Orb Sceptre Throne

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  The lieutenant, it turned out, was a very young fellow with the heavy build and curly hair of a north Genabackan. After Girth spoke to him he approached to give Antsy a welcoming nod. ‘A veteran, yes?’ Antsy nodded. ‘Good. Could use your help.’ He looked to Corien. ‘Darujhistani. Trained?’

  Corien bowed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very good.’

  He bowed to Orchid. ‘You are Dal Honese? A talent, perhaps?’

  She waved a hand, embarrassed. ‘Dal Honese? No. But I do have some small skills.’

  The lieutenant returned to Antsy. ‘Girth reported another with you. Someone in dark robes.’

  ‘A mage. He joined us partway up. Comes and goes as he pleases. We are not answerable for him.’

  ‘Ah. A shame. We could use the help. Welcome, regardless. I am Lieutenant Palal. Hengeth Palal.’

  They introduced themselves. Then Antsy said, ‘We’ve come for the Gap. That’s all. We just want to get out of here.’

  ‘I understand. Truth be told, so do we. Problem is, that lot bar the way.’

  Antsy stroked his jaw with the back of his fingers. ‘Block the way? Why’re they doing that?’

  The lieutenant crossed his arms. It was clear he was rather overwhelmed, but it was also equally clear that he was aware of it and accepted it. No bluster or denial here, Antsy reflected. Just doing what he can.

  ‘What are their terms?’ Antsy asked.

  ‘Terms? Their terms are … frankly insane.’ The young officer shook his head, mystified. ‘I’ve told them again and again – we have no munitions. None at all. We can’t blow their damned door for them.’

  Orchid gasped. Or at least Antsy thought she did; he was having trouble hearing over the roaring gathering in his ears. Hands steadied him and above the wind he thought he heard someone laughing. He recognized the mad laughter: it was his own. He was having a good time at his own expense. Forgot your philosophy, Ants. They’ll get ya. In the end they’ll always find a way to get ya.

  ‘All right?’ Corien asked, his head close. Blinking, Antsy squeezed the youth’s hand. ‘Yeah. Just thrown. That’s all.’

  From the centre of the large cavern came the sharp slap of hands clapping. The explosive reports echoed from the walls and distant ceiling. A woman’s voice shouted: ‘A meeting! Everyone! I call a general meeting! Now!’

  Palal uncrossed his arms, sighing. ‘Well, best see what the witch wants.’ He raised his chin, calling, ‘Sergeant. See to their billeting.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Girth closed, flanked by troopers. Antsy glared.

  ‘Thanks a lot!’

  He shrugged his wide humped shoulders. ‘Sorry. Got over forty men and women who want out of this trap. That’s all I answer to. Maybe your friends can help.’

  ‘They’re dead.’

  ‘Hasn’t stopped others.’

  ‘Yeah, well. That’s the deal.’

  The man spat again. ‘Too bad. Now, let’s take a walk, all of us. Nice an’ quiet.’

  ‘Him too!’ the woman yelled again, pointing from the distance. ‘The newcomer. The soldier. That one too!’

  While he was sick inside Antsy made a point of arching a brow at the sergeant. ‘Gotta go. Things to do.’

  Girth snorted. ‘Out of the frying pan, friend. Out of the pan.’

  As Antsy walked away the man called: ‘We’ll just look after your friends here, right?’

  Antsy raised a hand over his shoulder in a gesture that needed no explanation.

  The ‘meeting’ was one of the oddest gatherings of fearsome individuals Antsy had ever attended. And that included a few command gatherings of Malazan Imperial mages and Claws. He took his place next to Lieutenant Palal. Opposite waited the tall slim woman who had called the meeting. Her complexion was olive-hued and her hair dark and straight, pinned up in a complex design. Her dark eyes watched Antsy with a look that seemed to enjoy his discomfort. The large loose circle also included the carmine-wearing old woman and her fat companion, together with Jallin, who glared his hatred. Antsy noted that the fat fellow seemed to spend most of his time with his gaze narrowed on the tall woman.

  To one side waited the armoured figure of the blond-haired mercenary who had preceded them on to the Spawn. He was flanked by two of his men. All still carried canvas covers over their shields. Antsy wondered if these might be members of the Grey Swords. Yet they carried no symbols of the Wolves of Winter, nor any other god that he could recognize.

  An old man, his thin hair a mussed cloud around his uneven skull, came shuffling up on his slippered feet. Also emerging from the gloom came the slim dark form of Malakai.

  Antsy could not believe he was seeing him again. He thought the man dead, or long escaped from the Spawn. ‘Look what turned up,’ he drawled, giving him a hard stare.

  The thief bowed, one brow quirked. ‘So you made it. Congratulations. I am very surprised.’

  ‘No thanks to you, you Hood-damned piece of—’

  ‘So you two know each other,’ the tall woman cut in, loud and firm. ‘How nice. Yet introductions are in order, I imagine.’

  ‘We are not yet all gathered,’ the old fellow observed in a quavering breathless wheeze.

  ‘Did someone call a meeting?’ a man’s voice enquired from the dark. ‘Is attendance mandatory?’ The owner of the smooth voice came forward: a man dressed in expensive silks over a fine blackened mail coat that hung to his shins. His midnight hair was slicked back and a goatee beard and moustache framed his mouth. A wide heavy two-handed sword hung at his side.

  The tall woman, Antsy noted, eyed this well-dressed fellow with obvious distaste.

  ‘Introductions?’ the old woman squawked. She tossed her head, her ribbons rustling. ‘There need not be any introductions. I do not want introductions. Damn all of you. I care nothing for you.’

  ‘Quite,’ the fat fellow at her side supplied, like a punctuation ending her rant.

  ‘Thank you, Hesta and Ogule.’

  ‘Ogule Tolo Thermalamerkanerat,’ the fat fellow corrected. ‘Do please get it right. You know our dialect, Seris.’

  The tall woman, Seris, smiled, revealing sharp white teeth. ‘Yes. Ogule.’

  ‘Hemberghin,’ the old man sneezed at Antsy.

  Antsy leaned down to him. ‘What was that? Hemdergin?’

  ‘Hemper!’ the old man repeated angrily. ‘Hemper. Hemper Grin!’

  Antsy flinched away from the spray of spittle. He wiped his sleeve. ‘Right. Hemper.’

  The elegant fellow inclined his head to Antsy in an ironic salute. ‘Bauchelain.’ He gestured vaguely to his rear. ‘My companion, Korbal Broach, is, ah, currently … preoccupied.’

  It may have been the poor light, but it appeared to Antsy as if at the man’s words everyone present turned a shade more pale. He cleared his throat in an effort to find his voice. ‘Ah, Antsy. Antsy’s the name.’

  All this time Jallin had been whispering fiercely and pulling on the old woman’s rags. Whispering and pointing. She cuffed him now and shot out a withered crooked finger. ‘What is in your bag, soldier?’

  ‘To the Paths of the Dead with you, y’ damned hag.’

  The woman jerked so sharply the ribbons hanging from her hair snapped like whips. Her eyes widened in disbelief then slitted almost closed. A sort of creamy smile came to her wrinkled lips. ‘So … you wish to challenge old Hesta, do you? Scream very prettily as you burn I think you will …’

  ‘Hesta …’ Seris warned. ‘Soldier. We know you carry munitions.’

  Antsy glanced to Malakai. ‘How in the name of all the forgotten gods would you know that?’

  The woman brought her long-fingered hands together to her lips then let out a loud breath as if exhausted. ‘Soldier. All of us here are close to many very great powers. Many of us have seen in the deck what you carry. We have terms to offer you for their use. For example – there are very many people here who wish to leave this crippled artefact. We will allow that … once our terms are met.’

  ‘
What’s the job?’

  Seris smiled behind her clasped hands. ‘This way, if you please.’ She led him across the wide assembly hall. The gang of mages followed. The one who gave his name as Bauchelain sauntered along last. Many of the others cast nervous glances back to the man.

  A large scene of pastoral life decorated the polished floor they crossed. Hills, streams and mountains, all done in a mosaic of coloured stones. Antsy thought it odd that such a scene should be executed here within the heart of the Moon’s Spawn. It seemed all too … mundane.

  Midway across they came to a large circular opening flush in the floor like a well or a pool. Antsy peered down only to throw himself backwards, his heart hammering. The opening sank bottomless into utter night and a cool breeze wafted up. The wind carried with it the distant lap and murmur of the sea.

  They came to wide curving stairs cut from black glittering stone that led up to a tall set of double doors. The doors were cut from the same black stone, but set in panels of gold, bronze and silver. Similar vignettes of woods and fields decorated the panels. Scenes of some sort of homeland, Antsy wondered? Somehow it struck him as odd that the Tiste should possess any sort of homeland. They seemed to have simply appeared from the sky. But of course they had to have originated from somewhere.

  ‘These doors are barred to us,’ Seris announced, slapping a hand to a silver panel. ‘We cannot broach them. Do so, soldier, and you will save the lives of your fellows – plus many more.’

  Antsy nodded towards the doors. ‘What’s inside?’

  ‘That is none of your business!’ Hesta snarled.

  ‘Indeed,’ Ogule agreed.

  ‘Something its master thought destroyed,’ said old Hemper, with a wheezing laugh.

  ‘The dream of night unending,’ Malakai provided as if quoting a line.

  ‘What lies within, soldier,’ said Bauchelain, drawn close now, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze in the distance over Antsy’s head, ‘is nothing less than the Throne of Night.’

  Bendan forced down a leather-like string of old horsemeat and helped it along with another mouthful of water. At least they had that: all the drink they needed thanks to the well the saboteur lads and lasses had dug almost overnight. But that was all they had. Most of the biscuits and beans went up with the wagons during the fire attacks. There was no firewood left to cook with anyway. Just dried horse and bits and pieces left now. He wiped one soot-blackened hand on his thigh only for it to come away just as dirty as before. Nothing to wash with neither.

  The gaminess of the cut almost made him throw it down. Almost. Growing up as he had, any meat was frankly a rare treat. One of the attractions of joining up was that the army ate a damned sight better than he ever did. Because of this he wasn’t feeling the pain that a lot of men and women around him were. Soft, those ones. Not used to punchin’ new holes in their belts. Or suckin’ on leather.

  Looked to him like Hektar was wrong and these Rhivi were just gonna starve them out. It burned his butt and wasn’t what he thought soldiering was all about. But there you go. More and more he was coming round to the view that it really was all more about manoeuvring and positioning than any of this dirty hand-to-hand stuff.

  He glanced aside to Corporal Little where she dozed, her shield angled over her face for shade from the low sun. He frankly could not figure her out; nor any of these damned soldiers. It was plain as day that she didn’t think much of him, yet time and again it was her shield that took an arrow meant for him; and time and again she offered advice and tricks on how to handle himself in the ranks. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever known before. He’d felt as if he was part of a family in his gang in their quarter of Maiten town – but that had been nothing like this. There, it had all been about clawing and snarling one’s way up to top dog. It was all about who could face down who. The top dogs swaggered it and did as they pleased to whoever they pleased. The little dogs got kicked. Or worse. That was life as he knew it. Abyss, life in the entire world for all he knew.

  But not here. Here in the squads nobody seemed to be a big dog. There was no facing down. The nobodies, the new hands, once they got bloodied and proved their grit, people helped them out. For the first time in his life he didn’t know where he stood. He’d always had to know that. Get your head bit off otherwise.

  Not like they was all holdin’ hands and slappin’ each other’s backs or shit like that neither. Not like family – or at least what he’d heard family was supposed to be like. In his case he was damned relieved this wasn’t like family. Worst beatings he ever got were from his da and older brothers. Till one day the old man staggered inside shit drunk and they all piled on with boards and sticks. Never was the same afterwards. Couldn’t move the one side of his mouth nor that arm. Lost all his fire that night and nobody paid him no attention after that. And his sister, she run off. Got tired of his older brothers selling her for drinks and hits of durhang. So, no, he was damned glad this was no Hood-taken family.

  Murmuring brought Bendan’s attention to the camp. People were rousing themselves to join the posted squads on the walls. Something was up. He got to his feet and kicked Little then headed for the wall. Sergeant Hektar’s towering figure was easy to spot. He pushed his way to the man’s side. ‘What is it?’

  The big Dal Hon looked even more pleased than usual. He raised his chin to the Rhivi encampment. ‘Look there. See those new boys an’ girls come to play?’

  Bendan squinted. Luckily the day was waning and the sun was more or less behind them, descending now towards the uneven lines of the distant Moranth mountains. All he could see were crowds of Rhivi and horses. ‘No. I don’t really have good eyes, have to say.’ Then the milling mounts and crowding Rhivi parted for a moment and he caught a glimpse of slim figures, lightly armoured, their faces covered or hooded. ‘Who’s that?’

  Hektar seemed to make a great show of smiling even more broadly. ‘Looks like you’re in luck, lad. Gonna have a lesson in butchery from the pros. Them’s Seguleh. And it looks like they’re workin’ with the Rhivi.’

  Seguleh? He thought back to Tarat’s claim. Togg damn! In the flesh. But … holy fuck! ‘Is it true that three of them beat the entire Pannion army?’

  Hektar gave a farting noise. ‘Chasing off a scared-arsed peasant horde without training or spine is one thing. Facing a solid shield wall of iron veterans is another.’ Raising his voice he called: ‘Ain’t that right, lads and lasses?’

  ‘Aye!’ came answering shouts.

  Hektar leaned his thick forearms on the blackened logs. ‘You just stay down behind your shield and use short quick thrusts and you’ll be right fine, lad. Keep your head low. Let ’em run around and jump up and down all they want.’ And he winked.

  Despite the growing dread clawing at his stomach Bendan almost laughed aloud at the advice.

  *

  Tserig did not know what the new Warleader Jiwan meant when he’d hinted at promised aid from his ally, this so-called ‘Legate’. And so, even though pointedly no invitation had been extended to him, when the flurry of activity arose in camp he readied himself and strode out to join the reception. He knew his ears and eyes were not what they once had been (though bless the Great Mother not his prang!) but it seemed to him as he made his way through the press that all was not as expected. The young bloods were subdued, not joyous with anticipated victory. Emerging into the Circle of Welcoming he was surprised to find just three individuals facing the Warlord.

  He squinted anew then rocked backwards on his staff. Great Mother! Aid? This is the aid the creature parading as the Legate offers? No, not aid. This is the fist unveiled. The ancient curse. The Faceless Warriors. Fear them, Jiwan. Fear them!

  There were two Seguleh in their leather armour. One’s mask was a kaleidoscope of colours all swirling in a complicated design; the other’s was all pale white, marred only by two dark smudges, one on each cheek, as if placed there by a swipe of a forefinger. Tserig’s hands grew sweaty upon his staff. Burn look a
way! The Third. The Third of the Seguleh!

  Yet the last of the group troubled Tserig even more. He knew what it was, that bent and broken being, twisted under harrowing punishments inflicted by his master. One of the Twelve. The demon slaves of the Tyrant Kings. Which of them it was made no difference. They were all the same in serving their masters’ will.

  Jiwan was on his feet, his bearing far less certain than when he had faced Brood. But then he did not know all the old stories about Caladan. The most ancient tales. And Brood had been an ally of many years, seemingly harmless. Jiwan had grown up knowing him as if he were no more than an uncle. He did not seem to grasp the true danger he represented. Indeed, no one in this age seemed to understand that. Unlike himself, old Tserig, hoarder of the old knowledge.

  ‘The invaders will be dealt with, yes,’ the demon mage was saying. ‘They will be swept from the field. But first,’ and it raised a gnarled hand to Jiwan, ‘I need to know your answer to our offer.’

  The Warleader of the Rhivi cocked his head, puzzled. ‘Offer? What offer is that?’

  ‘Why, the offer of his protection, of course! My master, the Legate of Darujhistan, has graciously extended to you the guarding hand of his shelter and countenance. You will be as safe as a child in the arms of its parent under his warding, I assure you of that.’

  Jiwan drew himself up straighter. He was obviously attempting to keep his face neutral, but it betrayed too much of his distaste. ‘We Rhivi are a free people. This alliance is one of mutual defence. Nothing more. Thank the Legate for his concern. We have no need of his guardianship.’

  The mage stroked his long chin as if puzzled. ‘Do you not wish to be safe and secure? To be strong? So many in these days of trouble argue for a strong hand guiding their community, their city, their lands, or province. Within the encircling arms of the Legate you will find that. It is easy. One merely need yield all troubling matters of governance to him. He will take care of you. As a father.’