Spray obscured the first strike. When the waters pulled back his man still stood. Up and down the curtain wall men clashed against wave-born Riders. Most failed, of course, for what mere man or woman could oppose such eldritch alien sorcery? Auroras played like waves themselves across the night sky. The lights of another world, or so claimed the Korelri.
In the pause between ranks of attacking Riders the waters withdrew revealing most stations empty or supporting fallen prisoners hanging by their ankle fetters like grotesque fruit. Korelri Chosen descended on ropes to clear away the dead. New prisoners were lowered, arms flailing. These the Chosen did not bother securing by the ankles.
His man remained. He'd sat again, not out of bravado, Ereko realized, but for warmth as he hugged his legs to his chest.
The Chosen used knots that pulled in a certain way released their burden and in this fashion the prisoners were stranded at their landings. Some grabbed hold of the ropes in a futile effort to regain the heights but archers shot these and the lesson was not lost on the others.
The surf of the strait regathered its power. The Riders who had been circling far out swung landward once again. And so it would go for days on end until the storm blew itself out. Then would come a week or two of relative calm when the wall faced mere mundane weather. During this time the incomprehensible presence deep within the strait regenerated its strength.
That night the second wave came swiftly. As it closed, a Malazan prisoner of war farther along the curving wall bellowed a challenge or prayer and launched himself from his landing. A Korelri Chosen was swiftly lowered to take his place. The crest struck, shuddering the stone of the Stormwall as if the force of an entire sea were launching itself against the land.
When the waters and ice slabs sloughed away from the scarred stone, his man remained. Another, a fellow Malazan prisoner by his rags, was shouting to him, calling, one arm out entreating. His man saluted him and the fellow straightened and gravely responded in kind.
As the storm continued through the night Ereko's man was the only original left within his line of sight. Prisoners continued to be lowered from above – the Korelri considered it a favour to offer these men and women the chance to regain their dignity by falling in defence of the wall. The prisoners obviously held other opinions.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the pattern of Rider attacks at this section of wall changed. Pressure eased along the curtain as the Riders circled and withdrew. Korelri Chosen gathered above, watching, pointing excitedly. Ereko peered out to sea: darker smears had emerged from the depths, the Wandwielders, Stormrider mages. He raised himself higher; rarely did he see these beings. Night-black ice was their armour, forged perhaps within the lightless utter depths of the sea. They carried rods and wands of precious stone and crystal, olivine, garnet and serpentine, with which they lashed the wall with summoned power and shattering cold during the most hard-pressed and ferocious assaults.
The Riders circled out amid the whitecaps; one approached, headed directly for the man the Enchantress had pointed out to Ereko as being the instrument of his deliverance. The Rider closed, rearing as his wave crested and smashed upon the wall. When the spume and mist cleared his man still stood and the Rider was gone.
A bloodthirsty, triumphant cheer went up among the Korelri Chosen gathered above. It seemed to Ereko to shake the wall just as ferociously as the waves themselves.
His man peered up for a time, then pointedly turned his back.
Another single Rider rolled forward, lance raised. Ereko was horrified to see his man toss his sword aside to stand unarmed, waiting. The Rider pulled up short, lance couched. It rose and fell with the waves and it seemed to Ereko that the two spoke. Then the Rider leaned to one side and withdrew.
Far out, the Wandwielders lowered their staves of glittering crystal and all withdrew to the right and left of this course of the broad Stormwall curtain. For this section of wall, the attack was over.
The Korelri Chosen left Ereko's man chained to his landing. That night Ereko yanked open the corroded fetter at his ankle, climbed the wall, descended to the fellow's station, tore the fetter from him and carried him numb with cold up and over the wall. He swam the warmer inner Crack Narrows behind the wall with him held high at his shoulder. He reached the abandoned shores of what the Korelri name Remnant Isle before dawn touched the uppermost pennants of the wall's watchtowers.
Within the shelter of boulders he sat and waited for sunrise. The man lay insensate, almost dead from exposure. Yet he was undoubtely much more than a man. Ereko's sight, while nowhere as penetrating as that of his ancestors, told him that. And then there was the attention of his Enchantress, whom some now named the Queen of Dreams. The fellow was fit, certainly. But not overly broad or large, which so many mistakenly equate with prowess in combat. No, it was more an aura about him – even in repose. A great burden and a great danger. Not in the mere physical sense. Rather, a spirituality. Potential. Great potential to create. Or to destroy. And there the danger.
After the sun warmed the fellow sufficiently he wakened and Ereko greeted him. ‘My name is Ereko.’
‘Traveller.’ He peered around at the weed-encrusted rocks of the shore. ‘Why have you done this?’
‘I have been planning my own escape for some time. Yet I knew I would have a much better chance were I not alone. Your performance yesterday convinced me that with you my chances would be much greater.’
The man laughed. ‘It looks like I wasn't much help.’
‘Do not be fooled. We are far from free. We are in the centre of the Korelan subcontinent. The Korelri Chosen have no doubt alerted everyone to hunt for us. We have far to go yet.’
He nodded at that; accepting the story or merely disinclined to pursue it. Ereko could not be certain. ‘And who are you? You are no Jaghut – you are taller. You are not Toblakai either, nor Trell. But there is something of them about you.’
‘We called ourselves “The People” – Thel Akai:
Traveller stared, confused. ‘Tarthinoe … or Thelomen, you mean?’
‘No, Thel Akai. Those you name are descendants of my people.’
‘Their ancestor? But that is impossible. I have never heard of your kind.’
‘All have been gone for ages – save myself. That is, I have met no others.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I am sorry for something else as well.’
‘What is that?’
‘I must return to the wall. They have my sword.’
Ereko took a long deep breath. Enchantress, how could you have done this to me? ‘I see. Then it seems I must unrescue you.’
The next morning at’ Canton's Landing they marked trees for the ship. At noon they returned to the hut to find an old man crouched there in the shade awaiting them. This was the nephew? The man nodded and smiled and nodded and smiled, stopping only when Traveller knelt beside him and rested a reassuring hand on his arm.
‘You have suffered a tragedy here,’ he said, startling the man.
‘Yes, honoured sir. We are afflicted. Death from the seas. Slavers and raiders. Again and again they come. Soon there will be none of us left.’
‘Move inland,’ Ereko suggested.
The old man's smile was gap-toothed. ‘We are fisher folk here. We know of no other way of life.’
‘We are very sorry but we cannot—’ Ereko began, but Traveller raised a hand.
‘Do you have any possessions from these raiders? Weapons? Armour?’
The old man nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, yes … old gear can be found here and there.’
‘Show us.’
Mystified, Ereko accompanied Traveller and the old man as they patrolled the strand. They picked up a piece of corroded metal here, a fragment of broken stone there. Traveller knelt to pull a length of sun-bleached wood from the sand; the broken handle of a war club. A tassel of some sort hung from its grip. He rubbed the ragged feathers and dried leather in his fingers then st
ood.
‘I will help you,’ he said, and he brushed his hands clean.
Ereko stared, astonished. What unforeseen turn does the Lady send now?
‘Yes, yes,’ the old man repeated. ‘Yes. Thank you, honoured sir. We can never—’
‘Help us build our boat.’
‘Yes. Of course. Whatever you need.’
As they walked Traveller asked over the loud susurrus of the waves, ‘You are expecting them soon, aren't you?’
The old man flinched, startled again. ‘Yes. Soon. They come this season. The grey raiders from the sea.’
* * *
A patrol of Malazan regulars posted to the Wickan frontier spotted the smoke in the distance and altered their route to investigate. They found a burnt camp of the Crow Clan. The Wickan dead lay where they had fallen. The patrol sergeant, Chord, took in the Crow bodies: elders wrapped in prayer blankets, three obvious cripples and an assortment of youths. He studied the trampled wreckage of pennants, flag-staves, a covered cart and painted yurts. All hinted at some sort of a Wickan religious pilgrimage or ceremonial procession. Seated around a roaring fire, a gang of invaders, more of the tide of self-styled ‘settlers’, feasted on slaughtered Crow horses in front of bound Wickan captives. As they gorged themselves on horseflesh they ignored the regulars.
‘Ran out of supplies on your long march, hey?’ Chord called to the closest man.
This one smiled, continued to eat. A felt blanket flew back and a man straightened from one squat dwelling, cinching up his pants. Chord glimpsed a small pale figure curling beneath blankets.
‘Greetings, brother Malazans,’ this one called.
‘We ain't your brothers.’
‘Well, thank you for coming by, but we're safe now from these barbarians.’
‘You're safe.’
‘They attacked us.’
‘You invaded their lands.’
‘Malazan lands, as the Empress has reminded us all. In any case, they refused to sell even one of their horses – and us starving!’
‘Wickans regard their horses like members of their own family. They'd no more sell one of them than their own son or daughter.’
‘We offered fair price. They refused us out of plain obstinacy.’
Chord leaned to one side, spat a brown stream of rustleaf juice. ‘So you helped yourself.’
The man gestured his confusion. ‘We set down a fair price in coin and took the worst of the herd. Lame, useless to anyone. And they attacked! All of them. Children! Crones! Like rabid beasts they are. Less than human.’
The sergeant looked to the bound youths, pushed a handful of leaves into his mouth. ‘And these?’
‘Ours. Captives of war. We'll sell them.’
‘Hey? What's that you say? Captives of war?’
‘Aye. A war of cleansing. These Wickan riff-raff have squatted on the plains long enough. All this good land uncultivated. Wasted.’
Adjusting his crossbow, the sergeant pressed a hand to his side, fingers splayed. As one, the men of the patrol levelled their crossbows on the gang of settlers.
The men gaped, strips of flesh in their hands. Their spokesman paused but then calmly resumed straightening his clothes. ‘What's this? We've broken no laws. The Empress has promised this land to all who would come to farmstead. Put up your weapons and go.’
‘We will, once we've taken what's ours.’
‘Yours? What's that?’
‘Just so happens I'm also a student of Imperial law, an’ those laws say that any captives of war are the property of the Throne. An’ as a duly sanctioned representative of the Throne I will now take possession of the captives.’
‘You'll what? Whoever heard of such a law!’
‘I have, an’ that's good enough. Now stand aside.’
A skinny shape exploded from the tent, a waif in an oversized torn shirt. She yelled a torrent of Wickan at the sergeant, who cocked a brow. ‘Well, well. Seems everyone's a damned lawyer these days.’
‘What's she on about?’ the spokesman asked.
‘This lass here has invoked Wickan law ‘gainst you. A blood cleansing.’
‘What in the name of Burn does that mean?’
‘Knives. Usually to the death.’
The man gaped at Chord. ‘What? Her?’
The men at the bonfire slowly climbed to their feet. ‘Cover them, Junior,’ Chord said aside.
‘Aye.’ The patrol spread out, crossbows still levelled.
‘You can't be serious. You're listening to this Wickan brat?’
‘I am.’
‘She's just a child!’
The sergeant stilled, his eyes hard on the spokesman. ‘Seein’ as she's old enough for you to rape, maybe she's old enough to hold you accountable for it, don't you think?’
The man eased back into a fighting stance, shrugging. He drew a knife from his belt sheath. ‘Fine. I'll just have to kill her too.’
Chord tossed the girl his own knife. She took it, screamed a Wickan curse and leapt.
It was over even more swiftly than Chord had assumed. In the end he had to pull the girl off the hacked body. The patrol lined up the youths and marched them off to the fort. As they went the men swore that word of this would spread and that they'd see the fort burnt to the ground. Part of Chord hoped they'd try; the other part worried that maybe he'd just bought his lieutenant more trouble than their garrison of one undersized company could handle.
* * *
Kyle lay in his bunk on board the Kestral, his eyes clenched closed. Seasick, his stomach roiling, he tensed his body against the juddering of the ship as it rolled alarmingly once more. Nearly a month at sea, their last landfall along the west coast of Bael lands, and now for these last five days the Kestral had ridden the leading edge of a storm driving them north-west – a direction the superstitious sailors would not even look.
The tag-end of his dream eluded his efforts to grasp it and he groaned, giving in to wakefulness. For the fleetest moment the sweet scent of perfume had seemed to tease his nose and the soft warmth of a hand seemed to linger at his brow. But now he was still in his bunk aboard the Kestral, weeks at sea and the Gods alone knew how close to, or how far from, its destination: Stratem. The adopted homeland of the Crimson Guard.
A land that meant nothing to Kyle.
Tarred wood shivered and creaked two hand-widths from his nose. Beaded condensation edged down the curved wall of planking to further soak the clammy burlap and straw padding he lay upon. The wood shivered visibly, pounded by the storm that threatened to shake the vessel into wreckage. His eyes watered in the smoke of rustleaf and D'bayang poppy that drifted in layers in the narrow companionway. The stink of old vomit, oil, sweat and stagnant sea-water all combined to make his stomach clench even tighter. Below him, Guardsmen talked, gambled and studied the Dragons deck.
He rolled on to his side. The curved plainsman's knife that he kept on a thong around his neck gouged into his shoulder. Blocking the narrow passage, the men were gathered in a knot around a small wood board on which the Dragon cards lay arranged. Slate was the Talent for this reading – everyone agreed Slate was one of the most accurate in the Guard.
Stoop's grizzled face appeared; he'd climbed the four berths to Kyle's topmost slot. He hooked the stump of his elbow over the cot's lip and winked, motioning down to the reading.
‘Slate's angry as Hood. Says the Queen of the House of Life dominates. Says that's damned odd and the reading's about as useful as a D'rek priest in a whorehouse.’
Kyle sighed and lay back on his berth. ‘Hood's bones, it's just a bunch of cards.’ Since joining the Guard he'd been confronted by more superstitions and gods than he'd ever imagined could exist, let alone keep straight or even believe.
Stoop scratched his grimed fingers through his patchy beard. ‘Lot more'n that,’ he said, mostly to himself.
‘Try again,’ someone urged Slate.
‘Can't,’ he answered. ‘Once a day.’
The thin, painted
wood cards clicked as Slate gathered them together.
‘Try anyway.’
‘Bad luck.’
‘You mean maybe we'd see through your horseshit?’
‘I mean I could bring all kinds a trouble down on our heads.’
From the corner of his eye, Kyle saw Stoop nod seriously at that. Once a day, not near a shrine or sanctified ground, burial grounds or a recent battle. Kyle couldn't believe all the folklore and ritual that surrounded the deck. The cards were supposed to reveal the future but how could they if you couldn't use them half the time? He thought that too convenient for whoever sold the damned things.
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 12
