‘Great Mother!’ Fisher cursed. ‘Cull? Cull Heel? What are you doing here!’
‘Fisher! Come back home with us, yes? You have been gone too long!’
At that moment Moranth emerged from the woods to surround them.
*
Jan ordered the release of the citizens, then saw to the defences of the main entrance. Should the Moranth return to their aerial bombardment his plan was for his people to occupy those same deepest cellars, wait for night to return, then scatter in all directions to return to Cant in ones and twos. Undignified, but perhaps the best way of ensuring that as many as possible made it out alive. His side was completely numb and he was weak from loss of blood, but if he could just avoid any further exertion he believed he might yet live to see this through.
It was here that the guards assigned to the west found him. They came escorting exhausted and bedraggled brothers and sisters whom he did not immediately recognize. It was not until one went to one knee before him that Jan realized who he was. With that understanding came a wave of anticipation that nearly caused him to faint. Great Ancestors! Oru, the Eleventh, gone more than two years, assumed lost by so many, returned now, at such a time!
Jan moved to raise him up but restrained himself, exclaiming instead, ‘Oru!’ He then clamped down on his breathing to observe dispassionately, ‘You are returned to us. I am pleased – but you should not have come here.’
The Eleventh stood. His eyes shone now with even greater passion than Jan remembered from years ago. ‘I believe it was fated that I should do so, Second.’ He drew from his waist a small object wrapped in a fine black cloth. ‘Just as I believed it was my fate to one day find this.’
Jan stared at the flat object held so delicately in Oru’s hands. This is it? The Unmarred? It seems so small. His arms remained petrified at his sides. His eyes rose to meet Oru’s eager, avid gaze. ‘There can be no doubt?’
‘None, Second.’
‘Then call everyone. All must witness this.’
Oru bowed. ‘Yes … Second.’
They assembled in the main entrance foyer, all remaining of the Five Hundred. Jan was stricken through the heart to count less than one hundred. Of the Eldrii, the Ten, only he, Gall and Palla yet lived.
He raised his chin for their attention. Through the windows the sky was lightening to the dark blue and violet of a coming predawn. Please, all our Ancestors, he invoked, eyes on the coming day, allow me the strength to see this through! Grant me that and you shall have me.
‘Brothers and sisters,’ he started, his voice thick with emotion – and more. ‘In this time of our greatest testing, one who has been gone from us on a long journey has returned – with the object he vowed never to return without.’
The gathered stirred, masks shifting to the Eleventh at his side. ‘Oru,’ Jan went on, ‘hold up the Mask of our Ancestors. The Pure One crafted by the First who led us on our exile …’ Even as he repeated the traditional words of invocation a sudden new realization came to Jan and their meaning shifted, taking on an utterly new significance. His breath caught at the truth of this new formulation. Everything made sense now: his people’s fate, their exile. It came to him that this must be what others describe as a religious awakening.
He took a renewing breath and continued, louder, his voice rough. ‘… on our exile … which was in truth a deliverance. A flight from slavery and a flight from our shame. Crafted in the hope of an eventual redemption, a cleansing of our past.’
Oru pulled off the black covering and held up above his head a pure unmarred mask carved from the same translucent bright stone as the Legate’s throne. In the gathering brightness of dawn it seemed to glow with an inner light. All those present stared immobile. It seemed to Jan that a great easing of some long-held breath escaped from them all, and as one they bowed to one knee, heads lowered.
‘A sign,’ he continued. ‘A promise. An offering sent from our past to our future. One we hope to one day be worthy of. One which belongs to all our people and must be returned to await that future safe in the temple at Cant.’
At these words the Third, Gall, straightened. ‘Nay! Take it, Second. Don it! With you at our head we will sweep these Moranth before us and return triumphant!’
‘No! It must not be taken up in anger or bloodshed. That would taint it beyond redemption. No, this artefact is too important for us few here to risk its destruction. We shall accede to the Moranth demands so that we may see it brought safely home.’
‘To that decision I give my fullest support.’ A new voice spoke up from the back of the assembly – which parted swiftly as Seguleh drew blades against the newcomer.
Jan and Gall both peered, squinting. Jan recognized Lo first, then his son and some girl. And with them one other, and as soon as he looked at this man he recognized him and knew him for what he was, and what he could be, all in one transfiguring instant. He knew then what he must do.
Gall turned his back on Lo, the Eighth, and the man who all knew must be the slayer of Blacksword, the presumed Seventh. He faced Jan. ‘We must not put down our swords. How can we abandon what it means to be Seguleh? It is not for you to propose such a thing.’
Jan felt remarkably calm in the face of what all others present must see as an inexcusable insult. The Third’s behaviour was nothing less than a direct challenge. Jan knew that was exactly what Gall intended. Yet I am not strong enough! I will fall and all I have just glimpsed will be lost to us! Please, Gall, my old friend. Stand aside just this once …
After a long bracing breath Jan’s answer emerged level and strong: ‘I propose it because I have seen what we could all too easily become – what we must never become.’
The Third reached out as if begging something of him. In his gaze Jan saw the reluctance, the torment of his position. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Do not drive me to what duty demands of me …’
‘I have spoken, Third,’ Jan said. ‘It shall be as I say.’
And Gall said what Jan knew he felt he must as Third: ‘Then I challenge you.’
*
After the Seguleh left to return inside, Torvald waited with Galene. She tapped the red baton in her palm, shaking her helmed head. ‘I fear we have our answer,’ she murmured. ‘I’m sorry. But once word comes that your fellow councillors are clear, I am compelled to act.’
Gods protect us! Torvald turned away to study the vista of Darujhistan spread out below in the coming light of the east. The various fires appeared to have been mastered, the looming threat of a firestorm feeding gas eruptions circumvented. For that he gave thanks. One miracle. Dare he hope for another?
‘Couldn’t you—’
‘No.’ She rubbed her leg, hissing with pain. ‘If it were up to me alone … perhaps. But I am not here on my own. I must think of my people. We cannot allow this threat to exist.’
‘Then I am sorry as well, because I have no idea how the Council will take this. There may be war between us.’
‘Perhaps.’
A party of Black troopers jogged up. One saluted Galene. ‘A small group that contained Seguleh were allowed through the cordon.’
Galene straightened, outraged. ‘Allowed through? On whose authority?’
Another of the troopers saluted. ‘Mine, Commander.’
Torvald studied the last speaker. He appeared to be the oldest Moranth he’d seen yet. The chitinous plates of his armour were thick, cracked and lined. He bore the countless scarifications and gouges of a veteran of many battles.
Galene nodded to the trooper. ‘Master Sergeant. Your record is beyond reproach. Why have you done this?’
The veteran bowed. ‘M’lady. You know I was among the first contingent serving alongside the Malazans. I fought with them for decades. I allowed that party through because of the man who was with them. Though it has been many years, I recognized him. I would know him anywhere. He was Dassem, the First Sword of the Empire.’
Torvald couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The First Sword?
Here? Was this credible?
Galene’s voice was barely audible: ‘That is impossible.’
‘Elect,’ the veteran continued, a new edge in his voice, ‘must I remind you that our treaty of alliance with the Malazans included Dassem as a signatory?’
‘And if he lives …’
‘Exactly, Elect. If he lives … then contrary to what we had assumed, that treaty is not void.’
*
Crowded within the rear of the hall, Yusek whispered to Sall, ‘What’s goin’ on?’
‘A challenge for leadership,’ he answered just as low.
‘If this is how things get resolved then I’m surprised there’s any of you above Fiftieth.’
He turned to regard her more closely. ‘Yusek – no one will be hurt. At this level it will all be over before you or I notice.’
‘And if someone was hurt?’
‘Then, consider. I see only the Sixth and Third with us now. That means this man, the Seventh, could be within one or two ranks of Second.’
‘That’s not why I came here,’ the Seventh growled.
‘Yet it is our way,’ Sall murmured, undeterred.
Palla came to Jan’s side, whispering, fierce: ‘Do not accept! There is something wrong … I see it. You’re wounded.’
‘I must answer or stand aside – as you well know.’ How to salvage this? The future I foresaw mustn’t be lost to us! ‘Will you second me?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ she answered, nearly choking.
‘No challenges here!’ a voice called from the crowd and a Hundredth stepped forward. Horul. ‘This must wait until we return to Cant.’ A strange panic filled her voice. ‘Before the temple …’
Oru signed a negative. ‘The challenge has been made. It must be answered. What say you, Second?’
Jan inclined his head to the Eleventh. ‘I accept.’
Gall bowed, then looked around; by tradition the next highest ranked present or available should second him … the Seventh.
Lo extended a hand, inviting the dark-skinned Malazan forward. The man shot him a glare but the gathered Seguleh parted and so he reluctantly advanced.
As he passed through the ranks some reached out reverently to the sword wrapped in rags on his back and Yusek heard them murmuring a word. ‘What’s that they’re saying?’ she whispered to Sall.
‘Many say the sword on his back is the Son of Darkness’s own. The very one that defeated him. They are saying what legends hold as its oldest name – Grief.’
The four gathered near the centre of the hall and all the assembled Seguleh backed away to the walls. ‘Challenge has been issued,’ Gall called out.
‘And accepted,’ Jan answered.
Palla stepped forward. ‘As honour has been met I ask that said challenge be withdrawn.’ And she added so low that only the four gathered could hear: ‘If you proceed in this, Gall, then I will challenge you.’
‘Do as you feel you must,’ he answered, equally low. ‘Just as I must.’
‘Now you say that the challenge will proceed,’ Jan prompted the Seventh.
The Seventh studied the Second. He looked him up and down. For a long time he let his gaze linger on Jan’s wounded side. ‘Is this what you wish?’ he asked finally, uncertain.
Jan allowed himself a stiff nod. ‘Yes. It is what I wish.’
‘Very well.’ He raised his voice: ‘The challenge proceeds.’
The two seconds withdrew. Gall stepped away from Jan to make room.
Jan eased his weapon free. The moment the challenge was issued he had known what he had to do. It would be his most difficult performance ever. Weakened as he was he did not know if he could succeed. Yet he must. He would give all he had left. Even if it meant destroying a friend. He shouted to Gall: ‘In all the times we’ve fought you’ve never come close. What have you planned this time?’
‘What is he doing?’ Palla murmured, thinking aloud. ‘He’s never taunted anyone before.’
‘He’s setting him up,’ the Seventh answered grimly.
Palla turned to the Malazan. ‘What?’ but then swords clashed.
The instant their swords met Jan manoeuvred Gall to his wounded side. The Third came on with more passion and power than he had ever displayed in all the years upon the practice sands. But Jan had been one of his teachers and knew what Gall would do before he knew himself. It must be quick – already I’m weakening. No hint. He mustn’t have time to pull the thrust.
I’m sorry, my friend. In so many ways you are the most honourable of all of us. But this must be so.
Yusek stared, appalled and fascinated. Gods, it was so beautiful! So elegant. This was not the bashing and grunting she’d known. This was more like dance. A dance of nerves, flesh, and razor-sharp iron.
~
The time had come. Jan knew he could delay no longer; he was about to fall. Already in his parries and turns he had been preparing the way, leaving his hurt side slightly open. And now in an over-extended riposte he began a recovery that would invite the counter-thrust, and in the fraction of a heartbeat that committed Gall to making the move he reversed his recovery and advanced to meet the sword that was already flashing towards him and the razor-edged blade slid in as smoothly as if pushing through cloth.
Yusek could not be sure. It looked to her as if the Third deliberately thrust the Second through the side even as he was turning to him. She could not contain a scream at the ugly shock of it. Hers was the only cry in the utterly silent hall.
Palla did not move. This is not happening, she told herself. Such things do not happen. Yet the Second lay with the Third’s sword through his side. Only by conscious effort could she move her legs. She and the Seventh approached. All others remained immobile, hushed. Shocked beyond all reaction, perhaps.
Gall stood frozen. He stared at his empty hands as if in disbelief. He raised his gaze and there through the mask Palla saw desolation. ‘I didn’t …’ he groaned.
‘I know,’ the Seventh answered.
They knelt at Jan’s side. He lived still, panting, his breath wet. ‘Oru,’ he rasped.
‘Eleventh!’ Palla called.
A crash sounded close by: Gall had fallen to his knees, his hands covering his face. He rocked himself and shuddered with silent tears.
Oru ran to them. The Second swallowed hard to whisper: ‘My last request, Oru.’ His voice was slurred. ‘Offer the mask to the Seventh.’
‘What?’ Palla gasped. ‘No. You will live! There is no need.’
The Seventh jerked upright. ‘Do not offer this thing to me.’
‘You must,’ the Second barely mouthed. ‘You will take us … home.’ His eyes, behind their blood-spattered mask, closed.
‘Jan!’ Palla grated, her lips clenched against a ferocious scream. ‘Jan!’
‘He is dead,’ Oru said. The Eleventh straightened and turned to face the gathered Seguleh. He studied the mask he held in both hands.
After a long moment he raised his head to be seen by all present, turning a full circle. ‘All you know me,’ he began, his voice low. ‘You know that years ago a vision came to me – a vision that I could find our lost legacy, our birthright. You also know that by tradition the mark of the First cannot be taken … it can only be offered. I came fully intending to offer it to our Second. But he refused. His last request was that it be offered to the Seventh …
‘But,’ he continued, after a hard breath, ‘we are Seguleh. We must not forget who we are. And with us rank is paramount. Therefore … I am bound by tradition. By duty. By our ancient code. To offer this mask of the Unmarred, the First, to the Third.’
He turned to where Gall crouched rocking himself in mute anguish. ‘Third – do you accept?’
His face still covered, the man gave one savage negative jerk of his head.
Oru turned to Palla next. ‘Sixth. Do you accept?’
Throughout, Palla had not taken her eyes from the dead Second. Without looking up, she shook her head.
Oru tur
ned to the Seventh. ‘It has come to you, Seventh. Do you accept?’
The man raised a hand. ‘A moment – there is one here who may choose to dispute this.’
Oru cocked his head, thinking, then turned to the entrance. ‘Eighth,’ he called. ‘Will you approach?’
Lo started forward. Sall moved to follow then stopped to point a finger at Yusek. ‘You, stay here.’
‘No fucking kidding,’ she answered under her breath.
Lo came to Oru’s side. The Seventh faced him. ‘Tell me, Eighth. If this mask came to you what would you do?’
The lean man gave an indifferent shrug. Behind his mask his eyes were half lidded, almost lazy. ‘Challenge has been issued. It must be met.’
Aside, Sall started forward, drawing breath, but a sign from Lo checked him.
The Seventh let out a ragged breath. ‘Gods – they say never gamble with the Seguleh and now I know why.’ He glared at the Eighth. His deep blue eyes shaded dark as his hands worked at his sides. ‘Damn you, Lo. You’re determined not to leave me any room …’ Lowering his voice even more he growled, ‘I’m of half a mind to call your bluff.’
‘But you won’t.’ The Eighth motioned Oru closer. The Eleventh held out the mask.
Wordless, the Seventh snatched the sword from his back and shook the rags from it. Hissed breaths escaped from a hundred throats as the blackwood sheath was revealed, the hilt all blued to night black, and the sable stone orb that was its pommel. The Seventh tied it to his belt then raised his face to the gathering. ‘I do not claim to be unmarred myself,’ he began, and emotion cracked his voice, stopping him. After a moment he continued: ‘Far from it. However, I accept this honour in the promise that perhaps one day I will prove worthy of it.’
He took the translucent white stone mask from Oru’s hands and raised it to his face.
*
‘Damned quiet in there,’ Torvald murmured aloud just to hear someone speak – the Moranth were utterly silent. Pink and gold bands now brightened the undersides of clouds to the east. Dawn was coming. The Moranth remained battle-ready. They appeared to fully expect the Seguleh to come charging out at any moment. And if that did happen, from what he’d seen he personally didn’t think anything would stop them.
Orb Sceptre Throne Page 67
