Deadhouse Gates: A Tale of The Malazan Book of the Fallen
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In the vast dominion of Seven Cities, in the Holy Desert Raraku, the seer Sha'ik and her followers prepare for the long-prophesied uprising known as the Whirlwind. Unprecedented in size and savagery, this maelstrom of fanaticism and bloodlust will embroil the Malazan Empire in one of the bloodiest conflicts it has ever known, shaping destinies and giving birth to legends . . .
Set in a brilliantly realized world ravaged by dark, uncontrollable magic, this thrilling novel of war, intrigue and betrayal confirms Steven Erikson as a storyteller of breathtaking skill, imagination and originality--the author who has written the first great fantasy epic of the new millennium.
the easy part. “All right,” he said. “And what of your companions? Those foolish men and their foolish cult?” “Harsh words for a priest of Fener—” “An excommunicated priest. The girl spoke the truth. My soul is my own, not Fener’s. I took it back.” “Didn’t know that was possible.” “Maybe it isn’t. Please, I can walk no farther, Mage. Our journey has been…difficult.” You’re not the only one, old man. They shared no more words on the way back to the others. For all the chaos of the crossing,
lined everything, sickly yellow and faintly pulsing. Both hands on the railing, the mage descended the encrusted steps, Gesler close behind him. “Can you see anything?” the corporal asked. “Oh yes.” “What’s that smell?” “If patience has a smell,” Kulp said, “you’re smelling it.” He cast a wave of light down the length of the center walkway between the bench rows, spun it sideways and left it there. “Well,” Gesler said, dry and rasping, “there’s a certain logic, isn’t there?” The oars were
seen serious battle. The group paused to regard it briefly, in silence, before continuing on to the opened doors. Apsalar leading, they entered the main chamber. The flames in the stone fireplace seemed to be burning without fuel, and a strange blackness around its edges revealed it as a small portal, opened onto a warren of ceaseless fire. A figure, its back to them, stood staring into those flames. Dressed in faded ochre robes, the man was solid, broad-shouldered and at least seven feet
it slide this far. Less than a tenth of a bell after leaving the square they passed beneath the smoke-blackened arch of an unguarded south gate. Beyond stretched the Pan’potsun Odhan, flanked to the west by the ridge that divided the Odhan from the Holy Desert Raraku. The night’s first stars flickered alight overhead. Fiddler broke the long silence. “There is a village a little over two leagues to the south. With luck it won’t be a carrion feast. Not yet, anyway.” Crokus cleared his throat.
before.” Do not awaken this place, friend, lest it awaken you. “Well,” Icarium said after a long, thoughtful moment, “I shall venture out in any case. Will you accompany me, Mappo Trell?” His eyes on the heaved pavestones of the floor, Mappo slowly nodded. The wall of sand rose seamlessly into the sky’s ochre dome. Somewhere in that fierce, swirling frenzy was the Holy Desert Raraku. Fiddler, Crokus and Apsalar sat on their lathered mounts at the top of a trail that led down the slope of