Toll the Hounds Part 62

With frenzied screams they pushed forward en ma.s.se, and those Nenanda and Kedeviss mortally wounded were simply heaved ahead, dying, flailing s.h.i.+elds of flesh and bone. As the mob drove onward, the two Tiste Andii were forced from the threshold- And the attackers poured in with triumphant shrieks.

Nenanda stopped laughing.

Nimander was at the inner doorway when he heard the savage cries behind him. Spinning round, he saw Nenanda and Kedeviss retreating under an onslaught of maddened figures.

'Skintick!'

His cousin s.h.i.+fted Clip's body on to Nimander's shoulders, then turned and, drawing his sword once more, plunged into the melee.

Nimander staggered into the pa.s.sageway.

Why? Why are we doing this? We deliver Clip to the Dying G.o.d, like a d.a.m.ned sacrifice. Ahead, he saw Desra and Aranatha approaching the far end, where it seemed there was another chamber. Ahead, he saw Desra and Aranatha approaching the far end, where it seemed there was another chamber. The altar room where he awaits us- The altar room where he awaits us- 'Stop!' he shouted. 'Stop!' he shouted.

Only Desra glanced back.

Aranatha strode within.

The reek of burning kelyk a.s.sailed Nimander and he stumbled as he moved forward beneath the slack, dragging weight of Clip's unconscious form. The raw glyphs swarmed on the walls to either side. Projecting busts of some past deity showed battered faces, sections crushed and others sheared off by recent demolition. Lone eyes leered down. Half-mouths smiled with a jester's crook. Pa.s.sing by one after another.

Trembling, Nimander forced himself forward. He saw Desra stride after Aranatha.

The glyphs began weeping, and all at once he felt as if time itself was dissolving. Sudden blindness, the terrible sounds of fighting behind him diminis.h.i.+ng, as if pulled far away, until only the rush of blood remained, a storm in his head.

Through which, faintly and then rising, came a child's voice. Singing softly.

Seerdomin emerged from Night, squinted against the mid-morning glare. Silver clouds ahead, heaped above the barrow like the sky's detritus. Rain slanted down on the mound.

Tulwar in his hand, he hurried on, boots slipping in the salt-crusted mud of the track.

She had gone out, alone.

Spinnock Durav the only friend he had left had professed his love for her. But he had not understood yes, she would refuse his help. But such refusal must be denied. He should have comprehended that.

G.o.ds below, this was not Seerdomin's fight. She She was not his fight. was not his fight.

Yet he found himself driven on, cold with fear, feverish with dread, and everything that he saw around him seemed to scream its details, as if even the mundane truths could burn, could sting like acid in his eyes. Ruts and broken spokes, potsherds, pools of opaque water, exposed roots like the hackles of the earth each one ferociously demanding his attention. We are as it is We are as it is, they seemed to shout, we are all there is! We are- we are all there is! We are- Not his fight, but Spinnock had not understood. He was Tiste Andii. He was a creature of centuries and what was avoided one day could be addressed later decades, millennia, ages ages later. In their eyes, nothing changed. later. In their eyes, nothing changed.

Nothing could could change. They were a fallen people. The dream of getting back up had faded to dust. change. They were a fallen people. The dream of getting back up had faded to dust.

She had gone out. Alone. Out where the conspirators strutted in the light of day, insanely plotting the return of suffering. Where they abused the sanctuary of an indifferent G.o.d. Maybe she was now back among her kind if that was true, then Spinnock Durav deserved to hear the truth of that.

A rat slithered into the ditch a few strides ahead. He drew closer to the filth of the encampment, its stench so foul not even the rain could wash it away.

Would he be challenged? He hoped so. If the conspirators hid themselves, he might have trouble rooting them out. And if she she decided to hide, well, he would have to kick through every decrepit hut and shelter, into every leaking tent and rust-seized wagon. decided to hide, well, he would have to kick through every decrepit hut and shelter, into every leaking tent and rust-seized wagon.

Birdsong drifted down from the trees of the slope on the opposite side of the camp, the sound startlingly clear. Tendrils of smoke from rain-dampened hearths undulated upward, each one solid as a serpent in Seerdomin's eyes. He was, he realized, walking into their nest.

But Spinnock, you need not do this, you need not even know of this. This is a human affair, and if she is willing then yes, I will drag her free of it. Back to you. One can be saved and that should be enough.

He wondered if the Redeemer ever saw things that way. Taking one soul into his embrace with a thousand yearning others looking on but no, he did not choose, did not select one over another. He took them all.

Seerdomin realized he did not care either way. This G.o.d was not for him. Redemption had never been his reason for kneeling before that barrow. I was lonely. I thought he might be the same. d.a.m.n you, High Priestess, why didn't you just leave me alone? I was lonely. I thought he might be the same. d.a.m.n you, High Priestess, why didn't you just leave me alone?

Not my mess.

Spinnock, you owe me, and you will never know. I will say nothing let this rain wash the blood from my hands- He had begun this march half drunk, but nothing of that remained. Now, everything was on fire.

Reaching the slope of the camp's main avenue, he began the ascent. The rain was fine as mist, yet he was quickly soaked through, steam rising from his forearms. The ground gave queasily beneath his boots with every step. He arrived at the crest leaning far forward, scrabbling in his haste.

Straightening, something flashed into his vision. He heard a snap, a crunch that exploded in his head, and then nothing.

Gradithan stood over the sprawled form of Seerdomin, staring down at the smashed, bloodied face. Monkrat crept closer and crouched down beside the body.

'He lives. He will drown in his blood if I do not roll him over, Urdo. What is your wish?'

'Yes, push him over I want him alive, for now at least. Take his weapons, bind his limbs, then drag him to the Sacred Tent.'

Gradithan licked his lips, tasting the staleness of dried kelyk. He wanted more, fresh, bitter and sweet, but he needed his mind. Sharp, awake, aware of everything.

As Monkrat directed two of his Urdomen to attend to the Seerdomin, Gradithan set off for the Sacred Tent. Sanctified ground, yes, but only temporary. Soon, they would have the barrow itself. The barrow, and the ignorant G.o.dling within it.

Along the track, the once-wors.h.i.+ppers of the Redeemer knelt as he pa.s.sed. Some moaned in the dregs of the night's dance. Others stared at the mud in front of their knees, heads hanging, brown slime drooling down from their gaping mouths. Oh, this might seem like corruption, but Gradithan wasn't interested in such misconceptions.

The Dying G.o.d was more important than Black Coral and its morose overlords. More important than the Redeemer and his pathetic cult. The Dying G.o.d's song was a song of pain, and was not pain the curse of mortality?

He had heard of another cult, a foreign one, devoted to someone called the Crippled G.o.d.

Perhaps, Monkrat had ventured that morning, there is a trend. there is a trend.

There was something blasphemous in that observation, and Gradithan reminded himself that he would have to have the mage beaten but not yet. Gradithan needed Monkrat, at least for now.

He entered the Sacred Tent.

Yes, she was still dancing, writhing now on the earthen floor, too exhausted perhaps to stand, yet the sensual motions were still powerful enough to take away Gradithan's breath. It did not matter any more that she had been a Child of the Dead Seed. No one could choose their parents, after all. Besides, she had been adopted now. By the Dying G.o.d, by the blessed pain and ecstasy it delivered.

Let her dance on, yes, until the gate was forced open.

Gradithan lifted his head, sniffed the air oh, the blood was being spilled, the sacrifice fast closing on the threshold. Close now. Close now.

The Dying G.o.d bled. Mortal followers drank that blood. Then spilled it out, transformed, so that the Dying G.o.d could take it once more within himself. This was the secret truth behind all blood sacrifice. The G.o.d gives and the mortal gives back. All the rest . . . nothing more than ornate dressing, nothing more than obfuscation.

Die, my distant friends. Die in your mult.i.tudes. We are almost there.

'You are dying.'

Seerdomin opened his eyes. An unfamiliar face stared down at him.

'You are bleeding into your brain, Segda Travos. They mean to abuse you. Torture you with terrible sights the Urdo named Gradithan believes you a traitor. He wants you to suffer, but you will deny him that pleasure, for you are dying.'

'Who what . . .'

'I am Itkovian. I am the Redeemer.'

'I I am sorry.'

The man smiled and Seerdomin could see how that smile belonged to these gentle features, the kind eyes. Such compa.s.sion was . . . 'Wrong' 'Wrong'.

'Perhaps it seems that way, but you are strong your spirit is very strong, Segda Travos. You believe I am without true compa.s.sion. You believe I embrace suffering out of selfish need, to feed a hunger, an addiction.' Itkovian's soft eyes s.h.i.+fted away. 'Perhaps you are right.'

Seerdomin slowly sat up. And saw a domed sky that glittered as if with millions upon millions of stars, a solid cl.u.s.ter vying for every s.p.a.ce, so that every splinter and whorl of darkness seemed shrunken, in retreat. The vision made his head spin and he quickly looked down. And found he was kneeling on a ground composed entirely of coins. Copper, tin, bra.s.s, a few sprinkles of silver, fewer still of gold. Gems gleamed here and there. 'We are,' he said in an awed whisper, 'within your barrow.'

'Yes?' said Itkovian.

Seerdomin shot the G.o.d a quick glance. 'You did not know . . .'

'Is knowing necessary, Segda Travos?'

'I no longer use that name. Segda Travos is dead. I am Seerdomin.'

'Warrior Priest of the Pannion Seer. I see the warrior within you, but not the priest.'

'It seems I am not much of a warrior any more,' Seerdomin observed. 'I was coming to save her.'

'And now, my friend, you must fight her.'

'What?'

Itkovian pointed.

Seerdomin twisted round where he knelt. A storm was building, seeping up into the dome of offerings, and he saw how the blackness engulfed those blazing stars, drowning them one by one. Beneath the savage churning clouds there was a figure. Dancing. And with each wild swing of an arm more midnight power spun outward, up into the growing stormcloud. She seemed to be a thousand or more paces away, yet grew larger by the moment.

He could see her mouth, gaping like a pit, from which vile liquid gushed out, splas.h.i.+ng down, spraying as she twirled.

Salind. G.o.ds, what has happened to you?

'She wants me,' Itkovian said. 'It is her need, you see.'

'Her need?'

'Yes. For answers. What more can a G.o.d fear, but a mortal demanding answers?'

'Send her away!'

'I cannot. So, warrior, will you defend me?'

'I cannot fight that!'

'Then, my friend, I am lost.'

Salind came closer, and as she did so she seemed to lose focus in Seerdomin's eyes, her limbs smearing the air, her body blurring from one position to the next. Her arms seemed to multiply, and in each one, he now saw, she held a weapon. Brown-stained iron, knotted wood trailing snags of hair, daggers of obsidian, scythes of crimson bronze.

Above her stained, weeping mouth, her eyes blazed with insane fire.

'Redeemer,' whispered Seerdomin.

'Yes?'

'Answer me one question. I beg you.'

'Ask.'

And he faced the G.o.d. 'Are you worth it?' 'Are you worth it?'

'Am I worth the sacrifice you must make? No, I do not think so.'

'You will not beg to be saved?'

Itkovian smiled. 'Will you?'

No. I never have. He rose to his feet, found that the tulwar remained in his hand. He hefted the weapon and eyed Salind. He rose to his feet, found that the tulwar remained in his hand. He hefted the weapon and eyed Salind. Can I defy her need? Can I truly stand against that? Can I defy her need? Can I truly stand against that? 'If not for your humility, Redeemer, I would walk away. If not for your . . . uncertainty, your doubts, your 'If not for your humility, Redeemer, I would walk away. If not for your . . . uncertainty, your doubts, your humanity.' humanity.'

And, awaiting no reply from the G.o.d, he set out into her path.

The sudden hush within the Scour Tavern finally penetrated Spinnock Durav's drunken haze. Blinking, he tilted his head, and found himself looking up at his Lord.

Who said, 'It is time, my friend.'

'You now send me away?' Spinnock asked.

'Yes. I now send you away.'

Spinnock Durav reeled upright. His face was numb. The world seemed a sickly place, and it wanted in. He drew a deep breath.

'My request pains you why?'

He could have told him then. He could have spoken of this extraordinary blessing of love. For a human woman. He could have told Anomander Rake of his failure, and in so doing he would have awakened the Son of Darkness to his sordid plight.

Had he done all of this, Anomander Rake would have reached a hand to rest light on his shoulder, and he would have said, Then you must stay, my friend. For love, you must stay go to her, now. Now, Spinnock Durav. It is the last gift within our reach. The last did you truly believe I would stand in the way of that? That I would decide that my need was greater? Then you must stay, my friend. For love, you must stay go to her, now. Now, Spinnock Durav. It is the last gift within our reach. The last did you truly believe I would stand in the way of that? That I would decide that my need was greater?

Did you think I could do such a thing, when I come to you here and now because of my own love? For you? For our people?

Go to her, Spinnock Durav. Go.

But Spinnock Durav said nothing. Instead, he bowed before his Lord. 'I shall do as you ask.'

And Anomander Rake said, 'It is all right to fail, friend. I do not demand the impossible of you. Do not weep at that moment. For me, Spinnock Durav, find a smile to announce the end. Fare well.'