He shivered, his gaze flicking once again to Blind. At Icarium’s side…so close…He understood that proximity all too clearly, as did Mappo. If bargains could be struck with a House of the Azath, then Shadowthrone had managed it. The Hounds would not be taken—as much as Tremorlor would have yearned for such prizes, for the abrupt and absolute removal of these ancient killers—no, the deal involved a much greater prize…
Mappo stood on the Jhag’s other side, the burnished long-bone club raised before him. A surge of compassion flooded Fiddler. The Trell was being torn apart from within. He had more than just shapeshifters to guard against—there was, after all, the companion he loved as a brother.
Crokus and Apsalar, the former with his fighting knives out and held in admirably relaxed grips, flanked Servant. Pust slunk along a step behind them.
And this is what we are. This, and no more than this.
He had paused before the bend in response to an instinctive hesitation that seemed to wrap an implacable grip around his spine. Go no farther. Wait. The sapper sighed. Wait for what?
His eyes, still wandering over the group behind him, caught on something, focused.
Rood’s hackles had begun a slow rise.
“Hood!”
Movement exploded all around him, a massive shape barrelling into view directly ahead with a roar that turned Fiddler’s marrow into spikes of ice. And above, a thudding flapping of leathery wings, huge talons darting down.
The charging Soletaken was a brown bear, as big as a noble-born’s carriage, both flanks brushing the root walls of the maze, where arms were pulled, stretched, hands closed on thick fur. The sapper saw one unhuman limb torn from the trio of joints that formed its shoulder, spurting old, black blood. Ignoring these desperate efforts as if they were no more than burns and thorns, the bear lunged forward.
Fiddler dropped to the root-bound floor—the bark hot and greasy with some kind of sweat—sparing no breath to shout even a warning. Not that it was needed.
The bear’s underside swept over him in a blur, the fur pale and smeared in blood, then it was past, even as the sapper rolled to follow its attack.
The bear’s attention was fixed exclusively on the blood-red enkar’al hovering before it—another Soletaken, shrieking with rage. The bear’s paws lashed out, closing on empty air as the winged reptile darted backward—and into the reach of Mappo’s club.
Fiddler could not fathom the strength behind the Trell’s two-handed, full-shouldered swing. The weapon’s tusked head struck the enkar’al’s ridged chest and plunged inward with a snapping of bones. The enkar’al, itself the size of an ox, seemed literally to crumple and fold around that blow. Wing bones broke, neck and head were thrown forward, eyes and nostrils spraying blood.
The reptilian Soletaken was dead before it struck the root wall. Talons and hands received and held it.
“No!” Mappo roared.
Fiddler’s gaze darted to Icarium—but the Jhag was not the cause of the Trell’s cry, for the Hound Rood had attacked the massive bear, striking it from the side.
With a scream the Soletaken lurched sideways, up against the root wall. Few were the reaching limbs that could hold fast such a beast, yet one awaited it, one wrapped its green-skinned length around the bear’s thick neck, and that one possessed a strength beyond even the Soletaken’s.
Rood clamped a flailing paw in its jaws, crushing bones, then tore the appendage away with savage shakes of its head.
“Messremb!” the Trell bellowed, struggling in Icarium’s restraining grip. “An ally!”
“A Soletaken!” Iskaral Pust shrieked, dancing around.
Mappo sagged suddenly. “A friend,” he whispered.
And Fiddler understood. The first friend lost this day. The first…
Tremorlor laid claim to both shapeshifters as roots snaked out, wrapping around the newcomers. The two beasts now faced each other on their respective walls—their eternal resting places. The Soletaken bear, blood gushing from the stump at the end of one limb, struggled on, but even its prodigious strength was useless against the otherworldly might of the Azath and the arm that held it, now tightening. Messremb’s constricted throat struggled to find air. The red rims around its dark-brown eyes took on a bluish cast, the eyes bulging from their damp, streaked nests of fur.
Rood had pulled away and was placidly devouring the severed paw, bones and flesh and fur.
“Mappo,” Icarium said, “see that stranger’s arm crushing the life from him—do you understand? Not an eternal prison for Messremb. Hood will take him—death will take him, as it did the enkar’al…”
The entwining roots from the opposing walls reached out to each other, almost touching.
“The maze finds a new wall,” Crokus said.
“Quickly then,” Fiddler snapped, only now regaining his feet. “Everyone to this side.”
They moved on, silent once again. Fiddler found his hands trembling incessantly now where they gripped his pitiful weapon. The strengths and savagery he had witnessed minutes earlier clashed with such alarm that it left his mind numb.
We cannot survive this. A hundred Hounds of Shadow would not be enough. Such shapeshifting creatures have arrived in their thousands, all here, all in Tremorlor’s grounds—how many will reach the House? Only the strongest. The strongest…And what is it we dare? To step within the House, to find the gate that will take us to Malaz City, to the Deadhouse itself. Gods, we are but minor players…with one exception, a man we cannot afford to unleash, a man even the Azath fears.
Sounds of fierce battle assailed them from all sides. The other corridors of this infernal maze played host to a mayhem that Fiddler knew they themselves would soon be unable to avoid. Indeed, those terrible sounds had grown louder, closer. We’re getting nearer the House. We’re all converging…
He stopped, turning toward the others. He left his warning unspoken, for every face, every set of eyes that met his, bespoke the same knowledge.
Claws clattered ahead and the sapper whirled to see Shan arrive, slowing quickly from a frantic run. Her flanks were heaving, tracked in countless wounds.
Oh, Hood…
Another sound reached them, approaching from up the trail, from where the Hound had just come.
“He was warned!” Icarium cried. “Gryllen! You were warned!”
Mappo had wrapped his arms around the Jhag. Icarium’s sudden surge of anger stilled the air on all sides—as if an entire warren had drawn breath. The Jhag was motionless in that embrace, yet the sapper saw the Trell’s arms strain, stretch to an unseen force. The sound that broke from Mappo was a thing of such pain, such distress and fear that Fiddler sagged, tears starting from his eyes.
The Hound Blind stepped away from Icarium’s side, and the shock of seeing her tail dip jolted through the sapper.
Rood and Baran joined Shan, forming a nervous barrier—leaving Fiddler on the wrong side. He scrambled back, his limbs moving jerkily, as if weakened by a gallon of wine in his veins. His gaze held on Icarium, as the edge they now all tottered on finally revealed itself, promising horror.
All three Hounds flinched and jolted back a step. Fiddler spun about. The path ahead was closed into a new wall, a seething, swarming wall. Oh, my, we meet again.
The girl was no more than eleven or twelve, wearing a leather vest on which was stitched overlapping bronze scales—flattened coins, in fact—and the spear she held in her hands was heavy enough to waver as she resolutely maintained her guard stance.
Felisin glanced down at the basketful of braided flowers at the girl’s bare, dusty feet. “You’ve some skill with those,” she said.
The young sentry glanced again at Leoman, then the Toblakai.
“You may lower your weapon,” the desert warrior said.
The spear’s trembling point dropped down to the sand.
The Toblakai’s voice was hard, “Kneel before Sha’ik Reborn!”
She was prostrate in an instant.
Felisin reach
ed down and touched the girl’s head. “You may rise. What is your name?”
As she climbed hesitantly upright, she answered with a shake of her head.
“Likely one of the orphans,” Leoman said. “None to speak for her in the naming rite. Thus, she has no name, yet she would give her life for you, Sha’ik Reborn.”
“If she would give her life for me, then she has earned a name. So with the other orphans.”
“As you wish—who then will speak for them?”
“I shall, Leoman.”
The edge of the oasis was marked by low, crumbling mudbrick walls and a thin scatter of palms under which sand crabs scuttled through dry fronds. A dozen white goats stood in nearby shade, light-gray eyes turned toward the newcomers.
Felisin reached down and collected one of the bracelets of braided flowers. She slipped it over her right wrist.
They continued on into the heart of the oasis. The air grew cooler; the pools of shadow they passed through were a shock after so long under unrelieved sunlight. The endless ruins revealed that a city had once stood here, a city of spacious gardens and courtyards, pools and fountains, all reduced to stumps and low ridges.
Corrals ringed the camp, the horses within them looking healthy and fit.
“How large is this oasis?” Heboric asked.
“Can you not inquire of the ghosts?” Felisin asked.
“I’d rather not. This city’s destruction was anything but peaceful. Ancient invaders, crushing the last of the First Empire’s island enclaves. The thin sky-blue potsherds under our feet are First Empire, the thick red ones are from the conquerors. From something delicate to something brutal, a pattern repeated through all of history. These truths weary me, down to my very soul.”
“The oasis is vast,” Leoman told the ex-priest. “There are areas that hold true soil, and these we have planted with forage and crops. A few ancient cedar stands remain, amidst stumps that have turned to stone. There are pools and lakes, the water fresh and unending. Should we choose, we need never leave this place.”
“How many people?”
“Eleven tribes. Forty thousand of the best-trained cavalry this world has ever seen.”
Heboric grunted. “And what can cavalry do against legions of infantry, Leoman?”
The desert warrior grinned. “Only change the face of war, old man.”
“It’s been tried before,” Heboric said. “What has made the Malazan military so successful is its ability to adapt, to alter tactics—even on the field of battle. You think the Empire has not met horse cultures before, Leoman? Met, and subdued. A fine example would be the Wickans, or the Seti.”
“And how did the Empire succeed?”
“I am not the historian for such details—they never interested me. Had you a library with Imperial texts—works by Duiker and Tallobant—you could read for yourself. Assuming you can read Malazan, that is.”
“You define the limits of their region, the map of their seasonal rounds. You take and hold water sources, building forts and trading posts—for trade weakens your enemy’s isolation, the very source of their power. And, depending on how patient you are, you either fire the grasslands and slaughter every animal on four legs, or you wait, and to every band of youths that rides into your settlements, you offer the glory of war and booty in foreign lands, with the promise to keep the group intact as a fighting unit. Such a lure plucks the flower from those tribes, until none but old men and old women mutter about the freedom that once existed,” Leoman replied.
“Ah, someone’s done their reading, then.”
“Aye, we possess a library, Heboric. A vast one, at Sha’ik Elder’s insistence. ‘Know your enemy better than they know themselves.’ So said Emperor Kellanved.”
“No doubt, though I dare say he wasn’t the first.”
The mudbrick residences of the tribes appeared on all sides as the group emerged from an avenue between horse pens. Children ran in the sandy streets, trader carts pulled by mules and oxen were slowly winding their way out from the center, the market done for the day. Packs of dogs came forward to assuage their curiosity, then fled at the rank challenge of the stiff roll of white bear fur resting across the Toblakai’s broad shoulders.
A crowd began to gather, following them as they made their way toward the settlement’s heart. Felisin felt a thousand eyes on her, heard the uncertain murmuring. Sha’ik, yet not Sha’ik. Yet Sha’ik, for look at her two favored bodyguards, the Toblakai and Leoman of the Wastes, the great warriors thinned by their journey into the desert. The prophecy spoke of rebirth, a renewal. Sha’ik has returned. At long last, and she is reborn. Sha’ik Reborn—
“Sha’ik Reborn!” The two words found a hissing cadence, a rhythm like waves, growing louder. The crowds burgeoned, word spreading with swift breath.
“I hope there’s a clearing or amphitheater at the center,” Heboric muttered. He gave Felisin an ironic grin. “When did we last travel a crowded street, lass?”
“Better from shame to triumph than the other way around, Heboric.”
“Aye, I’ll not argue that.”
“There is a parade ground before the palace tent,” Leoman said.
“Palace tent? Ah, a message of impermanence, a symbol saluting tradition—the power of the old ways of life and all that.”
Leoman turned to Felisin. “Your companion’s lack of respect could prove problematic, Sha’ik Reborn. When we meet the High Mages—”
“He’ll wisely keep his mouth shut.”
“He had better.”
“Cut out his tongue,” the Toblakai growled. “Then we need not worry.”
“No?” Heboric laughed. “You underestimate me still, oaf. I am blind, yet I see. Cut out my tongue and oh, how I shall speak! Relax, Felisin, I’m no fool.”
“You are if you continue using her old name,” Leoman warned.
Felisin left them to bicker, sensing that, at last, despite the sharp edges to the words they threw at one another, a bond was developing between the three men. Not something as simple as friendship—the Toblakai and Heboric had chains of hatred linking them, after all—but one of experiences shared. My rebirth is what they share, even as they stand as points of a triangle, with Leoman the apex. Leoman, the man with no beliefs. They were nearing the settlement’s center. She saw a platform to one side, a disc-shaped dais surrounding a fountain. “There, to start.”
Leoman turned in surprise. “What?”
“I would speak to these followers.”
“Now? Before we meet with the High Mages?”
“Yes.”
“You would make the three most powerful men in this camp wait?”
“Would that concern Sha’ik, Leoman? Does my rebirth require their blessing? Unfortunately they weren’t there, were they?”
“But—”
“Time for you to shut your mouth, Leoman,” Heboric said, not unkindly.
“Clear a path for me, Toblakai,” Felisin said.
The giant swung abruptly, cutting directly for the platform. He said nothing, for nothing was needed. His presence alone split the mob, peeled it back on both sides in hushed silence.
They reached the dais. “I shall need your lungs to start, Toblakai. Name me once I’ve ascended.”
“I shall, Chosen One.”
Heboric snorted softly. “Now that’s an apt title.”
A cascade of thoughts swept through Felisin as she climbed onto the stone platform. Sha’ik Reborn, that dark cloak of Dryjhna descending. Felisin, noble-born brat of Unta, whore of the mining pit. Open the Holy Book and thus complete the rite. That young woman has seen the face of the Abyss—that terrible journey behind her—and now comes the demand that she face the one before her. The young woman must relinquish her life. Opening the Holy Book—yet who would have thought the goddess so amenable to a deal? She knows my heart, and that grants her the confidence, it seems, of deferring her claim on it. The deal has been struck. Power granted—so many visions—yet Felisin remains, her
rock-hard, scarred soul floats free in the vast Abyss.
And Leoman knows…
“Kneel before Sha’ik Reborn!” The Toblakai’s bellow was like thunder in the hot, motionless air. As one, thousands dropped down, heads bowed.
Felisin stepped past the giant. Dryjhna’s power trickled into her—ah, dear goddess, precious patroness, do you now hesitate in your gifts? Like this crowd, like Leoman, do you await the proof of my words? My intent?
Yet the power was sufficient to make her quiet words a clear whisper in the ears of everyone present—including those of the three High Mages who now stood beneath the parade-ground archway—who stood, who did not kneel. “Rise, my faithful ones.”
She felt the three distant men flinch at that, as they were meant to. Oh yes, I know where you stand, you three…“The Holy Desert Raraku lies protected within the Whirlwind circle, ensuring the sanctity of my return. While beyond, the rebellion’s claim to dominion—to rightful independence from the Malazan tyrants—continues its spreading tide of blood. My servants lead vast armies. All but one of the Seven Holy Cities have been liberated.” She was silent a moment, feeling the power building within her, yet when she spoke again it was in a low whisper. “Our time of preparation is at an end. The time has come to march, to set forth from this oasis. The Empress, upon her distant throne, would punish us. A fleet approaches Seven Cities, an army commanded by her chosen Adjunct, a commander whose mind I hold as a map within my own—she possesses no secrets I do not know…”
The three High Mages had not moved. Felisin was gifted with knowing them, a sudden rush of knowledge that could only be Sha’ik Elder’s. She could see their faces as if she stood but a pace from each of them, and she knew that they now shared that sense of sudden, precise proximity—and a part of her found admiration in their refusal to tremble. The eldest of the three was ancient, withered Bidithal, the one who had first found her, no more than a child, in answer to his own visions. His filmy eyes were fixed on her own. Bidithal, remember that child? The one you used so brutally that first and only night, to scourge from her all pleasures of the flesh. You broke her within her own body, left scars that felt nothing, that were senseless. The child would not be distracted, no children of her own, no man at her side who could wrest loyalty away from the goddess. Bidithal, I have reserved a place for you in the fiery Abyss, as you well know. But for now, you serve me. Kneel.
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