Suth sat back, disbelieving. All the gods of the lands. How dense can a man be? ‘All right. Outside.’
Wess inched his head aside, his eyes to Suth’s rear. Suth turned to see Goss approaching. The sergeant rested a heavy hand on Lard’s and Pyke’s shoulders, giving them all an evil smile. ‘Good to see everyone together like one big happy family. Now kit up. We’re on.’
The squad assembled in front of the inn. All were present, including, of all people, Faro. Yana only was absent as she was still recovering from her crossbow bolt wound. Suth had been named acting corporal. Len and Keri showed up last, jogging from the direction of the garrison. They cradled fat shoulder bags at their sides. Something in Suth shivered upon spotting those bags: whatever this was, it was gonna be ugly.
They marched east. Before they left the last outskirts of Banith, the 6th joined them led by Sergeant Twofoot. Suth couldn’t miss the giant shambling Fish, the squad’s muscle. The man held out a hand to Wess, who pressed a pouch into it. The two tucked rolls of leaves into their mouths. Peas in a damned pod.
Beyond the outskirts they passed tilled market gardens, leafless orchards and harvested fields of stubble and snow. They passed through Malazan checkpoints, were saluted onward. A mounted messenger joined up with them and led the way to a copse of trees north off the road. Here they were ordered to form up.
People advanced from the gloom of the woods. Suth recognized the Adjunct Kyle, Fist Rillish, and the mail-coated woman from the bridge battle, Captain Peles. With them was some squat meaty fellow who had the look of a wrestler, and an old man in ragged shirt and trousers, barefoot. One of the local tribesmen. The Fist stepped forward, studied their ranks.
‘Troopers of the 6th and 17th. You have been selected for a special mission. We will be making a dash to a Roolian stronghold, a series of caves in the mountains. There, our objective is to acquire or destroy a small box or chest. If any of you should locate this object – do not touch it! It could be deadly. Call for the saboteurs.
‘Now, you may be wondering how we could be making a dash to the mountains … well, you are Malazan troops. How many here have travelled by Warren?’
Suth looked round, curious, while a few hands went up – less than a quarter of the company. Goss’ hand was up, as was Twofoot’s, also most of the saboteurs’. Faro’s hand wasn’t up, which didn’t surprise Suth; the man would hardly volunteer any information. Peering about, Suth was startled to see that someone new had joined their ranks at the rear: a giant. The fellow was nearly half as tall again as the average height. He was also by far the broadest across, as well. Suth stared, then remembered he was in ranks, and returned his eyes forward.
Fist Rillish was nodding. ‘Very good. Those who have travelled before help the others, if necessary. Now, our guide for the quick journey will be this man.’ The Fist indicated the elderly local. ‘Gheven is his name. You will follow his orders explicitly. While we are in Warren, you will do as he says without hesitation or question. Is this clear?’
‘Aye, sir!’ came the bellowed response from all throats.
The Fist nodded again. ‘Very good. Now, I requested you because I know you’ve been in the fire before. You can handle yourselves. Follow orders, be responsive and quick, and we’ll be back before your lovers can miss you. That is all. Sergeants.’
Goss and Twofoot stepped forward. ‘Squads! Form up double column!’
The 17th lined up next to the 6th, while the Adjunct and the Fist led with their party. Then they merely set off through the woods. The night was partially overcast. Occasionally, a crescent moon dropped silver beams across the tree trunks. It was chill, but not uncomfortable. ‘Who’s the big guy?’ Suth asked Goss as they marched.
A shrug. ‘Came with the priest. Strange feller. Don’t see what help he’ll be.’
‘Priest?’
Goss gave him an amused look. He pointed to his face. ‘Priest of Fener.’
Suth hid his annoyance: too damned dark to see, wasn’t it?
‘Where’re we—’
Goss had raised a hand for silence. Crossbows were readied all up and down the two columns. The lines became ragged as some hesitated, anticipating a halt. But the order came back to keep moving. None should stop unless directly ordered to do so.
They marched, scanning the woods to either side, crossbows at shoulders. Suth caught a glimpse of some huge beast moving through a glade – of a set of gigantic antlers upraised, almost occluding a surprisingly fat and large moon. That none fired a bolt spoke of the strict adherence to the wait-for-go orders.
Suth stared back at that moon. He could’ve sworn it had been a sliver crescent last time he’d seen it. He was so absorbed he stumbled over Goss’ heels and the man righted him. ‘Ignore everything,’ he told him. ‘Unless it bites you.’
Suth nodded, chastened.
Things got very strange after that. The forest became extraordinarily wild and dense. Everyone released the tension on their crossbows and swung them on to their backs. Swords came out to hack a route. A mist rose, obscuring everything but the tall thick trunks and the vines surrounding them. Those vines occasionally snagged ankles and wrists but quick work from everyone hacked them away; Suth couldn’t tell whether that catching was accidental or deliberate. Soon the mist was swept away by a lashing heated wind that halted them with its fury. Branches slashed them. Suth held a forearm across his eyes, head down. After the wind had passed smoke boiled over them, chokingly thick. It slowly dispersed as they felt their way onward. Ahead, the forest was a blackened wasteland of standing shattered trunks. Beyond that rose a wall of ridges and cliffs, bare and black, billowing plumes of smoke, flame-lashed and glowing, obscuring half the night sky.
*
Rillish steadied Gheven whenever he faltered, which was becoming ever more frequent. He wondered, not academically, what would happen if they were still in this strange Warren when the man died. Would they be lost for ever? It was selfish of him to think of it, but it was a worry. He studied the man’s lined, sweaty face and received a nod of reassurance.
‘She’s anxious,’ the old man explained, his breath coming hard. ‘I sense it. There are things happening all across these lands. Control is slipping away. Now is our best chance.’
‘And how are you?’
Gheven answered with a tired smile. ‘I will manage. I have been hiding and watching long enough.’
Rillish answered the smile with one of his own then looked back to study the company. They were climbing the rocky slope of the crescent of mountains, the Trembling range, that contained the inland body of water known as Fist Sea. Somewhere ahead waited the cave complex of Thol. Below, the coming dawn revealed that at some time the forest had returned; the thunderstorm plume streaming from behind the peaks above was gone as well. A morning mist obscured the greenery of the forest, while the usual thick cloud cover now obscured the sky, seeming to pile up against the shoulders of the Trembling range.
The line of troops snaked below, the men and women dodging from cover to cover. Coming abreast of him, the priest Ipshank shot him a glance and Rillish directed his gaze to the elder. ‘Can’t you help him?’ he murmured, keeping his voice low.
The priest shook his head. ‘No. She’d sense me immediately. He’s having a hard enough time obscuring the Adjunct’s and my presence.’
‘Are we … out?’
‘Yes. Some time ago.’
Rillish nodded, relieved. ‘As soon as there’s cover I’ll order a rest. Everyone’s tired. We’ll have one shift to try to get some sleep.’ He waved for the sergeants. Now, his nagging suspicion returned that he’d not brought enough troopers. But Gheven had been adamant: he could manage no more.
So be it. They would have to succeed with what they had. The Adjunct, Kyle, had been insistent that he come. He had Captain Peles, who was extraordinary in a fight, Ipshank and Manask who were both legends, and two squads of Malazan heavy infantry. What more could any commander wish? It would have to do. After
all, what could possibly be awaiting them here, in the middle of nowhere?
* * *
This time it was no Korelri Stormguard who came for Corlo; it was a regular Theftian guardsman. It would seem that now, at the very height of the season, the Korelri were too hard-pressed, too thin on the ground, to spare a Chosen for such a menial task. For his part Corlo took renewed comfort from this. The chances for their escape were looking better and better.
The guard manacled his hands behind his back then urged him on with the point of his spear. Jemain had not returned, but the wall was long, and gathering intelligence a chancy business. Corlo trusted the Genabackan could find him again should he need to. What worried him was the possible cause for his summoning. Was Bars despairing again? Already? It rarely struck during mid-season. Was he just sick of it all? A reasonable reaction, actually. Just a little longer, Bars. I have news!
He was urged east in a long walk. One of the longest ever. He’d never been this far towards the eastern end of the wall. It was mostly higher ground here, but for one notorious low-lying section. Ice Tower. His anxiety clawed ever higher in his throat as they headed onward for another day’s march. He was startled at one point to pass a column of soldiers coming the opposite way: a detachment of fifty in Roolian brown. True soldiers, not frightened indebted citizens, or sullen criminals. Men well accoutred in ringed and studded armour, iron helmets, swords and shields. Had these Korelri struck some sort of deal with the Roolians? Looked like it.
The Theftian guard urged him onward down a treacherous icy descent to the curve of the Ice Tower curtain wall. Here he found chaos. Work crews struggled with stone blocks. Streams of ice coursed over the wall and down its rear where it disappeared into the driving snow. Guards waved them on as they might at a fire or some other catastrophe in any city. In the slashing frigid spume from the crashing waves, the guard hurried his pace. They both ended the journey running for cover into an ice-sheathed tower guarded by a single Korelri, his blue cloak trimmed in icicles, hoarfrost its own silver inlay on his Stormguard’s full helm. Corlo stomped his feet and rubbed his hands in the guardroom, and wondered that perhaps such a sight was what lay behind the silver chasing on all the Chosen’s armour: an imitation, or reminder, of the true inlay their sworn duty freely provided.
Within, a Korelri Stormguard motioned to the Theftian. ‘Is this the one?’
The guard nodded, shivering too violently to speak.
The Chosen regarded Corlo from behind the narrow vision slit of his helm. ‘Your friend has lost sight of his purpose again.’
Corlo felt his shoulders tightening. ‘There is nothing new I can say to him.’
A gauntleted hand smashed across Corlo’s face, sending him to the floor. He lay stunned. These Stormguard were never subtle, and the time for subtlety has long passed!
‘Wrong answer. Convince him to fight or you both die. Am I clear?’
Corlo lay rubbing his jaw. ‘Yes, sir. Very clear.’
‘Good.’ He picked up his spear. ‘This way.’
The Korelri led him down narrow circular stairs past levels of holding pens, guardrooms, and crude dormitories no more than halls scattered with straw in which men lay dozing or sat passing the time, talking and playing dice. Down towards the bottom of these levels they entered a slim hall faced by cells. The Korelri stopped at one and peered in the tiny window. He turned to Corlo. ‘Talk to your friend now. Convince him, or you’ll stand the wall together.’ He unlatched the door and pushed Corlo in.
Bars sat hunched against the far wall, elbows on knees, head hanging. He was filthy. His skin was blackened, cracked and scabbed from exposure, his greying hair long and matted. Corlo slid down the wall near the door. What to say? What could he possibly find to say? All he had left were lies.
The head rose and Bars gave him a wink. He stared, speechless. What was this? His commander stepped to the door, listened, then grunted. He pulled Corlo to his feet.
‘I have news,’ the big man said.
‘As have I,’ Corlo stuttered, still surprised.
‘Avowed are here. Shell and Blues. They say K’azz has returned, driven Skinner from the Guard.’
Corlo studied his commander, his pleasure at seeing the man revived and animated fading. Gods, no. Jemain mentioned the possibility of Avowed … but has all this finally proved too much for the man? Has he gone mad?
Bars pulled away. ‘Don’t give me that look. It’s real. I’ve met them. We just need to locate the survivors of the crew then we’re out of here.’
* * *
Borun spent his days in the tower of the Sea Gate in Lallit, gazing out at the iron-grey waters of Sender’s Sea. The Moranth sub-commanders knew not to disturb him as every day that passed without news worsened his mood until any question, no matter how tentatively set, received nothing more than an icy mute stare.
Two more days passed without the arrival of the promised ships. Then, Sub-commander Stoven, a companion of the commander from their youth, was selected to approach and ask what to do next. The woman knelt on one knee behind Borun, head bowed. ‘Commander. You have guided us faultlessly all these years. None question your choices. We ask … what are your orders?’
The commander turned. His arms were crossed. A great breath expanded his chest and his head moved from side to side, vertebrae cracking audibly. A long low breath escaped him. ‘Rise, Stoven. You are right to ask. I have been … negligent. It would seem that for reasons we have yet to ascertain, we are on our own. Very well. Round up all craftsmen, impress labourers. Begin construction of a defensive wall round the city. We may be here for some time.’
Stoven bowed. ‘Commander.’ Straightening, she peered out to sea. Her surprise was quite obvious despite her obscuring visor. ‘Commander – look.’
Borun turned. A vessel was entering the small bay. That alone was not worthy of note: what was unusual was that it was a Moranth Blue message cutter. As it neared Borun made out flagging raised on its yards requesting truce and parley. He set his gauntleted hands on the weapon belts crossed around his waist. ‘Well, Stoven. Let us go and see what our good cousins have to say.’
CHAPTER XI
When you do not recognize the wrongs of the past, the future takes its revenge.
Author forgotten
THE NEXT MORNING BROUGHT FRESH JOURILAN NOBLES. THEY looked eager to show up their brethren from yesterday with a murderous charge that would finally sweep these heretical rabble from the field. Ivanr, exhausted and aching from the struggles of the night, wondered if perhaps their confidence was not misguided.
He watched from the wall. By now he’d realized that his place was not in the ranks. Too many looked to him for reassurance and a kind of guidance that, for the life of him, he felt he could not offer. Yet look they did, and so he must be here, though he felt a fraud and feared that somehow he would fail and betray them all.
Again, the impressed Imperial infantry and hired mercenary companies were left to find their own way. Whoever was in command over there seemed to have no idea what to do with them, though he or she seemed to understand by now that they were somehow necessary. The noble cavalry ignored these foot soldiers and had already demonstrated that they were even ready to run them down should they find them in their way.
The Reform pike rankers marched out once more to meet the challenge. Ivanr knew they would be better off remaining behind the raised walls of this instant fortress – no matter how frail its timbers may be – but failing to emerge would be tantamount to surrender. They were the ones who had to prove themselves.
He scanned the ranks, searching for some sign of a commander. Carr’s banner was there along with the brigade colours. But what of Martal? What were they going to do? Everyone must be looking for her. So far, the official story was that she was too wounded to ride – he wondered how long that would last.
As it was, the marshalled nobles gave no one the chance to speculate. Almost immediately the front ranks urged their mounts forward. The p
ike formations took up long rectangles less than twenty deep, covering a broad sweep of field quite close to the fortress walls. He wondered if Carr was the one behind this new strategy. The heavy cavalry came on steadily; the Imperial infantry milled lost to the rear, apparently far less keen for action.
This morning he sensed a lack of confidence and crispness in the pike manoeuvres. Martal’s absence was being felt. The oncoming cavalry seemed to sense this as well: the call for charge sounded and their pace picked up. Horns answered within the Reform brigades and movement began among the pike ranks, but it was confused and slow. Ivanr stared, sickened with the prescience that the manoeuvre, an effort to open another cleared corridor, would not be completed in time. This worst nightmare was realized as the cavalry charge descended too quickly for all ranks to face uniformly, all pikeheads to present parallel, and every member brace.
An eruption of flesh and iron as heaving tons of muscle ploughed all the way through to the rear to burst outward, pikes glancing aside, men and women trampled. The wedge of noblemen, emboldened, even galloped onward to the fortress walls. They swung alongside, hacking at the planking. One horse reared, kicking, and that bowed a section. Ivanr clutched a log as the wall shuddered where he stood. Archers loosed point-blank from the walks and carriage-platforms.
These heavy cavalry seemed to have come prepared for this eventuality as they drew ropes that ended in nooses and small grapnel hooks. These they threw over the wall. The defenders hacked at the ropes but the nobles spurred their mounts and that section bowed outward, wavering. A tearing and sickening snapping of wood announced its fall. The archers jumped, tumbling. A great roaring cheer went up from the Imperial camp.
Yet an answering roar swelled among the Reform army and Ivanr peered around for its source: there, at a carriage-platform, in her black armour, Martal directing the defence. But not Martal. Someone in her armour. The chant arose: The Black Queen! The Black Queen! She was sending orders to her signallers and the horns sounded.
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