A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

hands.
    'Now what?' the Daru asked under his breath.
    Greyfrog bounded forward and halted at the old man's
side.
    'They sense something,' Felisin Younger said behind
Cutter. 'Greyfrog says the Destriant is suddenly fevered, a
return of the jade poison.'
    'The what?'
    'Jade poison, the demon says. I don't know.'
    Cutter looked at Scillara, who rode at his side, head
lowered, almost sleeping in the saddle. She's getting fat.
Gods, on the meals we cook? Incredible.
    'His madness returns,' Felisin said, her voice fearful.
'Cutter, I don't like this—'
    'The road cuts through, there.' He pointed. 'You can see
the notch, beside that tree. We'll camp just up ahead, at the
base, and make the climb tomorrow.'
    Cutter in the lead, they rode forward until they reached
Heboric Ghost Hands. The Destriant was glaring at the
cliff rearing before them, muttering and shaking his head.
'Heboric?'
    A quick, fevered glance. 'This is the war,' he said. Green
flames flickered across his barbed hands. 'The old belong to
the ways of blood. The new proclaim their own justice.'
The old man's toadlike face stretched into a ghastly
grimace. 'These two cannot – cannot – be reconciled. It is
so simple, do you see? So simple.'
    'No,' Cutter replied, scowling. 'I do not see. What war
are you talking about? The Malazans?'
    'The Chained One, perhaps he was once of the old kind.
Perhaps, yes, he was that. But now, now he is sanctioned.
He is of the pantheon. He is new. But then, what are we?
Are we of the blood? Or do we bow to the justice of kings,
queens, emperors and empresses? Tell me, Daru, is justice
written in blood?'
    Scillara asked, 'Are we going to camp or not?'
    Cutter looked at her, watched as she pushed rustleaf into
the bowl of her pipe. Struck sparks.
    'They can talk all they want,' Heboric said. 'Every god
must choose. In the war to come. Blood, Daru, bums with
fire, yes? Yet ... yet, my friend, it tastes of cold iron. You
must understand me. I am speaking of what cannot be
reconciled. This war – so many lives, lost, all to bury the
Elder Gods once and for all. That, my friends, is the heart
of this war. The very heart, and all their arguing
means nothing. I am done with them. Done with all
of you. Treach has chosen. He has chosen. And so must
you.'
    'I don't like choosing,' Scillara said behind a wreath of
smoke. 'As for blood, old man, that's a justice you can
never put to sleep. Now, let us find a camp site. I'm hungry,
tired and saddlesore.'
    Heboric slipped down from his horse, gathered the reins,
and made his way towards a side track. 'There's a hollow in
the wall,' he said. 'People have camped there for millennia,
why not us? One day,' he added as he continued on, 'the
jade prison shall shatter, and the fools will stumble out,
coughing in the ashes of their convictions. And on that
day, they will realize that it's too late. Too late to do a
damned thing.'
    More sparks and Cutter glanced over to see Felisin
Younger lighting her own pipe. The Daru ran a hand
through his hair, squinting in the glare of the sun's light
reflecting off the cliff-side. He dismounted. 'All right,' he
said, leading his horse. 'Let's camp.'
    Greyfrog bounded after Heboric, clambering over the
rock like a bloated lizard.
    'What did he mean?' Felisin asked Cutter as they made
their way along the trail. 'Blood and Elder Gods – what are
Elder Gods?'
    'Old ones, mostly forgotten ones. There's a temple
dedicated to one in Darujhistan, must have stood there a
thousand years. The god was named K'rul. The worshippers
vanished long ago. But maybe that doesn't matter.'
     
    Tugging her own horse along in their wake, Scillara
stopped listening to Cutter as he went on. Elder gods, new
gods, blood and wars, it made little difference to her. She
just wanted to rest her legs, ease the aches in her lower
back, and eat everything they still had in the saddle-packs.
    Heboric Ghost Hands had saved her, drawn her back
into life, and that had lodged something like mercy in her
heart, stifling her inclination to dismiss the mad old man
outright. He was haunted in truth, and such things could
drag the sanest mind into chaos. But what value could be
found in trying to make sense of all that he said?
    The gods, old or new, did not belong to her. Nor did she
belong to them. They played their ascendancy games as if
the outcome mattered, as if they could change the hue of
the sun, the voice of the wind, as if they could make forests
grow in deserts and mothers love their