A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

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 towards 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 reached 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 mud-brick walls and a thin scatter of palms under which sand crabs scuttled through dry fronds. A dozen white goats stood in nearby shade, light-grey eyes turned towards 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 enquire 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