A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

own protective, helpless hug. His anguish was a storm within him, and he was holding it back with all his strength.
    'And Tremorlor knows,' Icarium said, in a cold, flat voice. 'The Azath can do naught but take me.'
    If it is able, and so sorely tested before the effort's even begun. In your anger you may destroy it – spirits below, what do we risk here?
    'I believe this warren has shaped you, Icarium. After all this time, you have finally come home.'
    'Where it began, it shall end. I go to Tremorlor.'
    'Friend—'
    'No. I cannot walk free with this knowledge – you must see that, Mappo. I cannot—'
    'If Tremorlor takes you, you will not die, Icarium. Your imprisonment is eternal, yet you shall be ... aware.'
    'Aye, a worthy punishment for my crimes.'
    The Trell cried out at that.
    Icarium's hand fell on his shoulder. 'Walk with me to my prison, Mappo. Do what you must – what you clearly have done before – to prevent my rage. I must not be allowed to resist.'
    Please —
    'Do what a friend would do. And free yourself, if I am to be so presumptuous as to offer you a gift in return. We must end this.'
    He shook his head, seeking to deny everything. Coward! Strike him down now! Drag him away from here – far away – he
    will return to consciousness recalling none of this. I can lead him away, in some other direction, and we can be as we were, as we always have been —
    'Rise, please, the others await us.'
    The Trell had not realized he was on the ground, curled tight. He tasted blood in his mouth.
    'Rise, Mappo. One last task.'
    Firm, strong hands helped him climb to his feet. He tottered as if drunk or fevered.
    'Mappo, I cannot call you friend otherwise.'
    'That,' the Trell gasped, 'was unfair—'
    'Aye, it seems I must make you what I seem to be. Let anger be the iron of your resolve. Leave no room for doubt – you were ever too sentimental, Trell.'
    Even your attacks with words are kindly said. Ah, gods, how can I do this?
    'The others are deeply shaken by what they have seen – what shall we tell them?'
    Mappo shook his head. Still a child in so many ways, Icarium. They know.
    'Come along now. My home awaits this prodigal return.'
     
    'It had to come,' Fiddler said as they arrived. Mappo studied each of them in turn and saw the knowledge plainly writ, in every hue. Iskaral Pust's wizened face was twisted in a febrile grin – fear, anticipation and a host of other emotions only he could explain, had he been willing. Apsalar seemed to have set aside whatever sympathy she felt, and now eyed Icarium as if gauging a potential opponent; her uncertainty at her own ability showed for the first time. There was resignation in Rellock's eyes, all too aware of the threat to his daughter. Crokus alone seemed immune to the knowledge, and Mappo once again wondered at the certainty the young man seemed to have discovered within himself. As if the lad admires Icarium – but what part of the Jhag does he admire?
    They stood on a hill, the roots chaotic underfoot. Some ancient creature lies imprisoned beneath us. All these hills . . . Ahead, the landscape changed, the roots rising in narrow ridges to create thick walls, forming corridors in a sprawling, wild maze. Some of the roots within the walls seemed to be moving. Mappo's gaze narrowed as he studied that ceaseless motion.
    'Make no efforts to save me,' Icarium announced, 'should Tremorlor seek to take me. Indeed, assist those efforts in any way you can—'
    'Fool!' Iskaral Pust crowed. 'The Azath needs you first! Tremorlor risks a cast of the knuckles that even Oponn would quail at! Desperation! A thousand Soletaken and D'ivers are converging! My god has done all he can, as have I! And who will thank us? Who will acknowledge our sacrifice? You must not fail us now, horrid Jhag!'
    Grimacing, Icarium turned to Mappo. 'I shall defend the Azath – tell me, can I fight without. . . without that burning rage?'
    'You possess a threshold,' the Trell conceded. But oh so near.
    'Hold yourself back,' Fiddler said, checking his crossbow. 'Until the rest of us have done all we can do.'
    'Iskaral Pust,' Crokus snapped. 'That includes not just you, but your god—'
    'Hah! You would command us? We have brought the players together – no more can be asked—'
    The Daru closed on the High Priest, a knife-point flashing to rest lightly against Pust's neck. 'Not good enough,' he said. 'Call your god, damn you. We need more help!'
    'The risks—'
    'Are greater if you just stand