A man pushed forward and stepped out ahead of the front rank. He was by far the best armoured of the lot: banded iron engraved and inlaid with a silvery spider-tracing that glimmered as he moved. His hair was long and loose, but his beard was short and neatly trimmed. He waved an arm before himself as if in disbelief.
‘What is this?’ he called. ‘I see only three of you.’
Bernal stepped up to the barricade, thumped his spear to the ground. ‘There’s one more in the back.’
‘Is this some sort of insult?’
‘Is this what you call parleying?’
The man, whom Orman assumed to be their commander, looked to the sky in what he might have thought was a gesture of self-control, but which was also actually an insult. ‘I am not parleying,’ he sighed. ‘I am in truth attempting to do you a favour.’
‘And what favour would this be?’ Bernal inquired innocently, leaning on his spear.
‘The offer of your lives.’ He raised his voice, calling: ‘Set down your weapons and walk away and you may live!’
Bernal turned his head round to glance behind to the right and left, then returned his attention to the man. He shrugged.
The commander sighed once more, rubbed his brow. ‘I see.’ He glanced to the men next to him and explained: ‘Barbarians. The same everywhere. All façade of nobility and honour. They yearn to demonstrate how brave they are. We of Lether have dealt with this before, have we not? They wish to prove they do not fear death? Very well. We shall oblige them.’
Orman ached to plant Svalthrul in the man’s sneering heart, but then the weapon would be beyond the barricade, out of his reach. ‘At least give us until nightfall to consider your offer!’ he shouted.
The man glanced to Orman then looked up at the dense ashen clouds above and shook his head. ‘No. I think not.’ He bellowed: ‘Torches!’
Orman flinched. This was not what he’d been expecting.
Shortly, a barrage of lit torches came arcing up from behind the ranks to sail over and land on the wooden planks of the Greathall roof. Most rolled back down to fall to the ground. But some remained, sending up gouts of black smoke. Orman tore his gaze from the roof to return to facing the men ranked before him.
More torches flew overhead. Behind him grew the crackling and snapping of burning wood. Was this what Jaochim meant by the right moment? But what were they to do? Charge the ranks? That would also be certain suicide.
Bernal came limping a circuit of the barricade. ‘Steady, lad,’ he murmured. ‘They won’t charge us now, will they?’
‘What of …’ He jerked his head to the Greathall.
Bernal rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘They’ve made their choice, they have.’
‘But what should we do?’
‘We’ll see, lad. We’ll see.’
The crackling swelled to a constant roar. A growing heat punished his back. Smoke billowed, blinding him and tearing at his throat. A wind rose with the flames. He heard nothing but the ravening fire and the explosive popping of resin.
Dear ancestors, this was it. Oddly enough, he felt utterly resigned. Just as Jass went, so too would he. It was an … elemental way to go.
Squinting through the smoke he saw, rather than heard, the ranks retreat a step. To a man they now stared above him, wonder and a touch of dread on their faces. Orman dared a glance behind.
The fire appeared to be diminishing. He might be mistaken, but here and there the blackened beams of the room showed through, smoking, yet free of flames.
And from the Greathall entrance, descending the log steps like a river, came a steady course of dense fog. It curled outwards past Bernal’s sandalled feet, spreading as it went.
Something frigid kissed Orman’s own feet and he leapt, flinching. More fog now ran out from beneath the hall. It appeared to be spreading to all sides. It coursed through and over the barricade, swelled onward.
Many of the soldiers retreated as it came.
‘Stand firm!’ the commander bellowed. ‘Mere barbarian witchery. I—’ He stopped himself, staring upwards in disbelief. Orman followed his gaze: the roof fire was now completely out. Exposed blackened beams smoked, but no flames could be seen. The commander once more pressed a hand to his brow. He sounded an aggrieved sigh. ‘Oh – just kill them.’
Sergeants among the ranks bellowed, ‘Charge!’
The front rank surged forward to the barricade. They chopped and yanked at the heaped logs, barrels and equipment. One screamed as Bernal’s spear found him. Orman shook off his hesitation and thrust as well, jabbing at every soldier within reach.
He fully expected the soldiers to climb or push their way through the barricade in moments; it was undefended for almost all its length. Yet this did not happen. The men he fended off with thrusts of Svalthbrul retreated, nursing wounds, but so too did nearly all the others. These gasped and flinched, hunching, their breaths steaming. Many fell amid the dense fog. Over these humped shapes he glimpsed a fine glittering armour of hoar frost grow and thicken.
He stood back in wonder. True, it was damned cold; he felt the air biting at him and his own breath plumed, but somehow the frigid streamers were not so deadly to him. He ran to find Bernal.
The disembodied voice of the enemy commander shouted from somewhere behind the wall of churning vapours: ‘What are you waiting for? It is just a fog! Advance, damn you!’
Bernal stood on the log stairs together with one of the Reddin brothers, Kasson, Orman was fairly certain. ‘Now is the time,’ he said as he arrived.
Bernal curtly nodded his agreement. ‘You and the brothers must go.’
Orman cast a quick glance into the hall: mist choked it, but he could see that thick layers of icy hoar frost covered the walls and floor, while at the far end sat two figures, immobile, streaming with vapours – no doubt the very source of them. Iceblood magics, obviously. He turned back to Bernal. ‘What? No. All of us. Now.’
Bernal smiled behind his beard as he shook his head. ‘No. I will stay and hold the door. Now go.’
‘Leal and Ham, then.’
The commander’s voice sounded again: ‘I order you to advance!’
Bernal urged him onward with a push of his shoulder. ‘They sit now with the master and mistress. As I shall – so go, quickly. The spell is fading.’ He pushed Kasson off also.
Orman edged back down the stairs; he had his one last duty to perform. ‘Very well. Kasson, let’s find your brother.’ Backing away, he saluted Bernal with Svalthbrul. The fellow raised his great spear in answer and waved them off. Orman and Kasson jogged away round the Greathall.
They found Keth at the rear, the bodies of fallen soldiers all about him. ‘Jaochim has tasked us to bring word of this to Buri,’ Orman said.
Kasson nodded. ‘Bernal told me.’
Characteristically, Keth said nothing. He merely started climbing the thin barrier of logs. Orman joined him.
Vapours slid about the fields, sinking now into pools and depressions, like water. They jogged past fallen soldiers who lay shuddering, their arms clenched to their chests as if against a terrifying cold. Orman headed for the nearest patch of woods and they crashed through. The tree limbs and brush snapped like icicles; Orman reflected that he might be inured to the magics because of his shared blood, but the air was so appallingly frigid it still hurt his nose and lungs with every breath.
They jogged onward, heading north and upland; Orman heard no sounds of pursuit.
* * *
The night watch woke Jute, reporting of strange sights and sounds to the west. Still groggy, but happy to have his cabin back now that the Mare youth had recovered and moved to sleeping in the hammocks with the crew, he pulled on his boots, wrapped himself in a thick fur cloak, and headed out.
The night air shocked him with its bracing cold. His fingers tingled. This didn’t feel like spring at all. Had more of the smell of autumn to it. The sailor motioned to the far shore where it lay barely discernible in the dark overcast night – onl
y the diffuse glow of the moon and stars behind the clouds allowed any visibility. Torches and lanterns swung and bobbed there: movement. A great number of people on the move in the dead of night.
Jute scratched his chin, wondering. Those would have to be the people from Wrongway up the coast. Given up on the goldfields, perhaps. But what would drive them onward through the night?
‘Jute Hernan,’ he heard Ieleen call, and he turned. She stood wrapped in a blanket in the doorway, a hand on the jamb.
‘Hmm? What is it, love? Sorry if I woke you.’
Her blind gaze was on the west and he was surprised to see her brows crimp in worry. ‘Sound the wake up and get dressed. Visitors.’
He stroked his chin. Well, if she insisted … it seemed quiet to him, but he’d lived this long by respecting her instincts. He nodded to the crewman. ‘Sound the alarm. All hands to readiness.’ He returned to their cabin as the hanging bronze alarm was banged and feet pounded the deck.
When he returned, he found the crew at their posts and the ship’s marines at the sides together with the Malazans. Both officers, Letita and Giana, armed and armoured, stood before him. ‘Captain,’ Letita greeted him. ‘Your orders?’
He glanced to Ieleen sitting next to the tiller arm; she had her pipe in her mouth, but it wasn’t lit. The Mare lad, Reuth, sat cross-legged on the deck beside her. She withdrew the pipe and motioned to the bows; he followed the motion to see Cartheron leaning up against the side, peering to the west. He nodded to Letita and Giana to excuse him and went to the captain. His voice low, he asked: ‘What’s going on?’
The old fellow ran a hand over what little of his bristled hair remained. ‘Damned if I know …’
‘Commander Tyvar!’ one of the crewmen called out.
Tyvar came pounding up the gangway. Behind him came another person, startling Jute: the unmistakable tall figure of the foreign sorceress, Lady Orosenn. He bowed to her and she returned the courtesy.
‘Captain,’ she said. ‘I must apologize. I thought that disguising my presence would buy us more time – but I can see now that I need not have bothered.’
Jute blinked his confusion. ‘Your presence?’
Tyvar motioned to the switchback staircase. ‘I must get my men up at once.’
‘Their King Ronal will treat you as just another invader and attack,’ Cartheron warned. ‘Malle has made that clear.’
‘Malle of Gris?’ A new voice spoke up and everyone turned. It was that bedraggled Malazan Khall-head, straightening from where he’d been slouched next to the gangway. Somehow, Jute – everyone – had overlooked him. ‘She’s up there?’ he breathed, and he squinted at the heights.
Cartheron followed the man’s gaze. He started for him: ‘Don’t you dare …’ But the fellow slipped away down the gangplank with a fluid speed that surprised Jute. Cartheron hurried after him, cursing. He reappeared a moment later, rubbing his chest and wincing, winded. ‘He got away, damn his eyes.’
‘Never mind him,’ Jute said, wondering why it should matter if the fellow ran off.
But Cartheron was staring off at the clifftop. ‘The shit will well and truly fly now,’ he announced. Then he lowered his gaze, grinning savagely. ‘Malle will not like this, but she’ll have no choice.’
‘I see no one on the stairs,’ Tyvar said as he scanned the night.
‘He used his Warren,’ Lady Orosenn observed.
Jute felt his brows shoot up. Really? That broken-down derelict? He shuddered in memory of the insults he’d sent the fellow’s way.
‘Our troubles remain,’ Tyvar commented impatiently. ‘We will climb regardless. Now.’
Cartheron raised a hand for a pause. ‘Wait. Give it one glass’s time. If I know my man, this shouldn’t take long.’
‘Who? What?’ Jute demanded, frankly rather irritated with the old Malazan commander.
Cartheron leaned back against the gunwale, crossed his arms and nodded as he accepted the reasonableness of Jute’s annoyance. ‘He is, well, was, an imperial Claw. An assassin,’ he explained, speaking to Lady Orosenn. ‘I recognized him. Seen him around. Rose up through the ranks under, ah, the old emperor’s regime.’
Jute snorted at this. ‘That wreck?’
Cartheron’s lips clenched and he lowered his gaze. ‘Something happened to him. Something that shattered him.’ And he added, softly, as if speaking only for himself: ‘Something that hurt all of us.’
The Blue Shield commander was still scanning the west shore. Jute glanced over: the bobbing torches and lanterns were closer now, waving furiously, as if the people had now broken into a run. Tyvar actually growled as he spun away. ‘Lady Orosenn,’ he demanded, ‘if what you say is true we must go now. My people are ready. We will climb ten at a time. We must prepare.’
The foreign sorceress regarded Cartheron silently. Her almond-shaped amber eyes were narrow, probing and gauging. The Malazan returned the stare without flinching. Jute reflected that the man must have faced down some pretty powerful entities in his time. She slowly nodded her inhumanly long head. ‘You have your time, Cartheron Crust.’
It was not many minutes after that that a crash sounded on the boards of the dock close to the base of the cliff. As if he’d been expecting exactly that, Cartheron nodded to everyone, turned, and jogged down the gangway. Tyvar, Jute and Giana followed.
It was the fellow himself, lying slashed and bloodied amid the broken timbers of the dock. Cartheron knelt and gently cradled his head on his lap. A smile raised the man’s lips as he croaked, ‘Didn’t get the landing right. Got him, though. Damn if those boys aren’t good with their spears.’
‘Don’t talk,’ Cartheron murmured, though it was clear from the many thrusts the man had taken that it would make no difference.
Then tears came to the man’s eyes and he clamped a blood-smeared hand on Cartheron’s arm. ‘I’m sorry!’ he gasped, suddenly panicked. ‘I’m so sorry she fell. I failed her. Do you forgive me?’
It was fairly clear to Jute that, like so many in dying, the man was now rambling of his past.
‘We all failed her,’ Cartheron answered, and Jute was surprised by the strength of emotion in his voice. ‘Only after she was gone did I see how much we needed her.’
The man clenched savagely at Cartheron’s arm as if he would pull himself erect. He left bright bloody smears down the Malazan’s sleeve. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he barely breathed.
Cartheron gently pressed shut his eyes and, with an effort, pushed himself erect. Peering down, he murmured so low Jute hardly heard: ‘I can forgive you …’
‘Who was he?’ Jute asked. ‘What’s going on?’
‘There’s a light flashing from above,’ Giana observed, scanning the heights.
‘What does it say?’ Cartheron asked. He was still regarding the strange fallen fellow, who Jute gathered must have been more than a passing acquaintance. The old captain now suddenly appeared much older, much more beaten down by his years. He raised his gaze to blink at Jute as if only now recognizing his presence. ‘As I said. He once was a Claw. Bodyguard to Empress Laseen, in fact. They used to call him Possum.’
Laseen! The slain empress! So … this broken man … One slip, one mistake, and his entire world ended. How he now regretted his earlier harshness. ‘He was a friend, then?’
‘No. Couldn’t stand him myself.’
Giana came to the commander’s side, murmured low and respectfully: ‘It says we can come up.’
Cartheron gave a tired nod. ‘Very good, Lieutenant.’ He turned to study Tyvar. ‘You have your invitation to the party, Mortal Sword of Togg.’
*
Jute joined the file to climb even though on the Dawn, Ieleen had made clear with her silence that she did not approve of his choice to go. They went in small groups. Tyvar’s Genabackans were by far the majority. Cartheron joined the file even though he’d sworn he’d never climb the damned stairs again. With the old commander went Lady Orosenn followed by her servant, Velman or –mar, Jute cou
ldn’t remember. Lieutenant Jalaz led the contingent of every Malazan veteran from both ships.
As they gathered awaiting their turn upon the stairs, the Genabackan captain Enguf appeared. He swore the ships would all be safe with him and his crew remaining behind to guard them. He wished them all the best of luck then hurried back to his ship.
Jute found the night climb easier than his first ascent. It was either that he couldn’t see his actual height clearly, or he’d done it already and so had lost his fear of it. In either case, it was over far more quickly than the first climb. The structure groaned and shifted alarmingly, but he found he could put that out of mind more easily by concentrating on his handholds on the dried grey slats of the scaffolding.
It was dark at the top, though moving torches and lanterns glowed beyond the outer curtain wall where it arced in a broad semicircle from cliff edge to cliff edge. Tyvar was there, whispering commands to his officers. Cartheron and Lady Orosenn stood aside, scanning the crowded grounds. The old Malazan looked very much worse for having made the climb. He was pale, pressing a hand to his chest, apparently in some measure of pain.
Giana Jalaz gained the top and nodded to Cartheron, awaiting orders. The old captain waved for her to take to the walls. She bowed and jogged off with her command.
A knot of the locals, spears in hand, came marching up. Almost invisible in their midst was the short and wiry shape, all in black, of Malle of Gris.
The company halted before Cartheron and stamped their spear-butts to the ground. Malle stepped forth and indicated one of the party: a youth, and like these locals tall and slim with a great mane of brown curls. He was studying Cartheron and did not appear to be impressed by what he saw.
‘This is Voti,’ Malle began, ‘nephew of King Ronal who now lies upon his bier, cut down by an outlander assassin sent by the besiegers …’ her voice quite hardened at that last part as she eyed Cartheron. She bowed to the lad, Voti. ‘May I present Cartheron Crust – a great veteran commander of the Empire.’
The lad, the king presumptive, Jute assumed, gave the merest nod. ‘Malle tells us you know these outlander ways. You may advise during the coming battle.’
Assail Page 55
