A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

'A pet? A pet? Madness!'
    'My uncle's familiar,' Crokus said, approaching.
    The Hounds shrank from his path.
    Oh, lad, much more than that, it seems.
    'An ally, then,' Mappo said.
    Crokus nodded, though with obvious uncertainty. 'Hood knows how he found us. How he survived ...'
    'Dissembler!' Pust accused, creeping towards the Daru. 'A familiar? Shall we ask the opinion of that dead shapeshifter back there? Oh no, we can't, can we? It's been torn to pieces! '
    Crokus said nothing.
    'Never mind,' Apsalar said. 'We're wasting time. To the House—'
    The High Priest wheeled on her. 'Never mind? What conniving deceit has arrived among us? What foul betrayal hangs over us? There, hanging from the lad's shirt—'
    'Enough!' Fiddler snapped. 'Stay here then, Pust. You and your Hounds.' The sapper faced the House again. 'What do you think, Mappo? Nothing's got close to it yet – if we make a run for it...'
    'We can but try.'
    'Do you think the door will open for us?'
    'I do not know.'
    'Let's find out, then.'
    The Trell nodded.
    They had a clear view of Tremorlor. A low wall surrounded it, made of what appeared to be volcanic rock, jagged and sharp. The only visible break in that wall was a narrow gate, over which arched a weave of vines. The House itself was tawny in colour, probably built of limestone, its entrance recessed between a pair of squat, asymmetrical two-storey towers, neither of which possessed windows. A winding path of flagstones connected the gate with the shadow-swallowed door. Low, gnarled trees occupied the yard, each surmounting a hump.
    A sister to Deadhouse in Malaz City. Little different from the one in Darujhistan. All of a kind. All Azath – though where that name came from and how long ago no-one knows or will ever know.
    Mappo spoke in a low voice beside the sapper. 'It's said the Azath bridge the realms – every realm. It's said that even time itself ceases within their walls.'
    'And those doors open to but a few, for reasons unknown.' Fiddler scowled at his own words.
    Apsalar moved to the front, stepping past the sapper.
    Startled, Fiddler grunted. 'In a hurry, lass?'
    She looked back at him. 'The one who possessed me, Fiddler ... an Azath welcomed him, once.'
    True enough. And why does that make me so nervous now, and here? 'So, how's it done? Special knock? Key under the loose flagstone?'
    Her answering smile was a balm to his agitation. 'No, something much simpler. Audacity.'
    'Well, we've plenty of that. We're here, aren't we?'
    'Aye, we are.'
    She led the way, and all followed.
    'That conch shell,' Mappo rumbled. 'Immense damage was delivered to the Soletaken and D'ivers, is still being delivered, it seems – for the Azath, it may be proving enough.'
    'And you pray that is so.'
    'Aye, I do.'
    'So why didn't that deathly song destroy us as well?'
    'You are asking me, Fiddler? The gift was given to you, was it not?'
    'Yes. I saved a little girl – kin to the Spiritwalker.'
    'Which Spiritwalker, Fiddler?'
    'Kimloc'
    The Trell was silent for half a dozen paces, then a frustrated growl rose from him. 'A girl, you said. No matter how close a kin, Kimloc's reward far outweighed your gesture. More, it seemed precisely intended for its use – the sorcery in that song was aspected, Fiddler. Tell me, did Kimloc know you sought Tremorlor?'
    'I certainly didn't tell him as much.'
    'Did he touch you at any time – the brush of a finger against your arm, anything?'
    'He asked to, as I recall. He wanted my story. I declined. But Hood's breath, Mappo, I truly cannot recall if there was some chance contact.'
    'I think there must have been.'
    'If so, I forgive him the indiscretion.'
    'I imagine he anticipated that as well.'
    Even as Tremorlor withstood the assault that raged from all sides, the battles were far from over, and in some places the sound of shattering wood was a seemingly unstoppable progression, coming ever closer.
    Apsalar increased pace as one of those unseen, sundering avalanches drew near the group, driving for the arched gate. A moment later, amidst a rising roar, they all broke into a run.
    'Where?' Fiddler demanded as he scrambled forward, head darting as he searched frantically in all directions. 'Where in Hood's name is it?'
    The answer came in a sudden sleet of ice-cold water from above, the savage opening of a warren. Emerging from within that hovering, strangely suspended spray – not fifty paces behind them – the enormous head and maw of a dhenrabi lunged into view,