Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #9) 61
Seek out what is freely given
Come find me
In the wake of winter’s dark flight
And take what you will
Of these blossoms
My colours lie in wait for you
And none other
Come find me, Fisher
Chapter Nineteen
In the midst of fleeing
the unseen enemy
I heard the hollow horrors
of the wretched caught
We collected our gasps
to make ourselves a song
Let the last steps be a dance!
Before the spears strike
and the swords slash
We’ll run with torches
and write the night
with glutted indulgences
Our precious garlands
bold laughter to drown
the slaughter in the stables
of the lame and poor
Entwine hands and pitch skyward!
None will hear the dread
groans of the suffering
nor brush with tips
glistening sorrow’d cheeks
on stilled faces below
Let us flee in mad joy-
the unseen enemy draws near
and none will muster
to this harbinger call
for as long as we are able
to run these perfect circles
confound the fates
all you clever killers!
I am with you!
Unseen Enemy, Eflit Tarn
Moving like one bludgeoned, Kilmandaros slowly, by degrees, picked herself up from the ground. She leaned to one side and spat red phlegm, and then glanced over to see Errastas lying curled on the dead grasses, motionless as a stillborn calf. Off to one side stood Sechul Lath, arms wrapped tightly about his torso, face bleached of all warmth.
She spat again. ‘It’s him.’
‘A summoning beyond all expectation,’ Sechul said. ‘Odd, Errastas looks less than pleased at his own efficacy.’
Kilmandaros levered herself upright, stood unsteadily. ‘He could be subtle when he wanted,’ she said, in some irritation. ‘Instead, he made sure to let us know.’
‘Not just us,’ Sechul replied. ‘Nothing so crass,’ he added, ‘as careless.’
‘Is it anger, do you think?’
He rubbed at his face with both hands. ‘The last time Draconus was wakened to anger, Mother, nothing survived intact. Nothing.’ He hesitated, and then shook his head. ‘Not anger, not yet, anyway. He just wanted everyone to know. He wanted to send us all spinning.’
Kilmandaros grunted. ‘Rude bastard.’
They stood at the end of a long row of standing stones that had taken them round a broad, sweeping cursus. The avenue opened out in front of them, with scores of lesser stones spiralling the path inward to a flat-topped altar, its surface stained black. Little of this remained in the real world, of course. A few toppled menhirs, rumpled tussocks and ruts made by wandering bhederin. Errastas had drawn them ever closer to a place where time itself dissolved into confusion. Assailed by chaos, straining beneath the threats of oblivion, even the ground underfoot felt porous, at risk of crumbling under their weight.
The builders of this holy shrine were long gone. Resonance remained, however, tingling her skin, but it was an itch she could not scratch away. The sensation further fouled her mood. Glaring down at Errastas, she asked, ‘Will he recover? Or will we have to drag him behind us by one foot.’
‘A satisfying image,’ Sechul conceded, ‘but he’s already coming round. After the shock, the mind races.’ He walked up to where the Errant lay. ‘Enough, Errastas. On your feet. We have a task to complete and now more than ever, it needs doing.’
‘She took an eye,’ rasped the figure lying on the grasses. ‘With it, I would have seen-’
‘Only what you wanted to see,’ Sechul finished. ‘Never mind that, now. There is no going back. We won’t know what Draconus intends until he shows us-or, Abyss forbid, he finds us.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s thrown his gauntlet down-’
Errastas snorted. ‘Gauntlet? That, Setch, was his fist .’
‘So punch back,’ Sechul snapped.
Kilmandaros laughed. ‘I’ve taught him well, haven’t I?’
The Errant uncurled, and then sat up. He stared bleakly at the altar stone. ‘We cannot just ignore him. Or what his arrival tells us. He is freed. The sword Dragnipur is shattered-there was no other way out. If the sword is shattered, then-’
‘Rake is dead,’ said Kilmandaros.
Silence for a time. She could see in the faces of the two men sweeping cascades of emotion as they contemplated the raw fact of Anomander Rake’s death. Disbelief, denial, wonder, satisfaction and pleasure. And then… fear. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Great changes, terrible changes.’