Steven Erikson: Gardens of the Moon

Air buffeted him and he heard the heavy flap of wings. Rake smiled.

«Silanah,» he said softly, knowing she would hear him. The red dragon slipped between two towers and banked, returning to his position. «I know you sense the Demon Lord's presence, Silanah. You would help me in this. I know, I know.» He shook his head. «Return to Moon's Spawn, dear friend. This battle is mine. Yours is done. But know this: if I fail, you may seek to avenge my death.»

Silanah swept overhead and loosed a thin wail.

«Go home,» Rake whispered.

The red dragon cried again, then swung westward and rose through the night air.

He sensed a presence at his side and turned to find a tall, hooded man sharing his view of the city below. «Unwise,» Rake murmured,» to appear unannounced.»

The man sighed. «The stones beneath your feet, Lord, are newly sanctified. I am reborn.»

«There is no place in the world for an Eldering god,» Rake said. «Take my word for it.»

K'rul nodded. «I know. I anticipated returning to the Realms of Chaos, with a Jaghut Tyrant for company. Alas, he evaded me.»

«And found imprisonment elsewhere.»

«I am relieved.»

The two were silent for a long minute, then K'rul sighed. «I am lost. In this world. In this time.»

Rake grunted. «You are not alone with those sentiments, Eldering One.»

«Do I follow in your steps, Lord? Do I seek out new battles, new games to play in the company of Ascendants? Are you rewarded in spirit for your efforts?»

«Sometimes,» Rake said quietly. «But mostly, no, I am not.»

The hooded face turned to the Tiste And?. «Then why?»

«I know no other way of living.»

«I have no means of assisting you this night, Anomander Rake. I am manifest in this sanctified place, and manifest in a lone mortal's dreams, but nowhere else.»

«I will do my best, then,» Rake said, «to avoid damaging your temple.»

K'rul bowed, then vanished.

Alone once again, Rake turned his attention to the street below. An apparition arrived. it paused to sniff the air, then began changing-veering. A Lord of the Galayn, and a Soletaken.

«Well,» the Lord of Moon's Spawn growled, «so am I.» The Tiste And? spread his arms wide, then rose upward. Kurald Galain sorcery swirled around him, blending his clothing, his massive sword, drawing all inward to the shape he now climbed towards. The veering was smooth, eloquent, as jet-black wings unfolded from his shoulders. Flesh and bone surged in size, changed in shape.

As he flew higher, eyes fixed on the stars, Anomander Rake became a black dragon, silver-maned and dwarfing even Silanah. His eyes gleamed silver, the vertical slits of the pupils dilating. His breath gusted in heavy grunts, the snap of his wings loud amid the deep groan of muscle on bone. His chest swelled to draw in the cold, dry air, and power filled his being.

Rake climbed ever higher, slipping through a stray cloud that scudded in darkness over the city. When he finally tilted his wings forward and caressed the surface of a wayward wind, he looked down on a city that glimmered like a mottled copper coin at the bottom of a pellucid pond.

Sorcery flared occasionally, centred mostly in the Estate District, and Rake sensed death within those emanations. He considered the message delivered by Serrat, courtesy of a foul mage he'd thought a thousand leagues away. Was the sorcery the work of these unwelcome intruders?

He rumbled in frustration-he would deal with them later. Before him now was a battle. The Empress and her Empire had challenged him again and again, wilful in the desire to test his strength. Each time he'd withdrawn, unwilling to commit himself. Very well, Empress, my patience is at an end.

The membrane of his wings tautened, the joints creaking, as he grunted a straining breath. He hung almost motionless for a second studying the great city beneath him. Then, tucking in his wings, Anomander Rake, the Son of Darkness and Lord of Moon's Spawn, plummeted.

Kalam knew the pattern of detonation the saboteurs would follow. He skirted one side of the street as he ran. So what if Moon's Spawn hung over them as if ready to descend on the city and crush the life from it like a god's heel-Fiddler and Hedge wouldn't give a danm. They had a job to do.

The assassin cursed every stubborn bone in their heads. Why didn't they run away like normal, sane people? He came to a corner and crossed the intersection diagonally. Ahead, at the far end of the street, rose Majesty Hill. As he reached the corner he almost collided with the two saboteurs. Fiddler darted to one side of him, Hedge to the other, running as if not even recognizing him, terror plain on their faces.

Kalam reached back and with each hand grasped a cloak's hood. Then he grunted in pain as the two men jerked him backward and off his feet.

«Damn you bastards!» he yelled. «Hold it!» «It's Kal!» Hedge yelled.

Kalam twisted around to find a rusty shortsword inches from his face, with Fiddler's white face and wide eyes immediately behind it. «Put that piece of junk away,» the assassin snapped. «You want to give me an infection?»

«We're getting out of here!» Hedge hissed. «Forget the damn mines! Forget everything!»

Still gripping their cloaks, Kalam shook them both. «Calm down. What's happened?»

Fiddler moaned and pointed up the street.

Turning, Kalam stiffened.

A twelve-foot-tall creature shambled down the middle of the road, hunched shoulders wrapped in a glittering cape with a high cowl. A two-bladed axe was slung in its wide dragon-hide belt, its handle as long as Kalam was tall. The creature's wide, squat face held two slitted eyes.

«Oh, Hood's Gates and back,» the assassin muttered. «That's Tayschrenn's precious lord.» He pushed the two saboteurs around the corner. «Get moving. Back to Sinital's estate.» Neither objected, and moments later were running as fast as they could down the street. Kalam crouched at the corner and waited for the Galayn lord to come into view.

When it did, he blanched. «Soletaken.»

The Galayn was assuming a form better suited to wholesale destruction. The dun-brown dragon paused, its wingtips brushing the buildings on either side. Its rumble trembled the cobbles.

Kalam watched as the creature tensed its limbs, then rose upward on a wave of power. The darkness swallowed it. «Hood's Breath,» he said. «Now things are going to get messy.» He whirled and ran to catch up with the saboteurs.

The Coin Bearer came to a street lined with walled estates. He slowed his pace, studying each structure he passed.

The time had come, the Adjunct knew. Before the boy had a chance to get inside one of those places, where he might find protection. She adjusted her grip on the sword, padding in silence not fifteen feet behind him.

She drew a long, deep breath, then surged forward, sword's point extended.

At the sharp, ringing clang of metal immediately behind him, Crokus dived forward. He dipped a shoulder and rolled, regaining his feet. He cried out in shock. The woman who had attacked Coll in the hills was in a whirlwind exchange with a tall, round-shouldered man with two scimitars.

The thief's jaw dropped as he watched the fight. As good as the woman had shown herself against Coll, she was now being driven back as a flurry of attacks swept around her. They both moved so quickly that Crokus could not even see the parries, or the blades themselves, but as he watched, he saw the blossoming of wounds on the woman-her arms, legs, chest. Her expression held complete disbelief.

Then a voice chuckled beside him, «He's good, ain't he?»

Crokus whirled to see a tall, thin man, wearing a grey and crimson longcoat, his hands in its pockets. He swung a narrow hatchet face to the thief and grinned. «You headin» somewhere, boy? Somewhere safe?»