Kellanved's Reach

by Ian C. Esslemont

* * *

  Nedurian walked the cobbled main road that led out from Malaz City to cross the isle. Once he’d passed two wayside inns, an informal market ground, a blacksmith’s, and a shop dedicated to building and repairing the local heavy slate roofs, he entered fields and market-gardens where produce, pigs and chickens vied for space among low hedges and ancient, crumbling fieldstone walls. Past these he came to long fields of grain such as barley, millet and wheat that ran in narrow strips out from the road to a distant hidden stream. These rural farmers – crofters, some named them – lived relatively independently of the city just a few hours’ walk, though something of a world, away.

  His left leg started to ache then, as it always did when called upon to cross more than a few rods of journey. It was an old injury. A summoned demon had taken a chunk out of his thigh and nicked the femur; a military churgeon had reached him in time to save his life, but the leg had never been the same. Thankfully, not so far ahead, among the windswept hills, he spotted what surely must be his destination.

  It was an old local burial field, abandoned now, but rumoured to be haunted, of course. Shunned by the locals. Yet here fresh new canvas tents snapped and shuddered in the wind while long thin banners of black rippled above – sigils of the cult of Hood, resurgent here on the isle due to a personage now accruing a near worldwide reputation among the faithful. Dassem Ultor, Mortal Sword of Hood, god of death.

  Nedurian limped onward, entered the field and traced his way through the tents to where adherents and the faithful were gathered, some kneeling, others standing as they prayed. He tried to push past the crowd, only to have his way barred by armed cultists.

  ‘Yes, brother?’ a woman demanded, her arm out.

  ‘I am here to see the Sword.’

  ‘As are we all. Yet he is praying and not to be disturbed.’

  ‘He’ll see me.’

  ‘Oh? And why is this?’

  ‘Because I’m here with a message from the woman he works for!’ Nedurian snapped, rather irritated. ‘That’s why.’

  The cultist dropped her arm. ‘Ah. The Sword has left instructions. You may pass.’ Yet the arm snapped up again, a finger thrusting. ‘But the Sword does not work for this woman. They merely share obligations to the master of Shadow.’

  Nedurian had been about to slap the woman’s arm aside, but her words startled him enough to make him pause, blinking. ‘The master of what?’

  ‘Shadow, of course. There are those among us who share allegiance to that faith as well. They wear the colours of twilight grey.’

  Now Nedurian could not stop himself rolling his eyes to the sky. Gods! These religious people and their love of pompous self-important titles and hierarchies of power. Personally, he thought it insane – but, after all, he was just a soldier at heart. Give him comrades in arms, a warm fire and plenty to drink, and life was good. Who needed more than that?

  So he shrugged, mumbling something like ‘Pissant fools’, and shouldered his way through.

  The centre of the field was empty; a measure of the respect, and perhaps dread, in which the Sword was held. Nedurian passed simple cairns of piled stones to a larger structure, a sepulture of dressed black volcanic rock. Here the Dal Hon lad who was held to be the living embodiment of Hood’s will sat cross-legged, meditating – or dozing, depending upon your level of reverence.

  ‘Stay like that and you’ll stiffen up,’ Nedurian growled.

  A smile crooked the lad’s lips. ‘Spoken like an old campaigner.’ He raised his dark, so very dark blue eyes and even Nedurian, sceptic and veteran, felt a shudder. As if he were looking through me to something else. Something so very far away. ‘What may I do for you?’ the lad asked.

  Now Nedurian smiled, despite himself. No false pride or haughtiness here! Just two veterans hunkering down for a chat. And so he crouched to his haunches, picked up a rock and studied it, saying, ‘Got us a lot of raw recruits in need of training …’

  The lad’s face clouded, and he nearly winced. He dropped his gaze. ‘Death comes to us all.’

  Nedurian fought to hide his impatience with this sort of easy youthful fatalism. ‘That’s true. But it could come a year later just as easily – so who’s to decide? You?’

  A half-smile ghosted the lad’s lips. ‘Touché, my friend. Nedurian, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And veteran of the Iron Legion.’ The lad’s penetrating gaze rose and Nedurian had to look away. ‘Officer, yes?’

  He nodded. ‘Of the Old Guard. Before the legion was broken on the fields of Commor before Unta.’

  ‘The Untans take credit for that victory.’

  ‘They shouldn’t,’ Nedurian answered, rather testily. ‘It was the Bloorian and Gris heavies. They sacrificed themselves to turn the tide. It was a slaughter, but they weakened the lines just enough. The Untans came swanning in later.’

  ‘You were there,’ the lad said – and it was not a question.

  Nedurian jerked a nod, his gaze lowered. ‘Yes. I was there.’

  The Dal Hon youth was quiet for a time, then he asked, quietly, ‘What is it you want of me?’

  Nedurian flung his arms open. ‘Training, man! At least give them a chance to survive the first sword stroke!’

  Dassem glanced away. ‘I’m not a soldier. Nor do I pretend to be.’

  Nedurian swept that aside. ‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll take care of the soldiering. You just handle the swordsmanship.’

  The lad considered, his head cocked. Then he gave a slow nod. ‘Very well. If that is our agreement. But I am no soldier or general. Remember that.’

  Nedurian gave a curt nod of agreement in answer. ‘Whatever. So long as our lads and lasses have a better chance. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘You?’ Dassem demanded sharply. ‘Or this woman, Surly?’

  ‘Does it matter? So long as we can help these recruits?’

  The Dal Hon smiled in answer, almost as if rueful. ‘She sent you, didn’t she?’

  ‘She asked that I speak to you,’ Nedurian admitted. ‘Yes. Why?’

  The lad shook his head. ‘Never mind. It’s just that she knew. She knew that out of everyone you had the best chance of … well …’ He shrugged. ‘What’s done is done. Very well. I will return.’ He extended a hand, indicating that they were finished. ‘Tell her I will return.’

  Despite his natural scepticism and irreligious bent, Nedurian bowed his head, rising. ‘Thank you. It will mean a lot to the ranks, I’m certain of it.’

  Dassem inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. ‘Thank you. Now I must reflect upon this. I must consider if this is the right path for me.’

  Nedurian straightened, wincing at the jabbing pain from his left leg, and massaged his hip. ‘Well, we’ll see you at the wharves tomorrow, yes?’

  The Dal Hon youth waved him off. ‘Tomorrow.’

  He limped away, clenching his lips against the ache of his old wound. Well, if he’d just secured training from the foremost swordsman of their age for his boys and girls, then he didn’t give a tinker’s damn how much this furthered or served the woman Surly’s schemes.

  * * *

  Tayschrenn returned to Malaz City via the hidden Warren Kellanved had found and revealed to him. Not that he feared a renewed confrontation with any D’rek priests – it was just perhaps prudent to avoid notice for a time. Also, though it was personally crushing to admit, he’d failed his god and wanted no more reminders.

  This new mage who pretended to be a youth, Calot he called himself, should follow along shortly. Tayschrenn did not consider himself naïve in allowing him time to finish his personal matters; he’d asked him for a small item, in this case a rag used as a handkerchief, and told him that should he fail to appear Kellanved would give this as spoor to the Hounds of Shadow, and they would chase him down no matter where he hid and tear him limb from limb.

  Tayschrenn knew he was not the best judge of people’s social signals and body language, but the mage had seemed appro
priately alarmed.

  On his return, Tayschrenn went straight to Smiley’s. He found the Hold irritatingly distant from the ships that came and went daily with their news of distant lands; it was such news that interested him most, while he suspected that prior occupants of the Hold had been far too uninterested – to their ruin.

  This disruption of the cult of D’rek, for example; were there whispers or vague rumours of similar upheavals among cults in other lands? The priests of Hood, say, or the Enchantress? Poliel? Or any other god or goddess? The phenomenon troubled him for reasons he could not yet firm up in his mind.

  So it was that he entered, tapping a finger to his lips, his mind elsewhere, not paying particular attention to the common room until a gruff voice called out, ‘Hey, skinny – you work for the Dal Hon mage, Kellanved?’

  He paused, blinking, drawing his mind in from its wanderings, and glanced over to see a very squat, sun-darkened older man gesturing at him from a table. He drew himself up to his full height and peered down his nose at the bald sweaty fellow. ‘And you are …?’

  ‘Fucking irritated to be kept waiting like this, kid.’

  ‘How very unfortunate for you.’

  A broad, frog-like smile cracked the man’s face and he pushed back his chair to cross his thick, muscular arms. ‘No. Unfortunate for you, ’cause I was invited by Kellanved to join him here. So, my question to you is … who the fuck are you?’

  Though quite taken aback, Tayschrenn controlled his features; he glanced about the common room and saw several of their Malazan hires lounging about, all armed, and all eyeing this stranger.

  ‘I have been asked to organize a mage corps,’ he answered. ‘And so I must ask again. You are …?’

  The fellow’s dark gaze moved about the room also, his smile becoming, if anything, even more evil. ‘Oh, I see. You’re organizing a mage corps, are you? Well, we’ll see about that. Name’s Hairlock, and I’ve already seen some action with your Dal Hon friend. Up north. Seven Cities way.’ He hooked his thumbs at his tight belt. ‘So maybe I’ll just hang about till he shows up.’

  Tayschrenn lifted a brow. ‘I was unaware that Kellanved had been to Seven Cities.’

  The mage – for it was clear to Tayschrenn that this fellow was a fairly powerful mage – deliberately turned away to peer out of the dimpled glass of a slit window. ‘Oh, he gets around, he does. You’d be surprised.’

  Privately, Tayschrenn was coming to the conclusion that nothing involving that mage of Meanas ought to surprise him at all; yet he shrugged. ‘As you please. We are recruiting, of course. Our aim is to place a talent with every military unit.’

  The fellow barked a harsh laugh. ‘Slog through muck and dust surrounded by a pack of dimwitted knuckleheads? No thank you. Not for this mother’s son.’

  Tayschrenn waved his dismissal. ‘Very well. We need people who aren’t afraid of a little discomfort,’ and he turned away.

  A Malazan guard at the stairs motioned to him and he stepped close. ‘Yes?’

  ‘She wants to see you.’

  He nodded and started up the stairs. He allowed himself one quick glance back to see Hairlock scowling savagely as he stared out the window.

  At the top he knocked on the door to what was once Kellanved’s office, but had since been taken over by Surly as her headquarters; like him, she found the Hold too … high profile.

  The door opened and he faced two guards in blackened leather armour. A more divergent pair one would be hard-pressed to find: a Dal Hon woman, surprisingly tall, with extraordinarily long thin arms; her partner, a man of swarthy shading, perhaps of south Itko Kan, squat, bearded and barrel-shaped. Yet both shared the same flat evaluative gaze as they studied him in silence.

  Tayschrenn couldn’t remember having seen either of them before. But then, he wasn’t around much.

  ‘Let him in,’ spoke a hidden Surly from somewhere further within.

  The two parted, hands on the knives at their belts. Curious, Tayschrenn also noted the glint of identical brooches at their chests: silver tokens that resembled birds’ feet. Some sort of order, or brotherhood?

  Beyond, Surly stood, chin in one hand, peering down at a swath of papers spread out on the hardwood floor before her. Two aides, or scribes, knelt before her, arranging the pages. Seeing him enter, the two hurriedly turned each sheet face down.

  He glimpsed copious notes and numerous long lists. The blue-hued Napan woman turned to him, rubbing her eyes, which shone bloodshot and bruised.

  ‘You appear to be in need of rest,’ he told her.

  A half-smile ghosted her lips. ‘Ever the smooth flatterer and courtier, Tayschrenn.’ She added, musingly, ‘Rather like me,’ then, more forcefully, ‘thank you for coming. How goes the recruitment?’

  ‘It proceeds.’ He glanced to the guards. ‘As yours appears to be. Where are your old crew? Urko? Tocaras?’

  ‘They are far too busy these days. Urko is off raiding the coast, as is Tocaras.’

  ‘Raiding? I thought they were preparing for the—’ He caught himself before saying anything specific aloud, even here, and finished, ‘ah, the attack.’

  The lean woman nodded, gestured for the scribes to turn back the pages, and resumed her study. ‘They are. We need weapons, stores, supplies. Raiding is the quickest way to amass them.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’ He waved to the papers. ‘And these?’

  ‘Reports. Estimates. Correspondence with … assets … in the coastal cities.’

  The two scribes now eyed him warily, as if he were about to snatch up a handful of the pages and race for the door. He nodded instead. ‘Intelligence. Very good. We are on track, then, for the … ah, the plan?’

  She spared him a sharp glance. ‘Are we?’

  He tilted his head, thinking. ‘Speaking for the mage corps – no. We are not. We are far behind my first expectations. Surprisingly, recruiting here on this island has been poor. To say the least.’

  ‘I thought you told me the island was rife with talents.’

  ‘It was – is. However, none appear interested in leaving. They seem content to remain. Which, as I say, is surprising. I assure you this is not the usual case.’

  The Napan woman nodded, her attention refocusing upon the reports spread before her. ‘Very well. Continue your efforts.’

  The conversation – or interrogation – was over. He inclined his head and turned away. He knew that another person might be insulted by the curt treatment, but somehow he and she seemed to understand one another; each considered themself a professional in their field, untroubled by such petty concerns as feelings or ego. And each seemed determined to out-professionalize the other.

  Exiting the bar, he turned uphill, his feet taking him whither they would, as he set loose his thoughts. Surly’s questioning reopened the mystery of why this island’s fecund pool of talents should be so reluctant to leave. Quite frankly it did astonish him that almost none were willing to join Kellanved’s forces. Perhaps some personal animosity or dread? But no, he was given to understand that such had always been the case. And all the more unlikely was it, given that this isle’s crop of wax-witches, hedge wizards, wind-callers, card readers and sea-soothers was the densest anywhere. Above almost every cottage door there hung a sign proclaiming readings, healing or an apothecary, or showing the candle of a wax-witch.

  He brooded upon the mystery for a time as he walked, hands clasped at his back, until, looking up, he realized he’d left the town far behind and had climbed one of the low and bare inland hills. Here, lichen-dappled granite rocks protruded through the grasses as little more than stubs – a circle of ancient standing stones.

  The hill afforded a view southwards, over further blunt hills. Unseen beyond lay the southern seas. The Strait of Storms. Said to be haunted by the so-called Stormriders: alien beings that terrorized the waters and allowed no trespass. He remembered reading third- and fourth-hand transcribed legends of attacks upon this isle by the Riders.

  He pressed hi
s fingertips together and brushed them to his lips; something. He’d touched upon something – he felt it. There was a mystery here. But one so very much larger than he’d first imagined. It was as if he had entered some shepherd’s sod-roofed hut only to find a multi-roomed mansion.

  But what was it? What was hidden here on this island?

  ‘You are looking for recruits?’ someone called, startling him.

  He turned. A woman approached, tall and thin, in bedraggled simple peasant’s tunic and trousers, her feet bare and dirty. As she neared, he became uncertain as to her ethnicity; her hair was hacked short, dirty brown, her eyes very large, her face long. He couldn’t quite place where she might hail from. She walked stiffly, using a cane, one hand across her front. It seemed she’d suffered some sort of injury recently.

  He nodded to her. ‘Yes. You are interested?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He attempted to sense her aura only to find himself blocked – this in itself startled him. Few possessed the power to so fully forestall any probing from him. ‘You are shielding yourself,’ he observed.

  ‘As are you.’

  He allowed himself a thin smile. ‘True enough.’

  ‘You hide from the priests of D’rek.’

  Now he frowned, irked. ‘That is not your—’

  ‘That is wise,’ she said. ‘I am of the same mind as you. Some taint has contaminated that cult. It is a worry.’

  He waved a hand to dismiss the subject. ‘You say you are willing to join. Why?’

  ‘This mage of Shadow. He … interests me.’

  Tayschrenn now understood. ‘You mean you sense he has found power and you wish to learn his secrets for yourself.’

  She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘Have it that way if you wish. Is that not why he fascinates you?’

  He laughed, a touch unnerved by her strange frankness, and insight. ‘From a purely academic stance only, I assure you.’ He shook his head. ‘I do not think anyone could wrest away those powers he has demonstrated. I believe it all to be part of him. Of his essence.’

  The woman nodded. ‘I sense this also.’

  ‘Very well. You are …?’