Midnight tides

EPILOGUE

THE HOLE WAS VAST AND DEEP. THE TWO KENRYLL’AH DEMON PRINCES stood at its edge, staring down into it, as they had been for some time.

Finally, one said, ‘How far down do you think it goes, brother?’

‘I suspect, brother,’ the other replied, ‘if we were to vacate our bladders into this abyss the streams would fray into mist long before they reached bottom.’

‘I suspect you are right. And that Forkrul Assail went down there, didn’t he?’

‘He did. Head first.’

‘You shouldn’t have thrown him, then.’

‘You are wrong, brother. I simply threw him in the wrong direction.’

‘That, or the world suddenly turned.’

‘Unlikely. This place doesn’t do things like that.’

‘You’re right. It is proving exceedingly dull, isn’t it?’

‘Exceedingly.’

‘Well, shall we?’

‘Why not?’

The two demons began loosening straps on their ornate baldrics. Dropping flaps. Shifting their stances to adequate width.

And they stood there, side by side, until, perfectly timed, their flows were done.

The storm had risen sudden, impressively fierce as it raged on the seas. Three Nachts huddled at his feet, Withal stood on the beach, feeling the faint wisps of wind that managed to reach through the sorcerous barrier surrounding the island, brushing against his face like a woman’s breath.

A sweet woman, to be more precise. Unlike the one standing beside him. This tall, iron-eyed, foul-mouthed, humourless apparition who followed him around and never seemed to sleep and certainly would not let him sleep, not a single damned night the whole night through, not once. Always asking, asking and asking. What are you going to do? Besides praying?

Well, what else could he do?

Rhulad Sengar came and went, more insane with each time. Shrieks, laughter, screams and wails. How many times could a man die?

We’ll see, I suppose.

‘That storm,’ Sandalath said, ‘it wants to get through, doesn’t it?’

He nodded. He could feel its wrath, and its impotence.

‘It’s waiting for something,’ she continued. ‘Waiting for someone… to do something.’

He repressed the urge to hit her – she’d kill him if he did – wait. Wait. Wait. ‘Hold on,’ he whispered. ‘Hold on… I’ve thought of something

‘A miracle!’ she shouted, throwing up her hands. ‘Oh, I know! Let’s pray!’

And now he saw it, on the very edge of the thrashing waves beyond the reef. Saw it, and pointed. ‘There! A boat, you black-hearted witch! A boat!’

‘So what? So what? Why don’t you do something?’

He spun round, startling the Nachts, and began running.

There was anger, plenty of anger, giving strength to his strides. Oh, so much anger. Deliverers of suffering deserved what was coming to them, didn’t they? Oh yes, they surely did. The Nachts had been showing him. Over and over again, the mad grinning apes. Over and over.

Build a nest.

Kick it down.

Build a nest.

Kick… it… down!

He saw the hut, that squalid, insipid hovel crouched there on the dead plain. Sensed the Crippled God’s sudden awareness, sudden probings into his mind. But oh no, he laughed silently, it couldn’t work it out. Couldn’t fathom the endless refrain filling his skull.

Build a nest! Kick it down!

He reached the hut, not where the doorway made its slash in the wall, but from a blind side. And, with all his weight, the swordsmith flung himself into that flimsy structure.

It collapsed inward, Withal on top, landing upon a squawking figure beneath. Spitting, hissing with rage and indignation.

Withal grasped handfuls of rotten canvas, heaved himself back upright, and dragged the tent away. Pegs snapping, ties breaking. Dragged it away from that horrid little bastard god.

It shrieked, the brazier tumbling, coals spilling out, sparks lodging in the god’s ratty robes, where they smouldered-

‘You will die for this, mortal!’

Withal stumbled back, laughing.

And, from behind, the wind suddenly arrived.

Almost knocking him down.

He turned into it, facing the beach once more, and saw the storm-clouds billowing, rushing in, growing ever higher, towering, spreading their shadow upon the island.

Leaning into the gale, Withal ran back to the beach.

Thrashing, foaming waves on all sides, but there, before him, a stretch of calm. A stretch opposite Sandalath and the capering, dancing Nachts.

Along which the boat slid gracefully through the reef, its lone sail luffing lightly as it glided to shore, grating to a halt five paces from the waterline.

Withal reached the sand in time to see a squat, nondescript man clamber down from the side and wade ashore.

‘This,’ he said to Withal in the Letherii trader’s tongue, ‘is for you. Take your friends and make sail.’

‘Who are you?’ Sandalath demanded.

‘Oh, be quiet!’ Withal snarled. ‘Climb in, woman!’

The Nachts had already done so, and were scrambling about the rigging.

Scowling, the Tiste Andii woman hurried towards the boat.

Withal stared at the man.

Who grimaced, then said, ‘Aye, Withal of Meckros, you pray hard enough…’

‘I knew it.’

‘Now, get going. You’ll find a way of calm through.’

‘And you, Mael?’

‘I’ll drop in later. I’ve things for you to do, Withal. But for now,’ he faced inland, ‘I am going to beat a god senseless.’

THIS ENDS THE FIFTH TALE OF THE MALAZAN BOOK OF THE FALLEN