‘I am sorry, Karien. It is late. And really, I do not deal in supposition. ’
Sitting back, the Watch captain rubbed his eyes and sighed his exhaustion, defeated.
‘No, I suppose not. I should have known better.’ He took a sip and smacked his lips. ‘Very well. I will do all the work for you – as usual. A second invasion. A new wave of Malazan legions.’
Bakune forgot the fire. He straightened. ‘But that is incredible …’
‘Credible. Quite credible.’
‘Mare will—’
‘Mare failed the first time, don’t forget.’
‘Then the garrison, the Malazan Overlord, is marching on Mare?’
The captain made a disgusted face. ‘No he’s not marching on Mare! He’s marching to repulse the Malazans should any of them succeed in landing!’
‘But he’s Malazan …’
Karien’el stared at Bakune for a time then downed his remaining wine and pushed himself to his feet. ‘I don’t know why I bother. I think perhaps I pitied you, Assessor. All these years not taking one coin to drop a charge, or decide a case favourably.’ He gestured to the tiny parlour. ‘Look at this place. Here you are in a cramped walkup in town when other Assessors hold estates and manor houses. I know what your pension will be, Bakune, and believe me – it won’t be enough.’ He headed for the foyer. ‘Yeull named himself Overlord of Fist for life, my friend. All these decades of tribute and taxation to our rulers the Malazans. The sales of slaves and prisoners to the Korelri … all that gold. Has any of it reached the Imperial throne in far-off Quon?’ He shook the melt from his cloak. ‘Not one Styggian penny! The throne wants its due in territory and taxation. They’ll hang Yeull as a usurper. And he knows it.’
‘But you say you are leaving …’
Karien snorted and drew on his cloak, throwing up its broad hood. ‘The Malazans aren’t going alone. They’re taking all the militia with them – and you are looking at the captain of the local militia.’
‘The Watch is marching with them?’
‘Yes. Not that we have a choice. I’m here now to give the lads the time to desert. If anyone’s left when I get back I’ll be surprised.’
Bakune stood in something of a daze; he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Who will keep the peace? Enforce the laws?’
‘Ah! Now we get to the nub of the matter. The Abbot, my friend. The Guardians of the Faith will be the new authority.’
‘The Guardians? But they are nothing more than religious enforcers.’
‘Exactly. So be careful, man.’ He rested a hand on the door latch. ‘Which brings us to my final message. I’ve always been a betting man, Bakune, with an eye on the main chance and all my options. I’ve made no pretence about it all these years. Well, I’ve placed a number of bets. And in case I should not come back and the Malazans win through – as I believe they shall – then I want you to know that your files still exist. I was ordered to destroy them but I salted them away instead … just in case.
‘So, there you are. Those two lads who’ve been shadowing you? I transferred them to your office. They’re reliable. That’s it. The best I could do. Good luck. And farewell.’
Karien’el went out, pulling the door shut behind him. Bakune stared at the closed portal. And farewell to you, Karien. It would seem I never really knew you. But then, I suppose we are both hard men to know. Best of luck to you as well.
Winter is more than a bitter time on the Stormwall. The wind blows keen from the north. It cuts more than the breath or exposed flesh. The sight of an entire sea of hate charging down upon you does more than bruise the vision. It tests the spirit. One either breaks beneath the weight of all that unrelenting enmity, or one’s spirit is annealed into something stronger, something almost inhuman.
So it was with a calm detachment that Hiam opened his eyes to the dark of night and a knock at his door. He sat up, noted the grip of the cold on his arms, his breath misting the room. ‘Enter.’
His aid, Staff Marshal Shool, opened the door, helm under an arm. ‘Apologies, Lord Protector. Thought you would want to know. Riders sighting coming in via the communication towers.’
‘Very good, Shool.’ Hiam went to the hearth, where a pot of tea was kept hot night and day, poured a thimble. ‘Where?’
‘The Great Tower, Ruel’s Tears, and Wind Tower.’
‘A broad front.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Contact?’
‘Light skirmishing reported.’
‘Wall Marshal Quint?’
‘Tower Nine, I believe, lord.’
‘Very good, Shool. I will move command to the Great Tower.’
‘Yes, lord.’
Hiam inclined his head. ‘I will be down shortly.’
Shool bowed. ‘Very good, lord.’ He withdrew, pulling shut the door.
For the first time that season Hiam dressed for war. Over thick fleece insulating shirts and vesting he strapped on a boiled leather cuirass faced in iron rings and chased in silver, leather vambraces and leg greaves, and pulled on thick leather gauntlets backed in iron mail. Last was his layered felt cloak. He tucked his helm under an arm and went to the north window. Here iron shutters rimed in ice sealed the opening. He unbolted the shutters and yanked one open, sending a shower of ice clattering to the floor. A great gust of searingly cold air blasted into the chamber, buffeting the fire. The season’s cloud front hung like a dark ceiling, lashed by lightning. To the north, a bluish-green glow lit the horizon: the aura of the risen Stormriders. Below, waves crashed over the lowland rocks of the dead shore to pound the wall’s base like a hammer of demons. Hiam felt the report of each blow rising through his sandalled feet as a murmur of vibration.
So, a westerly launch. Were they hoping to draw attention from the centre? Too early to tell yet. And broad. A broad opening front. Could they know? No – how could they? Some claimed they spied from the shallows, counted men. He did not think so. Still, tradition dictated a constant showing of strength at each section. Even if it meant marching the same men up and down its length.
Hiam pulled on his helm, its forward-sweeping cheek guards allowing a tight slit for vision. He swung shut the iron leaf. Behind him the wind had snuffed the fire in its hearth. He struggled to dismiss attributing any significance to this sign. Lady strengthen them now. For now was the time of their greatest testing. He descended the stairs.
Upon the ramparts Chosen saluted as he passed. He was flanked by Shool and a picked troop of guards. ‘The Champion?’ Shool asked over the buffeting wind.
‘Have him moved out.’
‘Yes, lord.’ Shool waved for a runner.
Though the waves crashed, spume lashing, and the wind was a constant punishing roar, the iron nails set for traction in the sandals of the Chosen clashed loudest in the rhythm of their marching. Hiam took great satisfaction from that steady beat. Ahead, Tower Twelve jutted outwards, taking full advantage of a higher rocky headland. There Chosen and mixed guards pointed east, shouting, their words lost. Hiam stopped, leaned outward over crenellations for a look. Far back across the sweep of some four curtain walls – contact.
Immense breakers pounded, their weight cast back by the curved slope of the wall in broad wind-lashed swaths of spray. Within flowed the opalescent glow of Stormriders, speeding back and forth, seeking weaknesses in the defence. Hiam raised his spear, shaking it. ‘For the Lady!’
A great answering shout went up from the Chosen – though the regulars seemed far from eager, eyeing one another and shifting the grips on their spears.
‘Let us hurry,’ Hiam called to Shool. ‘This may be a full assault.’
The muted booming of waves reached Corlo through the uncounted tons of rock of the wall. He sat, arms crossed over his knees, shackled in a holding cell in line with other impressed and prisoner ‘defenders’ of the wall. So it was no surprise to him when the barred door rattled open and Chosen warders entered, unlocking chains.
‘Stand at attention
!’
It took some effort to straighten, Corlo having been enclosed in the unheated cell for weeks so that his legs were numb and weak. Beside him rose a great giant who he thought carried Thelomen or Tarthinoe blood. ‘Looks like we may see some action,’ he murmured to the man.
‘No talking in the ranks!’ a Chosen yelled.
‘If I should fall,’ the huge fellow rumbled, ‘I am Hagen of the Blackrock, Toblakai.’
Corlo’s legs felt weaker and he slid down the cold slick wall. ‘You are Toblakai?’
‘Yes. What of it?’
‘But the guards call you “Thel”.’
Hagen snorted his contempt. ‘Here in these lands – what do they know?’
‘You’re not of here?’
‘No. I am of the south. A land of mountain forests, cold rushing streams.’
Corlo gaped at the giant. ‘The south? You mean the Ice Wastes?’
‘No – beyond that.’
A Chosen warder stopped in front of Corlo, kicked his feet. ‘Stand!’ Corlo could only stare uncomprehending at the guard. South? But that was Stratem! Thinking furiously, he clutched a leg. ‘Ah! I cannot. My legs are numb. Frozen.’
The Chosen Stormguard scowled his disgust. ‘You’re coming whether you can walk or not.’ He gestured to the Toblakai. ‘You. Thel. Carry him.’
Behind his great mane of tangled hair and beard the giant gave Corlo such a grin.
Hagen cradled Corlo in his arms like a child. When they stepped out on to the ramparts and the cutting wind sawed at their flesh he hunched, protecting Corlo from the worst.
‘You are from Stratem, then?’ Corlo asked, his voice low.
‘I know of no Stratem.’
‘That is the land south of the Ice Wastes.’
‘My friend,’ Hagen rumbled, ‘the land south of the Ice Wastes is Toblakai land.’
Corlo thought it best not to press the matter. The giant’s shackles clattered and scraped across the ice-rimed stones of the walk. He glanced behind, then frowned down at Corlo. ‘Eight crossbowmen follow us. I usually only warrant four.’
‘I always have eight.’
‘You are a most dangerous fellow, are you?’
‘I’m a mage.’
The huge fellow grunted again. ‘A mage? Always I hear how these Korelri are so frightened of magi. You do not look so fearsome to me.’
A stave cracked against Hagen’s back. ‘No talking!’
‘Is that rain?’ Hagen asked airily. ‘I thought I felt a drop.’
‘Perhaps it was just the wind.’
‘Yes. The wind as from a baby’s rear.’
‘Far enough!’ the Stormguard shouted. ‘Stop here. You, Thel. Set him down. You, Malazan, stand or sit. It is up to you.’
Hagen set Corlo down. ‘You are a Malazan mage?’
Corlo winced at the phrasing, but nodded just the same.
The iron-bound door to a nearby tower swung open and out shambled a fettered and shackled figure in a torn linen shirt, his hair and beard tangled and matted.
‘Who is this unfortunate?’ Hagen asked.
Corlo took a deep breath, appalled – but not surprised – by Bars’ deterioration. ‘You are looking at the current Champion of the Stormwall, my friend.’
‘Great Mother protect us.’
‘Yes indeed,’ Corlo agreed softly.
The Chosen took a cocked crossbow from a guard and pressed it to Corlo’s head. ‘Talk to your friend, Malazan. Impress upon him the nearness of his death. He shall stand the wall whether he holds iron or not.’
A clout of the stock urged Corlo forward. He stopped before his friend and commander, Iron Bars. The man did not look up. Did not even seem aware that someone stood before him. A great wave crashed against the nearby curtain wall, sending a wind-driven lash of icy spray that drove everyone to hunch – all but Bars, who did not flinch. Corlo waved a hand before the man’s staring pale eyes. Not a glimmer of recognition. Lunacy? Withdrawn beyond all touch? No, he could not believe it. The vow he swore would not allow it. The Vow of the Crimson Guard: undying, unyielding resistance to the Malazan Empire so long as it should endure. This vow had sustained the original Guard, who swore it for some one hundred years, made them virtually immortal, able to defy even evidently mortal wounds. Such a vow would not allow defeat.
But he was torn – should he speak of Halfpeck? Would it make a difference? He raised a hand, ‘Bars … I have news …’
‘Enough, Malazan!’ The Stormguard shoved Corlo aside. ‘I have seen this pose before. A cold dash of the Storm Sea brings them all round right quick!’
Crossbowmen urged Bars forward. Chains clunked as he shuffled along.
Corlo and Hagen were forced to follow at a distance. ‘Your friend, I fear, has the look of a jumper,’ said Hagen.
‘I don’t believe he’ll jump.’
The Toblakai had the sensitivity not to answer.
The detail marched them about another league east, well past the Wind Tower. Here, they watched while Bars was unshackled. ‘I know why I am here, Hagen,’ Corlo said. ‘Why are you? Why were we chained together?’
‘I wondered that too, Malazan. But now I know.’
‘You do?’ Covered by crossbowmen, the Chosen led Bars by a single chain down on to the lowest defences, the outermost machicolations of this section of the wall. The way was treacherous; already ice layered the stone in a thick blue-green blanket. Hammering reached Corlo as the Chosen banged at an iron ring encased in ice. ‘So … why?’
The giant’s jaws worked and he let go a long heavy sigh. ‘Before your friend arrived, Malazan, I was the Champion of the wall.’
Corlo blinked, staring, then comprehension dawned, and he swallowed hard, kneading his hands. ‘I see.’
A great wave, a tall comber, came rolling up this curtain section of the wall, breaking at the crenellations. Chosen and regulars stood hunched behind shields, spears ready, watchful and tense. A half-section away what they waited for appeared in the shape of a Stormrider. It reared from the spume, scaled armour glittering hues of mother-of-pearl and opal. A long jagged ice-lance darted at the nearest guard, who took the blow upon his shield. Immediately, nearby guards closed, spears thrusting. The second rank, crossbowmen and archers, loosed upon the figure who turned away, shield raised, to submerge with the receding wave.
Corlo unclenched his teeth and let out a breath that plumed before him. He’d never get used to the way they just appeared like that. Who were these beings? The Korelri named them demons come to destroy the land. Malazan scholars thought them just another race – if a mindlessly hostile one.
Hagen flinched then, fists rising, as a Rider breasted the crenellations directly in front of Bars and the Chosen. The Stormguard spun, sword out blindingly fast to parry a lance-thrust, then rolled backwards out of range. Say what you would about these Chosen, Corlo reflected; they were damned good. The Rider thrust at Bars, who merely twisted sideways, the lance scything the air exactly where he had stood. A storm of crossbow bolts sent the Rider curving down behind the wall.
‘That one will be back next wave,’ Hagen murmured. ‘Certain.’
The Chosen drew an extra blade, dropped it at Bars’ feet and backed away. Around Corlo the crossbowmen quickly reloaded, using goatsfoot hooks to pull down the twisted sinew cords.
At the defences Bars made no move for the blade.
‘Take it, fool!’ Hagen bellowed, hands cupped to his mouth.
‘Take it, Bars!’ Corlo yelled.
Hagen tapped Corlo’s shoulder, motioned to the east. ‘Here it comes …’
A great swelling comber struck like an avalanche as it rolled down the curtain wall. All along its length, amid the spray, defenders thrust at glimmering phosphorescent figures that lunged, rearing.
‘Take it!’ Corlo roared with all his strength, into the rushing thunder of the wave. Bars seemed insensate, a bedraggled figure in a soaked linen shirt, long matted hair dripping, rags wrapped at loins and feet.
As the wave reached opposite, bulging and breaking, two Riders lunged, both thrusting jagged lances. Bars seemed merely to brush one thrust aside while grasping the other lance and pulling it from the hands of the Rider. The crossbowmen and archers fired volleys, driving the two helmed figures back. They regarded Bars steadily as they sank from view. Bars threw away the lance, which burst into fragments upon the flagged ramparts.
‘I will admit to being impressed,’ Hagen said.
The Chosen closed on Corlo. Steam plumed from the Stormguard. He yanked off his helmet and pushed back his sodden hair. ‘Your friend must defend the wall!’ he roared. ‘If he doesn’t – the next volley takes him! Then you’re next!’
‘I must get closer.’
‘No closer. I’ll not lose two men to this position.’
‘Time is running out,’ Hagen warned. ‘The next wave gathers.’
Corlo cupped his numb hands to his mouth. ‘Blade Commander! Commander! Avowed!’
At the defences, Bars’ head slowly turned their way. Corlo could make out no expression behind the wind-lashed hair and beard. This could be it – he may give himself up. Corlo’s last resort came to him and his stomach twisted at the thought. No! That would be terrible! Yet he had to save him … Sickened, he held up his hands, forcing insensate fingers straight. ‘Seven! Seven of the Blade!’
It appeared to Corlo that the eyes widened, the mouth opened as if in disbelief. Corlo thrust his hands higher, fingers extended. Bars raised his own hands, stared at them, then held them up with seven fingers out as well.
‘The wave …’ Hagen warned.
‘Yes! Seven!’
The hands dropped and the dishevelled figure stared about as if coming to himself. The wave struck in a shuddering impact, driving a lash of spume that obliterated the sight of Bars at the crenellations. When the sheet fell Bars remained, sodden, dodging the thrusts of two Riders then lashing out an arm to knock one down behind the wall. The other he punched, helm shattering like cracked shell to reveal, briefly, a head much like that of any man, if pale and thin. That Rider sank as well.
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 140
