Destroyed? Queen forfend! What force could possibly overcome an entire race of Shadow daemons? And here, in their own homeland.
Jheval was studying the columns. ‘You are sea-people?’
‘Yes. We fished the giant bottom-feeders. We gathered among the shallow wetlands. But the great lake that has supported my people since before yours rose up on your hind legs has been taken from us. Great Ixpcotlet! How we mourn its passing.’
An entire lake gone? ‘What happened?’ Kiska asked, astonished. This went against all her impressions of a timeless Shadow realm.
She imagined that many expressions must be flitting across Least Branch’s face, but she and Jheval could not read them. ‘A Chaos Whorl has eaten into this realm you call Emurlahn. It has swallowed Ixpcotlet. It grows even as we flee.’
Kiska almost dropped her staff. ‘A Whorl? Like a Void? Touching Chaos?’
Some sort of membrane shuttered across Least Branch’s eyes – an expression of surprise? ‘Yes. Just so. We go to find another body of water, and to warn others. Perhaps we may even find the Guardian.’
Kiska stared anew. ‘A guardian? Gaunt, ancient? Carries a sword?’
The creature took a step backwards, obviously stunned. ‘You know of him?’
‘Yes. I’ve met him. He calls himself Edgewalker.’
‘He spoke to you? That is … unusual. We name him the Guardian.’
Jheval was eyeing her, clearly surprised himself.
Least Branch gestured, inviting them to accompany him. ‘Come, won’t you? Don’t you know it is dangerous out here? The Hounds are about.’
All the way down the hill Kiska wondered if Least Branch was tempted to ask why the two of them laughed so much. How they chuckled uncontrollably, then, catching one another’s gaze, burst out anew. Don’t you know the Hounds are about?
Least Branch led them to the rear of the migration. They passed two of the boats. Each towered over them, scaled to their gigantic makers. They rumbled on their immense platforms pulled by teams of hundred of the daemons. The dust blinded and choked them and Kiska glimpsed Jheval untying the cloth wrapped about his helmet to wind it over his mouth and face. She imitated him, winding a scarf over her face and leaving only a slit for her vision. The noise was the worst, as wooden wheels shrieked against wooden axles. The daemons did not seem to mind the cacophony but it almost drove Kiska mad.
Behind the horde, among the churned-up dirt, the shin-deep ruts and tossed rubbish, the gnawed bones, broken pots and excrement, Least Branch stopped to point back along the trail of broken earth. ‘Just follow our path. You cannot miss it. But you do not really seek this Whorl, do you? It opens on to the shores of Chaos. And we sense behind it an unhinged intelligence. We flee it. As you should, too.’
Kiska was staring up the trail all the way to the flat horizon, which to her eyes appeared bruised, darker. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I believe it’s what we’re here for.’
‘Then I must say farewell, though I confess I am tempted to accompany you.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Because I believe there is a chance you will meet the Guardian. I say this because he has spoken to you once and so may again, for he seldom does anything without a reason. And so, should you meet him, ask him this for myself and for my people, the fishers of Ixpcotlet – why did he do nothing? Why did he not intervene? We are very confused and disappointed by this.’
Kiska faced Least Branch directly, gazing almost straight up. ‘If I meet him I will ask. This I swear.’
The daemon waved its thin armoured limbs, the meaning of the gesture unknown to Kiska. ‘I will have to be satisfied with your vow. My thanks. Safe journeying to you.’
‘Goodbye. And our thanks.’
‘Fare you well,’ Jheval added.
They watched the great daemon lumber away. The spears clattered and swung on its back as it went. Alone now, free of their huge guide, Kiska felt exposed once more, though the plains that surrounded them lay utterly flat and featureless.
Jheval cleared his throat. ‘Well, I suppose we’d best get on our way.’
Kiska eyed him: his fingers were tucked into the lacing securing his morningstars; a habit of his while walking. Thinking of her behaviour during their imprisonment, Kiska said nothing, nodding and starting off. Perhaps they would discuss those days – perhaps even weeks, who knew? – of cramped involuntary companionship some time in the future. Right now it was too close and too raw.
Perhaps, as she suspected, neither of them would ever mention it again.
* * *
They had assembled forty thousand regulars supported by a backbone of six thousand Malazan veterans of the Sixth. The force was known officially as the Army of Rool. Envoy Enesh-jer commanded, representative of Overlord Yeull. Ussü served as adviser, while Borun commanded his detachment of a thousand Black Moranth. The Overlord remained at the capital, Paliss.
Ussü was mounted, out of consideration if not for his age, then for his rank. Most of the officers and all of the Envoy’s staff were mounted. However, there was no organized cavalry force large enough to play a major part in any engagement, save harassment, scouting and serving as messengers. The Jourilan and Dourkan might pride themselves on their cavalry, but it had never been cultivated in Rool, or Mare. Possibly the peoples of Fist followed the model of the Korelri – who of course considered horses particularly useless.
Ussü wished they had many more mounts; the crawling progress of the army chafed him. They had yet to reach the Ancy valley, let alone the Ancy itself. Perhaps it was pure nostalgia, but he was sure the old Sixth could have managed a far better pace. Riding by, he shared many a jaundiced gaze with the veterans, sergeants and officers, as together they scanned the trudging, bhederin-like Roolian troops. He pulled his cloak tighter against the freezing wind cutting down from the Trembling range and stretched his back, grimacing. Gods, when was the last time he rode for more than pleasure? Yes, we’re all older now. And perhaps the past glows brighter as it recedes ever further. But what we face is not the past – it is the present Malazan army. What of their standards? Who is to say? We know just as much of them as they of us.
And so two blind armies grope towards each other.
Where lies the advantage? Intelligence.
He spurred his mount to the van, and the coterie of officers and staffers clustered around the Envoy. Like flies. Yet is that fair? This Enesh-jer was selected by Yeull. Though it seems as if the choice was based more on the fervency of the man’s devotion to the Lady than on any command competence or experience. Like those of his staff and inner circle: more like priests in their pursuit of rank and prestige than interested in field command. And so similarly am I suspect to them. Magicker, they whisper. Dabbler in the forbidden arts.
Ussü eased up to catch the Envoy’s gaze as he rode past, but the man was engaged in conversation with an aide, his lean hound’s head averted – stiffly, it seemed to Ussü. The staffers and other lackeys were not so circumspect. Some eyed him coolly, others with open disapproval, while the worst offered open enjoyment of what could be taken as a deliberate, calculated insult.
Ussü revealed no discomfort. He bowed respectfully in his saddle, urged his mount on. In advance of the van, he kneed the mare into a gallop. What lay ahead? Three days ago word had reached their column by way of refugees of the fall of Aamil. The stories were wild, even given a penchant for panicked exaggeration. The city levelled; citizens slaughtered; a demon army in blue armour, which from their description Ussü quickly understood to be Blue Moranth. The invaders marching west. Things became rather fanciful after that. Flash floods tearing down from the Trembling range carrying off hundreds of the invaders; roads washed out; murderous hailstorms, landslides and earthquakes.
The literal end of the world. Absurd. Though, nights ago, a shaking of the ground and yells of horror and alarm throughout the camp woke everyone. Such manifestations were thought to represent the displeasure of the Lady.
The
landings would have been more than ten days ago now. Just where were these invading Malazans, their new rivals? Had scouts reached the bridge? Had their commander – could it really be Greymane? – ordered a spear-like dash for control of this single crossing over the Ancy?
And why was Yeull so reluctant to destroy it?
Climbing a rise he came to a small contingent of Roolian horse halted at its crest. In their midst sat Borun, looking rather uncomfortable atop a broad, muscular stallion. Ussü walked his mount ahead until he shared their view down into the Ancy valley stretched out below, the broad river flowing south towards Mirror Lake at the foot of the Black range. Mid-valley it broadened over a course of shallow rapids spanned by the long slim timber and stone bridge raised by Malazan engineers of the Sixth what seemed so long ago. Beside it, on the west shore, the bailey and stone keep of the fortress of the Three Sisters, named for the rapids. Surrounding the fortress sprawled a small town of farmers and businesses catering to travellers of this main trader road.
Borun dismounted and joined him. ‘Any sign of them?’ Ussü asked.
‘None. We seem to have beaten them here.’
‘I’m surprised. They must be aware of the bridge’s importance.’
‘Perhaps,’ the Black Moranth commander mused, ‘they assume it already destroyed.’
Ussü eyed the blunt side of the commander’s helm. Yes. If it were up to them it would have been blown immediately. ‘You still have munitions?’
The helm tilted an assent. ‘We yet have some crates we salvaged from our wrecked vessels.’
‘I suggest you put them to use.’
Borun faced him direct; Ussü could discern no detail behind the narrow vision slits of his helm. ‘The Overlord has not given his permission to mine the bridge.’
Ussü smiled faintly. ‘We can always blame the Malazans. Their saboteurs can’t leave any bridge unblown.’
A sound escaped Borun’s helm as he rocked slightly. It took a moment for Ussü to recognize the gravelly hoarse rasping as laughter. It was the first time he’d ever heard it. ‘Let us go down and examine this fortress, then. Shall we?’
‘Yes, High Mage.’
To Ussü’s critical eye, the fortress of the Three Sisters was more a glorified tax hut than a defensible fortification. Its walls were thin, single-layered. It possessed a ditch, yes, but the causeway leading up to the gate was far too wide for his liking. And streaming up this causeway came a steady line of refugees carrying their few worldly goods wrapped in rags, heaped in donkeys, or pulled in carts. To Ussü’s surprise they were also allowed to drive cattle, goats, and sheep up into the bailey. Where would the fodder come from to feed all these animals? Flanked by Borun, he urged his mount ahead through the press. He reflected that, if the worst came to the worst, at least they could eat the animals.
Within, makeshift huts crowded what should be an open marshalling field. Smoke rose from a blacksmith’s hut across the way. A long barracks of a sort ran down one side. Across rose the motte, topped by a square stone tower keep. A slimmer inner causeway led up to its gate. Ussü directed his mount to that dirt ramp and to the black-robed figures standing upon it, each bearing a staff.
Upon reaching the base, Ussü bowed in his saddle. The four bearded priests remained unmoving. ‘Greetings. I am Ussü, adviser to our Overlord. This is Commander Borun.’
One of the priests gave a slight nod. ‘Greetings, Ussü, Borun. I am Abbot Nerra. I command this fortress.’
Ussü blinked his surprise. ‘What of Captain Hender?’
‘He has been relieved.’
Ussü strove to keep his face blank. Hender was a veteran of the Sixth. He would have sent these refugees onward, not allowed them to clog up a military outpost. The disarray, the admission of all these civilians – so many mouths to feed! – now made sense.
‘And where is the Envoy?’ Nerra demanded.
Turning in his saddle, Ussü saw that indeed the Envoy, surrounded by his entourage, was just now entering the bailey. He gestured to the gate. As the Envoy drew near, the priests of Our Lady descended the ramp until their heads were close to level with those mounted. Abbot Nerra bowed to Enesh-jer, who received the obeisance as if it were no less than his due. ‘My lord Envoy,’ Nerra began, ‘the fate of this flock, all those loyal to Our Blessed Lady, is in your hands.’
The Envoy’s lean features drew back in a skull-like grin. ‘We will stop these invaders. Heretics and unbelievers all.’
Ussü glanced from face to face. Could these men really be in earnest? When Enesh-jer arrived with the Sixth he knew nothing of this local cult. Still, it was said that there was no fanatic like the converted. He looked to Borun then wondered why he bothered: it was impossible to read the armoured Moranth. If he could distinguish anything from the man’s posture, it was disengagement and boredom.
‘Do not concern yourself, Abbot,’ Enesh-jer was saying. ‘We will establish a bridgehead across the Ancy. No invaders will reach Roolian lands.’
‘Excuse me, m’lord.’ Ussü spoke up, astonished. ‘Surely you do not plan to march forces across the bridge. They will be isolated upon the far side. If the bridge is not to be blown we must remain on this shore, defend here.’
Something like a hissed sigh escaped the Envoy’s slit lips and his eyes bulged in his skull face. ‘No doubt,’ he enunciated, nearly strangled by his passion, ‘our Overlord sees some value in your opinions on esoteric topics, Adviser. But in matters of tactics and disposition of forces I suggest you remain silent.’
Inwardly Ussü fumed, but he also felt a distinct chill as all eyes studied him – many with open enmity. Keeping his face flat, he bowed.
Enesh-jer nodded stiffly, accepting Ussü’s apparent deference. ‘I will remain to command the fortress with, ah, your permission, Abbot.’ Nerra bowed. ‘Very good. There remains, then, the matter of the near shore …’
Ussü kicked Borun’s armoured boot. The Moranth commander loudly cleared his throat. ‘I would ask for the honour, Envoy. With your permission.’
The Envoy gave a wave to signal his granting of said honour.
Ussü bowed again to take his leave and reined his mount round. He was ignored. As he crossed the bailey Borun joined him. ‘This fortress is a death trap,’ Ussü murmured to the Moranth commander. They urged their way forward through the press of wide-eyed civilians and complaining animals. As they reached the ramp across the ditch, he studied the narrow wall of set stones and shook his head. ‘There will be no siege. It will be a sacking.’
‘Perhaps they will hold them on the far shore,’ Borun answered, his voice even more hoarse than usual as he tried to keep it low.
Ussü sighed. ‘Perhaps. But if I were Greymane – if he survived to land – then I would send marines ahead to cross to the north and south to make a lunge for the bridge while the main forces closed. And if they succeed in that, we must withdraw swiftly. I suggest to the south, then west.’
‘Then that recourse of which you spoke. Just in case.’
‘Yes. I would also require a tent in your camp, Borun. Where I can work unmolested. And prisoners.’
‘Prisoners? Who?’
‘Any. It does not matter. So long as they are strong. I mean to do some scrying.’
Borun inclined his helmed head. ‘As you request, High Mage.’
*
For the night watch Suth crept down with Len and Yana to the forward nook of rocks where a viewpoint was kept on the bridge over the Ancy far down the valley below. They relieved a team from the 11th, three women. Suth tried to meet the gaze of one as she was of Dal Hon. But she looked through him as if he wasn’t there and he knew why: she was a veteran while he had yet to truly prove himself.
Yana peered out over the rocks. ‘Nice of them to mark out their lines with torches like that for us.’
Len, lying flat with his chin on his folded forearms, said, ‘They’re working day and night. Digging ditches, making stake rows, traps, burning all the brush cover. Digg
ing in.’
‘Damn fools.’
Suth looked to Yana. ‘Why?’
‘The river splits their forces in two.’
‘So? They can retreat over the bridge.’
Len and Yana just shared a glance.
‘What I can’t figure,’ Len said, ‘is why that bridge is standing at all.’
‘Maybe it’s a trap,’ Suth offered.
‘Not worth the risk. You’d only get a few hundred troops.’ He was shaking his head. ‘Hard to believe ex-Malazans are in charge down there.’
Yana snorted. ‘They’re outlaws. Deserters. Good for nothing.’
But Len was unconvinced. He kept shaking his head, lips pursed.
Suth sat back to wrap his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. It was winter season here in Fist. A chill wind blew out of the north. Locals named it cursed. Not that he’d met that many locals. They tended to run away; thought them some sort of demons come to eat their young. Through their entire advance west across Skolati all they found were deserted hamlets, abandoned farmsteads. Everyone had fled to the hills or taken to the cities in the south. Suth found it incomprehensible. But then he came from a land that had known countless sweeping conquests and changes of rulership while this one was so insular they’d even forgotten their current rulers had invaded a generation ago.
All three stiffened as someone hissed from their rear. It was Keri. ‘Officers coming – pull your pants up.’ She scrambled away into the dark.
The three eyed one another. Officers? Yana mouthed, annoyed.
Then footsteps descending among the rocks, three sets. Len just raised his eyes to the night sky, turned away. Suth watched, saw who it was emerging from the dark and reflexively straightened, then forced himself to relax as he remembered the battle rules against identifying officers. It was their captain, Betteries, their Fist, Rillish Jal Keth, and the representative of their overall commander, the Adjunct.
Yana straightened as well while Len, exercising the code of complete indifference affected by saboteurs, ignored the newcomers. Captain Betteries signed for Suth and Yana to stand down, invited the Fist and the Adjunct to a lookout some distance off. Suth pretended to return to the watch but studied the three out of the corner of his eye. Betteries was gesturing to the valley below as if explaining tactics; the Fist was also adding comments, and nodding. The Adjunct just listened, his dark sun- and wind-burnished face revealing nothing. Suth’s gaze strayed to the twinned swords sheathed at the Fist’s belt. Untan duelling blades. Formidable weapons. Long, narrow, twin-edged and needle-pointed. Able to both cut and thrust. Once polished perhaps, but now battered, the leather sheaths hacked and worn. As for the Adjunct’s weapon; Suth pulled his gaze from the curved sword whose ivory pommel and grip seemed to glow with an inner light.
Stonewielder Page 35
