A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Ones
asserted. There was nothing righteous in their judgement –
those priests had betrayed him more than once. They had
earned Mappo's eternal enmity, and perhaps, one day, he
would visit the extremity of his displeasure upon them.
    Sorely used and spiritually abused, Mappo had discovered
in them a focus for his hate. He was Icarium's
guardian. His friend. And it was clear, as well, that the
Jhag's new companion led with the fevered haste of a
fugitive, a man knowing well he was now hunted, knowing
that he had been a co-conspirator in a vast betrayal. And
Mappo would not relent.
    Nor was he in need of Iskaral Pust's help; in fact, Mappo
had begun to suspect that the High Priest's assistance was
not quite as honourable as it seemed. Traversing this marsh,
for example, a journey ostensibly of but two days, Pust
insisted, that would deliver them to the coast days in
advance of what would have been the case had they walked
the high-ground trail. Two days were now five, with no end
in sight. What the Trell could not fathom, however, was
the possible motivation Iskaral – and by extension, the
House of Shadow – might have in delaying him.
    Icarium was a weapon no mortal nor god could risk
using. That the Nameless Ones believed otherwise was
indicative of both madness and outright stupidity. Not so
long ago, they had set Mappo and Icarium on a path to
Tremorlor, an Azath House capable of imprisoning Icarium
for all eternity. Such imprisonment had been their design,
and as much as Mappo railed against and finally defied
them, he had understood, even then, that it made sense.
This abrupt, inexplicable about-face reinforced the Trell's
belief that the ancient cult had lost its way, or had been
usurped by some rival faction.
    A sudden yelp from Iskaral Pust – a huge shadow slipped
over the two travellers, then was gone, even as Mappo
looked up, his eyes searching through the moss-bearded
branches of the huge trees – seeing nothing, yet feeling still
the passage of a cool wind, flowing in the wake of ... something.
The Trell faced the High Priest. 'Iskaral Pust, are
there enkar'al living in this swamp?'
    The small man's eyes were wide. He licked his lips, inadvertently
collecting the smeared remains of a mosquito
with his tongue, drawing it inward. 'I have no idea,' he said,
then wiped his nose with the back of his hand, looking like
a child caught out in some horrible crime. 'We should go
back, Mappo Runt. This was a mistake.' He cocked his
head. 'Does he believe me? How can he not? It's been five
days! We've not crossed this arm of swamp, this northward
tendril, no, we've walked its length! Enkar'al? Gods below,
they eat people! Was that an enkar'al? I wish! But oh no. If
only. Quick, blessed genius, come up with something else
to say!' He scratched the white stubble on his chin, then
brightened. 'It's Mogora's fault! It was her idea! All of this!'
    Mappo looked about. A northerly arm of marshland?
They had cut westward to find it, the first hint that something
was awry, but Mappo had not been thinking clearly
back then. He was not even certain the fog had lifted from
his spirit in the time since. Yet now he began to feel something,
a stirring of the embers, the flicker of anger. He faced
right, set out.
    'Where are you going?' Iskaral demanded, hastening to
catch up, the mule braying a complaint.
    The Trell did not bother replying. He was fighting the
desire to wring the little man's scrawny neck.
    A short while later the ground perceptibly rose,
becoming drier, and open pockets of sunlit glades appeared
ahead, walled beyond by stands of birch.
    In the clearing directly ahead, half-sitting half-leaning
on a boulder, was a woman. Tall, her skin the colour of fine
ash, long black hair hanging loose and straight. She wore
chain armour, glinting silver, over a grey, hooded shirt, and
leggings of pale, supple leather. High boots fashioned from
some black-scaled creature rose to her knees. Two baskethiked
rapiers adorned her belt.
    She was eating an apple, its skin the deep hue of blood.
    Her eyes were large, black, with elongated epicanthic
folds tilting upward at the corners, and they were fixed on
Mappo with something like languid disdain and mild
amusement. 'Oh,' she murmured, 'Ardata's hand in this, I
see. Healed by the Queen of Spiders – you foster dangerous
alliances, Guardian.' Her free hand pressed against her lips,
eyes widening. 'How rude of me! Guardian no longer. How
should you be called now, Mappo Runt?