Fiends of Nightmaria by Steven Erikson

Author:Steven Erikson [Erikson, Steven]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

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The headless corpse straddled Brash Phluster, both pallid hands slapping the artist across the cheeks, back and forth, back and forth. ‘Aaagh!’ Brash screamed, ‘get it off of me! Please!’

For the moment, however, everyone else was too busy fighting off the dozen or so other headless undead crowding the narrow corridor, barring Apto Canavalian, who had found a niche that had, once upon a time, been home to a statue or some such thing, as he found himself on a raised pedestal. Remaining utterly motionless demanded all his nerve, but it seemed to be working, as the horrid decapitated figures seemed to be ignoring him.

In between his moments of utter terror, he found himself musing on how the damned things saw anything at all. The ways of sorcery and necromancy were indeed a mystery, were they not?

The Chanters were laughing as they waded in, stamping sideways into shins and snapping bones so that the undead monstrosities fell over, to flop about before starting to pull themselves along, resuming their pursuit and most of them, Apto saw, were converging on poor Brash Phluster, who had unfortunately fallen over and was now being swarmed.

Off to one side, Steck Marynd protected Shartorial Infelance, in that usual manly fashion of his. Apto knew it all to be an act. It must be. Selflessness was hardly a survival trait, was it? In fact, it was the very opposite.

‘Self interest,’ he whispered, trying not to move his lips since statues weren’t in the habit of commentary. ‘The rational course, first and foremost. Always. Who else matters more than me?’

Tulgord Vise was now dragging bodies off of Brash Phluster, lifting them until they dangled, whereupon he snapped their spines over one thigh, like a man assembling firewood, before flinging them to one side to make a neat, tidy stack.

‘A man without an axe, that is,’ muttered Apto. ‘And given how stupid he is, I doubt it’s anything new on him. Firewood? Use an axe. No axe? Get someone else to do it. Someone like Tulgord Vise.’ He almost snorted a laugh, coming ever so close to drawing the attention of the nearest headless undead.

Eventually, most of the creatures were little more than sacks of dead meat around broken bones, and Brash Phluster was at last able to scramble free, weeping uncontrollably, his cheeks bright red.

‘Why?’ he cried. ‘Why did they do that?’

Deeming it safe at last, Apto stepped down from the pedestal, stretching to work out the stiffness that came with holding the same pose for so long. ‘I recognize some of these bodies,’ he said. ‘They were judges.’

Brash stared at him, and then his swollen face twisted. ‘You think you’re funny? You’re not. Whose idea was it to use that niche and that pedestal? Whose idea was to pose like a statue? Mine! Then you pulled me off and threw me to the ground!’

Apto shrugged. ‘I know a good idea when I see it.’

‘As Greatest Artist of the Century I was the better fit on that pedestal!’

‘Fame is fleeting, isn’t it? Us critics prop you up only to drag you down.

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