A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

you,
men are no less inexplicable. In what they think. In what
they do.'
    'The sooner I get this beast out the better,' she said,
hands on her swollen belly. 'Look at me, I'm sagging.
Everywhere. Sagging.'
    The others had woken, Felisin staring wide-eyed at
Scillara – with the discovery that the older woman was
pregnant, there had been a time of worship for young
Felisin. It seemed that the disillusionment had begun.
Cutter had thrown back his blankets and was already
resurrecting last night's fire. The demon, Greyfrog, was
nowhere to be seen. Off hunting, Heboric supposed.
    'Your hands,' Scillara noted, 'are looking particularly
green this morning, old man.'
    He did not bother confirming this observation. He could
feel that alien pressure well enough. 'Naught but ghosts,' he
said, 'the ones from beyond the veil, from the very depths
of the Abyss. Oh how they cry out. I was blind once. Would
that I were now deaf.'
    They looked at him strangely, as they often did after he'd
spoken. Truths. His truths, the ones they couldn't see, nor
understand. It didn't matter. He knew what he knew.
'There is a vast dead city awaiting us this day,' he said. 'Its
residents were slain. All of them. By Icarium, long ago.
There was a sister city to the north – when they heard what
had happened, they journeyed here to see for themselves.
And then, my young companions, they chose to bury
E'napatha N'apur. The entire city. They buried it intact.
Thousands of years have passed, and now the winds and
rains have rotted away that solid face. Now, the old truths
are revealed once more.'
    Cutter poured water into a tin pot and set it on the hook
slung beneath an iron tripod. 'Icarium,' he said. 'I travelled
with him for a time. With Mappo, and Fiddler.' He then
made a face. 'And Iskaral Pust, that insane little stoat of a
man. Said he was a High Priest of Shadow. A High Priest!
Well, if that's the best Shadowthrone can do ...' He shook
his head. 'Icarium ... was a ... well, he was tragic, I guess.
Yet, he would not have attacked that city without a reason,
I think.'
    Heboric barked a laugh. 'Aye, no shortage of reasons in
this world. The King barred the gates, would not permit
him to enter. Too many dark tales surrounding the name of
Icarium. A soldier on the battlements fired a warning
arrow. It ricocheted off a rock and grazed Icarium's left leg,
then sank deep into the throat of his companion – the poor
bastard drowned in his own blood – and so Icarium's rage
was unleashed.'
    'If there were no survivors,' Scillara said, 'how do you
know all this?'
    'The ghosts wander the region,' Heboric replied. He
gestured. 'Farms once stood here, before the desert arrived.'
He smiled at the others. 'Indeed, today is market day, and
the roads – which none but I can see – are crowded with
push-carts, oxen, men and women. And children and dogs.
On either side, drovers whistle and tap their staves to keep
the sheep and goats moving. From the poor farms this close
to the city, old women come out with baskets to collect the
dung for their fields.'
    Felisin whispered, 'You see all this?'
    'Aye.'
    'Right now?'
    'Only fools think the past is invisible.'
    'Do those ghosts,' Felisin asked, 'do they see you?'
    'Perhaps. Those that do, well, they know they are dead.
The others do not know, and do not see me. The realization
of one's own death is a terrifying thing; they flee from it,
returning to their illusion – and so I appear, then vanish,
and I am naught but a mirage.' He rose. 'Soon, we will
approach the city itself, and there will be soldiers, and these
ghosts see me, oh yes, and call out to me. But how can I
answer, when I don't understand what they want of me?
They cry out, as if in recognition—'
    'You are the Destriant of Treach, the Tiger of Summer,'
Cutter said.
    'Treach was a First Hero,' Heboric replied. 'A Soletaken
who escaped the Slaughter. Like Ryllandaras and Rikkter,
Tholen and Denesmet. Don't you see? These ghost soldiers
– they did not worship Treach! No, their god of war
belonged to the Seven, who would one day become the
Holies. A single visage of Dessimbelackis – that and
nothing more. I am nothing to them, Cutter, yet they will
not leave me alone!'
    Both Cutter and Felisin had recoiled at his outburst, but
Scillara was grinning.
    'You find all this amusing?' he demanded, glaring at her.
    'I do. Look at you. You were a priest of Fener, and now
you're a priest of Treach. Both gods of war. Heboric, how
many faces do you think