever Anomander Rake now attempts to do, he does not do it for himself.

And that statement stunned this child G.o.d.

Not for himself? Was such a thing possible? Did one not ever choose, first and foremost, for oneself?

For most, yes, that is true. And when these ones pa.s.s, they are quickly forgotten. Their every achievement grows tarnished. The recognition comes swift, that they were not greater than anyone else. Not smarter, not braver. Their motives, ah, such sordid things after all. For most, I said, but not this one. Not Anomander Rake.

'I see. Then, my mortal friend, I . . . I shall do no less.'

And so, that long arm writhed round, twisting, and the knife stabbed down, down into Kadaspala's chest.