‘More Otataral?’ Ho asked of her, mockingly.
As an answer the sea-mage gestured ahead. ‘This will kill us just as surely.’
Icy spray slashed Ho's face. He wiped it away. ‘Then let's hope Yath succeeds.’
The Mare mage was now the only person standing unaided on the deck. Everyone else was sitting or clung to ropes or the sides. She stood with her feet widely spread, her hands clasped at her back. She looked down to Ho. ‘You and I both know it'll take all day to bring everyone into harmony for the casting. A wave could swamp us any time before then.’
‘Then you best help us,’ Su said, her dark face wrinkling up in a smile.
Devaleth raised her eyes to the clouded sky, muttered curses to her self in Korelan. Ho thought he heard echoes of the old Malazan accents in the language. ‘Oh, very well,’ she hissed in Talian. She took the tiller arm, pushed at Blues. ‘Let go, you damned oaf.’ He shot an uncertain glance to Ho who gave his assent. Taking a deep breath, he and Dim relinquished the arm to Devaleth's control. Immediately the Forlorn steadied, its progress smoothing. She pushed the arm with just the finger and thumb of one hand and the prow fairly leapt to meet an oncoming wave. ‘Too light,’ the woman muttered, distastefully.
‘Is there no interference?’ Su called, eager.
‘Yes, there's bloody interference!’ the sea-mage snarled. The Otataral is a rasp gouging my mind! But I can push that aside – no, there's something else …‘ Her eyes narrowed to slits as she sought within, searching. ‘… Something I cannot identify. But it's there. It's pulling, like a tide or current, urging me aside …’ She shook her head. ‘Too ephemeral. Can't spare the time or effort – you chase it down!’ And she turned her back, putting an end to any further distraction.
Su offered Ho a knowing conspiratorial smile, and again he wondered: what did the old woman mean by such gestures? Was it no more than an invitation to read whatever suited his own fears or plans? Would she later claim to have known all along how everything was going to unfold? The affectation annoyed him no end. No one can know another's mind or their own deepest motivations, hopes or feelings. People were all of them strangers – sources of continual surprise – at times disappointing but at other times affirming. And so it must be for everyone, he imagined.
At the mid-deck Yath had sat as well, staff across his lap, struggling to weave the commingled contributions of the participants into one seamless flow of channelled power to be held, coalesced and distilled, then released in one awesome revelation of willed intent: the transference of the ship through Warren from one physical location to another.
* * *
‘What're they waiting for?’ Brill asked, an arm over his shovel, gazing off at the Guard lines to the south.
Nait didn't stop hacking furiously at the dry earth. ‘How in the Abyss should I know? Now stop your shirking and get to work!’ Grinning, Brill set once more to deepening their trench. Just hold up a while longer, Nait pleaded, an we'll have us a nice defensive perimeter. Just a mite longer … He swung a leg up and crouched in the grass, peering left and right. Not much movement. Pot-shots from the skirmishers, nothing serious. What's everyone waiting for? It's damned unnerving is what it was. No one eager to get killed, I guess. May had chosen a good hill – not high enough to attract unwanted attention, but not too shallow neither. Not close to the centre, but not too far to the side. Once he'd snuck his squad down Nait had set everyone to digging a long semicircle of trench – their hidey-hole when the mages and Veils came hunting. May and the regulars were setting up the stone arbalest. This engagement, instead of stones, it will be throwing something far more deadly at any Avowed or mage who's fool enough to reveal his or her position.
Speaking of mages, Heuk was with them. A number of saboteur squads had been assigned cadre mages, though what use the old soak was going to be was beyond Nait. He pulled at his iron and leather brigantine – liberated from the quarter-master wagons by his light-fingered recruits. They too now sported better armour, as well: padded and layered leathers set with rings and studs, iron helmets, greaves and boiled leather vambraces. Too much armour, in truth. But they were young; if they lived long enough they'd come to find the proper balance between protection and weight.
Mixed League and Malazan cavalry patrolled the outlying edges of the field – too few to do anything more. Most of the field commanders had dismounted to stand with their battalions. At centre front the Sword standard threatened advance but never quite committed; waiting word from Laseen. Nait wondered how long that would last. What was the woman waiting for? Why not unleash the skirmishers, sound the advance? Mid-afternoon now and still no one had exchanged blows in anger.
A brown grasshopper landed on Nait's mailed sleeve and he blew to send it flying. Get along, little fellow – things are about to get far too hot for the likes of you. Untan militia fire, he noted, was thickening to the west flank. Some Guard Blade or line had pushed forward or done something and the irregulars responded. Now, seeing their brothers and sisters firing, more and more of the crossbowmen and women were popping up to fire. The flights of bolts became a constant pattering, then a darkening rain, thickened to a punishing storm. This was how it would start: some inconsequential move would invite retaliation, would spur a countermove, would become an escalation in resources and before either side knew it they were committed. Being utterly without personal delusions Nait knew he was a neophyte, but such a scenario of chaos, of blind forces groping at one another in the dark and reacting without thought, made sense when compared to what he'd seen so far. And it would be dark soon enough – shit! As if things couldn't get any worse! The dark! There's no way they'd be off this field before night.
Nait cast about for the cadre mage. ‘Heuk! Get up here!’ The old man appeared, greasy-haired, squinting. ‘What good you gonna do us anyway?’
Heuk shaded his eyes from the afternoon sun. ‘You pray you don't need me—’
‘Yeah, yeah. That's all we ever hear from you. Well, you know what I say? I say bullshit! We're gonna need everyone!’
The mage scanned the field from under his palm, bobbed his sour agreement. ‘I think you're right.’
‘So?’
‘So …’ he ducked back down into the thin trench, ‘wait for night.’
Nait restrained himself from tossing a shovelful of dirt on to the man. He kept one eye on the gathering firefight. From the unit absorbing the storm of bolts on the flank came twin arcs of flame that shot skyward then came crashing down, bursting into billowing orange-red infernos. In their wake arose swaths of flames as the sun-browned grasses took up the fires like the rarest of tinder. Skirmishers ran like ants from a kicked nest.
Nait squeezed himself down into the shoulder-width trench. Lady save them, it's started. And things were not looking good. ‘Water!’ he bellowed. ‘Douse yourselves!’ He fought with shaking hands to unstop a bulging skin.
The popping of distant sharpers sounded: his cohorts punishing whichever mage that was – as if he or she was still there! Yet the pattern was now set. Mages would reveal themselves to smash any point of strength and the saboteurs would seek to stalk and hammer them. The hammering part Nait loved … but he wasn't too keen on that stalking part. Gonna get hammered ourselves draggin’ our asses across this field. No – won't do. ‘Heuk!’
Jawl showed up, crouched above Nait, her long hauberk touching the ground down past her knees. ‘Do we have to keep diggin’? We've been diggin’ all the damned day. I mean, the fighting's startin’.’
‘Will you get down! Fire's comin’!’
‘Naw – it was snuffed out.’
Nait straightened. ‘What do you mean, “snuffed out”?’ He squinted out over the field. Plenty of smoke hanging in the still air but very little fire. Heuk had dragged himself over, hugging his tall brown earthenware jug. ‘What happened to the fire?’ Nait asked.
‘Put out by one of ours.’
‘We got one c'n do that?’
A shrug. ‘Su
re. Sere Warren. Maybe Bala.’
‘Bala? Who's that?’
A rotten-toothed grin: Oh you'll know her when you see her.’
Jawl was still squatting next to the trench. Nait gave her a glare. ‘What in the name of Rotting Poliel are you doin’ there? Get to work! Keep diggin’ – it's what saboteurs do.’ The youth pulled a long face, sulked away. Nait studied Heuk. ‘Listen, I don't want to be run all over Hood's playground out there …’
‘Sound policy.’
‘But we need a way to spot the targets ‘n’ such. Can't you do anything to help us out?’
The mage lowered his greasy seamed face to the open top of his jug as if studying its depths. He looked up, winking. ‘I think I can maybe do that.’
Nait's brows rose. Damn – we're gonna actually see some action out of this broken-down old fart? ‘So? Do it.’
‘Wait for night.’ And he ducked down.
Smartarse. Nait studied the lines. The Sword standard kept edging forward yet not quite committing. The Guard lines remained immobile. Why'd they put their backs to a cliff? True, they gotta hold the road to the bridge, but still … Neither side wants to get bloodied. We know there's Avowed waiting for us; and they're outnumbered more than four to one.
* * *
Shimmer could not believe the punishment these Untan irregulars were inflicting on her lines. They were like biting flies – or hornets – and her forces the blundering bhederin attempting to swat them. Something had to be done; how much longer must her men and women hold the line – no more than obliging targets?
Brethren! She called within her thoughts to her fallen brother and sister Avowed. Speak with Skinner. We must advance! Sweep the field of this threat! We cannot delay any longer.
Your concerns shall be conveyed, came the distant response.
Concerns? Her tactical judgment no more than a concern? Was she not second in command?
Skinner warns you to put aside your panic. These pests shall be dealt with in good time.
Panic! Panic! She took hold of the grip of her long whips word. Who did he think he was? She almost set out from her flank commander position to confront the man, but refrained knowing she could not abandon her post. Damn him! Well, she would act, even if he wouldn't! Brethren! Orders for Smoky, Twisty and Shell: you are given leave to punish those skirmishers – and keep moving!
Orders shall be conveyed.
Damn right they will be conveyed. Skinner may have no regard for the third investiture common soldiers of the lines – but she was going to do everything she could to protect the men and women of her command!
Orders acknowledged.
Good. Now those pests will be made leery of approaching her flank!
Moments later a great sheet of flame arose across the intervening field and began sweeping north. Distant figures writhed, caught in the sudden eruption. The great mass of skirmishers recoiled, fleeing. The wedge of fire broadened, swelling, a runaway grass fire threatening to engulf the entire field. Then, just as suddenly, the flames were snuffed, as they had been before. Who in the Queen's Mysteries was that mage? The irregulars crept forward once more, began targeting her lines where her soldiers hunched behind shields. Damn, they're brave bastards! Sudden wails of surprise and alarm – the barrage stuttering, thinning. Twisty and Shell at work. Less showy than Smoky but just as effective. She could imagine Twisty ruining their weapons, Shell softening the ground beneath their feet. Enough to send them running.
Something flashed across her vision then. Men and women of her bodyguard fell, one clutching at a bolt in her neck, another in his chest. Cold iron punched into Shimmer's back and she spun, pinned the attacker's arm and struck, crushing the man's throat. Claws! Two full Hands! Another crouching figure aimed and she ducked; a bolt sang overhead. She leapt, rolling to take the woman down, clasped her head and twisted, breaking the neck. She stood, drawing long-knives from her belt and something struck her, a wave of pressure that when it passed left her surroundings darkened, quiet. Suddenly it was dusk, the sky colourless. The field remained but now stretched empty. Shadow! She spun, found what she searched for: the mage some distance off. Ignoring the pain of the thrust in her back, she made for him.
Shadows closed, coalesced before her. She pushed through. Something clutched her throat, cutting off her breath. She felt at her neck but found nothing. Shadows throttling her! How to … She fought to breathe but nothing came. Her lungs charred. Her chest tightened in a rising frenzied panic. But still through the blurring haze she saw him, the Claw mage, and she made for him. Amazingly the man did not move; he watched her advance with disbelief in eyes that widened and widened as she closed. The shadows tightened like a hangman's noose. She felt her pulse throbbing, clenched off.
‘No … impossible …’ the man breathed, astounded.
A more thorough briefing may have been required regarding the Avowed, Shimmer reflected as she swung, slitting his throat in one slash, then she fell, her vision blackening.
Brethren! I join you …
* * *
Olo sat smoking his pipe, lying back in his skiff, his arms crossed, legs out, hat pulled down over his eyes against the sinking late afternoon sun. ‘Boatman,’ someone called, ‘for hire?’ His boat rocked slightly, and he roused, reluctantly.
‘What?’ A fat man in rich dark-blue robes stood on the dock peering down at him, a strange unnerving grin on his thick lips. Olo stared back, suspicious. What in the God of a Thousand Faces was a rich fellow like this doing hailing him? He looked like some kind of eunuch or functionary from the Empress's court. Was he lost? ‘Ah, what can I do for you?’
‘Use of your craft, good boatman, to take me across the harbour.’
‘Across? You mean to the spice and silk docks p'chance?’
‘No. I mean straight across. West.’
Olo sat up straighter, glanced over, shading his gaze. ‘But there's nothing there
‘My concern, do you not think?’ and the fellow produced a gold coin. Olo goggled at the coin then held out a hand. The man tossed it. It felt hefty enough, not that he'd held many gold Imperial Suns in his life. ‘Be my guest.’
Whoever he was, the man was at least familiar with the water as he smoothly eased himself down on to the light craft of hand-adzed planks. Olo readied the oars, pushed away from the dock. ‘Been quiet since the attack and the Empress leaving, hey?’
‘Yes.’
‘A course, she took all of Unta with her, didn't she!’ and he laughed.
Silence. Olo cast a quick glance to his passenger, found him moodily peering aside, a slight frown of puzzlement wrinkling his pale face. Olo squinted as well: the fellow appeared to be watching a shoal of clustered leaves bobbing in the waves. Old prayer offerings. Not a man for small talk, obviously. Olo rowed on, taking a moment to pull down his loose woollen hat. A bottle of Kanese red maybe, and that Talian girl – the one who was so full of herself. Or maybe rice-piss for as many days as he could stomach it. And thinking of that – Olo shot a quick look to his self-absorbed passenger, pulled out a gourd and took a quick nip.
‘What are you up to, Mael?’
Olo gasped, choking. ‘Me sir? Nothing, sir! Just a touch thirsty ‘s all.’
But the eunuch wasn't even looking his way; he was turned aside, looking out over the water. Olo squinted as well but saw only the smooth green swells of the harbour, the forest of berthed ships. The boat slowed.
Without so much as turning his head the man said, ‘Row on or jump out. Your decision.’ And he held his hands over the side.
Olo gaped at the fellow. What? Who was he to—
The water began to foam under the man's hands. It churned as if boiling, hissing and paling to a light olive green.
Olo almost fell over backwards as he heaved on the oars. Gods forgive me! Chem Bless me! Thousand-fold God favour me! What have I done to deserve this – other than all those things Vve done but never told anyone?
‘Those folded leaves. The flowers and garl
ands on the water. What are they?’
Pulling harder than he had in thirty years, Olo gasped a breath. ‘Offerings. Prayers.’
‘Offerings to whom?’
‘The God of the waters, sir. God of all the seas. God of a Thousand Moods, a Thousand Faces, a Thousand Names.’
‘No! Mael! You shall writhe in agony for this!’
Olo gaped at the man. Mael who? Then, remembering, he renewed his pulling. The skiff bucked, bobbing in suddenly rough waters.
‘Speak! I command you!’
Olo somehow knew that his passenger was not addressing him. The tiny skiff sped up, but not from any efforts on Olo's part. The water was swelling, climbing upwards, bulging beneath them like a blanket billowed by air, and his skiff was sliding down its slope. He abandoned his oars in futility, scooped up the gourd and emptied it over his face, gulping. And horribly, appallingly, he heard something speak: ‘Mallick. What is there for us to talk of?’
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 77
