Some time later all three suddenly stopped. Even the two ravens, exploring forward, came wheeling back squawking their alarm before flying off into the distance.
A figure stood ahead, midnight black from its rounded half-formed head to its feet. Sensing them, it turned. It held something in one hand close to its face, studying it. A tiny, frantic, flapping thing.
Oh, damn. As Warran said: this is bad. Kiska felt her insides tighten at the aura she sensed surrounding the thing. Intensity. Incredible potential. What use staff or morningstars against this foe? It would laugh at such toys.
‘Let me play this one,’ Warran murmured beneath his breath. Then he rushed up to the figure and clapped his hands as if in pleasure. ‘Ah! There it is! We’ve been searching everywhere. My thanks, sir, for catching it.’
Kiska and Jheval arrived to flank Warran. Fear coursed through Kiska more strongly than it had in years. She decided that at any sign from the entity she’d drop the staff and try her two throwing knives first – for all the good that would do. Jheval, she noted, kept his hands on the grips of his morningstars. She glanced about for the hound but prudently the beast appeared to be keeping its distance. No fool it.
The disturbingly blank moulded head edged down to regard the short priest. Ripples crossed the night-black visage and Kiska was unnerved to see a mouth appear and eyes blink open. ‘This construct is yours?’ The words sounded unlike any language Kiska knew, but she understood them just the same.
Warran was rubbing his hands together. ‘Well … not ours, of course, so much as our master’s …’
‘Your master?’ The bat flier flittered in its hand like a trapped moth.
‘Yes. Shadowthrone … the ruler of Emurlahn.’
The matt-dark head cocked sideways. ‘An unlikely conceit. Emurlahn has no ruler. Not a true ruler. Not since the beginning.’
The priest jerked upright, intrigued. ‘Really? Fascinating. But as you can sense – it is linked to power.’
‘Yes. There is a surprising weight to it. I am … piqued.’ It held the flier close, examining it. ‘There is something hidden within. Tucked away.’ It reached with its other hand.
‘Perhaps I may be permitted … ?’ the priest asked quickly.
The entity regarded him for a time. ‘Very well.’ It held out the flier. ‘Do it.’
Warran bowed as he accepted the flier from the entity’s hand. He examined it. ‘Ah yes. All one need do is—’
The flier whipped from his hands and shot straight up into the air. Everyone watched it diminish to a dot among the flickering curtains of light. When Kiska looked back the entity’s gaze was fixed upon Warran in enraged disbelief, as if it could not comprehend that anyone would dare disobey it.
The priest covered his mouth with his hands. ‘Oh dear. It appears to have gotten away from me.’
‘You …’ the entity breathed.
Warran raised a finger. ‘Wait! To make up for that I have something that belongs to you.’
‘There is nothing you—’
From his sleeve Warran drew a length of black crystal. The entity flinched back a step, seeming to draw in upon itself. Kiska stared, amazed. She could’ve sworn the man hadn’t pocketed any of the shards.
‘That is of no use,’ the thing breathed. ‘You do not know the ritual.’
‘True. But, if you balance the symmetries …’ Warran broke off a section and threw it aside. He was left with a square facet about the size of a jewel which he held up for examination. ‘Then the remaining forces should be in equilibrium – don’t you think?’ And he tossed it to the entity.
The bright black jewel struck the being on its chest, like a drop of ink, and stuck there. It batted at it, turning in circles. ‘No! Impossible! How could you? No!’ It looked to Kiska as if it was now shorter than it had been, thinner. Yes, she was sure that as it flailed, staggering, it was diminishing in size. As if it was disappearing bit by bit.
Kiska winced, feeling ill at the sight. What an awful thing to witness. The entity was now no higher than her waist, the jewel an ugly growth on its chest. ‘Please!’ it begged in a squeaking voice. Kiska turned her face away. When she looked back the jewel lay alone on the bare stone ground.
Warran stooped to pick it up then tossed it high and snatched it from the air. ‘Ha-ha! Caught one!’
She glanced to Jheval, and though his face was ashen and sheathed in sweat, he rolled his eyes, letting out a long breath and rubbing his palms along his robes. Yes, a close one. And yet, given what they had witnessed, were they now any safer alone with this increasingly unnerving priest of Shadow?
* * *
Bakune was the most nervous he could ever recall being in his entire life. He stood on the pier, awaiting the invader launch that would take him out to meet the de facto new ruler of Banith – at least until a counter-offensive drove these Moranth daemons from their shores. His two bodyguards, Hyuke and Puller, he ordered to remain on the pier; he simply could not bear the idea of having the two imbeciles with him while he negotiated with this foreign Admiral. The priest had gone his own way, saying that for the time being Bakune could always find him at Boneyman’s.
The launch bumped up against the stone steps below and the Blue marine escort beckoned him down. Stiff, his heart almost strangling him so uneven and powerful was its lurching, Bakune edged his way down the slippery, seaweed-slick stones. He seated himself dead centre athwart the launch and drew his robes about him, one arm bound tight, hand tucked into his sash. The Moranth marines rowed.
Glancing back, Bakune thought that the city was quiet this morning – perhaps it had exhausted itself in its panic through the night. A few tendrils of smoke rose where fires yet smouldered. The waterfront was empty; usually it would be bustling with fishermen and customers at this early morning hour. He drew his collar higher against a cutting wind that blew in from Sender’s Sea, and perhaps had its origins in the Ocean of Storms itself.
The Moranth expertly and swiftly negotiated their way through the harbour mouth and out to the gigantic Blue vessels anchored far beyond, where, not coincidentally, they effectively blockaded the town. Bakune took the opportunity to examine these invaders more closely. Though the Overlord commanded a detachment of Black Moranth infantry, Bakune himself had never seen any of them close up. Like their black brethren, these Blue Moranth were encased head to foot in an armour of the most alien manufacture. Scaled, articulating, almost insectile in its appearance. And Bakune could now understand the terror of his fellow citizens: for all anyone knew these could be the Stormriders themselves come to take possession of the surface. They were that shockingly foreign, especially to a historically closed land.
None spoke to him, and he addressed no one. The launch came up against a particular vessel where steps of wood and rope had been lowered over the side. As he extended a foot to take the stairs one Moranth Blue reached out a gauntleted hand to steady him and Bakune flinched away, almost dunking himself in the bay. Recovering, he gingerly set a foot on to the wet staircase, and, catching the ropes in his one good hand, hauled himself on to the contraption.
More Moranth Blue soldiers – sailors perhaps, or marines, he had no way of knowing – waited on the stairs to aid him. While he could not help but avoid their touch, he had to admit they were damned solicitous. On deck, he found the vessel clean and well ordered, but betraying obvious signs of battle damage: scorching from fires, savaged gunwales where grapnels might have taken hold, ragged sails. The Marese had obviously fought hard. A Blue sailor invited him aft to the cabin. Up a narrow hall he came to a room that appeared to serve as reception chamber, office, and private bedroom all in one. Wide glassed windows let in sunlight and showed a rippling view of the open sea to the east.
A tall and very thin man stood from behind a table and offered a brief bow. Bakune responded, mystified. Who was this? A secretary of some sort? Where was the Blue commander?
‘You understand Quon Talian?’ the man asked, sitting, and inviting Ba
kune to do the same.
Bakune bowed again. ‘Yes. It is the language of the ruling class here.’
‘You are the local magistrate … “Assessor”, I understand?’
Bakune sat. He eyed the man more closely: quite old but well preserved. A shock of pale white hair, white moustache and goatee; face and arms sun- and wind-darkened to the hue of ironwood. Bright sharp eyes that appeared … amused. ‘I am Assessor Bakune.’
‘Excellent. I am Admiral Nok. I command this Malazan naval unit.’
Nok? Now where had he heard that name before? And a regular Malazan in command? Not some Blue Admiral? Well … that was something at least.
‘First of all,’ the Admiral continued, ‘let me reassure you that the last thing we wish to do is interfere with day-to-day life here in Banith. I want that to be the message you will pass on to your people … that they should simply return to their normal routines and merely … ignore us.’
Ignore the enormous vessels blockading our harbour? You ask a lot, Admiral.
‘Secondly, I also want to reassure you and the people of Banith that we in no way wish to interfere with your local religious practices. You may continue to worship as you choose.’
Bakune struggled not to quirk a sceptical brow. Really? That flew in the face of everything he knew regarding these Imperials. Everyone agreed their goal was eradication of the Lady’s cult. A goal he himself had given no thought to prior to last night. He tried to keep all inflection from his voice as he murmured, ‘How very generous of you.’
The reply seemed to disappoint the Admiral, but he continued, hands clasped on the table before him, ‘We of course will require some small supplies and refitting: food, potable water, lumber, rope and such. You will supply a list of merchants and we will reimburse in Imperial script.’
That would make me popular … but I don’t have to tell anyone who supplied the list … would that count as collaboration? Bakune stirred uncomfortably, cleared his throat. ‘And your troops, sir? A billeting list?’
The Admiral waved the consideration aside. ‘The troops will remain on board our vessels for a time – to avoid any unnecessary tensions. However, there will be patrols.’
‘Of course.’
‘Very good. Then, we have reached an understanding. Our goal is to interfere as little as possible. The populace may even forget we’re here.’
I doubt that very much, Admiral. But we can always hope.
The Admiral stood, came round the table and invited Bakune to precede him out. Straightening, Bakune bowed and entered the hall. The Admiral, he noticed, had to hunch to avoid bashing his head in the companionway. On deck, Bakune was shown to the set of stairs hung over the side. Blue sailors moved about, handling gear, adjusting the sheets. Bakune passed an opening on to the hold and saw for an instant how empty it was. Where were these troops? Was this not a transport?
The Blues sailors with him urged him on and he stepped out on to the stairs. He bowed to the Admiral one last time, then firmly grasped hold of the rope guides and started down.
On deck Admiral Swirl came to Admiral Nok’s side at the gunwale. Together they watched the launch return to shore. ‘What do you think?’ Swirl asked.
Nok rolled his neck, easing the muscles. ‘Hard to say. Very guarded, that one.’
‘At least he was not overtly hostile.’
‘But no fool, either. I just hope we’ve bought enough time.’
‘How far away do you think he is?’
‘I don’t know.’ Nok scratched his moustache. ‘Frankly, I was half expecting him to be here already.’
The Blue Admiral nodded his helmed head, perhaps agreeing. ‘And the patrols?’
‘Four at first, let’s say. Two four-hour shifts.’
‘Reserve?’
‘A hundred marines at the pier.’
The Blue Admiral was nodding again. ‘That’s about all we can field … Let’s hope they don’t test us.’
Nok grasped hold of the gunwale, eyed the townscape. ‘They will. But let’s hope we’re out of here before then.’ He leaned his elbows on the wood and let out a long low breath into the icy wind. ‘We’re here, Greymane … but where are you?’
* * *
‘Well – would you look at that,’ Wess drawled while hunched behind his wide heavy-infantry shield. Kneeling behind his own shield, Suth ignored him. Len, whom they both covered, shushed the man as he untangled his line. A pink and gold dawn was brightening beyond the eastern hills. The three stood at the Ancy’s muddy shore.
It was their turn to go fishing.
For his part, Suth silently prayed to his entire inbred menagerie of Dal Hon gods that they get a bite right away. Any moment now the archers would catch sight of them and the torrent would begin. He reached down to select a water-polished stone from the shallows and stuck it in a cheek to suck on. It was an old trick to stave off hunger and thirst. Being of the Dal Hon, he was no stranger to want. He’d grown up through a number of droughts and lean times, so these last weeks of privation hadn’t hit him as hard as some. Likewise Wess, who never seemed to eat anyway; the man would just jam a ball of some resin or leaf into a cheek and he’d be good for the day. Lard, however, could hardly muster the strength to stand, while Pyke had disappeared – deserted, probably. Dim they’d lost in the defence of the bridge. Keri had taken an arrow in the side and lay in the infirmary tents. Yana was sick with the epidemic of the runny shits, which afflicted almost everyone in camp and added terribly to the general indignity of dying by degrees. Goss seemed unaffected, though his eyes were sunken and his cheeks behind the salt and pepper bristles were as hollow as caves.
‘You guys really should take a peek,’ Wess said.
‘Quiet,’ Len hissed, sotto voce.
Suth watched the water, seeking any slim darting shape. If only he held a sharp fishing stick now instead of this bulky shield.
‘Okay, but I gotta tell you—’
‘What?’ Suth cut in, glaring. Wess inclined his head towards the far shore. Suth scanned the slope; the lightening dawn was revealing the enemy – and themselves as well to the archers keeping watch on the shore. Smoke hung like mist, slowly drifting. Suth’s own breath plumed in the chill morning air. He examined the ranks. Something strange there … he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. ‘Something,’ he breathed.
‘Un-huh. No Moranth. Them Black bastards is gone. Their whole encampment’s picked up ’n’ flown.’
Len straightened. ‘What?’
Wess was right. Where the Moranth encampment had stood now stretched an empty field of churned-up mud.
Len started rolling up his gut fishing line. ‘Let’s go.’
‘They’ll all see in a minute,’ Wess objected.
An arrow hissed past them. ‘Now everyone can see,’ Suth cursed.
‘We haven’t caught a thing,’ Wess pointed out. ‘Unless we bring something to the pot we don’t get a share …’
Len shoved the line into a shoulder bag. ‘This is important.’
An arrow slammed into Wess’ shield, throwing him back a step. Len started backing away and Suth moved to cover him. Sighing, Wess followed. Outside bow range they met a crowd gathered along the shore, pointing and talking, and pushed their way through. Suth heaved the heavy shield on to his back. ‘We should report,’ Len said. Wess just rolled his eyes.
They crossed to where their squad had set up camp. Yana lay under an awning made from a tattered blanket. Goss sat before the blackened pit where they used to cook their meals when they had food and firewood.
‘The Moranth look to be gone,’ Len told Goss.
Goss nodded at the news. ‘So I heard.’
‘Good report there, Len,’ Wess said, lying down.
‘Now what?’ Suth asked Goss.
A slow shrug from the man where he sat in his threadbare padded aketon. ‘Guess we’ll attack.’
‘Attack? Half of us couldn’t drag our backsides across the bridge.’
Goss po
ndered that for a time. ‘I hear they got lotsa provisions over on that side …’
‘If we controlled the river we could build weirs,’ Len added.
Suth was suddenly maddeningly hungry. It was as if the mere mention of a solid meal was enough to set his juices flowing. He almost said aloud how desperately famished he was, but refrained: those who mentioned that forbidden subject were looked on as if they were idiots. Who in the name of Togg and Fanderay isn’t, you horse’s arse? was the usual comment. He lay down to sleep, mumbling, ‘Let’s just get it over with.’
*
An aide summoned Devaleth to the command tent. It was still quite early; she hadn’t even broken her fast yet with a glass of thin tea. She finished dressing hurriedly and headed across camp, which was seething with the most commotion she’d seen in weeks. Was there to be a fresh assault? Or an attack? The bridge was quiet; rather, everyone was studying the far shore. Glancing over as well, she tried to see what was of such interest but couldn’t identify it.
She found Greymane and the Adjunct, Kyle, standing before the tent, scanning the west shore. The High Fist appeared more animated than she’d seen in a long time. The man had frankly been deteriorating; losing weight, becoming withdrawn and sullen. Only Kyle seemed able to rouse him from his dark moods. Now a faint smile, or eagerness, kept pulling at his mouth behind the iron-grey beard he’d been growing. Kyle bowed, greeting Devaleth. Even Greymane offered a smile – though one tinged with irony. ‘What do you think, water-witch? What are we to make of this?’
‘Make of what?’
Kyle raised his chin to the west. ‘It seems the Moranth Black have decamped.’
‘Really? Whatever for?’
The High Fist nodded. ‘That’s what everyone’s wondering.’
Fist Rillish appeared, walking stiffly and carefully towards the tent. Devaleth fought an urge to help the man – that he was even on his feet was painful to see. The dysentery ravaging the troops had drained pounds from the man: his face was ashen and greasy with sweat, and his shirt hung loose on him. He saluted and the High Fist curtly responded.
Stonewielder Page 48
