A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

the god of war has? Thousands.
And in ages long past? Tens of thousands? Every damned
tribe, old man. All different, but all the same.' She lit her
pipe, smoke wreathing her face, then said, 'Wouldn't
surprise me if all the gods are just aspects of one god,
and all this fighting is just proof that that one god is
insane.'
    'Insane?' Heboric was trembling. He could feel his heart
hammering away like some ghastly demon at the door to
his soul.
    'Or maybe just confused. All those bickering
worshippers, each one convinced their version is the right
one. Imagine getting prayers from ten million believers,
not one of them believing the same thing as the one kneeling
beside him or her. Imagine all those Holy Books, not
one of them agreeing on anything, yet all of them purporting
to be the word of that one god. Imagine two armies
annihilating each other, both in that god's name. Who
wouldn't be driven mad by all that?'
    'Well,' Cutter said into the silence that followed Scillara's
    diatribe, 'the tea's ready.'
     
    Greyfrog squatted atop a flat rock, looking down on the
unhappy group. The demon's belly was full, although
the wild goat still kicked on occasion. Morose. They are not
getting along. Tragic list, listlessly reiterated. Child-swollen
beauty is miserable with aches and discomfort. Younger beauty
feels shocked, frightened and alone. Yet likely to reject soft
comfort given by adoring Greyfrog. Troubled assassin beset by
impatience, for what, I know not. And terrible priest. Ah,
shivering haunt! So much displeasure! Dismay! Perhaps I could
regurgitate the goat, and we could share said fine repast. Fine,
still kicking repast. Aai, worst kind of indigestion!
    'Greyfrog!' Cutter called up. 'What are you doing up
there?'
    'Friend Cutter. Discomfort. Regretting the horns.'
     
    Thus far, Samar Dev reflected, the positions on the map had proved accurate.
    From dry scrubland to plains, and now, finally, patches of deciduous forest,
    arrayed amidst marshy glades and stubborn remnants of true grassland. Two,
    perhaps three days of travel northward and they would reach boreal forest.
    Bhederin-hunters, travelling in small bands, shared this
wild, unbroken land. They had seen such bands from a
distance and had come upon signs of camps, but it was clear
that these nomadic savages had no interest in contacting
them. Hardly surprising – the sight of Karsa Orlong was
frightening enough, astride his Jhag horse, weapons
bristling, bloodstained white fur riding his broad shoulders.
    The bhederin herds had broken up and scattered into
smaller groups upon reaching the aspen parkland. There
seemed little sense, as far as Samar Dev could determine, to
the migration of these huge beasts. True, the dry, hot season
was nearing its end, and the nights were growing cool,
sufficient to turn rust-coloured the leaves of the trees, but
there was nothing fierce in a Seven Cities winter. More
rain, perhaps, although that rarely reached far inland – the
Jhag Odhan to the south was unchanging, after all.
    'I think,' she said, 'this is some kind of ancient memory.'
    Karsa grunted, then said, 'Looks like forest to me,
woman.'
    'No, these bhederin – those big hulking shapes beneath the
trees over there. I think it's some old instinct that brings them
north into these forests. From a time when winter brought
snow and wind to the Odhan.'
    'The rains will make the grass lush, Samar Dev,' the
Teblor said. 'They come up here to get fat.'
    'All right, that sounds reasonable enough. I suppose.
Good for the hunters, though.' A few days earlier they had
passed a place of great slaughter. Part of a herd had been
separated and driven off a cliff. Four or five dozen hunters
had gathered and were butchering the meat, women among
them tending smoke-fires and pinning strips of meat to
racks. Half-wild dogs – more wolf than dog, in truth – had
challenged Samar Dev and Karsa when they rode too close,
and she had seen that the beasts had no canines, likely cut
off when they were young, although they presented
sufficient threat that the travellers elected to draw no
closer to the kill-site.
    She was fascinated by these fringe tribes living out here
in the wastes, suspecting that nothing had changed for
them in thousands of years; oh, iron weapons and tools,
evincing some form of trade with the more civilized peoples
to the east, but they used no horses, which she found odd.
Instead, their dogs were harnessed to travois. And mostly
basketry instead of