Racing for Kallor.

He saw one of the dragons suddenly turn its head, eyes flashing back in his direction, and the creature pitched to one side, coming round.

A moment later the other dragon reached Kallor, catching him entirely unawares, talons lashing down to grasp the High King and lift him into the air. Wings thundering, the dragon carried its charge yet higher. Faint screams of fury sounded from the man writhing in that grasp.

Dragon and High King dipped behind a hill to the north.

One of the Great Ravens drew up almost at Spinnock's feet.

'Crone!' Spinnock coughed and spat blood. 'I'd have thought . . . Darujhistan . . .'

'Darujhistan, yes. I'd have liked to. To honour, to witness. To remember, and to weep. But our Lord . . . well, he had thoughts of you.' The head tilted. 'When we saw you, lying there, Kallor looming as he so likes to do, ah, we thought we were too late we thought we had failed our Lord and you. We thought oh, never mind.'

The Great Raven was panting.

Spinnock knew that this was not exhaustion he was seeing in the ancient bird. You can shed no tears, yet tears take you none the less. The extremity, the terrible distress. You can shed no tears, yet tears take you none the less. The extremity, the terrible distress.

The dragon that had returned now landed on the gra.s.ses to the south of the track. Sembling, walking towards Spinnock and Crone and the haggle of Crone's kin.

Korlat.

Spinnock would have smiled up at her, but he had lost the strength for such things, and so he could only watch as she came up to him, using one boot to shunt a squawking Crone to one side. She knelt and reached out a hand to brush Spinnock's spattered cheek. Her eyes were bleak. 'Brother . . .'

Crone croaked, 'Just heal him and be done with it before he gasps out his last breath in front of us!'

She drew out a quaint flask. 'Endest Silann mixed this one. It should suffice.' She tugged loose the stopper and gently set the small bottle's mouth between Spinnock's lips, and then tilted it to drain the contents, and he felt that potent liquid slide down his throat. Sudden warmth flowed through him.

'Sufficient, anyway, to carry you home.' And she smiled.

'My last fight in his name,' said Spinnock Durav. 'I did as he asked, did I not?'

Her expression tightened, revealed something wan and ravaged. 'You have much to tell us, brother. So much that needs . . . explaining.'

Spinnock glanced at Crone.

The Great Raven ducked and hopped a few steps away. 'We like our secrets,' she cackled, 'when it's all we have!'

Korlat brushed his cheek again. 'How long?' she asked. 'How long did you hold him back?'

'Why,' he replied, 'I lit the torches . . . dusk was just past . . .'

Her eyes slowly widened. And she glanced to the east, where the sky had begun, at last, to lighten.

'Oh, Spinnock . . .'

A short time later, when she went to find his sword where it was lying in the gra.s.ses, Spinnock Durav said, 'No, Korlat. Leave it.'

She looked at him in surprise.

But he was not of a mind to explain.

Above the Gadrobi Hills, Kallor finally managed to drag free his sword, even as the dragon's ma.s.sive head swung down, jaws wide. His thrust sank deep into the soft throat, just above the jutting avian collar bones. A shrill, spattering gasp erupted from the Soletaken, and all at once they were plunging earthward.

The impact was thunder and snapping bones. The High King was flung away, tumbling and skidding along dew-soaked gra.s.s. He gained his feet and spun to face the dragon.

It had sembled. Orfantal, on his face an expression of bemused surprise, was struggling to stand. One arm was broken. Blood gushed down from his neck. He seemed to have forgotten Kallor, as he turned in the direction of the road, and slowly walked away.

Kallor watched.

Orfantal managed a dozen steps before he fell to the ground.

It seemed this was a night for killing Tiste Andii.

His shoulders were on fire from the dragon's puncture wounds, which might well have proved fatal to most others, but Kallor was not like most others. Indeed, the High King was unique.

In his ferocity. In his stubborn will to live.

In the dry furnace heat of the hatred that ever swirled round him.

He set out once more for the city.

As dawn finally parted the night.

Kallor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

'There is no struggle too vast, no odds too overwhelming, for even should we fail should we fall we will know that we have lived.'

Anomander Rake Son of Darkness

The continent-sized fragments of the shattered moon sent reflected sunlight down upon the world. The fabric of Night, closed so tight about the city of Black Coral, began at last to fray. The web that was this knotted manifestation of Kurald Galain withered under the a.s.sault. Shafts broke through and moonlight painted buildings, domes, towers, walls and the long-dead gardens they contained. Silvery glow seeped into the dark waters of the bay, sending creatures plunging to the inky blackness of the depths.

New world, young world. So unexpected, so premature, this rain of death.

Endest Silann could feel every breach as he knelt on the cold mosaic floor of the temple's Grand Vestry. He had once held the waters back from Moon's Sp.a.w.n. He had once, long, long ago, guided his Lord to the fateful, final encounter with Mother Dark herself. He had clasped the hand of a dying High Priestess, sharing with her the bleak knowledge that nothing awaited her, nothing at all. He had stood, G.o.ds, so long ago now, staring down at his blood-covered hands, above the body of a sweet, gentle woman, Andarist's wife. While through the high window, the flames of dying Kharkanas flickered crimson and gold.

The Saelen Gara of the lost Kharkanan forestlands had believed that the moon was Father Light's sweet seduction, innocent maiden gift to Mother Dark. To remind her of his love, there in the sky of night. But then, they had also believed the moon was but the backside of Father Light's baleful eye, and could one rise up and wing the vast distance to that moon, they would discover that it was but a lens, and to look through was to see other worlds for whom the moon was not the moon at all, but the sun. The Saelen Gara talespinner would grin then, and make odd motions with his hands. 'Perspective,' he'd say. 'You see? The world changes according to where you stand. So choose, my children, choose and choose again, where you will make your stand . . .'

Where you will make your stand. The world changes.

The world changes.

Yes, he had held back the sea. He had made Moon's Sp.a.w.n into a single held breath that had lasted months.

But now, ah, now now, his Lord had asked him to hold back Light itself.

To save not a fortress, but a city. Not a single breath to hold, but the breath of Kurald Galain, an Elder Warren.

But he was old, and he did not know . . . he did not know . . .

Standing twenty paces away, in a niche of the wall, the High Priestess watched. Seeing him struggle, seeing him call upon whatever reserves he had left. Seeing him slowly, inexorably, fail.

And she could do nothing.

Light besieged Dark in the sky overhead. A G.o.d in love with dying besieged a child of redemption, and would use that child's innocence to usurp this weakened island of Kurald Galain to claim for itself the very Throne of Darkness.

For she has turned away.

Against all this, a lone, ancient, broken warlock.

It was not fair.

Time was the enemy. But then, she told herself with wry bitterness, time was always the enemy.

Endest Silann could not drive back every breach. She had begun to feel the damage being wrought upon Night, upon the Tiste Andii in this city. It arrived like a sickness, a failing of internal balances. She was weakening.

We are all weakening.

An old, broken man. He was not enough, and they had all known everyone except the one who mattered the most. Lord Rake, your faith blinded you. See him, kneeling there there, my Lord, is your fatal error in judgement. Lord Rake, your faith blinded you. See him, kneeling there there, my Lord, is your fatal error in judgement.

And without him without the power here and now to keep everything away without that, your grand design will collapse into ruin.

Taking us with it.

By the Abyss, taking us all.

It seemed so obvious now. To stand in Rake's presence was to feel a vast, una.s.sailable confidence. That he could gauge all things with such precision as to leave one in awe, in disbelief and in wonder.

The plans of the Son of Darkness never went awry. Hold to faith in him, and all shall settle into place.

But how many plans worked out precisely because because of our faith in him? How many times did we did people like Endest Silann and Spinnock Durav do things beyond their capability, simply to ensure that Rake's vision would prove true? And how many times can he ask that of them, of us? of our faith in him? How many times did we did people like Endest Silann and Spinnock Durav do things beyond their capability, simply to ensure that Rake's vision would prove true? And how many times can he ask that of them, of us?

Anomander Rake wasn't here.

No, he was gone. gone.

For ever gone.

Where then was that solid core of confidence, which they might now grasp tight? In desperation, in pathetic need?

You should never have left this to us. To him.

The sickness in her soul was spreading. And when she succ.u.mbed, the last bulwark protecting every Tiste Andii in Black Coral would give way.

And they would all die. For they were the flesh of Kurald Galain.

Our enemies feed on flesh.

Lord Anomander Rake, you have abandoned us.

She stood in the niche as if it was a sarcophagus. Fevered, watching Endest Silann slowly crumple there in the centre of that proud, diffident mosaic spanning the floor.

You failed us.

And now we fail you.

With a gasp of agony, Apsal'ara lunged backward along the beam. The skin of her hands and forearms had blackened. She kicked in desperate need, pushing herself still farther from that swirling vortex of darkness. Sliding on her back, over the grease of sweat, bile and blood. Steam rose from her arms. Her fingers were twisted like roots- The pain was so vast it was almost exquisite. She writhed, twisted in its grip, and then pitched down from the beam. Chains rapped against the sodden wood. Her weight pulled them down in a rattle and she heard something break. break.

Thumping on to ash-smeared clay.

Staring as she held up her hands. Seeing frost-rimed shackles, and, beneath them, broken links.

She had felt the wagon rocking its way back round. Horror and disbelief had filled her soul, and the need to do something had overwhelmed her, trampling all caution, trampling sanity itself.

And now, lying on the cold, gritty mud, she thought to laugh.

Free.

Free with nowhere to run. With possibly dead hands and what good was a thief with dead, rotting hands? She struggled to uncurl her fingers. Watched the knuckles crack open like charred meat. Red fissures gaped. And, as she stared, she saw the first droplets of blood welling from them. Was that a good sign?

'Fire is life,' she intoned. 'Stone is flesh. Water is breath. Fire is life. Stone is water is flesh is breath is life. Pluck a flower from a field and it will not thrive. Take and beauty dies, and that which one possesses becomes worthless. I am a thief. I take but do not keep. All I gain I cast away. I take your wealth only because you value it.

'I am Apsal'ara, Mistress of Thieves. Only you need fear me, you who l.u.s.t to own.'

She watched her fingers slowly straighten, watched flakes of skin lift and then fall away.

She would survive this. Her hands had touched Darkness, and lived still.

As if it mattered.

Even here, beneath the wagon, the dread sounds of war surrounded her. Chaos closed in on all sides. Souls died in numbers beyond counting, and their cries revealed a loss so far past comprehension that she refused to contemplate it. The death of honourable souls. The immense sacrifice wasted. No, none of this bore thinking about.

Apsal'ara rolled on to her side, and then on to her knees and elbows.

She began crawling.

And then gasped anew, as a familiar voice filled her head.