‘Stay here!’ she told her guard then tossed open the tent flap. Amaron stood at a camp table assembled from boards over two barrels; behind it sat General Choss, booted feet up on a stool, a towel draped over his face. Neither moved. ‘What is the meaning of this insanity!’
Amaron turned, raised a quizzical brow. Again, Ghelel was impressed by his height. Now, however, long into his sorcerously-maintained senescence, the belt across the expanse of his armoured belly seemed embarrassingly taut.
‘Which insanity might that be – my Lady?’
Ghelel could never shake the feeling that the two men were laughing at her. But she ploughed on, determined to defend her prerogatives. ‘Dividing the forces, firstly.’
Amaron glanced to his commander. ‘Ah.’
Sitting up, Choss pulled the towel from his face then rested his hands among the scraps of paper littering the table. The man reminded Ghelel of a lion, a scarred, battle-hardened veteran of countless scrapes, wiry with a bushy tangled head of curly hair and beard. Choss cleared his throat. ‘That was settled last night, Duchess. We saw no need to wake you.’
‘My presence is requisite at all command meetings.’
‘Ah, well, you see. In the field things don't really hold to any regularly scheduled meetings or such. We have to move quickly.’
‘Then come and get me, dammit!’
Choss's gaze went to Amaron and he smiled faintly. ‘Very well. But please remember – you supported relinquishing command of forces to me and I do not have the time to explain every decision.’
‘You seem to have the time now.’
‘Flanked you,’ said an amused Amaron.
Sighing, Choss poured out a glass of wine from a decanter on the table. He raised it to Ghelel who shook her head. He sat back. ‘Very well. So what is it you want explained?’
‘I have heard that you are leaving some ten thousand men here south of Tali. Gods, man, that's more than a fifth of the entire force! We need every man for the march east! Heng, you say, may have come out against us, or is at least making a bid for independence. We must intimidate Itko Kan and Cawn. We may face pitched battles in Bloor and, finally, Unta. The very capital! Why weaken ourselves before we even meet the enemy?’
Choss moved to speak but a wave of lowing from the throats of countless oxen and cattle overtook them together with the high-pitched whistles and yipping of Seti horsemen. The tent shook with the rumbling of the hooves.
‘What is going on!’ Ghelel yelled through the din.
‘The Seti are driving most of our animals east.’
‘Why!’
Choss raised his voice, ‘Duchess, the resistance of Heng has upset our timetable. We must get there quickly, before Laseen reaches the city with forces loyal to her. If she can stop us there our movement will lose its momentum. Commanders and provinces will begin drifting back to her. That will be the end of us.’
‘But you assured me Laseen has barricaded herself in the capital!’
The two men exchanged glances once more. As the press of cattle passed, the noise fell. ‘Yes, Duchess. However, her agents may make an offer to the Kanese. A privileged position in a new co-dominion rule … who knows? They might be bribed into extending their protection to Heng. Then we would be facing two opponents. We must get there before any such arrangement can be effected.’
Ghelel pointed to the shore. ‘So tell me, how does leaving men here manage that!’
Choss downed his wine, set the glass carefully on the table.
‘Duchess. The old Itko Kan confederacy is not the only principality we must worry about. South of the Idryn is Dal Hon—’
‘Who have sent assurances of neutrality.’
Officially, yes. However, we have drained Quon Tali of every hale man and fit woman able to hold a spear. We dare not leave it completely defenceless. The Dal Hon Council of Elders might decide to dig out their old treaties with Heng and march on Tali. That's why we're leaving ten thousand men between them and Tali.’
‘They wouldn't dishonour themselves after assuring us—’
‘Dishonour!’ Choss's hand slapping down on the table smashed the glass flat. ‘Honour? Glory? All that horseshit those moon-eyed minstrels sing on about – none of that matters here in the field! Here, a man or woman can have personal honour, yes. But no commander or state can afford it. The price is too high. Annihilation of all those who follow you. I intend to win, Duchess. That's the school I was trained in. Winning! Plenty of time afterwards to rewrite the history to make yourself look good.’ He raised his hand and gathered up a handful of reports to wipe the blood away. ‘Right now we're makin’ rafts. And with the help of our few hamlet mages and some Seti shamans we'll barge down the Idryn as if Hood himself was after our behinds.’
‘I'll get a healer,’ said Amaron.
‘Not yet,’ Choss called after him. ‘No, now I think is a good time to let Ghelel know our plans for her.’ He grinned as he wrapped a cloth around his hand.
Ghelel actually felt the short hairs of her neck bristling. ‘Oh yes, do please inform me. Perhaps it involves a royal barge and a hundred slaves rowing?’
Amaron smiled – the first real smile Ghelel could recall from him. ‘Don't worry, m'Lady. The dress and the wagon and the bodyguard are all for show.’ He hooked his hands once more at his taut belt. ‘We have only one real mage worth the name, Lass. That's a joke compared to how things used to be. Our one advantage with you is that no one, absolutely no one, can reliably identify you. We're keeping watch on your old stepfamily, of course, but outside of them there's only a handful who can be used by any mage to get a handle on you – such as Quinn. Thus, the façade of the palanquin,’ he pointed to her white surcoat, ‘and the costume. We plan for you to slip away from all that during the river trip. A new identity has been pulled together for you.’
She eyed the two men – so obviously pleased with themselves. Schemers. She saw it now. These men loved schemes. Who else could have endured to rise as part of the old emperor's staff? ‘A new identity. I see. Pray tell as what… ?’
‘An officer,’ Amaron replied. ‘A cavalry leader. Prevost, I believe, is the old rank. In the Marchland Sentries.’
The Marchland Sentries! Under the Marquis Jhardin? They're all veterans – the raiding is constant on the Nom Purge frontier. They'll never accept me.’
‘They accept new recruits all the time. And the Marquis does command.’
‘What does he know?’
‘Only what he needs to know. I leave the rest up to your discretion. I suggest something close to the truth of your upbringing. Such as being of a minor noble family that spent its last coin purchasing your commission.’
She nodded reluctantly – anything was better than the damned painted carriage and this ridiculous costume. ‘When?’
‘Molk will have all the details. He will be posing as your servant.’
Ghelel raised a hand. ‘I'm sorry. Did you say servant?’
Amaron nodded, serious. ‘Oh yes.’
‘Not like I've been hearing about? All these adjuncts and aides and seconds in the Talian forces?’
Choss and Amaron exchanged wry glances. ‘Oh, yes, Duchess. The Talian army has elected to follow the old ways of doing things. Pre-Malazan. Any self-respecting officer must have a servant, even two, or three: a groom for his or her mounts, an aide-de-camp or adjutant for his or her daily duties, even an attendant to go with them into battle. You being poor can only afford one.’
Queen of Mysteries, no. The man's slouched, he stinks and he's wall-eyed to boot. ‘No, not him. Anyone but him!’
Amaron's grin did not waver; he was obviously very pleased with his arrangements. ‘Oh yes, m'Lady. He's perfect.’
* * *
In the light of the flames from the burning west palisade wall Lieutenant Rillish could make out figures struggling atop the east. He stood behind the piled sacks and lumber of a last redoubt abutting the stone barracks at the centre of the fort. Already the wounded
filled the barracks. The Wickans, Sergeant Chord had informed him, had withdrawn to the large dugout storage vault beneath. Somehow this intelligence disheartened him. But he did not have the energy to think about it; instead, it took all he could muster to stay erect. A javelin lanced out of the dark from the north wall and he threw up both swords to deflect it. The parry staggered him. The two guards Chord had posted with him steadied his back, their large shields raised. Arrows followed, thumping into the shields’ layered wood, leather, and copper sheeting. Damn them, they had the advantage now. Rillish gestured for Sergeant Chord.
The sergeant came jogging across the no-man's-land of the central mustering grounds, whisked by arrows and tossed flaming brands.
‘Not much longer now,’ he bellowed over the inferno of the tarred east timbers, the clashing of swords and the roar of the besiegers. His idiot grin of delight in battle was fixed at his bearded mouth.
Rillish shouted: ‘Send the word. Torch the rest and withdraw.’
‘Aye, aye.’
Rillish tapped the guards. ‘Remain here. Everyone holds to cover the retreat.’
The marine guards saluted. ‘Aye, sir.’ They rested their shields against the piled timbers, took up their crossbows. Rillish backed away, limping and bent, for the barracks door, and it occurred to him that with men like that he could win any battle – provided he had enough.
Within, in the gloom, the stink of rotting flesh and old blood made him wince and press a hand to his face. His vision slowly adjusted, revealing a madman's image of Hood's realm. Blood and fluids glistened on the timbered floor, draining from a pile beside that door that slowly resolved itself into a heap of naked amputated arms and legs. Men sat hunched at the slit windows, bows and crossbows raised – those with two able arms. The rest supported them, holding pikes and arrow sheaths. A man struggled one-handed to crank his crossbow. Appalled, Rillish took it from him and wound it. ‘Fessel?’ he bellowed. ‘Where are you, man! What is the meaning of this?’
‘Healer's dead, sir,’ said the crossbowman.
‘Dead?’
‘Aye.’
‘What happened?’
‘Old Fessel refused to use his Denul all night, sir. He was cryin’ an mumblin’ and then he just fell dead. His heart, sir. Seemed to just give out.’
‘What was it – was he sick?’
‘Don't know. He was bawlin’ like a baby at the end there, savin’, “Please stop. No. You have to stop. Soliel's Mercy, please no,” while he was fixin’ us up best he could. Strangest thing, sir.’
The Wickans?’
‘Downstairs, sir. Quiet as mice.’
‘Very good.’
Rillish crossed to the open trap door and dark earthen passage leading down flagged in flat river stones – a construction someone had put a lot of effort into since he'd last seen the subterranean vault. ‘Udep? Trake himself is on his way! This is it, man!’
Darkness. The flickering of what might be a single torch somewhere in a far corner of the cellar. Staring down into that dark a shapeless dread tightened the lieutenant's throat. The stink of old blood seemed even stronger here. He thought of the hetman's and the shaman's strange manner during their last meeting. How Udep seemed to be attempting to warn him of something – Clearwater's bruised, almost crazed gaze.
No. They couldn't have. Their own children. Yet was not slavery a worse fate for any Wickan? He backed away from the dirt passage and the horror that it promised. Perhaps they were all to meet their end this night – they in their way, and he and his command in theirs.
‘They’re fallin’ back, sir!’ someone called from a slit window.
‘Yes.’ The lieutenant shook himself, cursed the fools beneath his feet. Damn them! Too impatient to meet Hood, they were. There's hundreds without more than happy to lend a hand for that. Why not go down with your iron warm? Rillish took a deep breath, ‘Aye! Cover them. Show them how a soldier fights!’
‘For the Fourth!’ a woman shouted.
‘For the Empire!’ Rillish countered.
A great shout went up from the men and women lining the walls, ‘The Empire!’
A thunderous roar and a blinding gout of flames announced the eruption of the flammables gathered at the base of the remaining palisade walls. For moments the screams of the besiegers stranded upon them rose even above that conflagration. The churning gold light illuminated the passage and in its bright glare Rillish forced himself to descend.
At the bottom his boots sank into yielding damp earth. Kneeling, he felt about with one gloved hand and brought up a fistful of the loam. He squeezed and the flame-light revealed a dark stream dripping from his fingers – earth soaked in blood.
What inhuman will … He wiped his gloved hand on the wall then yanked his hand away. Warm. The dirt walls fairly radiated a strange heat. The fires? As his vision adjusted he made out the low shapes of legs lying straight out from either side forming a kind of aisle leading straight to the opposite wall where the lone torch cast a fading light on a single figure, waiting.
Rillish walked the aisle. To either side lay the elders, heart thrust, every one. No sign of any child, nor of any struggle. Their slack features appeared calm, resigned. His boots slipped and sucked in the soaked, mud-slick earth. A strange humid warmth assaulted him while an impenetrable darkness seemed to hover just beyond the torch and motionless figure.
Drawing close, he recognized the shaman, Clearwater, sunk to his knees. Horribly, two spears supported him, thrust downward through his back and crossed beneath his chest, impaling him on his knees. Blood ran drying in rivulets down the wood hafts, pooling beneath him.
incredibly, the shaman's head rose, sending Rillish backwards, gripping his swords. ‘Greetings, Malazan,’ the apparition breathed, wetly.
Rillish could not speak. Above, boots stamped the timber floor, shouts for relief for the bulwark beyond the door sounded. Should they yield that, he knew, the end would not be far behind. He found his voice. ‘Clearwater – what have you done?’
The shaman's smile was ferocious, and victorious. He glanced to the eerie darkness past the torchlight. ‘Forbidden one fight, we found another. And succeeded, though the cost was dear. Go now, bring your men. A way has been bought.’
‘What do you mean? Bought? What kind of bargain is this?’
A shudder took the shaman and his torso slipped a hand's width down the shafts. The man spoke through lips drained pale. ‘An escape, fool. Life for our children and your men. This site was holy once. To our ancestors. Blood called, just as it always did. But hungry! So hungry … there were barely enough of us. Now go, send your men. I hold the way.’
‘A way where?’
A clipped laugh cut off by an agonized grunt. ‘Not far. Go.’
Rillish ran to the stairs, his boots slipping and sliding. He roared up the passage, ‘Send Sergeant Chord down here!’
In the end he managed to evacuate thirty-two men and women of his command before the building's burning roof forced him into the passage. His last act was to help those wounded who volunteered to carry out the ones who couldn't walk. Bent over, his leg stabbing with pain, he could wait no longer. A soldier rearguard steadied him on the stairs. Together, they pulled shut the trapdoor against the furnace roar of the barracks.
‘Sergeant Chord?’
‘First through, sir,’ she said.
‘Very good. Our turn now.’
‘Yes, sir. After you, sir.’
‘No. I'll go last.’
The woman smiled – dark, Talian or part Dal Hon, her mailed shoulders as broad as any man's. ‘Not the sergeant's orders, beggin’ your pardon.’
A glow licked its way between the thick timbers of the trapdoor. They backed away, hunched. ‘No time for that, soldier. After you.’
A salute. ‘Aye, sir.’
At the darkness, the soldier drew her shortsword, readied the wide shield from her back. ‘Good luck, soldier,’ Rillish said.
‘Aye. Hood spare me,’ she spat,
muttered a short prayer, then launched herself forward, disappearing.
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 31
