Hiam cocked a brow. ‘Really.’
‘Yes, ah, sir. Master Stimins requests that no one continue on.’
‘And do you think this prohibition includes me?’
The two shared another glance. ‘Hard to say,’ one murmured, scratching his neck.
The other shrugged. ‘We got our orders.’
Fighting a smile, Hiam studied the butt end of his spear as he tapped the ice rime glittering on the stones of the walk. ‘Orders … That I can understand. What to do then? It is a thorny question.’
The two shared frowns. One stamped his feet. The other held his hands over a brazier on an iron stand next to their post. They seemed to be hoping he would just go away.
‘Perhaps,’ Hiam suggested, ‘one of you might escort me … onward?’
One shot a glance to the other. ‘Dunno. Maybe.’
‘I’ll let Master Stimins know you were most vigilant.’
The two relaxed, letting out pluming breaths the wind snatched away. ‘Well … okay,’ one allowed. ‘I’ll take you. Gnorl, you stay on guard.’ He invited Hiam onward. ‘This way.’
Hiam followed, a rueful smile hidden behind the narrow slit of his helm. He didn’t bother pointing out that he’d run up and down the wall since childhood.
Cresting the tall headland they descended to the low beach overlooked by the Ice Tower and its curtain wall. As they drew closer Hiam caught glimpses of that arc of curtain wall through the intervening gusting snowfall and he halted as if frozen himself.
Lady deliver us!
A great waterfall of blue-green ice enveloped lengths of it. The ice coursed over and down the rear of the wall, frozen in the act of falling. Figures worked like dark struggling ants upon the ice, hammering and chiselling, while others stood guard, facing the smashing waves.
What has happened here? Has it collapsed? ‘Take me to Master Stimins,’ he snarled to the guard and started down, slipping and staggering upon the slick rock steps. He found the Master Engineer directing repairs from the base of Ice Tower. He came upon the man suddenly, the blowing snow parting. Over the driving wind and the shuddering impact of the waves the engineer was yelling directions to a handful of workers. Hiam presumed these to be his crew chiefs. Upon seeing Hiam the men straightened, saluting, and Stimins’ back flinched, becoming rigid. ‘Dismissed,’ he told the men, who bowed to Hiam and disappeared off into the driving snow.
‘When were you going to tell me?’ Hiam demanded.
Stimins slowly turned. ‘You have the entire wall to manage, young Hiam. I hoped to spare you this worry.’
Hiam grunted, accepting that, though he was outraged. ‘Well, I’m here now. What are you doing about this?’
The old man gestured up the length of the walk to where equipment, rope, and blocks of stone lay jumbled and veined in ice. ‘I’m raising the wall.’
‘Raising it? During attacks of the Riders?’ Hiam was astounded – yet what else were they to do? He scanned the sea: the waves churned wind-chopped, but no burgeoning surge drove up the inlet, not today. Not now. Hiam could sense an assault to the hour just by the pitch of the wind. ‘How goes it?’
Stimins shook his nearly bald head. ‘Work is too slow. We’re losing too many men. The Riders smell blood. We need more guards.’
Yet all the Chosen were assigned – and each was vital to his position. The truth was, they had no men to spare. Due south of here, though, lay the city of Kor itself. The Riders could not be allowed to breast this section. A new question occurred to Hiam. ‘If there was no collapse, no break. Why here? Why now?’
The old man looked away, his mouth wrinkled tight. He examined his gnarled twisted hands, which were wrapped in rags. ‘I’d hoped to spare you, Hiam. It is not welcome news … the truth is, the wall has not lowered … the sea has risen.’
Hiam stared. Rising? All along the wall? No wonder the butcher’s bill had climbed so – he’d thought it their thinning numbers. But no. It was worse. For who can fight the sea? Yet … was that not what their ancestors had done for generations? How dare they do any less? Lady – why do you test us so? Is our devotion lacking? Is this a punishment?
He gripped his spear until his hands numbed. Very well, Blessed Lady … you shall witness. Our piety, our fervour, shall humble all who witness it!
‘What of the west, the Wind Tower and the weakness there?’
Stimins nodded. ‘I believe that also follows from the rising sea. All the flaws are emerging now under this increased pressure.’
Hiam snorted. You have the truth of that, Master Engineer. Flaws in more than just the wall. And those flaws must be hammered away else the Lady will allow us to fall. ‘Very good, Stimins. You’ll have whatever you need.’
‘More guards for the work gangs?’
Hiam thought of the latest communiqués from loyal sources in Rool. Troops massing in Lallit for transport. All good signs. Yet reports also of the invader fleet in Banith. The Betrayer’s forces meaning to invade there? Ridiculous, with Rool to pacify. They would need it as a foothold. The Betrayer would not abandon it. The fleet was merely over-wintering in calmer waters. They meant to repair and refit.
He just had to hold on until that Roolian manpower arrived.
Again, Hiam’s instincts spoke to him. They may not have the numbers, but they had their champion, revitalized of late. And other skilled prisoners – even mercenaries. He would bring them all here; pour everything they had into this breach.
They would hold. They had to. They would be given no choice.
The Army of Reform crawled northward at a cripple’s pace that did nothing for Ivanr’s mood. Ahead of their outriders villages burned all across the landscape. Each cast a black plume of smoke that mixed and swelled, announcing open warfare between Imperial loyalists and Reform sympathizers. The smoke struck Ivanr as a fitting banner heralding their approach. Their numbers swelled further as sympathizers joined the army proper, or contributed to the swollen informal army of followers and refugees dragging along behind. All told he estimated their numbers at nearing fifty thousand. A huge force – in numbers. Largest yet of all the peasant uprisings and heretical messianic movements that he knew of from the past. Yet by his estimate less than a third could really be counted on to stand unflinching and fight.
He walked close to its centre now, completely disengaged from the day-to-day logistics and organization of command. So it was he could only watch while the army’s unofficial sappers and engineers demolished many of the wooden buildings they passed. They piled the beams and lumber on to wagons for transport. Seeing this, he came to the dispiriting conclusion that Martal was preparing for a siege of Ring. The woman’s lumbering carriages also rumbled here and there amid the disorganized crowds like siege-towers on the move. Seeing them heaving along reminded him of their commander’s opaque claim that they’d brought their own fortress with them. Were they intended as a sort of mobile archers’ platform? She must know she couldn’t count on employing the same tactics as before. The Imperials would be ready for them this time.
A light drizzle fell, cold and discomforting. Its chill reminded him that much farther north the Korelri faced down the Stormriders in the name of their own defence – even as he and this army of heretics and polytheists sought to usurp the Lady’s worship. Who was right? Was either of them? Again he wished Beneth were here, though he had never thought to discuss such matters with him while the man lived. What then was to be his role, if not teacher, prophet or inspiration? The question still tormented him and further blackened his mood.
A man waited to make his way through the layers of guards now surrounding him. Tall and sickly-thin: the old pilgrim. Ivanr nodded to allow him through. He approached, bowing, and paced Ivanr.
‘You have news?’ Ivanr asked.
The man’s drawn face was grim. ‘Yes.’ The rain had plastered his dirty grey hair over his uneven skull.
‘Troubling news?’
‘Yes.’
Ivanr motioned to th
e overcast sky. ‘Not a day for bad news.’
‘No day would be good for this news.’
Does this fellow delight in being the bearer of bad news? ‘All right. What is it?’
The man took a fortifying breath. ‘We have word from reliable sources that the Priestess still lives.’
Ivanr stared at the man. ‘Generous gods! This is bad news?’
‘She is with the Imperial Army. They are bringing her with them.’
Ivanr rubbed the cold rain from his face as they continued to walk along. They were bringing her south – to them? ‘And you are worried …’
‘What they intend, yes. I believe they mean to make a spectacle of her death.’
Yes. That would make sense. A gruesome lesson in the uselessness of rebellion. Yet do they really believe that would terrify these people? It would only infuriate them. Strengthen their resolve, not weaken it. In fact, it may provoke a bloodbath. Could that be their real intent? To goad these peasants into a precipitous attack? I will have to warn Martal.
‘Thank you … What is your name, anyway?’
A humourless tightening of the thin bloodless lips. ‘Orman.’
‘You served in Beneth’s organization?’
‘Yes, in addition to my preaching.’
Ivanr eyed him sidelong. ‘When we spoke before … were you acting for Beneth?’
He shook his head, completely untroubled. ‘Then, I spoke for the Priestess.’
‘Well, I’m not one to meddle among Beneth’s choices. So, what now?’
For a time Orman walked along in silence, hands behind his back, head cocked. ‘With your permission I will travel ahead to Ring city. Early on we made an effort to seed the city with followers. Now we’re pretty much locked teeth and throat in an unofficial battle for control of it.’
‘How goes it?’
A clenched, pained look crossed the fleshless face. ‘Poorly. These Imperials have finally caught on. They’ve sealed the roads north. Forced refugees back into the city. They’re not giving up any more ground.’
‘I see. So … what is your prediction?’
He tilted his head. ‘This time I believe the fate of the city will be decided by the battle. Whoever wins that will win the city – and half the country. Impartially speaking, the Imperials really should not meet us upon the field. They ought to garrison Ring, deny it to us, and watch our movement dissolve away goalless and unfocused …’ He sighed, lifting his bony shoulders. ‘But that they will not do. The way these uprisings have been dealt with in the past will dictate how the Imperials will handle this one now.’
He offered what might have been intended as a smile of encouragement, but which struck Ivanr as a death’s-head leer. ‘So you see, Ivanr. You may take their determination to meet us in the field as a potential disaster – I see it as already a half-victory.’ With that the man bowed, and took his leave.
Ivanr wasn’t certain what to make of all that. Either the man was an extraordinarily talented political agent, or he was a religious fanatic blind to everything but success. While he agreed that this lot did not have the discipline to last any protracted siege, the Imperial heavy cavalry playing to their strengths of warfare in the field did not particularly strike him as a mistake on their part. But he didn’t serve on the intelligence side of strategy. Tactics was his strength.
The call came back through the ranks for an end to the day’s march. The soldier in Ivanr was horrified: it was nowhere near dusk! At this rate it would take them another week to reach Ring. He dabbed his wet sleeve to his face. Such was the price of holding together a voluntary civilian army.
And as always, the Imperials watched and waited. He peered around, searching the rolling hillsides surrounding the loose, ranging force. There, on the distant flank, riders shadowing them. One of Hegil’s few remaining cavalry? No way to tell from this distance. Probably not. He wondered why they weren’t constantly harassing them, gnawing at their numbers. Perhaps the Imperials considered it beneath their dignity.
Perhaps they did not wish to discourage the rag-tag army from advancing to its destruction. A damned miserable conclusion to come to. He blew on his hands and wished he hadn’t thought of it.
A constellation of camp fires lit the night to the east. Here, in a wooded depression, a single hearth of embered logs glowed a sullen orange. A man sat cross-legged before it, hunched, studying small objects pulled from a bag. Each piece elicited further exclamations of disbelief and outrage until the man scooped up the casting of pieces and thrust them home once again.
The crackle of brush snapped his attention round. ‘Who is that?’
‘It’s Totsin,’ snarled the newcomer, cursing and pushing at the dense bracken.
The man relaxed. ‘Surprised to see you here. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to disturb a talent at work?’
Totsin straightened his shirt and pushed back his thin hair. ‘Is that what you’re doing? I’m looking for Sister Gosh. She’s here, isn’t she?’
The man shook the bag, squinted suspiciously at it. ‘Yeah. She’s here,’ he said absently.
Totsin watched for a time, stroking his uneven beard. ‘So, Brother Jool … what are you doing?’
Jool shook the bag next to his ear once again. A clacking sounded from it. ‘The tiles are talking nonsense.’
Totsin’s hand clenched in his beard. He took a quavering breath. ‘Oh? I’ve always thought them unreliable, you know.’
Not answering, Jool smoothed the dirt before him then reached into the bag. He drew a tile, examined it in the faint light, grunted, and set it down.
‘What is it?’ Totsin asked in a whisper.
‘Hearth, or Flame, inverted. Failure? Betrayal? A very troubling start.’
Next came another tile, this one of a very black wood. Jool snorted his disgust. ‘Again. Always early. A strong portent – but of what?’
‘What is that one?’
‘The Dark Hoarder, inverted. Death? Betrayal ending in death? Or life, the opposite of cessation? How am I to read it?’
Totsin said nothing.
Another tile, this one of crude fired clay. ‘Earth. Very unusual coming up this early. Could also mean the past returned, or consequences. It is aligned with the ancient earth goddess. Some name it the Dolmen.’
He reached in again and this time hissed at the gleaming white tile in his hand. ‘Riders next. Prominent. Are these two associated now somehow? What are the relationships here: hearth betrayed, death betrayed, earth or past, and Stormriders? What am I to make of it?’ Jool reached in again. ‘One last choice.’
This dark wood tile he held up, squinting at it. ‘Demesne of Night. Hold of Darkness. Related, how? A puzzle indeed.’
Totsin cleared his throat. ‘I have a tile for you, Jool. I came by it recently.’
Jool did not look up; he was frowning at the spread of tiles before him. ‘Oh? A new one?’
‘Yes. Here it is.’
Distracted, Jool glanced up. Totsin tossed the small rectangle of wood; Jool caught it. ‘What is … Gods all around! Totsin! You fool!’ The man sprang to his feet, tried to throw the tile away but it would not leave his hand. He stared at it, horrified. ‘We never – the Witch! Her! What have you—’
Then, a long hiss of comprehension, his shoulders falling. ‘I see now. Hearth, home, betrayed: a traitor within the family. Death – mine. Dolmen – the past, your reasons. Night – now, this night.’
The hand holding the tile withered before their eyes, desiccating to a dead skeletal limb sheathed in skin cured to leather. ‘The Riders, though,’ Jool continued, wondering. ‘What have they … wait! Four! Four fates foretold! Two greater and two lesser.’ The man’s face paled to an ashen pallor, sinking and withering. ‘Fool you remain, Totsin. You slew me too early. What I foresee I now withhold – to your despair …’ A last breath escaped dried lips and Jool collapsed, bones clattering, to fall in a heap of parchment-like flesh.
Totsin regarded the corpse. Bravado? E
mpty threat? What was he to make of that last message? Pondering it, he used a stick to push the tiles back into their leather pouch then cinched it tight. Nothing, he decided. It meant nothing. Too vague and unreliable, this technique … he’d never trusted it. A method for lesser talents only. He kicked dirt over the smouldering embers.
Only two left now. The two most dangerous.
After departing the Ancy valley, word came to the Moranth column that Borun and Ussü were to travel ahead by mount as they had been summoned by the Overlord. They took messenger mounts and used the system of changing-posts to transfer to fresh horses as they travelled west. Though a Moranth, and unused to riding, Borun endured the endless pounding with his typical stoicism. Ussü, however, hadn’t ridden so hard in over two decades. The travel was a torture to him. His inner thighs were scraped raw; his back and neck ached as if struck all over by batons; and despite the constant agony he nearly fell off his mount as towards dawn he drifted into a fog of exhaustion.
At the next changing-post he lay down and threatened Borun with death should he disturb him. Prudently, the Moranth commander did not answer and withdrew. Ussü slept immediately, and seemingly just as immediately a knock came on the door. ‘What is it?’ he croaked.
‘I have given you four hours,’ Borun answered.
Ussü let his head fall back. Damn. ‘Very well. I am coming.’ Levering himself up he set his feet on the ground and straightened, groaning. Gods, and Lady, I am too old for this. This trip alone will be the death of me. He opened the door, leaned against the jamb. Borun grunted, seeing him.
‘Food and fresh mounts await.’
Ussü shook his head. ‘I cannot. You go ahead.’
‘That is not the arrangement. We travel together. Now come.’
Ussü raised a palsied, liver-spotted hand. ‘No. I haven’t the strength. It’s been too long.’
The featureless matt-black helm regarded him in silence, then Borun gathered the food into panniers which he threw over a shoulder. ‘You are a mage – do whatever it is you do.’ And he left the post’s main room.
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 172
