Greymane offered a half-smile, his pale sapphire eyes holding a tempered humour. ‘You will have a chance to meet a living legend, Kyle. The name will mean nothing to you seeing as you’re a damned foreigner, but the naval assault will be commanded by Admiral Nok.’
But Greymane was wrong. Kyle had heard of him.
CHAPTER III
Master of violence!
And violence mastered.
Companion to darkness.
Hail the Warlord!
Hammer fell
and fist heavy.
What ancient seams
Does he mine when
Night thoughts turn
To fault, fracture,
And that which must be done?
Lament for the Warlord
Fisher Kel Tath
COURTIERS IN BRIGHT FINERY ONCE CROWDED THE RECEPTION hall of Fortress Paliss, capital of the once sovereign Kingdom of Rool. Tapestries lined its stone walls. Long tables offered up delicacies and wines from distant exotic lands in this, the most powerful state on Fist – rival to Korelri.
Once.
Now, the broad hall stood empty, dark and cold. A single occupant – other than his guards – sat at one bare table, his back to a blazing conflagration roaring within a stone fireplace four paces across.
Ussü entered and crossed the wide unlit hall. Shadows danced over him, flickering from the distant fire. His master, Yeull ’ul Taith, commander of what remained of the Malazan Sixth Army, Overlord of Fist, sat as no more than a silhouette of night, awaiting him.
With Ussü walked Borun, Black Moranth, leader of a contingent of that race shipwrecked on Fist some fifteen years ago and now Yeull’s second. Commander of what the locals cursed as Yeull’s ‘Black Hands’.
Ussü noted how Borun’s armoured boots grated on the stone while his footfalls came in comparative silence. He looked down to his leather sandals almost hidden beneath layered robes. Quiet. Hidden. And so it has always been. Who was to know that he, Ussü, once a mage of little note within the Empire, now pursued power by other, darker, means?
They halted before their commander. Yes, commander, now. Yeull ’ul Taith. Overlord. High Fist, after a fashion. First went Greymane – ousted on account of his outrageous leanings. Then that Imperial-appointed governor – what had his name been? Found dead. Then Fist Udara – but her suicide had appeared genuine. And now Yeull – clinging on like a man gripping a plank in a storm. Terrified of betrayal. Yet hanging on just the same, even more terrified of letting go.
Yeull straightened, a thick bearhide wrap falling from his shoulders. His long black hair hung wet with sweat over a pale scarred face. Dark eyes darted between Ussü and Borun. ‘Yes? What is it?’
‘News, m’lord. Of a kind.’
Yeull leaned in his tall chair, draped an arm over its back. ‘Look at you two.’ He gestured to Ussü: ‘White,’ then to Borun, ‘and black.’
Ussü favoured pale hues such as ivory and cream. And his hair was long and thoroughly grey. While Borun was, of course, black.
‘Is one to suggest caution, the other haste?’
‘M’lord …’
‘Is one to prove trustworthy, the other … well … not so trustworthy?’
‘M’lord!’
The dark eyes sharpened. ‘Overlord.’
Ussü bowed. ‘Yes, Overlord.’
‘What is it?’ He poured himself a glass of wine from an earthenware decanter. ‘Is it cold in here? I feel cold.’
As he stood before the roaring bonfire sweat now prickled Ussü’s underarms, chest and face. ‘No, m— Overlord. I am not cold.’
‘No? You’re not?’ He tossed back the glass in one swallow. ‘I am. To the bones.’
‘He is calling for you.’
Yeull looked up from studying the empty glass. ‘What? Someone calling me? Who?’
‘The prisoner,’ Borun said, his voice a coarse growl.
Yeull set down the glass carefully, straightened in his seat. ‘Ah. Him. What does he want?’
‘He must have news for us, High Fist. Something to offer, in any case.’
‘It is cold – I swear it is cold.’ Yeull turned aside. ‘More wood for the fire.’
Ussü turned a quick look to Borun but could see nothing within the vision slit of his lowered visor. These Moranth and their armour! The man must be sweltering.
‘So?’ Yeull demanded. ‘Why are you here speaking to me then? Speak to him.’
‘He will only talk to you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, High Fist.’
‘Out of the question.’ The High Fist drew the bearhide cloak tighter about his shoulders.
Ussü suppressed his irritation. ‘We have been through this before, High Fist. It must be you. None other.’
The man was looking aside, his gaze distant, almost empty. ‘It will be cold down there. So far below.’
‘We will bring torches.’
‘What’s that? Torches? Yes. Fire. We must bring fire.’
They walked the dark empty halls of Fortress Paliss. Guards – all Malazan regulars – saluted and unlocked doors to the deeper passageways. Ussü noted the many grey beards among them. They were none of them getting any younger, including himself. Who would carry on? They had trained and recruited thousands of soldiers from among the Rool and Skolati citizens, organized an army of over seventy thousand, but hardly any of the locals held a rank above captain.
Original Malazan officers constituted the ruling body. It was, in effect, the permanent rule of an occupying military elite. Yet their generation was passing away. Who would take up the sceptre – or the mace, in this instance – of rulership? Most had children, grown to men and women now, but these formed the new pampered aristocracy, not the least interested in service, or the world beyond their own sprawling estates. No, it seemed to Ussü more surely with every passing year that the local Fistian and Korelri policy was simply to ignore these invaders until they faded away. As surely they would, soldier by soldier, until nothing was left but for mouldering armour and dusty pennants from forgotten distant lands high on a wall.
The stalemate of initial invasion had ossified into formalized relations. It seemed that as far as the Korelri were concerned the Malazans simply ran the island of Fist now, as had the last Roolian dynasty before them. A mere change in administration. Frustration was not the word. Failure, perhaps, came closer to describing the acid bite in Ussü’s stomach and soul whenever his thoughts turned to it. He had failed his superiors, each commander in turn, failed in attaining his one assigned task: achieving Malazan domination in this theatre. Decades ago, before the invasion fleet left Unta, Kellanved himself had set the task upon him.
He remembered his surprise and terror that day, so long ago now, when the old ogre had taken his arm and walked him out along Unta’s harbour mole. Dancer had followed; how the man’s gaze had tracked their every move! ‘Ussü,’ Kellanved had said, ‘I will tell you this: in the end conquering is not about what territory or resources you control … it is about recasting the deck entirely.’
And he had mouthed something insipid about certainly meaning to and the Emperor had pulled his arm free to jab his walking stick impatiently to the south. ‘Everywhere, for every region – for every person – hands are dealt from the Dragons deck. To create true fundamental change you must force a complete reshuffling and recasting of all hands. Turn your thoughts to that.’ And the man had smiled slyly then, leaning on the silver hound’s head walking stick, staring out over the water and Ussü remembered thinking: As you have, wherever you have gone.
They reached the lowest levels of construction. A locked iron door barred entrance to deeper tunnels carved from the native rock. Here Ussü used a key from his own belt to unlock the portal; no guards remained. Beyond, Borun and Yeull lit torches from lanterns and continued; Ussü locked the door behind them.
He believed these rough winding ways dated back to before the establishment of Paliss itself as a state capi
tal, or even as a settlement. It seemed to him the dust their footfalls kicked up carried with it a tang of smoke and sulphur. Perhaps a remnant of the immense crater lake that dominated the big island.
The torch Yeull carried spluttered and hissed as the man shivered ahead of Ussü, muttering beneath his breath as if in conversation with himself. Ussü wondered, not for the first time, just when a new overlord might be necessary. Not he or Borun; both had found their place. One of the remaining division commanders perhaps, Genarin, or Tesh kel. Yeull had never been popular with the men, given as he was to brooding. But he’d been getting less and less reliable of late.
Borun led the way into a chamber carved from stone. Along one side stood a row of smaller alcoves, each barred. Cells. And around the main room instruments of … punishment and persuasion.
Just as Ussü had found them so long ago when the fortress fell. Very bloodthirsty, that last Roolian dynasty. And forgotten in the most distant pit, enduring, perhaps older even than that generation itself, the last occupant. Had he been overlooked during those last days of panic as the Malazan fist closed? Or had he already been forgotten – slipping from the living memory of humanity as dynasty followed dynasty in their cycles of rebellion and decline? Who was to say? He himself refused to enlighten them.
Borun stopped at a great iron sarcophagus some three paces in length lying within a metal framework upon the bare stone. He set his torch in a brazier, then took hold of a tall iron wheel next to the frame. This he ratcheted, his breath harsh with effort. As the wheel turned long iron spikes slowly withdrew from holes set all down the sides of the sarcophagus, and in rows across its front.
When the ends of these countless iron spikes emerged from within the stained openings a thick black fluid, blood of a kind, dripped viscous and thick from their needle tips. A slow rumbling exhalation of breath sounded then. It stirred the dust surrounding the sarcophagus.
Ussü bent over the coffin. ‘Cherghem? You can hear me?’
A voice no more substantial than that breath sounded from within. I hear you.
‘You say you have information for us? You sense something?’
Food. Water.
‘Not until you speak.’
Water.
Ussü took a ladle from a nearby bucket and dashed its contents across the spike holes in the iron masking the head of the casket. ‘There. You have water. Now speak!’
And the Overlord? He is here?
‘Yes.’ Ussü gestured Yeull forward.
But the Overlord would not move; he stood immobile, staring, one hand clenching the fur hide at his neck, the other white upon the haft of a torch held so close as to nearly set his hair aflame. His face appeared drained of all blood, its skein of scars livid.
‘High Fist …’ Ussü began, coaxing, ‘you must speak.’
The mouth opened but no sound emerged.
I sense him there, his heart pounding like a star in the night. Overlord, I have news for you.
‘Yes? News?’ the man croaked, stricken. ‘What news?’
They are coming for you, Yeull.
‘What’s that? Who?’
Ussü cast an uncertain glance across the sarcophagus to Borun who had cocked his armoured head aside, gauntlets clenching.
You did not think they would allow you your own personal fiefdom, did you? Your superiors, far to the north, they are coming to reassert control of their territory. No doubt you will hang as a usurper.
‘How can you know this?’ Ussü demanded.
I sense their approach.
‘From whence will they come? The west or the east?’
The east.
Ussü did not think it possible for the High Fist to pale any further, yet he did. ‘High Fist … we cannot be sure …’
But Yeull was backing away, shaking his head in terrified denial, his eyes huge dark pits. ‘No, they are coming … they will never stop. Never leave me alone.’
Ussü moved to follow. ‘High Fist …’
And can you guess who leads them?
Though Ussü knew this ancient being was laughing within, savouring his power over them, he turned to regard the impassive scarred iron mask, had to ask, ‘Who?’
Your old friend, Overlord … the one some name Stonewielder.
Yeull leapt to the wheel, torch falling. ‘How do you know this?’ he demanded.
I sense what he carries at his side – an artefact unique in all existence, but for one other.
The ratcheting of the mechanism shocked Ussü as it spun under Yeull’s hand.
The spikes thrust their way irresistibly into Cherghem’s flesh – such as it was – much deeper than ever, as far as they could, and the prisoner groaned, convulsing in a shudder that shook the stone beneath their feet. Then, silence. Ussü listened for an intake of breath, heard none.
‘That’s enough from you,’ Yeull ground out, snarling. He retrieved his torch, motioned to the stairs. As they walked the Moranth commander fell back to join Ussü. ‘Think you he was lying?’
‘No. It was inevitable … just sooner than I had hoped.’
‘What must we do?’
Ussü eyed the back of the Overlord, almost invisible in the gloom. ‘More germane to my mind is the question … what will you do?’
The Moranth’s chitinous armour plates grated in an indifferent shrug. ‘I am pledged to Yeull, my commander. He orders, I obey.’
‘I see.’ Ussü did not bother disguising his relief. Over a thousand Black Moranth – our iron core. We may yet have a chance. ‘Through my contacts I will warn Mare, let them know another invasion fleet will be approaching.’ They reached the locked iron door and Overlord Yeull, waiting, jaws clenched rigid in irritation and frustrated rage. ‘With any luck,’ Ussü finished, ‘not one ship will escape them as before.’
* * *
No less than five times Tal, First of the Chase, promised her war band blood. Each time the trespassers slipped their grasp. No ambush succeeded. Not even the gathering cold slowed the passage of these foreigners across the icefields. Now the Chase, the premiere Jhek war party, must content itself with a protracted hunt across the crevasses of the Great Northern Agal.
Tal signalled a halt, pulled off her bulky fur and hide mitts. Her breath clouded the air. Hemtl, her second, stopped next to her. His furred hood and ivory eye-shield obscured his face, but she could well imagine his boyish sulk. He motioned to the tracks scuffing the snow. ‘Still they remain ahead. They must be of the demons of old, the Forkul.’
‘The Forkul would not run,’ said a third voice and Tal suppressed a jerked start of surprise – Ruk had done it again. She turned: there he stood, arms and legs all crooked, in his hides of white, hair whiter still, the pale silver of frost. ‘At least not from us,’ he finished.
‘What would you know of the Forkul?’ Hemtl demanded. Wincing, Tal turned away. You are second, Hemtl. Ruk did not seek the position. No need to remind anyone – except yourself.
Ruk was silent, allowing the wind to whisper his answer to each: More than you.
The rest of the hunt had halted a distance back and crouched, indistinguishable among the wind-blown drifts. ‘This is a waste,’ Tal said to the blinding white horizon. ‘I have lost count of the spoor we’ve passed.’
‘Five snow bear and stragglers of the Ice River herd,’ supplied Ruk.
‘The insult must be answered!’ Hemtl snarled.
Still facing away, Tal let out a long pluming breath. ‘What does the land say?’
‘Stone and rock are far away, Tal,’ said Ruk. ‘The Jaghut ice smothers all other voices.’
‘Yet?’
‘Yet there are whispers …’
She turned to the old man. Why the reluctance? His shielded gaze was turned aside. His hair blew free. Did the man not feel their old enemy’s biting cold? For the first time in the hunt Tal felt the tightening in her throat that comes with the cornering of a snow bear or a giant tusker. Who were these strangers? ‘Whispers of what?’ she b
reathed.
‘Of the ancestral Hold. Tellann.’
‘Impossible!’ burst out Hemtl. ‘That cannot be.’
‘Not impossible,’ answered Tal, thoughtful. ‘The Elders still walk the land. Logros, Kron, Ifayle. The path is still open – we have just lost the way.’
‘The Jag curse of ice has smothered it,’ Ruk agreed.
‘There are other ways …’ Hemtl said, his voice sullen. ‘The Broken God beckons.’
‘He is not of the land,’ Ruk answered, his dismissal complete.
Tal raised a hand to sign for a halt. ‘Ruk and I will go ahead, see if they will speak to us.’
‘Speak?’ said Hemtl. ‘To what end?’
‘Who knows?’ And she laughed to chide Hemtl. ‘Perhaps they will surrender, hey?’
Tal and Ruk jogged onward. They picked up their pace from their normal league-sustaining trot of pursuit, closing the distance between them and their quarry. After a time the change in tactics was discovered and the party of four ahead slowed then stopped, awaiting them far across the ice. Closing, she and Ruk slowed as well, came to a halt themselves. Tal held out her gloved hands. ‘Do you understand me?’ she called in Korelri.
‘We do,’ an accented voice answered from over the windswept field. ‘What is there for us to talk of?’
What was there for them to talk of? Where could she possibly start? ‘By what right do you so arrogantly cross our lands?’
The four spoke among themselves. One raised his hands to his mouth. ‘Your lands? We thought these wastes empty. Why do you chase us?’
Why? What fools these foreigners were! ‘Why? Because these are our lands! You are trespassers. You eat caribou – that is food taken from our families.’
The four spoke again. ‘We offer our apologies. But there are so many. That herd numbered thousands!’
Tal and Ruk could not help but exchange looks of exasperation. Foreigners! Elder Gods deliver them from the uncomprehending fools. Tal called across the ice, ‘Yes, so it would seem. Yet every one of those spoken for, and that all our families have! What of the herds of your lords? What if they were kept all together and someone, seeing all their number, helped himself to one seeing as they numbered so? What would then happen to him?’
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