A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

illusions and elusive delusions! A mantle of marble hiding a crumbling core of sandstone. See how they stare at me, wondering – all wondering – at my secret wellspring of wisdom ...'
    'Let's kill him,' Crokus muttered, 'if only to put him out of our misery.'
    'And sacrifice such entertainment?' Fiddler growled. He resumed his place at point. 'Time to go.'
    'The blathering of secrets,' the High Priest of Shadow uttered in a wholly different voice, 'so they judge me ineffectual.'
    The others spun to face him.
    Iskaral Pust offered a beatific smile.
     
    A swarm of wasps rose above the tangled root wall, sped over their heads and past – paying them no heed. Fiddler felt his heart thud back into place. He drew a shuddering breath. There were some D'ivers that he feared more than others. Beasts are one thing, but insects. . .
    He glanced back at the others. Icarium hung limp in Mappo's arms. The Jhag's head was stained with blood. The Trell's gaze reached beyond the sapper to the edifice that awaited them. Mappo's expression was twisted with anguish, so thoroughly unmasked and vulnerable that the Trell's face was a child's face, with an attendant need that was all the more demanding for being wholly unconscious. A mute appeal that was difficult to resist.
    Fiddler shook himself, pushing his attention past Mappo and his burden. Apsalar, her father and Crokus stood ranged behind the Trell in a protective cordon while beyond them were the Hounds and Iskaral Pust. Five pairs of bestial eyes and one human burned with intent – dubious allies, our rearguard. Talk about a badly timed schism – and that intent was fixed on the unconscious body in Mappo's arms.
    Icarium himself wished it, and in so saying rendered the Trell's heart. The price of acquiescence is as nothing to the pain of refusal. Yet Mappo will surrender his life to this, and we're likely to do the same. None of us – not even Apsalar – is cold-hearted enough to stand back, to see the Jhag taken. Hood's breath, we are fools, and Mappo the greatest fool of us all. . .
    'What's on your mind, Fid?' Crokus asked, his tone suggesting he had a pretty good idea.
    'Sappers got a saying,' he muttered. 'Wide-eyed stupid.'
    The Daru slowly nodded.
    In other paths of the maze, the taking had begun. Shapeshifters – the most powerful of them, the survivors who'd made it this far – had begun their assault on the House of the Azath. A cacophony of screams echoed in the air, battering their senses. Tremorlor defended itself the only way it could, by devouring, by imprisoning – but there are too many, coming too quickly – wood snapped, woven cages shattered, the sound was of a forest being destroyed, branch by branch, tree by tree, an inexorable progression, closer, ever closer to the House itself.
    'We're running out of time!' hissed Iskaral Pust, the Hounds moving in agitation around him. 'Things are coming up behind us. Things! How much clearer can I be?'
    'We may still need him,' Fiddler said.
    'Oh, aye!' the High Priest responded. 'The Trell can throw him like a sack of grain!'
    'I can bring him around quickly enough,' Mappo growled. 'I still carry some of those Denul elixirs from your temple, Iskaral Pust.'
    'Let's get moving,' the sapper said. Something was indeed coming up behind them, making the air redolent with sickly spice. The Hounds had pulled their attention from Mappo and Icarium and now faced the other way, revealing restless nerves as they shifted position. The trail made a sharp bend twenty paces from where the huge beasts stood.
    A piercing scream ripped the air, coming from just beyond that bend, followed by the explosive sounds of battle. It ended abruptly.
    'We've waited too long!' Pust hissed, cowering behind his god's Hounds. 'Now it comes!'
    Fiddler swung his crossbow around, eyes fixed on the place where their pursuer would appear.
    Instead, a small, nut-brown creature half flapped, half scampered into view. Tendrils of smoke drifted from it.
    'Ai!' Pust shrieked. 'They plague me!'
    Crokus bolted forward, pushing his way between Shan and Gear as if they were no more than a pair of mules. 'Moby?'
    The familiar raced towards the Daru and leapt at the last moment to land in the lad's arms. Where it clung tenaciously, wings twitching. Crokus's head snapped back. 'Ugh, you stink like the Abyss!'
    Moby, that damned familiar. . . Fiddler's gaze flicked to Mappo. The Trell was frowning.
    'Bhok'aral!' The word came from Iskaral Pust as a curse.