‘No – no distractions.’
Suth sympathized completely with Newhorse. In this run, more than a full day’s march for any army, they’d come across occupied farmsteads, corralled cattle, a herd of sheep, even orchards. No scorching tactics of withdrawal and burn here. This country was rich and unspoiled.
‘I smelled cooked meat …’ the lean Wickan continued.
‘I only smell your foul breath,’ Tolat said.
The Adjunct raised a hand. ‘Save it. Rest. I’ll take first watch.’
Suth could barely hold himself erect; he lay down immediately, wondering what this Adjunct was made of to have run him into the ground – and then stand watch!
He was nudged awake what seemed the next instant. It was still dark, though close to dawn. Everyone was tense; Tolat was readying her bow while keeping the weapon down amid the grass. ‘Something’s up,’ she breathed. Suth did not move because he immediately saw the Adjunct standing at the edge of the field.
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t know. He just woke us, walked off.’ She continued readying her gear. ‘It’s like he’s listening.’
Squinting, he saw how the man clutched his blade, head cocked, before he came jogging back.
‘I shouldn’t have come. I’ve attracted … attention. We have to go.’
‘What is it?’ Newhorse asked.
‘Just run.’
Suth set off as best he could but he hadn’t recovered from yesterday’s exertions. None of them had; their pace was much reduced. Only the Adjunct seemed unaffected. He often ran ahead, scanning the hillsides while the day brightened around them. A few farmers and herdsmen worked the fields. All fled when they caught sight of them. It appeared that some sort of evacuation had been imposed upon the population, but not all had complied.
Then Suth caught sight of shapes shadowing them through the fields: low, loping. Hounds. A great pack of beasts. Even as Suth saw them the Adjunct shouted, pointing to an outcrop of rock. They swerved, making for it. Charging the formation, the five set their backs to the thrusting rock face. The hounds burst from the fields all about them, closing. They came snarling, and Suth saw how foam lathered their mouths, their eyes rolling, white all round.
‘Rabid!’ he yelled, certain.
‘Ancients take them!’ Tolat answered and she snapped out her bedroll, wrapping it round an arm.
Suth had no time; he’d lost the chance to follow suit. He and the Wickans drew their long-knives. The Adjunct unwrapped his bright curved blade. The animals leapt upon them. Suth used his blades to parry slashing claws. Loi went down almost right away, missing a lunge and falling screaming. The hounds closed over him at once and his cries were cut off instantly. They flinched in, closing upon each other, pressed their backs to the cliff wall. Tolat chanted some sort of war song as she stabbed, rammed her blanketed arm into open maws. Newhorse stabbed as well, using the point to force the hounds away. Suth followed suit. The Adjunct waded in using the tulwar blade one-handed, a long-knife in the other, taking the fight to the hounds. They lunged but he met them full-on, severing heads, limbs, torsos. Two clamped their teeth into him, an arm and a leg; he swung the gleaming tulwar to sever their heads.
Then the animals suddenly ran, yelping, skittering and falling in their desperation to flee. The four stood still, listening, only their harsh breaths sounding in the night. Suth felt his limbs quivering their anticipation … some thing was coming. They could all feel it.
Argent flame burst to life in a pillar of roaring, blinding, coruscating power. Suth flinched away. He covered his eyes with an arm, squinting. He could just make out a shape within the searing brilliance, a woman’s outline.
The Adjunct struck a ready stance, weapons raised.
‘Greetings, Outlander,’ a woman’s voice whispered, jarringly sweet in tone, yet coiling with venom. ‘The stink of that sorceress bitch is upon you. Where came you by this blade of yours? Was it a gift … from her?’
Suth could barely stand: the voice itself hammered at him like blows. It gnawed at his thoughts like acid.
The lashing flames drew closer yet the Adjunct did not retreat. ‘Who are you, man? What land are you from? There is a strangeness in your blood. I smell it. Perhaps … I should taste it …’ Suth shouted a useless warning as high above a lash of flames whipped up to come slashing down. The Adjunct did not wait for it. He rolled forward into the pillar, swinging his bright blade two-handed across the maelstrom.
A blast like an eruption of Moranth munitions blew Suth backwards off his feet. He rolled tumbling to strike the stones at the base of the outcrop and lay dazed.
Suth did not think he’d lost consciousness. He remembered staring at the overcast sky watching snowflakes come floating down to tangle in his eyelashes. He blinked his eyes, rubbed an ear where ringing deafened him. Groaning, he levered himself to his feet. Gods, that reminded him of the blasts that took the wall of Aamil. He staggered forward to find the Adjunct. He found Tolat with him, his head on her lap.
‘Is he alive?’ Suth asked, or thought he did; he couldn’t hear his own voice.
She shrugged, mouthed something.
‘We have to get out of here!’
She stared up at him, uncomprehending. He mimicked picking up the Adjunct and moving. She nodded, then pointed behind him. He turned, alarmed, but it was Newhorse limping up. Blood gleamed down his torn shirt. Suth motioned to the man’s wound; Newhorse pointed to Suth’s head. He touched gingerly at his numb temple and came away with a smear of blood. Damn stones!
The Adjunct’s scabbard was empty. Suth cast about and eventually found the blade lying amid burned stalks. It still smoked. Using a fold of leather, he picked it up and shoved it back into its scabbard. Had he killed this ‘Lady’ they were all going on about? Probably not.
He and Tolat carried the Adjunct while Newhorse scouted ahead as best he could. It took them a day and a night to reach the Ancy, and there they were defeated. They could not cross. All they could do was stay hidden and keep watch for any foraging or scouting parties on the far side of the river whose attention they could attract.
The Adjunct never really recovered. He babbled in a foreign tongue, sweated and shivered in some sort of fever. Eventually Tolat, who could at least claim to have swum before, argued she should go ahead for help. Suth and Newhorse agreed that was better than waiting to be seen. So before dawn Tolat waded out into the frigid Ancy and pushed off, disappearing from sight amid the chop and froth of the swift current. Suth collected some water and returned to the copse where they hid from any Roolian patrols.
It just so happened that Devaleth was up already when word reached her that one – one! – of the Adjunct’s party had finally returned. She went as swiftly as she could to the High Fist’s tent. Had it been an ambush by Roolian scouts? Had they been detected by the Moranth? Or was it this new mage she’d been sensing? Somehow the man could act without raising the Lady’s ire. All along something had bothered her about sending Kyle; the prospect had troubled her but she hadn’t spoken up during the meeting. Now she wondered.
A guard raised the opened flap and she saw the female scout, soaked to the bone, standing before the High Fist. Fist Rillish sat to one side, pale but intent.
‘By the gods, let the woman sit!’ Devaleth burst out before thinking.
‘I’d rather stand, thank you, High Mage,’ the woman managed, her voice a croak.
‘As you choose, Tolat,’ said Greymane. Aside, to an aide, he said, ‘You have that?’
‘Yes, sir. A copse a few hours north. They should see us.’
‘Only one squad should approach the river,’ Greymane warned. ‘We don’t want to attract any attention.’
‘Sir!’ gasped the scout Tolat, wavering on her feet.
‘Yes?’
‘That’s just what the Adjunct said, sir. Attracting attention … that he did … attract …’
Devaleth took the woman’s arm; she peered at her confused, her eyes glazed.
Her weight shifted on to Devaleth, who grunted, suddenly having to support her. Two other aides took Tolat from the mage and carried her out.
‘Of course,’ breathed Rillish from his chair. ‘I should have seen it … that sword of his. It must have attracted the—Her attention.’
Greymane turned on the man. ‘So only now you think of that, Fist Rillish Jal Keth.’
‘Sir!’ Devaleth called out, dragging the High Fist’s attention from Rillish. ‘We all missed that. If anyone is to blame, it is me. I should have foreseen it.’
For the first time Devaleth felt the full force of the High Fist’s furious ice-blue gaze and she was shaken by the feyness churning there just below the surface. Then the man somehow mastered himself, swallowing, drawing a great shuddering breath, and nodded at her words. ‘Yes … you are right. Yes.’ He turned away, drew a hand across his face. ‘I missed it too.’ And he laughed. ‘I! Of anyone, I should have thought of that!’
She thought then of the grey blade the man had once carried. Said to have been a weapon of great power. It was responsible for his name in these lands: Stonewielder. And that name a curse. What had happened to it? No one spoke of it, and she’d yet to see anything more than a common blade at the man’s side. He must have lost it during all the intervening years.
‘Kyle is wounded – attacked by the Lady,’ Greymane told Devaleth. ‘Can you heal him?’
She thought little of her chances but she nodded. ‘I’ll get ready. Send him to my tent.’
The High Fist nodded and Devaleth bowed, exiting.
Greymane turned to a staff officer. ‘Spread the word. We attack at dawn.’
The woman’s brows climbed her forehead. ‘But it is dawn … sir.’
‘Exactly.’ He gestured to the tent flap. The woman almost fell in her scramble to leave.
Rillish pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll ready my armour then, High Fist.’
Greymane had gone to the rear of the tent, thrown open a travelling chest. He studied the Fist as if seeing him there for the first time. ‘No. You stay here.’
Rillish’s face twisted as he fought to control his reaction. ‘Then … who will lead the assault?’ he asked, his voice as brittle as glass.
The High Fist slammed an iron barrel helm on to the table. He set a hand atop it, and his eyes burned with a bright blue flame. ‘I will.’
Rillish went to Devaleth’s tent to await delivery of the Adjunct. He eased himself down into a chair and said to the Marese water-witch, ‘Thank you for your support.’
The woman was readying pots and cloths. ‘Certainly,’ she replied, distracted. ‘The man is too harsh. Too unforgiving.’
‘He is a storied commander …’ he began.
‘With much to prove?’ she suggested, peering over a shoulder.
‘ … for whom men and women will fight. But, yes, there is a history there. A history I was a part of.’
Turning, wiping her hands on a cloth, the stocky woman eyed him. ‘You need not wait here. There’s nothing you can do. As,’ and she sighed, ‘I suspect there will be nothing I can do, either.’ She waved to the open flaps. ‘Go on.’
He offered her an ironic courtier’s bow, then, straightening, he waved to a guard. ‘Bring my armour.’
Too weak to walk steadily, Rillish ordered a horse. Armoured, with the help of two grooms, he mounted. He felt much better sitting well supported between the tall cantle and the pommel. He hooked his helmet on the latter and eased on his gauntlets. The day was overcast and cool. Good weather for a protracted engagement – though he doubted Greymane had any patience for such. He regarded the bridge and the column of heavies jamming it, all eager to press forward, and frowned. He signed to a messenger. ‘Bring me the saboteur lieutenant.’
‘Aye, Fist.’
He kneed his mount to start it walking down to the bridge. Not much later a mud-spattered gangly woman jogged up to his guards and pushed her way through. She gaped up at him, grinning with snaggled discoloured teeth, and her bulging eyes appeared to stare in two directions at once. ‘You asked f’r me, Fist?’
Oh yes, Lieutenant Urfa – once met, never forgotten. ‘Yes, Lieutenant. The bridge … should it be so … burdened?’
The woman squinted at the structure. She turned her head to stare first with one eye, then the other. Then she burst out with a string of the most unladylike curses Rillish had ever heard and charged off down the slope without even saluting. Rillish watched her go, and leaned forward on his pommel, sighing. ‘Send word to Captain Betteries – no more than four abreast across the bridge.’
‘Aye, Fist.’ Another staffer charged away.
Gods! Did he have to tell them not to jump up and down too? Just what they needed, collapsing the bridge now after all this time. He saw an unattached lieutenant, a messenger. ‘Where is the High Fist?’
‘At the barriers, sir, organizing the assault.’
‘I see. He’s waiting for sufficient troops, I suppose?’
‘Yes. I believe so, Fist. You have a communiqué?’
‘No. We shan’t bother him.’
He and his guards had reached the jam of infantry choking the bridge mouth. Swearing under his breath, Rillish kneed his mount forward, shouldering the armoured men and women aside. ‘Captain Betteries!’ he shouted.
‘On the bridge, sir,’ a sergeant answered from the press, saluting. ‘Held up a touch.’
Rillish sawed his reins ruthlessly to stand his mount across the bridge mouth, blocking it. ‘You! Sergeant … ?’
‘Ah. Sergeant Tight, sir.’
Tight? Oh well … Rillish pointed to his horse. ‘Form up your squad here – four abreast!’
‘Aye, sir.’
Tensing his legs, Rillish rose up high in his saddle to bellow so loud and with such force that his vision momentarily blackened: ‘Next squad form up behind!’ Weaving, he grasped hold of the pommel.
A hand steadied him from behind – Captain Betteries. Rillish nodded to the officer, who acknowledged the thanks and then turned to the soldiers. ‘Scouts we sent across report they have livestock on the other side!’ he shouted. ‘Full larders. Even beer.’
Sergeant Tight rubbed at his tearing eyes. ‘Bless ’em.’
‘But no one advances until we’re all formed up right and proper!’
‘Aye, sir!’ came the shouted response. The captain turned back to Rillish.
‘My apologies, Fist,’ he murmured, his face pale.
‘Quite all right. Something of a whim this … deciding to cross today.’
A fierce smile from the company commander. ‘Yes. Good day for a walk.’
‘Sergeant,’ Rillish called over the shouting and barked orders.
‘Aye, Fist?’
‘A word of advice. If you ever make Fist grade, change your name.’ And he kneed his mount out of the way, leaving the man behind frowning and scratching his head.
Captain Betteries held back the press with his bared sword. He waited until the mass that already jammed the length of the bridge had filed across, then allowed on one squad at a time. Rillish scanned the far shore. The Roolians had raised barricades – overturned wagons, heaped logs and stones. Greymane had his forces forming up short of the barriers, waiting.
The Roolians were also forming up. More and more of their forces were converging. This assault held the promise of eventually embroiling all combatants from both sides. Greymane, he imagined, would not withdraw or let up until he’d broken through – perhaps even if it meant fighting on into the night. Rillish cast about and found a messenger. ‘For Captain Betteries. Have a quarter of our forces held back.’
The messenger saluted and ran off.
Shortly later the man returned, saluting. ‘Compliments of Captain Betteries, Fist. He responds – a quarter of our forces? That would be the sick-list.’
Damn Soliel! True enough. They don’t have the resources. It’s today, or never.
A great thundering animal roar of rage swelled then from the barri
ers and the Fourth Army arose at the command of a giant of a man in banded iron armour raising two swords, and charged.
Suth could not believe his eyes and ears as he stumbled along the east shore of the Ancy, far behind his rescuers. Columns crowded the bridge, horns sounded orders, and already there was clashing at the barriers on the west shore. They were attacking! And it was happening without him!
Once they’d been helped across the Ancy, Suth had waved the squad on: they were burdened enough carrying the still unconscious Adjunct and Newhorse, who was too weak to walk. He could make it on his own. Waving good luck, the rescuers had jogged off, leaving him to follow as best he could.
Now they were attacking without him! And he exhausted and without his armour. He was never going to live this down. Footsore, his head throbbing, he went to find his gear.
Devaleth thanked the squad that had carried in the Adjunct, yet wasted no time in hurrying them out. Closing the flaps, she turned to the young man lying on the pallet. It was far worse than she’d imagined. She cut away the leather and cloth around savage bites in thigh and arm – already they festered. A compound of leaves steeped in a tincture that cleaned wounds went on those. As to his mind – she pressed a hand to his hot brow and reached out, ever so tentatively, to his thoughts, then yanked her hand away as if stung.
Chaos and confusion, yes, but not shattered. Astounding. His mind ought to be irrevocably crushed – so much so that it would be a mercy to let him slip away. Perhaps it was because the man was no mage. No talent, as they said among these Malazans. Not cursed, as she’d say herself.
Yet … something else. Something deeper, more troubling. Her brow furrowing, she bent closer to the man’s eyes. Reaching, she lifted one lid with a finger then flinched away. Ancient One protect her! For an instant … but no. Impossible. It must have been the light. That could not have been an amber glow.
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 165
