Assail

by Ian C. Esslemont

  He was almost done when the woman yanked forward out of his grip. She growled, ‘What in the name of the nitwit Boles is he doing?’ Jute found the clasps again and finished up, squinting ahead: the Resolute had surged onward, sweeps flashing.

  ‘Charging the blockade, looks like.’

  The woman turned to where the Ragstopper continued its steady pace. ‘No flags. No signalling … Cartheron’s letting them go?’

  ‘They pretty much do whatever they want.’

  She sent him a sceptical glance. ‘You say those soldiers are Blue Shields?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘This I have to see. Can we close up?’

  Jute considered. They could, he supposed. The Malazans would fight if it came to that – not that he was expecting any real resistance to Tyvar and his Blue Shields. He nodded, went to the stern railing, called, ‘Follow the Resolute, Buen.’

  ‘Aye, captain.’ His first mate started chivvying the men and women at the oars.

  He asked Giana, ‘And once we are at Mantle? Then what?’

  ‘That’s Cartheron’s call.’

  ‘You must have some idea. What would you do?’

  ‘Me?’ She rubbed her jaw. ‘I was never staff level. Strategy’s not my strength. But seeing as that gang outside the walls wants our blood already …’ She shrugged. ‘Ever work as a mercenary, Captain Hernan?’

  Mercenary? Him? He glanced back to Ieleen; she sat with her chin resting upon her walking stick. Her head was tilted as if she was listening to something faint and far off. Her expression was intent and focused, but not alarmed. ‘I’m a businessman, not a mercenary,’ he told Giana.

  ‘Same thing,’ she said. ‘One just cleans up better than the other.’

  As they neared base, the blockade resolved into five man-o’-wars anchored in a wide semicircle, presumably just outside the range of what appeared to be two mangonels just visible atop the cliffs.

  The Resolute did not pause. It pulled alongside the middle vessel, sweeps were shipped and grapnels flew to span the gap.

  At his side, Giana allowed a grudging, ‘Well executed, that.’

  Yet the action at the vessels could not capture Jute’s attention; something about that squat so-called fortress kept nagging at him and now he recognized what it was: the damned thing was hardly larger than a guard tower.

  This was it? The fabled fortress of the north? A wretched three-storey pile of rock that wouldn’t count for more than a border keep back home in Falar?

  Giana grunted a soft, ‘Damn …’

  He spared the attack a glimpse: the Resolute had moved on to the next vessel to port, while the first, obviously captured, was now moving towards its brother in line on the starboard. He cleared his throat. ‘Have you been to Mantle, Lieutenant Jalaz?’

  Apparently unable to tear her amazed gaze from the attack, she shook her head. ‘No. Never.’

  ‘Well … you’re looking at it.’

  ‘A coupla fellows said there’s not much to it— Gods! That’s three now.’

  Jute glanced to the attack. Tyvar’s pocket army had now captured three vessels and these were all in motion, closing on the remaining two. As for the Resolute, she was hanging back, perhaps reduced to the barest skeleton crew.

  The way to Mantle’s harbour, such as it might be, was now completely open. Jute leaned over the stern railing. ‘Take us in, Buen.’

  ‘Aye, aye. Ahead now, lads!’ the first mate roared. ‘Take up all that damned cloth!’

  Jute scanned the bay. The Ragstopper was also closing; the Supplicant still held back. He wasn’t troubled by that – typical of the sorceress’s preference for staying low in the weeds.

  Sweeps alone drew them in close to the bottom of the cliffs. Here awaited a meagre wharf of driven logs covered by planks that extended a few paces out over a shore of boulders and fallen rock. One low two-masted galley lay at berth here, and its crew members helped them tie off the Dawn.

  The Resolute and her captured vessels of the shattered blockade looked to be dropping anchor further out. A longboat was on its way from one of them; presumably it held Tyvar himself. The Ragstopper was limping in after the Dawn.

  Jute turned to his wife. ‘Going for another negotiation, dearest.’

  ‘Let’s hope this one goes better than the last,’ she commented.

  Jute simply winced. ‘Buen,’ he called, ‘master-at-arms … guard the ship.’

  ‘Aye, captain,’ Letita answered in a loud shout, shooting a glance Giana’s way.

  A plank was being levered into place as a gangway. Here Jute motioned, inviting Giana to join him. She shook her head. ‘Like I said, I’m not staff level.’

  ‘Then you will remain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jute remembered his earlier alarm at the prospect of all these ex-Malazan soldiers on board his vessel – now he felt reassured. Leaning against the side next to the gangway was the khall-head Malazan Cartheron had saddled him with in Wrongway. The man was eyeing him with his typical dreamy smile, which appeared knowing but was no doubt just empty-headed. A wad of the leaf was fat in one cheek.

  ‘Give my regards to King Ronal,’ the fellow murmured as he passed. Jute ignored him and walked on to descend the gangway.

  The fellow who met him on the dock was a fat rascal who had the look of a pirate about him. Certainly not a local; Jute pegged him as a Genabackan. Most of the fortune-hunters were from that nearby continent.

  ‘Hello,’ the fellow greeted him cheerily. ‘Welcome to Mantle!’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Name’s Enguf. Enguf the Broad they call me.’

  ‘Are you surrendering?’

  The fellow’s thick tangled brows rose in surprise. ‘What, me? Surrender?’

  ‘You’re an outlander.’

  ‘Not at all! Well, yes … However, you are now looking at Mantle’s own navy.’

  ‘Since we saw the Blue Shields,’ another of the crewmen muttered, and Enguf shot him a dark glare.

  The Ragstopper drew abreast of the wharf and crewmen caught tossed lines. Jute inspected the cliff, searching for a way up. A set of wooden stairs switchbacked up the sheer rock face. The prospect looked more dangerous than any sea battle.

  Cartheron joined him on the wharf. Jute gave him a hard stare, said, ‘You just had to do it …’

  The old Malazan officer waved his glower aside. ‘I saw I had a chance so I took it – what d’y expect?’

  Jute shook his head.

  The longboat arrived and Tyvar, accompanied by his second, Haagen, climbed up on to the wharf. Enguf, a Genabackan, bowed to the two. ‘An honour, sors,’ the big pirate greeted them.

  ‘And you are?’ Tyvar enquired.

  ‘Ah, Enguf, sir. Enguf the Broad.’

  Tyvar grinned behind his thick beard and thumped a gauntleted hand to Haagen’s arm. ‘There’s a name well known to the Southern Confederacy.’

  ‘He claims to be what’s left of the Mantle navy,’ Jute explained.

  Tyvar looked the man up and down and made a show of stroking his beard. ‘Is that so? Working with us, are you?’ He pounded Enguf on the arm as well. ‘Excellent!’

  The pirate bobbed his head, smiling rather stiffly, and rubbed his arm.

  Cartheron was squinting up the cliff face. ‘We have to climb that? Don’t think it’s worth it.’

  ‘Perhaps … just to be careful,’ Tyvar murmured, and unbuckled his cloak and started on his hauberk below. Enguf waved over a crewman who took up the equipment. Divested of his armour, the mercenary remained just as impressive in the sweep of his shoulders and chest. He wore a loose tunic of quilted and padded linen that hung down to his knees, and soft leather trousers beneath. Jute felt like something of a bedraggled drowned rat next to him, while poor Cartheron resembled more the dock-sweeper. ‘Rather than hold prisoners,’ Tyvar told Enguf, ‘my men will be dropping the captured crews on the shore a distance from here. Is that acceptable, captain?’ He rebuckled his belt at his wai
st and hung his bastardsword.

  Enguf bobbed his head again. ‘Oh yes. Quite, ah, acceptable.’

  ‘Excellent.’ The Blue Shield commander gestured an invitation towards the stairs. ‘Shall we?’

  Jute was not one for heights. He kept his gaze raised to the top where the stairs ended at a landing of planks. Each wobble and groan of the wood made his heart hammer, and his hands were slick upon the worn timbers. Tyvar led while Cartheron came last. Jute knew the old Malazan officer was falling behind, but he couldn’t force himself to turn to look back. ‘Are you with us, sir?’ he called.

  After a long silence the man’s weak answer came drifting up with the wind: ‘Fucking stairs.’

  Eventually, far beyond the length of time Jute thought it should take them, they reached the creaking and trembling landing atop the last switchback. Jute forced his numb wobbling legs to continue on to the exposed granite of the promontory itself.

  From this vantage he had an excellent view of the site. The first thing he noted was that he’d been too harsh in his earlier impression: what the main tower lacked in height, it more than made up for in sheer bulk. And although it did possess only three storeys; they were three very tall storeys. It rose a stone’s throw from him at the rear of an enclosed bailey that was a gently falling slope of trampled grass, beaten dirt, and exposed rock. A quite tall wall of what looked like piled shards of slate and other rock encircled it, forming a broad arc touching the cliff on both sides. Beyond the wall rose many plumes of white smoke; the campfires of the besieging outlanders.

  The bailey itself was currently jammed with humanity. They lay under awnings and tents, walked about, or just sat. He realized that here was where a good portion of the locals had fled.

  Cartheron arrived, puffing and panting. He was rubbing his chest and wincing. ‘I’ve lost my appetite for all this running around,’ he grumbled to Jute.

  Next to them, Tyvar drew a great breath of air, nodding to himself. ‘Stone. All stone. A strong defensive position,’ he said approvingly.

  ‘Let’s go meet the local tin-pot tyrant,’ Cartheron said, and started forward.

  The locals stopped them before they reached the tower. They weren’t soldiers, but they obviously knew how to handle their spears and axes. Jute thought them rather negligent in not having a guard atop the stairs. But then he reflected on the nature of those stairs, and decided that maybe they were right in not expecting any horde to come charging up that way.

  ‘May we have an audience with your ruler?’ Tyvar boomed out. He held his hands far out from his sides. ‘We have come to negotiate.’

  ‘Your weapons,’ one of the local spearmen commanded. ‘You cannot speak with King Ronal while armed.’

  Tyvar was all broad smiles and cheerfulness. ‘Of course.’ He unbuckled his belt and handed over his sword.

  Jute looked to his own waist. All he carried was his eating dirk. This he offered, but a spearman just scowled at him as if he were a fool. Cartheron, it appeared, wasn’t armed at all. They were escorted round the fat girth of the tower.

  Jute’s wonder at the construction of the edifice grew as he saw that the walls consisted of mammoth roughly dressed fieldstones that were clearly far too huge for any man, or gang of men, to raise. Who could have built using such immense rocks? Their techniques must have been far more sophisticated than this crude result.

  The main entrance disturbed him further. An open portal it was, without a door. Visibly narrower towards the top than the base. And its top! Jute stared as he walked beneath: a titanic single rock lintel longer than any man.

  Within, it was dark. Very dark. Its builders, it seemed, considered windows a luxury. Fires burning in braziers and torches in wall sconces provided what little light there was. The main floor was mostly all one great chamber. Spearmen and women crowded it. Straw was thick upon the stone-flagged floor. Dogs chased one another among the forest of legs. The guards parted for them while their escort urged them onward. Towards the far end of the chamber, the last file of guards grudgingly parted to reveal a long table of coarse-hewn timbers and a seated row of what Jute assumed to be the local dignitaries. The one at the centre wore a simple crown that was nothing more than a ring of bronze atop his long unkempt brown hair. This was fortunate, as otherwise Jute would have had no clue that this was the king. The man was small, and possessed the manic stare of a terrified predatory animal.

  ‘What do you foreigners want?’ this fellow demanded. ‘You capture the vessels blocking the harbour and you expect a reward?’ He waved them off. ‘Take them and good riddance to you!’

  Tyvar bowed. ‘Greetings, King Ronal. My name is Tyvar Gendarian and these are my travelling companions, captains Cartheron Crust and Jute Hernan. Please be assured, we expect no reward at all. In fact, we are here to offer our swords in your service. I command two hundred mercenaries, while these captains offer their vessels.’

  Jute marvelled at Tyvar’s diplomacy and patience. He’d imagined that any man in his position would be unable to swallow such insults, yet the discourtesies merely brushed off the man as if he really did not give a damn about any of it. He was also rather taken aback to hear that he was offering the service of the Silver Dawn.

  The king, and Jute wondered whether the man really was, or whether he merely chose to style himself one, snorted his disdain, or tried to, as one of his eyes kept twitching. He turned his head to peer at the men and women seated along the table. These were all quick to emulate his disapproval, with shakes of their heads and pursed lips.

  ‘First,’ he began, addressing Tyvar, ‘the title is King Ronal the Bastard. And second, what do you expect for this service? Gold, no doubt. Well, you’ll get none of it. If you think I will allow a crowd of armed foreigners into my fortress, you’re a fool!’ He waved Tyvar off. ‘I’m not hiring outlanders. Take your ships and go!’

  At the far end of the table a skinny old woman cleared her throat and the king shot her an annoyed glance. ‘If I may, my king,’ she began, and Jute recognized an unmistakable high imperial accent, ‘I will countenance these mercenaries … if I may.’

  King Ronal slouched back in his chair. He picked at the carcass of a bird before him. ‘An outlander would vouch for fellow out-landers …’ he mused, rather petulantly. Then, peering from Jute to Cartheron, he straightened. ‘Ah, my apologies. Please know Malle of Gris, an adviser who has proved her value and trustworthiness. She is empowered to speak for the distant Malazan Empire, whose name we are not ignorant of. Her emperor offers his support. He would not see a fellow monarch driven from his lands. And understandably so.’ He tore apart the remains of the bird. ‘Very well. You have liberated the waterfront. It is yours to hold. Remain there. No more than ten of your number may enter Mantle at any one time.’

  Tyvar bowed again, even deeper. ‘My thanks, my king. We will defend the harbour to the death. You can be assured—’

  King Ronal flicked his greasy fingers. ‘Yes, yes. You may go now.’

  Still bowed, Tyvar backed away. Jute followed his lead, backing away, facing forward, until the many spearmen closed the gap before him. He, Cartheron and Tyvar then turned and walked away.

  Outside, Tyvar took a great breath of the cool mountain air and brushed his hands together as if to say: and that is that.

  Cartheron let out a heavy sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. He muttered, perhaps to himself, ‘For this I quit drinking?’

  Tyvar set his wide fists to his waist, turned, and regarded them over the tangle of his russet beard. There was an almost mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘Well … let us at least study the competition.’ He started across the bailey. Jute and Cartheron hurried to keep up.

  The stones of the wall enclosing the bailey proved as titanic as those of the tower. On the inside, the wall rose some two man-heights, or about half a rod in measure. Tyvar bounded up one of the earthwork ramps inside the wall. His mere presence seemed to bring into existence a path between the many spearmen and women crowding
the way. Following more slowly, Jute and Cartheron had to weave through the scowling and suspicious northerners.

  When Jute gained the wall he found that it was coarse indeed, archaic even; the huge flat stones merely lay atop one another without shaping or chiselling. At least a wooden catwalk ran behind – a later addition, perhaps. Outside the wall, a deep ditch doubled its height to any attacker. A cold wind buffeted him. The chilled air descended off the Salt range visible above the rising forested foothills.

  Beyond the ditch lay the sprawling encampment of the besieging outlanders – his countrymen included. The modest houses of Mantle town, mere shacks and huts, had long been occupied. Tents sprawled in an arc beyond, from cliff edge to cliff edge, in a broad semicircle. Multiple cook-fires sent up thin tendrils of smoke that were swiftly brushed to the south, out over the Sea of Gold. The besiegers sat about the fires, warming themselves, talking and joking. Snatches of laughter reached him, carried by the wind. Jute added up an estimate of just under three thousand. He turned round and studied those within – all of whom were armed – and came up with some five hundred. The usual ratio necessary to take a well-defended position is at least three to one. The attackers outnumbered such figures by far, yet so far they had failed to take the keep. That told him that these defenders were not the usual sort. The way each carried a spear or sword told him that they’d all lived their entire lives fighting already.

  ‘Who commands these rabble?’ Tyvar asked a northern woman who stood nearby, leaning on a spear.

  The woman looked him up and down – Jute noted that she was almost as tall as Tyvar himself – and said, ‘I know not nor do I care.’ She pointedly turned away.

  ‘Perhaps I may be of assistance …’

  Jute turned as he again recognized the accent that belonged in the imperial capital at Unta. It was indeed the wiry old woman from the king’s table. He offered her an Untan bow, which brought a smile to her thin pinched mouth, and she offered her hand, which he brushed with his lips.

  ‘Very gracious of you, Captain Jute Hernan of Falar,’ she said.