He offered what might have been intended as a smile of encouragement, but which struck Ivanr as a death’s-head leer. ‘So you see, Ivanr. You may take their determination to meet us in the field as a potential disaster – I see it as already a half-victory.’ With that the man bowed, and took his leave.
Ivanr wasn’t certain what to make of all that. Either the man was an extraordinarily talented political agent, or he was a religious fanatic blind to everything but success. While he agreed that this lot did not have the discipline to last any protracted siege, the Imperial heavy cavalry playing to their strengths of warfare in the field did not particularly strike him as a mistake on their part. But he didn’t serve on the intelligence side of strategy. Tactics was his strength.
The call came back through the ranks for an end to the day’s march. The soldier in Ivanr was horrified: it was nowhere near dusk! At this rate it would take them another week to reach Ring. He dabbed his wet sleeve to his face. Such was the price of holding together a voluntary civilian army.
And as always, the Imperials watched and waited. He peered around, searching the rolling hillsides surrounding the loose, ranging force. There, on the distant flank, riders shadowing them. One of Hegil’s few remaining cavalry? No way to tell from this distance. Probably not. He wondered why they weren’t constantly harassing them, gnawing at their numbers. Perhaps the Imperials considered it beneath their dignity.
Perhaps they did not wish to discourage the rag-tag army from advancing to its destruction. A damned miserable conclusion to come to. He blew on his hands and wished he hadn’t thought of it.
*
A constellation of camp fires lit the night to the east. Here, in a wooded depression, a single hearth of embered logs glowed a sullen orange. A man sat cross-legged before it, hunched, studying small objects pulled from a bag. Each piece elicited further exclamations of disbelief and outrage until the man scooped up the casting of pieces and thrust them home once again.
The crackle of brush snapped his attention round. ‘Who is that?’
‘It’s Totsin,’ snarled the newcomer, cursing and pushing at the dense bracken.
The man relaxed. ‘Surprised to see you here. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to disturb a talent at work?’
Totsin straightened his shirt and pushed back his thin hair. ‘Is that what you’re doing? I’m looking for Sister Gosh. She’s here, isn’t she?’
The man shook the bag, squinted suspiciously at it. ‘Yeah. She’s here,’ he said absently.
Totsin watched for a time, stroking his uneven beard. ‘So, Brother Jool … what are you doing?’
Jool shook the bag next to his ear once again. A clacking sounded from it. ‘The tiles are talking nonsense.’
Totsin’s hand clenched in his beard. He took a quavering breath. ‘Oh? I’ve always thought them unreliable, you know.’
Not answering, Jool smoothed the dirt before him then reached into the bag. He drew a tile, examined it in the faint light, grunted, and set it down.
‘What is it?’ Totsin asked in a whisper.
‘Hearth, or Flame, inverted. Failure? Betrayal? A very troubling start.’
Next came another tile, this one of a very black wood. Jool snorted his disgust. ‘Again. Always early. A strong portent – but of what?’
‘What is that one?’
‘The Dark Hoarder, inverted. Death? Betrayal ending in death? Or life, the opposite of cessation? How am I to read it?’
Totsin said nothing.
Another tile, this one of crude fired clay. ‘Earth. Very unusual coming up this early. Could also mean the past returned, or consequences. It is aligned with the ancient earth goddess. Some name it the Dolmen.’
He reached in again and this time hissed at the gleaming white tile in his hand. ‘Riders next. Prominent. Are these two associated now somehow? What are the relationships here: hearth betrayed, death betrayed, earth or past, and Stormriders? What am I to make of it?’ Jool reached in again. ‘One last choice.’
This dark wood tile he held up, squinting at it. ‘Demesne of Night. Hold of Darkness. Related, how? A puzzle indeed.’
Totsin cleared his throat. ‘I have a tile for you, Jool. I came by it recently.’
Jool did not look up; he was frowning at the spread of tiles before him. ‘Oh? A new one?’
‘Yes. Here it is.’
Distracted, Jool glanced up. Totsin tossed the small rectangle of wood; Jool caught it. ‘What is … Gods all around! Totsin! You fool!’ The man sprang to his feet, tried to throw the tile away but it would not leave his hand. He stared at it, horrified. ‘We never – the Witch! Her! What have you—’
Then, a long hiss of comprehension, his shoulders falling. ‘I see now. Hearth, home, betrayed: a traitor within the family. Death – mine. Dolmen – the past, your reasons. Night – now, this night.’
The hand holding the tile withered before their eyes, desiccating to a dead skeletal limb sheathed in skin cured to leather. ‘The Riders, though,’ Jool continued, wondering. ‘What have they … wait! Four! Four fates foretold! Two greater and two lesser.’ The man’s face paled to an ashen pallor, sinking and withering. ‘Fool you remain, Totsin. You slew me too early. What I foresee I now withhold – to your despair …’ A last breath escaped dried lips and Jool collapsed, bones clattering, to fall in a heap of parchment-like flesh.
Totsin regarded the corpse. Bravado? Empty threat? What was he to make of that last message? Pondering it, he used a stick to push the tiles back into their leather pouch then cinched it tight. Nothing, he decided. It meant nothing. Too vague and unreliable, this technique … he’d never trusted it. A method for lesser talents only. He kicked dirt over the smouldering embers.
Only two left now. The two most dangerous.
* * *
After departing the Ancy valley, word came to the Moranth column that Borun and Ussü were to travel ahead by mount as they had been summoned by the Overlord. They took messenger mounts and used the system of changing-posts to transfer to fresh horses as they travelled west. Though a Moranth, and unused to riding, Borun endured the endless pounding with his typical stoicism. Ussü, however, hadn’t ridden so hard in over two decades. The travel was a torture to him. His inner thighs were scraped raw; his back and neck ached as if struck all over by batons; and despite the constant agony he nearly fell off his mount as towards dawn he drifted into a fog of exhaustion.
At the next changing-post he lay down and threatened Borun with death should he disturb him. Prudently, the Moranth commander did not answer and withdrew. Ussü slept immediately, and seemingly just as immediately a knock came on the door. ‘What is it?’ he croaked.
‘I have given you four hours,’ Borun answered.
Ussü let his head fall back. Damn. ‘Very well. I am coming.’ Levering himself up he set his feet on the ground and straightened, groaning. Gods, and Lady, I am too old for this. This trip alone will be the death of me. He opened the door, leaned against the jamb. Borun grunted, seeing him.
‘Food and fresh mounts await.’
Ussü shook his head. ‘I cannot. You go ahead.’
‘That is not the arrangement. We travel together. Now come.’
Ussü raised a palsied, liver-spotted hand. ‘No. I haven’t the strength. It’s been too long.’
The featureless matt-black helm regarded him in silence, then Borun gathered the food into panniers which he threw over a shoulder. ‘You are a mage – do whatever it is you do.’ And he left the post’s main room.
Ussü stared after him. Damn if the man wasn’t right. He regarded the hand, drew on his Warren. Blue flame flickered to life around the flesh. Anneal me, he commanded. Flames shall nourish. Instantly the bone-weariness sloughed from him like slag in a furnace. He straightened, shocked and, frankly, rather terrified. Whence comes this power? There was nothing of the Lady in it; rather, she seemed to have stood aside and allowed it. Grudgingly, he accepted it.
My thanks, Blessed Lady.
<
br /> At the changing-post beside the main crossroads for the road to Paliss, word came that they were to make for Lallit. Ussü took the orders from Borun’s hands. ‘Lallit? On the coast? Whatever for?’
‘It does not say. But it is authentic. The seals and codes are correct.’
Ussü threw it back at the messenger in frustration. He needed to speak to Yeull! Why this detour to the coast? It was insufferable – and yet more riding! ‘That’s another four days!’
‘Approximately. And we must go. There is no questioning this.’
‘Still no word from Ancy?’ Ussü asked the messenger.
‘No, sir. You are ahead of the news.’
Borun dismissed the messenger. ‘We’ll take the Paliss road for a time then strike west.’ He headed for the corral.
Ussü watched the man’s armoured back. Here I am complaining and this man has yet to hear any word on his command. Surely they must be a good two or three days ahead of any Malazan advance – even if they broke through immediately. Still, he would do well to dwell less on his own troubles and think of those of others for a change.
Resigning himself to the shift in destination, he went to join Borun.
Three days’ riding, plus the better part of three nights’, brought Ussü and Borun near Lallit on the coast of an arm of Sender’s Sea which many named the Pirate’s Sea. These last few days they’d come across signs of the passage of many men and wagons and carts of equipment. It looked as if an army had been brought to the coast. All this further troubled Ussü. Could Yeull actually be here and not at Paliss? If so, what of the capital? Whatever was he planning? The Malazans were advancing; the reorganized Roolian Army ought to be massing and heading east to confront them.
Turning a last hillside in the long sloping descent to the coast brought the iron-blue expanse of the sea into view and the modest town of Lallit as well. Ships choked its narrow harbour and an encamped army surrounded the town. It looked like the assemblage of an invasion force. For an instant Ussü wondered whether they were looking at another Malazan force just landed on their west coast. But the dark brown of Rool flew everywhere, reassuring him. He and Borun exchanged a wordless look and continued on.
Sentries met them, and an escort was assembled to guide them to the Overlord. All the rest of the Sixth appeared to have been brought together from all frontiers. Elite native Roolian and Skolati forces fleshed out the numbers. Their escort brought them to the wharf and the gangway of a large man-of-war bearing Roolian pennants, plus the personal pennant of the Overlord, the old standard of the Sixth.
Here on the coast snow fell, driven inland by strong south-westerlies off the Ocean of Storms. The air was noticeably colder – the damp, Ussü told himself, nothing more. The Overlord’s personal guard waved them up the gangway. Within the dim sweltering main cabin they found the Overlord awaiting them. They drew off their thick travelling cloaks and Ussü knelt to offer obeisance to the shadowy figure behind the great desk piled with sheets of vellum, scrolls, and battered ledgers.
‘Overlord. You ordered us to report.’
‘And here you are,’ the figure grumbled. ‘Feed the fire. You’ve brought the frigid air with you.’
A guard set more wood on the iron brazier even though sweat now beaded Ussü’s brow and steam rose from their travelling cloaks.
‘You ordered our withdrawal …’ Borun said, his voice sounding more hoarse than usual.
The figure leaned forward, arms on the desk. His vision adjusting, Ussü saw that Yeull sat wrapped in his usual layers. His black hair gleamed wet with sweat and his face held a pale fevered look. ‘Is that an accusation?’ he demanded.
‘It is a question.’
The man grunted, sinking back into his tall-backed chair. ‘You may have stalled the Betrayer a week or more but he would have crossed eventually. If not there, then elsewhere. Or divided his forces in multiple crossings. Yes?’
Borun grated, ‘Possibly …’
The Overlord sneered. ‘It would have happened. The Betrayer is determined to win through to the coast. He must. It is his strategy. His throw for all or nothing.’
‘The coast?’ Ussü asked.
Yeull’s hot gaze shifted to him. ‘You did not stop for news during your ride here, did you? Else you would have heard. Tell me, this second invasion force arrived in more than four hundred ships. What do you think happened to those once the Betrayer landed?’
Ussü shrugged. ‘I imagine that in due course the Marese sank them. As before.’
Yeull seemed to growl his disgust. ‘Hot tea!’ he barked aside to a guard, and the man set about pouring a dark brew. ‘No, my too-trusting adviser. In due course the Marese acknowledged defeat and sued for peace!’ Yeull slammed a fist to the table, scattering vellum sheets. ‘So much for them.’ He pulled at the layered jackets and padded quilted jerkins he wore draped about his shoulders. ‘And now we are flanked.’
Flanked? Ah, the coast! Gods forfend! They are here?
‘You are abandoning Rool,’ Borun judged, far ahead of Ussü in matters of strategy.
The Overlord nodded. ‘Yes.’
Ussü was completely confused. Abandon Rool? To go where? Why won’t he stand and fight? ‘You too are capitulating?’ he blurted and instantly regretted it.
The Overlord was quiet. Sweat gleamed like a sheath on his face. His gaze was like a heated lance stabbing at Ussü’s brow. After a time he drew a shuddering breath, gulped down his steaming tea. ‘We travel to the real battle, my ignorant adviser.’
A grating snarl sounded from Borun’s helm. ‘They strike at Korel!’
Ussü felt as if he would fall faint. The exhaustion, the heat, these revelations. It was all too much. He wiped a hand across his slick brow. ‘That would be insane. The entire island would rise against him.’ He searched the dim room for an empty chair or a stool.
‘Your faith is a lesson to us all,’ the Overlord commented from the gloom. ‘That must be why she favours you so much.’
But Ussü was not listening. His breath would not come. It was too close, too constraining. He felt as if the ship were suddenly in a storm. Armoured hands gripped him and sat him down on a ledge. A hand forced his head down to his knees. ‘Breathe,’ Borun ordered.
The blackness swallowing Ussü’s vision abated. He panted while his heart slowed its constricted panic. Borun was speaking: ‘You are too quick to abandon Rool. Let me march south. We may yet stop him.’
‘True,’ the Overlord granted, sounding surprisingly tolerant of such questioning. ‘We may. But I have opted to substitute the possibility of victory now for assured success in the summer.’
‘Oh? How so?’
Ussü looked up, blinking. A guard offered him a glass of tea, which he took with gratitude. It was a herbal infusion he recognized, very resuscitating.
‘The Korelri are desperate for manpower. We have struck an agreement to provide it. Further, we will stand with them to repel any Malazan attempt to break them. After this, come spring when the Stormriders have retreated and the Korelri stand idle … well, just imagine what we could accomplish returning to Rool accompanied by the iron might of the grateful Korelri.’
Ussü stared, amazed. Would this work? The Korelri had never before interfered in any of the old internecine warfare and feuds; so long as they received their tribute, they were content. Yet if Greymane struck at their island in an attempt to break their power, and the Roolians stood with them … an alliance! The advantages would be incalculable.
‘And my command?’ Borun rumbled.
Silent, Yeull regarded the Black commander for some time, his eyes slit almost shut. Ussü sensed a dislike bordering on disgust in that gaze – could this be jealousy? ‘They will be last. Ships will be sent back. You may stay to await them.’
Borun bowed.
‘And you, my High Mage …’
Ussü straightened, bowing. ‘Yes, Overlord.’
‘You will accompany me. Have you ever seen the Stormwall?’
/>
‘Ah, no, my lord.’
‘It is a wonder of the world. And quite a sight. Especially this time of year.’
Ussü suddenly no longer felt so unbearably hot. He pulled the sweat-soaked clothes away from his chest. ‘So you say, m’lord. So you say.’
CHAPTER X
There resides just outside Thol a famous anchoress who lives sealed within her prison home, her only communication with the outside world a narrow slit through which food may be passed. Pilgrims from all over the isles visit this sacred woman, who has forsworn the profane world for her contemplation of the sacred. You may sit next to the bricked door with its narrow window and partake of her wisdom earned through five decades of self-imposed exile from the world. Locked within her tiny cell, nothing is beyond the reach of her judgement.
Holies of the Subcontinent
The Abbey, Paliss
ENTERING BANITH, GREYMANE ESTABLISHED HIS HEADQUARTERS in the warehouse the Moranth Blue occupied. Devaleth was pleased to see that when the High Fist and Admiral Swirl met, they shared a long clasp. Admiral Nok, she’d heard, was not present as the man had famously sworn a vow never to set foot on land again. The two immediately sat down to discuss tactics. Orders went out to the Fists, Rillish and Khemet Shul, who were in the field overseeing the disposition of the troops.
While she was pleased by the High Fist’s cheer, what he intended was now absolutely clear to her and the immensity, the audaciousness of it left her reeling.
Kyle noticed, and invited her aside. ‘You are unwell?’
Her voice was shaky as she answered, very low, ‘Do you have any idea what this man is actually going to go through with?’
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