Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7)

Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7) Page 448

Pinosel, her eyes bright as diamonds, lifted the jug in a wavering toast. ‘Hail the Saviour! Hail the half-drowned dog spitting mud!’ And then she crowed, the cry shifting into a cackle, before drinking deep once more.

Ormly plucked the severed finger from his purse and walked down to where knelt Brys Beddict. ‘Looking for this?’ he asked.

There had been a time of sleep, and then a time of pain. Neither had seemed to last very long, and now Brys Beddict, who had died of poison in the throne room of the Eternal Domicile, was on his hands and knees beside a lake of icy water. Racked with shivers, still coughing out water and slime.

And some man was crouched beside him, trying to give him a severed finger swollen and dyed pink.

He felt his left hand gripping a scabbard, and knew it for his own. Blinking to clear his eyes, he flitted a glance to confirm that the sword still resided within it. It did. Then, pushing the man’s gift away, he slowly settled onto his haunches, and looked round.

Familiar, yes.

The man beside him now laid a warm hand on his shoulder, as if to still his shivering. ‘Brys Beddict,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Tehol is about to die. Brys, your brother needs you now.’

And, as Brys let the man help him to his feet, he drew out his sword, half expecting to see it rusted, useless-but no, the weapon gleamed with fresh oil.

‘Hold on!’ shouted another voice.

The man steadying Brys turned slightly. ‘What is it, Ursto?’

‘The demon god’s about to get free! Ask ‘im!’

‘Ask him what?’

‘The name! Ask ‘im what’s its name, damn you! We can’t send it away without its name!’

Brys spat grit from his mouth. Tried to think. The demon god in the ice, the ice that was failing. Moments from release, moments from… ‘Ay’edenan of the Spring,’ he said. ‘Ay’edenan tek’ velut!enan.’

The man beside him snorted. ‘Try saying that five times fast! Errant, try saying it once!’

But someone was cackling.

‘Brys-’

He nodded. Yes. Tehol. My brother-‘Take me,’ he said. ‘Take me to him.’

‘I will,’ the man promised. ‘And on the way, I’ll do some explaining. All right?’

Brys Beddict, Saviour of the Empty Throne, nodded.

‘Imagine,’ Pinosel said with a gusty sigh, ‘a name in the old tongue. Oh now, ain’t this one come a long way!’

‘You stopped being drunk now, munch-sweets?’ She stirred, clambered onto her feet, then reached down and tugged at her husband. ‘Come on.’

‘But we got to wait-to use the name and send it away!’

‘We got time. Let’s perch ourselves down top of Wormface Alley, have another jug, an’ we can watch the Edur crawl up t’us like the Turtle of the Abyss.’ Ursto snorted. ‘Funny how that myth didn’t last.’

A deeper, colder shadow slid over Hannan Mosag and he halted his efforts. Almost there, yes-where the alley opened out, he saw two figures seated in careless sprawls and leaning against one another. Passing a jug between them.

Squalid drunks, but perhaps most appropriate as witnesses-to the death of this gross empire. The first to die, too. Also fitting enough.

He made to heave himself closer, but a large hand closed about his cloak, just below his collar, and he was lifted from the ground.

Hissing, seeking his power-

Hannan Mosag was slowly turned about, and he found himself staring into an unhuman face. Grey-green skin like leather. Polished tusks jutting from the corners of the mouth. Eyes with vertical pupils, regarding him now without expression.

Behind him the two drunks were laughing.

The Warlock King, dangling in the air before this giant demoness, reached for the sorcery of Kurald Emurlahn to blast this creature into oblivion. And he felt it surge within him-

But now her other hand took him by the throat.

And squeezed.

Cartilage crumpled like eggshells. Vertebrae crunched, buckled, broke against each other. Pain exploded upward, filling Hannan Mosag’s skull with white fire.

As the sun’s bright, unforgiving light suddenly bathed his face.

Sister Dawn-you greet me-

But he stared into the eyes of the demoness, and saw still nothing. A lizard’s eyes, a snake’s eyes.

Would she give him nothing at all?

The fire in his skull flared outward, blinding him, then, with a soft, fading roar, it contracted once more, darkness rushing into its wake.

But Hannan Mosag’s eyes saw none of this.

The sun shone full on his dead face, highlighting every twist, every marred flare of bone, and the unseeing eyes that stared out into that light were empty.