‘Good.’
‘Will you take it now?’
‘I will-to break it on the forge where it was made.’ And he pointed to the ramshackle smithy in the distance.
The Crippled God hissed, ‘You said it could never be broken, Withal!’
The weaponsmith shrugged. ‘We’re always saying things like that. Pays the bills.’
A horrid cry was loosed from the Crippled God, ending in strangled hacking coughs.
The giant was studying Withal in return, and he now asked, ‘You made this cursed weapon?’
‘I did.’
The back-handed slap caught Withal by surprise, sent him flying backward. Thumping hard onto his back, staring up at the spinning blue sky-that suddenly filled with the warrior, looking down.
‘Don’t do it again.’
And after saying that, the giant moved off.
Blinking in the white sunlight, Withal managed to turn onto his side, and saw the giant walk into a portal of fire, then vanish as the Crippled God screamed again. The portal suddenly disappeared with a snarl.
One of the nachts brought its horrid little face close over Withal, like a cat about to steal his breath. It cooed.
‘Yes, yes,’ Withal said, pushing it away, ‘get the sword. Yes. Break the damned thing.’
The world spun round him and he thought he would be sick. ‘Sandalath, love, did you empty the bucket? Sure it was piss but it smelled mostly of beer, didn’t it? I coulda drunk it all over again, you see.’
He clambered upward, swayed back and forth briefly, then reached down and, after a few tries, collected the sword.
Off to the smithy. Not many ways of breaking a cursed sword. A weapon even nastier would do it, but in this case there wasn’t one. So, back to the old smith’s secret. To break an aspected weapon, bring it home, to the forge where it was born.
Well, he would do just that, and do it now.
Seeing the three nachts peering up at him, he scowled. ‘Go bail out the damned boat-I’m not in the mood to drown fifty sweeps from shore.’
The creatures tumbled over each in their haste to rush back to the beach.
Withal walked to the old smithy, to do what needed doing.
Behind him, the Crippled God bawled to the sky.
A terrible, terrible sound, a god’s cry. One he never wanted to hear ever again.
At the forge, Withal found an old hammer, and prepared to undo all that he had done. Although, he realized as he set the sword down on the rust-skinned anvil and studied the blood-splashed blade, that was, in all truth, impossible.
After a moment, the weaponsmith raised the hammer.
Then brought it down.
EPILOGUE
She walked through the shrouds of dusk
And came to repast
At the Gates of Madness.
Where the living gamed with death And crowed triumphant At the Gates of Madness.
Where the dead mocked the living And told tales of futility At the Gates of Madness.
She came to set down her new child There on the stained altar At the Gates of Madness.
‘This,’ said she, ‘is what we must do, In hope and humility At the Gates of Madness.’
And the child did cry in the night To announce bold arrival At the Gates of Madness.
Have we dreamed this enough now? Our promise of suffering At the Gates of Madness?
Will you look down upon its new face And whisper songs of anguish At the Gates of Madness?
Taking the sawtoothed key in hand To let loose a broken future At the Gates of Madness?
Tell then your tale of futility to the child All your games with death At the Gates of Madness.
We who stand here have heard it before On this the other side Of the Gates of Madness.
Dragging his soul from its place of exhaustion and horror, the sound of a spinning chain awoke Nimander Golit. He stared up at the stained ceiling of his small room, his heart thumping hard in his chest, his body slick with sweat beneath damp blankets. That sound-it had seemed so real-And now, with eyes widening, he heard it again. Spinning, then odd snaps! Then spinning once more. He sat up. The squalid town outside slept, drowned in darkness unrelieved by any moon. And yet… the sound was coming from the street directly below;
Nimander rose from the bed, made his way to the door, out into the chilly hallway. Grit and dust beneath his bare feet as he padded down the rickety stairs.
Emerging, he rushed out into the street.
Yes, night’s deepest pit, and this was not-could not be-a dream.
The hissing chain and soft clack, close, brought him round. To see another Tiste Andii emerge from the gloom. A stranger. Nimander gasped.
The stranger was twirling a chain from one upraised hand, a chain with rings at each end.
‘Hello, Nimander Golit.’
‘Who-who are you? How do you know my name?’
‘I have come a long way, to this Isle of the Shake-they are our kin, did you know that? I suppose you did-but they can wait, for they are not yet ready and perhaps will never be ready. Not just Andii blood, after all. But Edur. Maybe even Liosan, not to mention human. No matter. Leave Twilight her island…’ he laughed, ‘empire.’
‘What do you want?’
‘You, Nimander Golit. And your kin. Go now, gather them. It is time for us to leave.’
‘What? Where?’
‘Are you truly a child?’ the stranger snapped in frustration. The rings clicked, the chain spiralled tight about his index finger. ‘I am here to lead you home, Nimander. All you spawn of Anomander Rake, the Black-Winged Lord.’
‘But where is home?’
‘Listen to me! I am taking you to him!’
Nimander stared, then stepped back. ‘He does not want us-’
‘It does not matter what he wants. Nor even what I want! Do you understand yet? I am her Herald!’
Her?
All at once Nimander cried out, dropped hard down onto his knees on the cobbles, his hands at his face. ‘This-this is not a dream?’
The stranger sneered. ‘You can keep your nightmares, Nimander. You can stare down at the blood on your hands for all eternity, for all I care. She was, as you say, insane. And dangerous. I tell you this, I would have left her corpse lying here in the street, this night, if she still lived. So, enough of that.
‘Go, bring your kin here. Quickly, Nimander, while Darkness still holds this island.’
And Nimander climbed to his feet, then hobbled into the decrepit tenement.
Her Herald. Oh, Mother Dark, you would summon our father, as you now summon us?
But why?
OK, it must be. Yes. Our exile-Abyss below-our exile is at an end!
Waiting in the street, Clip spun his chain. A pathetic bunch, if this Nimander was the best among them. Well, they would have to do, for he did not lie when he said the Shake were not yet ready.
