withered, green hand.
‘When you laid waste to your realm,’ the Jaghut continued. ‘You wounded it terribly.’
‘Release me,’ Kallor said in a rasp. And with his other hand he reached back for the grip of his sword.
All at once the Jaghut’s hand fell away.
Kallor staggered back and Nimander saw a white impression of fingers encircling the old warrior’s wrist. ‘This is not how a host behaves. You force me to kill you.’
‘Oh, be quiet, Kallor. This tower was an Azath once. Shall I awaken it for you?’
Wondering, Nimander watched as Kallor backed towards the entrance, eyes wide in that weathered, pallid face, the look of raw recognition dawning. ‘Gothos, what are you doing here?’
‘Where else should I be? Now remain outside-these two Tiste Andii must go away for a while.’Heat was spreading fast, out from Nlmamdersi stomach. He cast a wild look at Skintick, saw his friend sinking slowly to his knees. The empty cup in his hand fell away, rolled briefly on the damp ground, Nimander stared at the Jaghut, ‘What have you done?’
‘Only what was necessary.’
With a snarl Kallor spun round and stalked from the chamber. Over his shoul-der he said, ‘I will not wait long.’
Nimander’s eyes were drawn once more to the walls of ice. Black depths, shapes moving within. He staggered, reached out his hands-
‘Oh, don’t step in there-’
And then he was falling forward, his hands passing into the wall before him, no resistance at all. ‘Nimander, do not-’ Blackness.
Desra wandered round the wagon, drawing up to halt beside the ox. She set a hand on its back, felt the beast’s heat, the rippling with every twitch shedding the biting flies. She looked down into the animal’s eye, saw with a start how delicate its lashes. ‘You must take the world as it is.’ Andarist’s last words to her, before the world took him.
It wasn’t hard. People either had strength or they didn’t. The weak ones left her disgusted, welling with dark contempt. If they chose at all it was ever the wrong choice. They let the world break them time and again, then wondered-dull-eyed as this ox-why it was so cruel. But it wasn’t the world that was the problem, was it? It was stepping into the stampede’s path over and over again. It was learning nothing from anything. Nothing.
There were more weak people than strong ones. The weak were legion. Some just weren’t smart enough to cope with anything beyond meeting immediate needs: the field to sow, the harvest to bring on to the threshing floor, the beasts of burden to feed. The child to raise, the coin for the next jug of ale, the next knuckle bag of d’bayang. They didn’t see beyond the horizon. They didn’t even see the next valley over. The world outside was where things came from, things that caused trouble, that jarred the proper order of life. They weren’t interested in thinking. Depths were frightening, long roads a journey without purpose where one could end up lost, curling up to die in the ditch.
She had seen so many of the weak ones. They died unjustly in their thousands. Tens of thousands. They died because they worshipped ignorance and believed this blind god could make them safe.
Among the strong, only a few were worth paying attention to. Most were bullies. Their threats were physical or they were emotional, but the effect was the same-to make the victim feel weak. And it was the sell appointed task of these bullies to convince as many people as possible that they were inherently weak, and their lives ones of pathetic misery. Once this was done, the bully would then say: do as I say and I will keep you safe. I will be your strength… unless youanger me, If you anger me I will terrorize you. I might even kill you. There were plenty of these bastards, pig-eyed and blustery little boys in big bodies. Or fish-eyed nasty bitches although these ones, after proving to their victims how weak they were, would then lap up all the spilled blood. Delicate tongues flicking in and out. You had the physical bullies and the emotional bullies, and they both levelled In destroying lives.
No, she had no time for them. But there were others whose strength was of a much rarer kind. Not easy to find, because they revealed nothing. They were quiet. They often believed themselves to be much weaker than they were. But when pushed too hard, they surprised themselves, finding that they would not back away another step, that a wall had risen in their souls, unyielding, a barrier that could not be passed. To find one such as this was the most precious of discoveries.
Desra had played the bully more than once, as much from boredom as from anything else. She’d lapped up her share of blood.
She might well do the same with this one named Clip-if he ever returned to them, and there was no guarantee of that. Yes, she would use him and people like him, who imagined themselves strong but were, in truth, weak or so she would prove, eventually. Certainly, their blood didn’t taste any purer, any sweeter,
She had made her discovery, after all, of one whose strength was absolute, He lore whom she herself felt weak but in a most pleasant, most satisfying way one to whom she might surrender whatever she chose without fearing he would one day use it against her. Not this one.
Not Nimander Golit.
Desra saw Kallor emerge from the ruin, his agitation plain to see. Armour rustling, he marched between the scarecrows and up on to the road. Reaching the wagon, he pulled himself up with a worn boot on a wooden spoke, then paused to stare down at Clip. ‘You should throw this fool away;’ he said to Aranatha, who sat holding a thin cloth stretched out over the unconscious figure.
She smiled in answer and said nothing.
Desra frowned at Kallor. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Yes,’ he replied with a sneer, ‘the others.’
‘Well?’
He lifted himself over the slats. ‘The Jaghut decided to use them-unfortunately for them.’ Use?
Nenanda swung round from where he sat on the bench. ‘What Jaghut?’ he demanded.
But Desra was already turning away, rushing down through the ditch and on to the withered field. Between the toppled scarecrows-
So who is this Dying God?
Skintick, who knew himself well, who knew that his imagination was thedeadliest weapon he used against himself, who knew how, in any situation, he might laugh-a plunge into the depths of absurdity, a desperate attempt to save his sanity-now found himself awakening on a dusty platform, no more than twelve paces across, of limestone. It was surrounded by olive trees, a grove of ancient twisted boles and dark leathery leaves, the fruit clustered in abundance. A warm wind slid over his naked form, making the sun’s heat-at least to begin with-less oppressive than it should have been. The air smelled of salt.
The stumps of columns encircled the platform. They had been painted the deep hue of wine, but that had begun to flake away, exposing raw yellow rock.
Who is this Dying God?
His head aching, Skintick slowly sat up, shielding his eyes from the glare, but the sun’s light rebounded from the stone and there was no relief. Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet, stood tottering. Gods, the pain in his head! Pulsing, exploding in blinding flashes behind his eyes.
Who is this Dying-
There were corpses huddled beneath the trees-mostly bones and rotted cloth, tufts of hair, skin-stretched skulls. Once brightly coloured clothes, strange shoes, the glitter of buttons and jewellery, gold on bared teeth.
The sun felt… evil. As if its heat, its light, was somehow killing him, lancing through his flesh, tearing through his brain. He was growing ever sicker.
There was, he suddenly understood, no one left alive on this world. Even the trees were dying. The oceans were burning away and death was everywhere. It could not be escaped. The sun had become a murderer.
Who is this-
You could dream of the future. You could see it as but a recognizable continuation of what can be seen around you at this moment. See it as progress, a driven force with blinding glory at the very end. Or each moment as the pinnacle, at least until the next higher peak resolved itself. A farmer sows to feed the vision of fruition, of abundance, and the comfort that comes with a predictable universe reduced to this upcoming season. Drip libations to remind the gods that order exists.
You could dream of, at least, a place for your son, your daughter. Who would wish to deliver a child into a world
