Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8)

Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8) Page 227

‘No.’

‘All broken, more broken than me.’

‘They call you the Dying God.’

‘All gods are dying.’

‘But you are no god, are you?’

‘Down on the floor, you never go hungry. Am I a god now? I must be. Don’t you see? I ate so many of them. So many parts, pieces. Oh, their power, I mean. My body didn’t need food. Doesn’t need it, I mean, yes, that is fair to say. It is so fair to say. I first met him on the floor-he was exploring, he said, and I had travelled so far… so far.’

‘Your worshippers-’

‘Are mostly dead. More to drink. All that blood, enough to make a river, and the current can take me away from here, can bring me back. All the way back. To make her pay for what she did!’

Having come from chaos, it was no surprise that the god was insane. ‘Show yourself.’

‘The machine was broken, but I didn’t know that. I rode its back, up and up. But then something happened; An accident. We fell a long way. We were terribly broken, both of us. When they dragged me out. Now I need to make a new ver-sion, just like you said. And you have brought me one. It will do. I am not deaf to its thoughts. I understand its chaos, its pains and betrayals. I even understand its arrogance. It will do, it will do.’

‘You cannot have him,’ said Nimander. ‘Release him.’

‘None of these ones worked. All the power just leaks out. How did he do it?’

One of these dolls. He is one of these dolls. Hiding in the multitude.

The voice began singing again. Wordless, formless.

He drew his sword.

‘What are you doing?’

The iron blade slashed outward, chopping through the nearest figures. Strings cut, limbs sliced away, straw and grass drifting in the air.

A cackle, and then: ‘You want to find me? How many centuries do you have to spare?’

‘As many as I need,’ Nimander replied, stepping forward and swinging again. Splintering wood, shattering clay. Underfoot he ground his heel into another figure.

‘I’ll be gone long before then. The river of blood you provided me-my way out. Far away I go! You can’t see it, can you? The gate you’ve opened here. You can’t even see it.’

Nimander destroyed another half-dozen dolls.

‘Never find me! Never find me!’

A savage blur of weapons as Salind charged Seerdomin. Each blow he caught with his tulwar, and each blow thundered up his arm, shot agony through his bones.

He reeled back beneath the onslaught. Three steps, five, ten. It was all he could do to simply defend himself. And that, he knew, could not last.

The Redeemer wanted him to hold against this?

He struggled on, desperate.

She was moaning, a soft, yearning sound. A sound of want. Mace heads beat against his weapon, sword blades, the shafts of spears, flails, daggers, scythes-a dozen arms swung at him. Impacts thundered through his body.

He could not hold. He could not-

An axe edge tore into his left shoulder, angled up to slam into the side of his face. He felt his cheekbone and eye socket collapse inward. Blinded, Seerdomin staggered, attempting a desperate counter-attack, the tulwar slashing out. The edge bit into wood, splintering it. Something struck him high on his chest, snap-ping a clavicle. As his weapon arm sagged, suddenly lifeless, he reached across and took the sword with his other hand. Blood ran down from his shoulder-he was losing all strength.

Another edge chopped into him and he tottered, then fell on to his back.

Salind stepped up to stand directly over him.

He stared up into her dark, glittering eyes.

After a moment Nimander lowered his sword. The Dying God was right-this was pointless. ‘Show yourself, you damned coward!’

Aranatha was suddenly at his side. ‘He must be summoned,’ she said.

‘You expect him to offer us his name?’

The Dying God spoke. ‘Who is here? Who is here?’

‘I am the one,’ answered Aranatha, ‘who will summon you.’

‘You do not know me. You cannot know me!’

‘I know your path,’ she replied. ‘I know you spoke with the one named Hair-lock, on the floor of the Abyss. And you imagined you could do the same, that you could fashion for yourself a body. Of wood, of twine, of clay-’

‘You don’t know me!’

‘She discarded you,’ said Aranatha, ‘didn’t she? The fragment of you that was left afterwards. Tainted, childlike, abandoned.’

‘You cannot know this-you were not there!’

Aranatha frowned. ‘No, I was not there. Yet… the earth trembled. Children woke. There was great need. You were the part of her… that she did not want.’