Choss poured himself a glass of wine. ‘Just what we need – some fiery prophet denouncing all contact with outlanders. You Seti are ill-served by him, I think, Imotan. What does he expect? You're inviting the world to bite your arse when you stick your head in the sand.’
‘Colourful but accurate,’ said Toc. He eyed Imotan and his mouth drew down in thought. ‘Perhaps some demonstration of fighting spirit is called for. We should contact our people in Heng. A coordinated, targeted attack …’
‘Would be a waste of resources,’ Choss countered, waving the glass dismissively.
‘An investment in improved relations.’
‘Damned expensive.’
‘Required, I think.’
Choss's thick, expressive brows rose and fell. He scratched his beard in thought. ‘Well. I'll pull something together.’
‘Good.’ Toc stood. ‘We are finished, then?’
Grunting, Imotan pushed himself up with an effort. ‘I am too old for these long talking sessions, I think.’ Choss offered an arm but the old man waved him off.
‘What of you?’ Choss asked him. ‘I'd think you'd agree with this Wildman.’
The old shaman assented, bobbing his head in approval. ‘Oh, yes, I agree with most of what he says … But for one thing – he does not have the sympathy of our people's spirits. They whisper to me that Heng must be besieged. That out of this will come the salvation of our people. So, in this you and I are allies. And I will fight him with all the resources at my command.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
‘Do not thank me, Choss. It is chance only. We might just as easily have been enemies.’ And smiling he left the tent to be surrounded by his white-cloaked bodyguard.
Choss clasped hands with Toc. ‘Well, on that reassuring note …’
‘Let me know what you've cooked up.’
‘Aye.’
Toc watched Choss go, waving his lieutenants to him, then raised his chin to a man in studded leather armour, a blackened iron helmet and a long mailed skirt. The ivory grips of twin sabres curved bright at his sides. The man approached, bowing, ‘Sir?’
‘Captain Moss, you've heard talk of this Seti Wildman?’
‘Yes, sir. I have.’
‘Who is he? Where is he? Track him down and report back.’
Captain Moss saluted. ‘Sir.’ He jogged down the gentle hillside. As he went, he called to his troop, ‘Mount up!’
Toc remained for a time in the tent opening testing the night air. It carried a hint of the stink of Li Heng, now a glow on the southern horizon. Toc smiled at his own conceit; here he was, son of a nameless speck of a hamlet in Bloor, naming the Seti prairie his home and damning cities as stinking shitpits. He wrinkled his nose … still, it did smell of shit. He supposed he'd been away from all human settlements for too long. He thought he could also detect a distant pine stand – the sap would be thickening. Autumn was coming. They didn't have much time.
* * *
It was worse than Cowl's most pessimistic forebodings: the instant they entered the Warren he scrambled to raise the most potent pro-tecrions he could muster. Yet even now, sheltered from direct exposure, he could feel the rabid energies gnawing at his wards. Should they corrode their way through, he and Skinner would not last a heartbeat. Here, at the most far-flung reaches of Thyr, within sight of the effects of Kurald Liosan, Elder Light, inaccessible and far more inhospitable than all the other elders.
He crouched with Skinner within the shadows of a narrow, deep ravine of cracked, baked earth. Overhead, curtains and streamers of energy lashed and snapped across a blinding white sky. Cowl imagined he could almost hear them singing.
‘You prefer this to Chaos?’ Skinner growled.
‘I preferred to chance this over Chaos, yes.’
‘You are too cautious. Why not Shadow, or Tellann?’
‘Too crowded. And eyes are everywhere. Here there are no eyes.’ He gestured the way ahead. The two shuffled along, wincing against the raging storm of energies above.
‘What do you mean, no eyes?’
‘Can't you feel it? This place is wild, feral. It is without a guiding presence.’
‘What of Father Light?’
Cowl raised an arm across his face. ‘Well, if you must cite the first mover, the prime originator, then, yes, I suppose he is here, yes.’ He pinched shut his dazzled eyes, grimacing. ‘If only in spirit.’
‘I mistrust it. I have heard the air is poisoned. That those who come here die of it later.’
‘It's not the air that's poisonous,’ Cowl said, and he took a right-hand turn where the ravine met another, wider channel. This way.’
‘You said something about crowds?’ Skinner said.
Cowl turned. Skinner was pointing to the channel's dry dirt floor: a Path. Twins’ laughter! How had he missed that? Damn. He waved Skinner on.
They followed the channel for some time. How long Cowl could not be sure, of course; no sun rose or fell, nor was there any discernible change in the natural variations in the streamers and coronas of unleashed energy lashing across the sky. They had reached a position, roughly, where his instincts told him he might attempt to reach out to the churning power to manipulate an opening, when four figures suddenly stepped out in front of them.
Surprised, Cowl stopped short; obviously, he could not count on his heightened senses and perceptions here in this inimical place. The figures wore a kind of white enamelled armour, now caked in dust, and pale yellow cloaks. Their features reminded him of Tiste Andii, though the hair of each hung white and long. One barked something in their own tongue. Cowl signed his lack of comprehension.
A wave from one and the spokesman tried again, ‘You understand us now, worm?’
Cowl gave a half-bow. ‘Greetings, honored Liosan.’
‘Relinquish your arms and armour, trespassers. You are now our slaves.’
Cowl turned to Skinner – the full iron helm, blackened yet glittering as if dusted in sand, disguised the man's face but Cowl could imagine the raised brows. In answer, Skinner waved Cowl aside and advanced upon the four.
Perhaps it was incomprehension, or an inability to accept what was occurring, but Skinner was able to close on the first two before they acted to draw their weapons. As the nearest went for his grip the Avowed commander grasped that arm and swung the Liosan aside to crash into the defile wall, bringing down a rain of baked clay soil as jagged as kiln-dried potsherds. The second he backhanded aside into the other wall. Both slumped unconscious. The remaining two, swords readied, raised their white triangular shields. Skinner continued to close, still empty-handed. The first swung, the curved creamy blade striking an upraised armoured forearm and shattering into brittle shards. The Liosan gaped in unbelieving amazement. A punch from Skinner drove his shield into his chest and knocked him backwards from his feet; he lay stunned. The remaining Liosan sliced Skinner's chest but the blade merely skittered from the Avowed's glinting deep-crimson armour. An arm lashed out to clout the Liosan across the side of his helmeted head, spinning him from his feet. Without pausing, Skinner stepped over the fallen Liosan. Cowl followed, not even bothering to look down.
After a time one of the Liosan sat up groggily. He yanked off his helmet and threw it to the dirt. ‘Brother Enias, I am coming dangerously close to losing my faith.’
A second sat up, coughing, and gingerly pressing his chest. ‘Hold on to your faith, Brother Jorrude. These are tests, are they not, of its strength?’
‘Well, I cannot speak for you, Brother Enias, but I am tested sorely.’
Groans sounded from the other two and Jorrude helped them to their feet. ‘And who were they?’ he demanded of Enias.
‘I know not. Humans yet, though I smell vows, pacts and patronage about them. Enough that they insult us by trespassing with impunity.’
‘We must follow! Bring justice to them!’ said a third.
Jorrude retreived his helmet, brushed dust from it. ‘Perhaps it would be best that we continue our
quest … what think you, Brother Enias?’
‘Yes, Brother Jorrude. Satisfying though justice may be, we ought not to neglect our purpose. Father Light has turned his face from us brothers! Some failure or lack within ourselves or our ancestors has severed our connection. We must find a way to bring the warmth of his gaze upon us once more.’ Brother Enias adjusted his armour, wincing. ‘That is our purpose!’
‘Yes, Brother Enias,’ the other three recited.
Cowl waited until enough distance lay between him and the Liosan – guards, or fellow travellers like themselves, or whoever they may have been – before deciding to try to exit Thyrllan. He did not look forward to it; so abandoned were the energies here that enforcing the control of manipulation would try his skill to its limit.
He was flexing his gloved hands when Skinner stopped. ‘There, Cowl. What is that?’
He looked ahead, then up. Just visible above the narrow gap of a side ravine rose an ochre-brick tower. Cowl stared. Great Mother Dark – who might possibly … He hurriedly stepped aside into cover. ‘We should go. Now.’
Absently, Skinner raised an iron-gauntleted hand to shake a finger at Cowl. ‘I think not. I am curious.’
‘Do not fool yourself. There are entities here far more powerful than those Liosan.’
‘Then let us go meet these great powers.’
‘Are you insane? I will take us out, now.’
The finger pointed. ‘No. You will accompany me in case you are needed.’
The Avowed High Mage stood silent for a time, stroked the scars that traced a pearly thatching along his neck. Even more imperious than when he left us is our Skinner. Still, he was powerful even then, and now this Ardata seems to have invested even greater potentialities within him. Why would she have done so and then apparently meekly allow him to go? There is a greater mystery here. And perhaps it would be interesting … He waved an invitation to proceed.
*
After investigating for a time they could not discover any way up to the tower. It seemed that whoever built or occupied the structure had no use for the sheltered ways all other travellers were forced to walk in order to pass through this deadly reach of the warren. That alone made the sweat cold that soaked Cowl's silk shirt, layered thin hauberk, pocketed vest and many weapon belts. They also had to pause while he renewed each of the layered protections he had woven around them. After this, Skinner selected the shallowest ravine wall and punched out depressions as hand-holds. Cowl waited, face averted, while the dry clay clumps rained down.
Eyes shaded, he waited until his seemingly irresistible commander had almost reached the top then took a breath and launched himself at the rotten wall. A soft moccasin touch within one gap, a deft pull upon a protruding rock, and in an instant he had ascended the wall as if flying up.
Reaching the top and pulling himself erect, Skinner grunted to see Cowl standing before him. He gestured to himself. ‘I don't suppose you could have …’
‘No.’
A blasted landscape of harsh shadows and brilliant whites assaulted their vision. The energies pulsing outward felt like a hand thrusting Cowl backwards. The commingled roar of its rush was a thunder almost beyond his capacity to hear. Face averted, he ran for the cover of the tower. Even Skinner joined him, hunched against the raw, yammering aurora. The bricks of the tower scorched Cowl's fingertips. ‘You're not going in, are you?’ he shouted.
‘Of course. And you are coming with me.’
In the end, he followed, if only to avoid the indignity of being dragged by his belts. They found an opening leading to an empty ground floor and stairs up. All was built of the same clay bricks – all of which had equally bulged and sagged in the unrelenting kiln heat. Skinner led the way up. The brick stairway circled the tower three times before ending at an empty circular chamber, roofed and featuring one slit window that faced directly upon Kurald Liosan. They kept to one side, wary of the blade of brilliant light cutting across the chamber's middle. Cowl noted that the motes of dust that drifted into the blade puffed into wisps of smoke. Skinner crossed his arms. ‘Your evaluation?’
‘Some sort of a research, or observation or communication tower, I should think.’
A grunt from Skinner. ‘Very well. Let us then communicate.’
‘You're not going to …’
‘Yes. I am.’
‘We don't know what will happen!’
The mailed finger pointed once more. ‘Exactly, Cowl. And this is where you always fall short. You don't know what you can do – until you do it.’ And he stepped up before the slit window. Instantly his surcoat burst into flames. Grunting anew, this time in pain, he averted the vision slit of his full helm. So great was the force driving in that Skinner shifted a mailed foot back, leaning into the stream. ‘Do you see anything?’ he bellowed.
Cowl attempted to send his awareness out ahead but it was like trying to push a boat up a foaming set of rapids. Still, he could sense something … something very potent … approaching … ‘Something's coming!’
A shape, a presence, occluded the stream of power. It seemed to hover before the slit window. Through eyes shaded and narrowed Cowl had the impression first of a coiling, shifting serpent, then a winged entity, then a globe of roiling flame. Whatever it was it seemed entirely protean, without any set shape.
‘Who are you? came a thought so powerful as to ring the chamber like a bell.
‘Skinner. Avowed of the Crimson Guard. Who—’
‘These titles are meaningless. You are not he – that is plain.’
‘Who—’ Skinner began, then a blast struck the tower, which rocked. Raw, yammering power seared through the slit window throwing Cowl backwards to the floor. Dust as dry as death swirled in the desiccated air. The blade of light returned. Carefully Cowl straightened, coughing, peering into the shifting curtains of brick dust. A groan brought him to the rear of the chamber. Here, Skinner straightened from the wall. Behind him crushed and broken brick tumbled to the floor. He patted his chest, sending the black ash that was his surcoat floating out into the chamber. The helm shifted to Cowl. ‘You are going to say something. I can see it in your face.’
Cowl raised a hand to his neck. He struggled to keep his mouth straight. ‘If I were to say something, Skinner, I suppose it would be that what goes around comes around.’
The Avowed commander ground out a long, slow growl.
* * *
The entire trip to the Golden Hills Lieutenant Rillish spent surrounded by a moiling horde of Wickan cavalry. Mounts had been provided for all; recovering, he could ride now with major discomfort, but he could ride. A large cart, a kind of wheeled yurt, had been assembled for the youth and it now constituted the centre of the churning mass of yelling, chanting horsemen. Early on Rillish had leant to Sergeant Chord, asking, ‘What is that they're repeating?’
‘Well, sir, they seem to think the youth carries the spirit of Coltaine, reborn.’
The name impressed Rillish no end. Coltaine. Leader of the last Wickan challenge to Malazan rule. Through negotiation he had then become one of the Empire's most feared commanders, and had died battling a rebellion in Seven Cities – though some claimed he had actually led it himself. That news had come four days ago. Plenty of time to ruminate on the truth, or suspicious convenience, of the timing of such a manifestation. After mulling it over – Nil and Nether seemed to accept it explicitly – he decided that it wasn't a truth for him to judge. He wasn't a Wickan. Not that he would endorse just any culture's practices – slavery of women, for example. Sure, it was a tradition among many peoples not to allow women access to power. Fine, so long as the ‘tradition’ was recognized for what it was: just another form of slavery.
So he would go along with the story. Never mind, whispered that scoffing sceptic's voice within him, how convenient it might prove for him.
Five days of wending up and down steep defiles and crossing rocky rushing streams brought them to a high broad plateau dotted with encampments of yurts a
nd surging herds of horses. A great exulting war call went up from the column followed by a ululation of singing from the many camps. Mounted youths charged back and forth, spears raised. Some climbed to stand on the bare backs of their mounts; others leapt side to side, running alongside their horses, hands wrapped in manes.
‘You'll have your hands full with this lot,’ Rillish said to Nether who happened to be at his side. Her answer was a long, amused look, then she kneed her mount ahead.
A bivouac was set aside for Rillish and his command. He set to its ordering along with Sergeant Chord. ‘Now what do you think, sir?’ Chord asked while they inspected the soldiers’ work, some raising tents, others assembling imitations of the yurts in blankets and cloaks over a framework of branches. Fires were going and water was heating in clay pots over the flames.
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 45
