Kellanved's Reach (Path to Ascendancy)

by Ian C. Esslemont

  She smiled in answer. ‘They like you, so you’ve earned a name. Sort of a title.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Greymane.’

  He laughed, and pulled a hand through his long greying hair. ‘Well … better than Greybeard, I suppose.’

  * * *

  Heboric walked the main trader road of Itko Kan that ran as a spine along the thin north–south conglomeration of united city states. It lay far from the coast, as a precaution against the ever-present threat of pirate raids from Malaz and Nap. Also, as an inland route, it served as an unofficial border with Kan’s warlike neighbour, Dal Hon.

  It was winter, and thus cold and wet. At places the road was nothing more than a mud track of pools and glutinous ruts. Protected only by sandals as he slogged through the muck, his feet were sodden, caked in mud, and frozen all day. He was in no particular hurry, and so he chose a leisurely progress from one wayside inn or horse-post to the next. Each evening, by the fire of one such establishment, he would warm his feet and wait to be served whatever fare his obvious calling as priest might garner from the innkeeper. Sometimes it was a full hot meal; other times he was offered leavings no better than those meant for dogs.

  So did he make his way north, aiming, roughly, for the great city state of Li Heng.

  Fellow travellers came and went: mounted messengers, merchant caravans, local farmers and craftsmen and women. He passed the time with a few, but most took in his boar tattoos and moved on, as the Great Boar was, among many things, one of the gods of war.

  Outside Traly he came upon a richly caparisoned wagon – the conveyance of some noblewoman – with an armed escort of ten men-at-arms. The rear wheels were stuck in the mud up to the axle and half the guards were down in the muck pushing while the noblewoman within berated them.

  Shaking his head, Heboric clambered down into the ruts to help. With his aid, and the driver whipping the four horses, the wagon lurched free.

  The guards nodded their wary thanks and took up their arms. Heboric tried to shake the mud from his legs.

  ‘You will attend me, priest!’ came a command from the covered wagon.

  Heboric raised a questioning brow to the guard captain, who nodded him closer. ‘Yes, O noble-born?’ he asked.

  ‘Walk with me. I would have your prayers – gods know I have need of them!’ The wagon rocked onward and Heboric kept pace. ‘Where do you travel?’ she demanded.

  ‘To the Valley of Hermits, east of Li Heng.’

  ‘Excellent! Our path is similar. I myself am for the new sanctuary of Burn to pray for the welfare of my family. Are you intent upon becoming an ascetic yourself?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I would ask questions of them.’

  ‘Ah, you are on a quest for knowledge.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, join your earnest entreaties to mine. I am so very worried by the fecklessness of this new generation. They know only to spend money like water and have no concern for the future.’

  Heboric crooked a smile – having heard that very complaint from his own elders.

  ‘Tell me,’ the ancient demanded, ‘have you seen the Holy Enclosure of Fener at Vor?’

  ‘Indeed I have, mother.’

  ‘Tell me of it.’

  For the remainder of the day Heboric described the situation of the enclosure, its location and layout. The old Kanian aristocrat then questioned him thoroughly as to its rites and rituals; it seemed she was a dedicated student of all the gods’ practices and obeisances. Her guards, he noted, appeared quite relieved to have a new target for her ceaseless interrogation.

  Three days’ travel passed in this manner, the Kanian elder, Lady Warin – who, it turned out, was a distant relation of the Kan and Chulalorn line – demanding an account of every scrap of eldritch worship or rite that Heboric had ever come across – which was extensive, as he considered himself something of a historian of the field.

  On the fourth day the slow slogging progress of the heavy wagon was interrupted by three mounted figures blocking the road. Lady Warin’s guards immediately drew their weapons, their captain calling, ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  The central figure kneed her mount forward. ‘It is what it looks like,’ she answered, rather lazily. ‘The lady will hand over all her coin and jewellery.’

  Heboric eyed the bandit woman. She wore a ragged cloak, yes, but beneath he believed he saw the glint of blackened mail. And three horses? Rich bandits indeed. ‘Captain,’ he called, ‘have her shrug off that rag she’s wearing.’

  The captain waved the three away with a shake of his sword. ‘Choose your targets with more care, fools. This is Lady Warin, an elder of the Kan line!’

  ‘I know she is,’ the bandit leader answered, as lazily as before, and Heboric gripped the wagon’s side. No! ‘Fire!’

  A fusillade of crossbow bolts came flying from the woods and Lady Warin’s guards all grunted, taken by multiple shots. Heboric himself crumpled, a leg kicked out from under him by the impact of a bolt.

  He lay in the mud, panting, while the jangling of harnesses announced the approach of the three mounts. Through the roaring in his ears he heard the old woman say, with great disparagement, ‘So … are we to return to the old dynastic wars?’

  The bandit woman dismounted. Heboric noted from under the wagon that her boots were tall and of fine leather. ‘They never ended,’ the woman answered, and the wagon rocked as she climbed inside. Reaching up, snarling with the effort, Heboric pulled himself upright.

  ‘Curse all of you to Hood’s darkest pits!’ Lady Warin hissed, then gasped.

  Heboric stood, panting, and examined his leg – the bolt had passed straight through the meat of his thigh.

  ‘This one’s still alive,’ a new voice observed from nearby. Heboric looked up, blinking. More of the so-called bandits now surrounded the wagon, crossbows resting in their arms. Boots squelched in the mud as the bandit woman leapt down from the wagon. She’d thrown off her old cloak and was using a piece of torn rich cloth to clean her blade. Her armour was plain and functional; ex-military, Heboric thought.

  She looked him up and down. ‘Sorry, priest. But there are to be no witnesses to this bandit attack.’

  He did not bother pointing out the obvious truth that this was no bandit attack. Instead, he drew a snarling breath and grated through his pain, ‘Do not make me call the Boar.’

  The woman raised a brow, nodding. ‘I’ve heard the stories, of course. The Boar-wildness. Never seen it myself. I think of it as apocryphal.’

  Through clenched teeth, Heboric ground out, ‘Do not force me. It is very painful.’

  Brow still raised, the officer asked, ‘For you?’

  ‘For everyone involved.’

  Sighing, she turned to her troop. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Reload.’

  Damning the woman for forcing this on him, Heboric called inwardly upon the Great Boar, the roaring god of war’s wildness, petitioning: Ride my flesh! And charged.

  When Heboric awoke, it was night, and he lay half in a small creek. Groaning, he turned over to wash the thick sticky layer of drying blood and gore from himself in the icy cold water. He spat out something that might have been a piece of human flesh and washed his mouth, gagging. Then he passed out once more.

  With the warmth of the sun, he rose and staggered about until he saw the raised bed of the road and returned to it once more, heading north. Of the Lady Warin’s wagon or party, he found nothing. He must have run or wandered far from that location. At the first farmer’s thatched hut he limped over and banged on the door until it opened and hands took him to heave him on to a straw pallet. Here he sank into a deep sleep of near death, as the Boar cares not for the demands he places upon the flesh he rides.

  Chapter 9

  A full-command gathering was slated for the very night the Insufferable docked in Malaz City harbour. Surly, Cartheron, Tayschrenn and Dassem all called for the meeting to be held in Mock’s Hold,
but Kellanved would not budge: his office was to be the place.

  Luckily, Smiley’s was now unoccupied, as Surly’s burgeoning agency had long since outgrown its limited quarters and had moved its operations to an undisclosed location among the warehouses along the waterfront, so Dancer had to unlock the doors to the bar and light the lamps along the walls in the abandoned common room. Kellanved walked up the stairs as if nothing had changed. Sighing, Dancer picked up a lamp and followed.

  He found the mage slumped behind his desk, chin in both fists, staring at nothing. The fellow had barely said two words since leaving the field of flints, and Dancer was becoming rather worried. ‘So it didn’t pan out,’ he offered as he lit three more lamps. ‘Not everything’s going to work out. Look at Heng.’

  ‘Yes,’ the mage murmured, his eyes slit. ‘I haven’t finished with Heng.’

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? What’s the plan?’

  ‘The plan?’ Kellanved echoed, distracted. ‘Plan for what?’

  ‘The plan for Nap,’ Dancer answered, rather tersely. ‘The topic of the night.’

  ‘Ah.’ The mage shrugged dismissively. ‘As before, I suppose. It doesn’t matter.’

  Dancer studied him for a time: chin in fists and elbows on the desk, he looked like a sulking child. Yet Dancer knew this was much worse – the mood was one of those black pools of melancholia that could swallow a man. It was strange; the fellow could be so driven at times, yet one setback and he was utterly dejected. Bickering, however, would only make things worse, so he clenched his teeth and nodded. ‘Very well. As before then. You haven’t eaten in ages – are you hungry?’

  Kellanved shook his head and let go a deep sigh.

  Dancer pushed from the wall. ‘Well I am. I’m going to see if Surly’s left us anything here.’

  The mage merely waved him off.

  The kitchens, unfortunately, had been emptied. Dancer emerged to find the Dal Hon swordsman in the common room. ‘Dassem!’

  The swordsman opened his mouth to answer, but paused, frowning his uncertainty. ‘Just what,’ he asked, ‘do I call you?’

  ‘Dancer will do.’

  ‘No title?’

  ‘Gods no.’ Dancer invited him up the stairs. ‘And what have you been busy with?’

  ‘Training the troops. Your marines.’

  ‘Marines?’

  The lad pushed open the door to the offices. ‘Yes. They all fight at sea, and can double as sailors, and vice versa. Therefore, marines.’ He bowed to Kellanved. ‘Magister.’

  The mage did not answer; he was playing with something on his desk.

  ‘Training in what style?’ Dancer asked.

  ‘Shortsword, shield and spear.’

  Dancer was surprised. ‘Like the old legion?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But cavalry dominates the field from Quon to Gris. Infantry is an afterthought.’

  ‘These days, yes. But that’s not how it used to be. A well organized and disciplined infantry can repulse a horse charge. Cavalry used to have a very minor role in war.’

  ‘War,’ Dancer echoed, with some distaste. And yet, he supposed, that was what this was about, after all.

  Tayschrenn entered, then peered about looking rather perplexed. Dancer realized that the only chair in the room was the one under Kellanved’s bum.

  Well, perhaps it would help shorten the meeting.

  Surly and Cartheron entered, with nods all round. The Napans, the Kartoolian mage and Dassem all looked to Kellanved, but the wizened mock-old mage didn’t raise his head from the object he was turning on the desk.

  After a few uncomfortable moments Dancer cleared his throat and addressed Surly. ‘We are secure here?’ She nodded. He looked at Tayschrenn. ‘Any active Warren magics?’ The mage shook his head. ‘Very well. Cartheron, when can we move against Nap?’

  The fellow looked to the ceiling and scratched his unshaven jaw. ‘Dawn of the third day from now.’

  ‘How many ships?’ Dassem asked.

  Their High Fist blew out a breath. ‘Some forty. All we can scrape together.’

  The swordsman eyed Surly. ‘And is that a credible threat?’

  Her habitual stern expression soured even more. ‘Not really. It’s not enough.’

  Arms crossed, his back against a wall, Tayschrenn leaned forward. ‘Are you saying they will see through it?’

  ‘They will wonder why we would be so … hasty, and foolish …’

  Dancer looked at Kellanved. Ah. I see. He cleared his throat once more. ‘So, Kellanved …’

  The mage rubbed his eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘Yes, yes. They will see a foolish inexperienced ruler throwing away his forces in an ill-considered attack. Very well.’ He waved his hands as if to shoo them from the room. ‘Go on – go ahead.’

  Surly crossed her arms. ‘There is still the matter of who goes.’

  Kellanved’s beady eyes slit almost closed. ‘Meaning …?’

  She pointed a finger. ‘You’re going.’

  He slumped back in his chair, appalled. ‘Really? I’ll have you know I have important matters to pursue. Research into forbidden secrets. Lost artefacts. Mysterious … things.’

  ‘If you have him you do not need me,’ Tayschrenn told Surly.

  Kellanved had returned to toying with something on his desk. ‘You’ll keep all those Ruse mages off my back,’ he said.

  To this, the Kartoolian renegade arched an ironic brow that said, Oh, is that all?

  Surly studied everyone, then nodded to herself as if reaching some sort of conclusion. ‘We’re all going.’

  Tayschrenn huffed; Dassem nodded his agreement.

  Dancer realized that, yes, they all should go. Why leave your strongest pieces off the board? He inclined his head in assent to Surly. ‘Very well. It’s agreed. We leave at dawn in three days.’ He brushed his hands together. ‘I don’t know about all of you but I’m famished. Where can we get something to eat?’

  The crew bowed to Kellanved, who made further shooing gestures, and left with Dancer. On the stairs Surly beckoned him aside, obviously wanting a word. He didn’t blame her.

  In the empty and cold kitchen she turned on him, arms crossed. ‘Our dread mage. He seems out of sorts.’

  Dancer nodded, rubbing his forehead. ‘Yes. Our search didn’t work out, and it was a blow to him. He seemed so utterly certain of it.’

  One narrow brow rose and a single finger tapped a biceps. ‘Well, he had better be prepared to perform. Uncertainty regarding his … capabilities … is one reason we have time.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘Before an attack. Perhaps from Dal Hon, or Itko Kan. While we are relatively weak.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’ He hadn’t considered that. But then, in his defence, he’d been busy … babysitting. ‘I’ll bring him round,’ he assured her.

  She gave a slow, serious nod. ‘You’d better. For all our sakes.’

  He motioned to the doors. ‘You are coming with us?’

  ‘No. Not … that is, I have work to do.’

  ‘Very well. Another time.’

  She smiled, but it appeared forced. ‘Yes. Another time.’

  Bowing, he left to join Cartheron, Dassem, and Tayschrenn waiting in the street. Surrounding these three, at a discreet distance, stood a rather large contingent of Malazan soldiers. Dancer motioned to them. ‘Who are these?’

  Tayschrenn, hands clasped behind his back, tilted his head to Dassem. ‘His bodyguard.’

  Dancer quirked a disbelieving smile. If anyone did not need guarding, it was the swordsman.

  ‘Self-appointed,’ Dassem supplied, by way of explanation.

  Tayschrenn continued, ‘I, unfortunately, have to prepare,’ and he bowed to take his leave.

  Dancer looked to Cartheron. ‘So, where should we go?’

  Cartheron motioned him onward. ‘Anywhere my brother’s not cooking.’

  * * *

  Nedurian leaned up against the side
of the Insufferable as the crew raised the sails and the vessel gained headway out of Malaz harbour. At this point – rather belatedly – he decided that he was of two minds regarding the expedition.

  He wanted it to succeed, of course, and end the pointless waste and loss of life of the feud between Nap and Malaz; but on the other hand it was reckless, and to his mind pretty damned foolish, and could lead to the loss of even more lives. Lives of lads and lasses he’d had a hand in training, whom he’d become rather fond of, and perhaps couldn’t bear to see thrown into the meat-grinder of yet another leader’s overweening ambition or selfish greed.

  As he had seen all too often before.

  So he had told himself he didn’t care, and eventually, over the years, he’d even come to believe it. But that was then. Now, he left the gambits of king-making to others; he would content himself with what was important – looking after his lads and lasses.

  He walked the deck, which was crowded with lounging marines, eyeing each squad in turn. When he came to the First Army, Seventh Company, Eleventh Squad, he stopped and set his hands on his hips before one marine in particular. This lad sat hunched beneath a mule’s load of equipment: two shovels, a pickaxe, tent pieces, rolled canvas and blankets, an iron cooking pot, an infantryman’s shield, two shortswords, and a spare helmet strapped to his straining belt.

  Nedurian gestured to the shop’s worth of gear. ‘What is all this?’

  The lad saluted with a fist to his chest. ‘Proper equipage, cap’n.’

  ‘Is that so? Proper equipage for an entire regiment, maybe. Why’re you carrying all this?’

  ‘Me squaddies said I had to on account of me being the designated siegeworker’n’saboteur’n’such.’

  ‘Said that, did they?’ Nedurian spotted them nearby, pretending to be uninterested but eyeing him sidelong. He waved them over. ‘Spread this gear out. You know the rule: share the load.’ Grumbling, they plucked pieces of gear from the lad and divided it among them. Nedurian watched the process, then frowned, uncertain. ‘Where’s your mage?’

  ‘That one?’ said a Malazan girl, sniffing. ‘Too good for us, she is. Won’t dirty her fine sandals with trash like us.’