Assail

CHAPTER XIV

They kept to the forest as they fled upland, though as they climbed higher the woods thinned. Spruce now predominated, and those thin and scraggly. Fisher and Jethiss stayed with Kyle, while the remaining Crimson Guard spread out about them. No one had formally set out the marching order. Kyle wondered whether it was to protect him — he who least needed protection. Stalker and Badlands ranged widely, sometimes scouting ahead, other times keeping an eye on the rear.

At least they travelled through the constant cover of the dense clouds that hugged these high slopes of the Salt range. Eventually, during the morning — if he judged aright the diffuse yellow glow of the sky — Cal-Brinn called a halt and they collapsed where they stopped to lie panting, sucking in great shuddering breaths of the frigid air. Water skins made the rounds.

The Crimson Guard captain came to where Kyle, Fisher and Jethiss sat leaning against the backrest of a toppled fir. ‘Sleep,’ he told them. ‘We will keep watch.’ He moved on. Kyle did not argue, and neither did his companions. They rolled themselves into whatever cloaks or blankets they had managed to salvage or pack. In Kyle’s case, it was an untanned bear hide he’d rolled and roped over his back before the fight. He lay down and his thoughts went to the lowlands, to the shores of the Sea of Gold. What was happening there? Were Lyan and Dorinn safe? Of course she might not even be there — she might have accompanied the army north. But somehow he did not think so; these Lether officers and soldiers were claiming the north for themselves. To them, she and her Genabackans were outsiders. Perhaps even a threat.

Some time later he was woken by the poke of a spear-butt and he sat up, shivering, bleary and coughing. The sun was a smoky, silvery orb among the clouds. Tendrils of steam rose in wisps all about, and a clawing cold wind slithered down across them from the heights.

‘The weather is strange,’ he commented to Fisher.

The bard did not appear pleased; in fact, he had been in an uncharacteristically grim mood since they fled the Greathall. ‘It is no weather,’ he replied.

By now Kyle was accustomed to having to draw information from this man the way one must shake coins from a miser. A strange manner for a bard. ‘Then what is it?’

Fisher drew a hard breath as if he would rather not say, but then he allowed: ‘It is power coiling and tensing. Preparing itself for an unleashing. An invocation of Omtose.’

Kyle noted Jethiss paying close attention. ‘What will come?’ the Andii asked.

‘I do not know for certain what form it will take,’ Fisher admitted. ‘But I fear the worst it might.’

Stalker and Badlands emerged from the dense fogs. ‘They are with us still,’ Badlands announced.

When he was younger, Kyle might have expressed his confusion: they’d pushed them out — the Holding was theirs. Why pursue? But he was older now, hard truths of the world had been beaten into him, and so he merely shook his head at the inevitability of it. Of course they were coming. What else would they do? To ensure their grip on the land these new rulers had to eliminate all last vestiges of any prior claim. Any survivors would be a potential menace: they might raid, or form alliances and return some day to try to reclaim their ancestral holdings. In this Marshal Teal had no choice. Usurpers — claim-jumpers — had to be thorough.

Stalker stopped before Kyle. ‘Far enough north for you?’ he asked.

Kyle laughed. ‘Aye. Perhaps for them as well.’

The Iceblood’s hazel eyes held amusement. ‘Well, I’ve never been up much higher. No call for it. From here, though, we can descend into the Sayer or Heel Holding if we would. I only wish I knew the best route.’

‘Our line is good for now,’ said Fisher. He shook out his cloak. ‘Straight on.’

Everyone eyed the bard as he clipped the cloak tightly about his shoulders. Stalker studied the man as he drew his thumb and forefinger down his long moustache, smoothing it. Fisher, for his part, said no more.

It seemed to Kyle that the man had left the role of bard behind. He was something else now and Kyle wasn’t certain just what that might be. Then, unexpectedly, he remembered the instrument the man had been strumming … the way he had held it. Like a treasure. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said.

The bard turned a puzzled frown upon him. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘That old stringed instrument at the Greathall. We had to flee. There was nothing you could have done.’

Understanding blossomed in rising brows and a broad smile broke through the man’s dark mood. He squeezed Kyle’s shoulder. ‘Thank you for your thoughts, Whiteblade. But not to worry.’ He raised the shoulder bag at his side. ‘Such a rare thing should not be left to destruction.’

‘So there is hope yet, then,’ Kyle said.

The bard appeared startled. His gaze went to the shrouded heights. ‘You are right, of course. The skein of our fates is unknown. Or at least is not for me to say.’

Badlands slumped on the fallen trunk. ‘Now that that’s settled — did anyone think to bring any food?’

It turned out that Cal-Brinn and the Guard always carried pouches with a few days’ worth of dried rations pressed into bricks. It was hardly edible, but Kyle found that if one kept a knot of it tucked into the cheek, it slowly softened into something resembling food.

Cal-Brinn signed that they should get going, so they packed up their gear and set off jogging upland once more. They trotted through the rest of the day, as the light through the black clouds deepened to a silvery pewter. Kyle knew he would freezing if it weren’t for the heat of his exertions. His breath steamed and plumes of mist rose through his armour from his sweat-soaked tunic beneath.

Stalker ran with him and Fisher and Jethiss for a time. He gestured ahead where the valley slope rose in a steep ridge of naked rock. ‘We are nearing the top of the Lost Holding. Beyond that ridge lies a wide run-off stream, the Stonewash. Past that are the ice-rivers that descend out of the frozen wastes above.’

‘Will they follow us?’ Kyle asked.

He gave a non-committal shrug. ‘They may send a party to dog us.’ He eyed Jethiss. ‘You are intent upon continuing?’

‘I am.’

‘There may be no one there.’

‘In which case we are all free to choose whichever direction we wish.’

Stalker drew off his conical iron helmet and rubbed a hand through his matted hair. ‘Well, I have to admit to being rather curious myself.’

‘Not a good enough reason,’ Fisher muttered.

‘And you a bard,’ Stalker remarked. He pulled the helmet on once again and turned his attention to Kyle. ‘You still wear it, I see,’ he said.

Kyle’s brows drew down. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘The stone you’re always fingering.’

He realized he was rubbing the amber pendant at his neck, as he often did. He dropped the hand. ‘Yes.’

Stalker nodded solemn agreement. ‘He was a good friend, Ereko. We miss him too.’

Kyle cleared his throat. It still pained him to hear the Thelomen-kind, Thel-Akai as he had it, mentioned. He’d forgotten that Stalker had spent as much time with the giant as he. He answered the Lost’s nod. ‘Yes.’

‘I know that name,’ Fisher said, his eyes narrowing in thought. ‘He was said to have been one of the oldest of those raised up by the earth.’ He studied Kyle anew. ‘You travelled with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘I would have that tale.’

Stalker flashed his teeth in a smile. ‘Now you’re sounding like a bard.’ He jogged ahead to start climbing the slope.

From the knife’s edge of the ridge-top they could see nothing. The mists enveloped them. Stunted long-needle pine and juniper clung to the rocks here, damp with fog. Stalker and Badlands started down into the vale, which promised to lead higher up this shoulder of the Salt range.

Close to the floor of the narrow valley, the Lost cousins raised their hands for a halt. Dense banners of fog obscured all ahead. A fiercely cold wind buffeted them. ‘What is it?’ Fisher asked.

‘Listen,’ Stalker said.

Kyle focused on what sounds he could make out. Other than the moaning, gusting wind, all he could hear was a distant cracking and booming, accompanied by the occasional crash as of rocks falling.

‘Those are the sounds of the great ice-tongues,’ Fisher said. ‘Some name them frost-serpents.’

Stalker tilted his head in agreement. ‘Yeah. That’s right. But what’s strange is that we shouldn’t be able to hear that above the roar of the stream that comes down here.’

‘I hear no stream,’ Kyle said.

Stalker’s moustache drew down. ‘Yeah. Something’s odd. Wait here.’ He gestured Badlands to the right and he took the left. They disappeared into the roiling sheets of mist. Cal-Brinn signed for the Avowed to form a defensive perimeter. Kyle nodded a greeting to Leena, who winked back.

After a brief time, the two figures came jogging back through the fog. Their boots crunched on the stones and gravel as they closed. Stalker stood breathing heavily, his breath steaming. He smoothed his moustache while he shook his head in wonder. ‘It’s gone,’ he told Fisher. ‘The run-off stream is dry — well, muddy, but free of any flow. Can’t figure it.’

‘I can,’ Fisher answered, grimly.

‘And?’ Badlands prompted.

The bard scowled as if he regretted saying anything. Finally, he offered, ‘The ice has awakened. There’ll be no spring or summer.’

Badlands laughed aloud. ‘Ha! You’ve sung too many old sagas, Fisher. Such things no longer happen.’

Fisher gave Kyle a long-suffering why-do-I-even-try look. Kyle hid a smile and thought that perhaps he now understood something of the bard’s reticence.

‘We’ll cross then climb the ice-serpent, though it will be treacherous with crevasses,’ said Stalker, and he gestured to invite them onward.

They followed what was essentially a shallow empty riverbed of green-grey silt flats and broad gravel patches, all punctuated by boulders that emerged from the mists like sentinels. The way led them upslope. The wind was punishing now — a blasting current of cold that was oddly dry and desiccating. It carried the cracking and popping of the massive hidden field of ice. The eruptions burst as loud as the explosive munitions of the Moranth.

Stalker raised a hand to call for another halt. He came crunching across the gravel to Fisher, motioning for Cal-Brinn to join them. ‘You lot can carry on until you reach the foot of the ice. Badlands and I will check on our friends. We’ll re-join you upslope.’

Fisher and Cal-Brinn curtly nodded their agreement. Stalker waved for Badlands to accompany him and they set off jogging down the gravel bars and silts of the riverbed. In places they hopped from rock to rock as they descended.

Cal-Brinn and the Guard turned to walk on, as did Kyle, but at the last instant something urged him to turn back. Some sensation that brushed at the nape of his neck and made the small hairs on his arms stand on end. He suddenly knew they were no longer alone. He glanced about, alarmed, but saw only that, of the party, Fisher alone had turned back as well. He met Fisher’s troubled gaze, and realized: we two are of the blood …

Rocks clattered below, gravel shifted. Movement among the silts caught Kyle’s eye. Shapes were rising from the riverbed. Down below, Stalker and Badlands had halted and turned back as well.

Ragged skeletal shapes straightened. Clots of clay and silt fell to the ground. They wore rotting lengths of coarse hides and furs. Some carried the remains of a sort of crude armour of stitched straw. Stained brown skulls, some hairless, turned to him and Fisher. The faces were as he expected: dried and mummified with empty sockets and fleshless grins. T’lan Imass. The enemy of the Jaghut.

And, he realized with a terrified sickening jolt, his enemy.

‘Over here!’ he heard Stalker bellow from below. Several of the carious heads turned that way. A clash of weaponry: Badlands had charged the nearest. ‘C’mon, you bastards!’ Stalker yelled.

Kyle started forward. Hands grasped him from behind. ‘We must flee,’ said Cal-Brinn, now next to him.

Badlands was backing away down the slope, drawing the nightmare shapes after him. ‘Go, damn you!’ he yelled to Kyle.

‘Protect him!’ Stalker called, then he was off, running down the slope. This quick movement somehow settled the matter as the Imass started after him. Kyle counted some seventeen. He ought to follow — they would need the white blade!

‘We’re going to say goodbye to Coots!’ Badlands called, laughing, as he jumped from stone to stone. Their outlines disappeared into the mists.

More arms and heads were emerging from the gravel beds even as Kyle stood there, frozen, horrified.

Fisher appeared before him. He set his hands on his shoulders. ‘We must go. Now.’

Kyle blinked, remembered to breathe. He met the bard’s gaze, pleading. ‘We must help …’

‘They will outrun them. Do not worry.’

‘But …’

‘They will be safe. Perhaps they mean to lead them into the Lether troops! Imagine that, hey?’ Hands tugged at him. He stumbled backwards. The bard’s voice hardened: ‘Do not ruin their gambit! More are coming!’

This shocked him and he took a sharp breath of the frigid air. He jerked a nod. ‘Yes. All right. Yes.’ He turned and started up the gravel. Fisher’s tight grip on his upper arm urged him onward.

Higher up the slope, a wide expanse of dirty white emerged from the clouds. The serpent of ice. Far closer, however, down the wash towards them clattered stick-thin figures in rags and beast armour. Kyle snapped a glance behind: their pursuers were closing.

‘Circle up!’ Cal-Brinn ordered, and the Crimson Guard closed into a tight circle that pushed Kyle, Fisher and Jethiss inside.

Kyle fought to join the line. ‘You will need my blade!’ he shouted to Cal-Brinn.

‘You may yet have the chance,’ the Dal Honese answered grimly.

Their pursuers, further T’lan Imass that had risen behind, reached their circle first. Flint blades swung, meeting Crimson Guard shields in a clash of stone on bronze and iron. Kyle was startled to see the Imass using the flat of their blades upon the guardsmen and women. One of the women fell to a blow from an Imass fist.

Then he realized: they do not want these people … They are after us alone. His back shivered in a sensation that only hunted prey could know. He hefted the white blade, waiting for one to break through.

Next to him, Jethiss, his two hatchets readied, saw his chance and bounded out to join the defence. A blow of one hatchet split the skull of an Imass and shattered the haft of that weapon. He flung it aside. Another thrust for him but Jethiss swung, severing the arm at the shoulder.

Kyle watched this, amazed. Who could do such things to the T’lan Imass?

Then the newcomers from above closed upon them then, washing round the mêlée, and Kyle was further stunned as these Imass assaulted their attackers. Imass fought Imass in a ruthless terrifying whirl of flint swords and hard dry limbs, and then it was done, seemingly in an instant.

Eight standing T’lan Imass stood motionless, regarding them with their eerie empty sockets. One raised an arm of bone and hanging dry flesh to point upslope. ‘Run, now,’ it breathed in a voice like falling sand.

‘Who are you?’ Kyle called, even as Leena tugged at him.

‘We are of the Ifayle. I am Issen Li’gar. I came seeking my sister Shalt Li’gar, gone so very long ago. Now, run. We shall guard.’

Leena pulled Kyle backwards. He wanted to ask much more of this Ifayle, but of course to delay would defeat their purpose. He turned and kicked up the loose gravel as he went.

They pushed their way across a muddy flat of thick grey-green silt. It clung to his leather shoes and smeared all the way up to his knees. He’d served for a time in the Guard, and had heard the stories that the Imass had never attacked them. At the time he’d dismissed such tales as rather too self-promoting. ‘They wouldn’t kill you,’ he panted to Leena, still amazed.

‘They never have.’

‘Why?’

‘I believe they respect us,’ she answered, short of breath as they tramped through the thick mud. ‘Everyone calls us mercenaries, but the truth is we do not fight for money. We have honour, and this is their way of respecting that.’

Kyle thought of the Crimson Guard swordswoman they had picked up from the mud, groggy, spitting blood from the blow across her jaw. The Imass had an odd way of showing their high regard. As daughter of an Iron Legionnaire, Leena might think it was honour. The Legion had probably been esteemed for its noble values, and she had absorbed that. But he did not think such things would impress the Imass. No. There must be some other reason.

Ahead, across the broad gravel wash, now empty of run-off, the valley-wide dirty expanse of the ice-serpent rose ahead. They picked up their pace. A short hurried dash later and they reached the cliff-like leading edge of the nearest lobe, or tongue, of the ice-river. Great caves of sapphire-blue gaped at its base, where, Kyle imagined, rivers of water once flowed.

Something had halted that natural melting process. A few of the Guard, and Jethiss, clambered on to the dirty-grey leading edge and crunched their way up. They beckoned everyone to follow. A glance back revealed what Kyle thought might be thin motionless shapes through the tatters of scudding clouds. He climbed up on to the ice.

* * *

Orman walked blind through the heaviest snowstorm he had ever known. He, Keth and Kasson had strung themselves together with belts. They took turns leading the way. Whoever was at the fore thrust at the ice with Svalthbrul, searching for crevasses hidden beneath the fresh snow cover.

This snowfall was so thick it came up to their knees. A brutal wind lashed them, numbing Orman’s face and finding any gap in his leathers. He reflected sourly how unfair it was that even though he shared Iceblood, he should still feel the damned cold. He supposed that he simply wasn’t immune to it. Occasional quakes, or massive cracking, shook the broad plain of ice beneath them and they rocked, arms out, steadying themselves.

They were making for a strange azure light that glimmered and sizzled far up upon the ice-field. The black clouds seemed to congregate there, licked by sheet lightning. It appeared to be the focus of this massive storm that smothered the entire north. Through passing gaps in the churning overcast layer he caught brief glimpses of the barren rocky peaks of the Salt range above, grey and forbidding.

They pushed against the wind, fighting their way across the ice-plain. Even as they walked, Orman had the definite sensation that it was moving beneath them — crackling and rumbling profoundly as it shifted down slope.

He was walking onward, pushing at the snow ahead, when the deafening howl of the wind faded away and he found himself standing in relative calm, the dense fat snowflakes drifting down nearly straight. He looked to the brothers in wonder. Here all was quiet, though the massive cloud front churned above as it blazed with lightning and flickering mage-fire. Ahead, a figure sat waist-deep in the snow; pillows of it covered his shoulders. Buri. They approached. The snow crunched beneath their feet. Their breath steamed in the chill air.

‘Buri?’ Orman called, hesitantly.

The figure stirred. The head with its great mane and beard of hair as white as the snow lifted. The long almond-shaped eyes flickered open. He smiled and inhaled a long steady breath. ‘Ah, Orman. You have brought Svalthbrul. Good. It will help immensely.’

‘Is it … yours, then?’ he asked.

The smile became wistful, like Vala’s just before she walked into the flames. ‘No. Not mine. It is a weapon taken from the T’lan Imass long ago — your Army of Bone and Dust.’

Orman and the brothers studied its faceted leaf-shaped stone head of deep brown flint, the colour of earth. ‘The enemy? Then … how can it help?’

The smile turned rather savage. ‘You have heard of those who drink the blood of their enemies? Who hope to claim their strength? Well, there is magic there, Orman. Magic the one who first laid this ice barrier used. Magic I too shall exploit.’

‘What must I do?’

The Elder now looked upon him with compassion. ‘Must you ask? Sacrifice must be made — has been made. The old enemy must be forestalled.’

He felt his heart racing in awful panic; he could not breathe. Sacrifice? Jaochim and Yrain? Vala? Who knows how many others? Perhaps even … Jass? He flinched from the man — the Iceblood — sickened. ‘No … never.’

Buri would not release him from his steady gaze.

Orman tried to shift his hands on the cursed weapon but found that they were frozen to the wood haft. ‘I am sorry, Buri. I … cannot. I dare not.’

‘You must. To complete the invocation.’

‘I’ll not kill you the way Lotji slew Jass.’

The Elder blinked heavily, swaying, utterly spent from his efforts. ‘Ah — I see. No, Orman. That had nothing to do with this. If Jass were here now, I would demand the same of him. But it was fated that he should not be. It is up to you to act that another should not have the blood upon his hands.’ He gestured, weakly, to Keth and Kasson. ‘Would you leave the task to one of your friends?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Then you must do what must be done and take it upon yourself.’

Orman closed his eyes against this Elder’s relentless logic. He hated having to do anything so terrible, so dire. Yet it would be shameful to hand the responsibility, and the consequences, to another. He gave a weak nod of submission.

‘Very good. Through the back, please.’

The Reddin brothers went to stand off at a distance. Orman slowly made his way around behind the cross-legged Elder. ‘I’m sorry …’ he began, but Buri interrupted him.

‘Nay. Do not be sorry. Be glad. I have prepared for this for a long time. You will complete it and for that I am thankful.’ He rested his hands on his knees and straightened his slim bare back.

Orman raised his arms high, Svalthbrul angled downwards. He pressed the tip of the stone blade against the Elder’s back high and to the right of the spine. He intended to thrust downward at an angle through the heart.

Buri remained immobile throughout. He appeared to be gathering himself, and after a time he let out a long breath. He was waiting; still Orman could not bring himself to thrust. Perhaps the Elder understood this and knew what he needed, because he murmured, softly: ‘Now.’

Orman thrust. The spear slid in smoothly to pass through the man’s chest and on to sink into the ice before him. Orman hadn’t intended to strike so deeply but something seemed to yank upon Svalthbrul and demand that the stone blade pierce the ice as well.

Buri remained sitting upright, impaled and affixed to the ice. His head was tilted forward, his long snow-white hair hanging.

Orman wept. Hot wetness stung both cheeks as tears also fell from his ruined eye. He could not be certain but it seemed as if a profound vibration emanated from where Buri sat, expanding in all directions, like an immense stone tossed into a lake. He gritted his teeth and worked to remove his hands from the Imass weapon. Skin tore off in strips as he yanked each free. The blood that came froze swiftly; only a few drops stained the snow at his feet.

He turned to the Reddin brothers. The wetness at his cheeks was now frozen ice as well. He felt oddly numb. All sounds seemed muted. He examined his hands — bloodied. I have blood upon my hands. I am kinslayer now in truth. Uncles from both sides of my line have I slain.

He did not know how much of these thoughts showed upon his face, but the brothers knelt on one knee before him, bowing their heads, just as a hearthguard may to his lord.

If anyone is to be damned, it will be me. I have spared them that. He turned to the south.

Now let us see what we Icebloods have wrought upon the land.

* * *

Bodies, old and new, dotted the mud flats along the shores of the Sea of Gold. They lay amid the remains of broken rickety docks. Silverfox numbly observed to herself: these nuggets are hardly gold. This sea should change its name to something more … appropriate.

She stood on the grassed lip of the shore cliff, peering south to the slate-hued water beneath the overcast sky. She wondered whether she faced this way because she dared not glance east.

What she might see there would make all this appear pleasant.

She felt, rather than heard, Pran Chole take his place at her side. ‘Almost all human, Summoner. I sense no recent fallen who carry the Jaghut taint.’

‘This is supposed to cheer me?’

‘There are … many,’ the Imass allowed. ‘These invaders do not appear to be handling themselves well.’

She stole a glance at the ancient being. She had ordered him to remain behind but he had simply refused to obey. The nearest thing she might claim as a father — and he millennia old. We are a strange family, she mused. He, I, and — she cast a quick look about for Kilava, found her standing far off staring north — and the disappointed aunt.

‘So they fled,’ she sighed, more relieved than she dared con-template. Yet her aged and crooked hands still shook and even she sensed it: fragility. That she was composed of four souls, four awarenesses, made her particularly susceptible to … shattering.

‘They are close. A day’s journey. Gathered together.’

‘Yes, I sense them. A last stand, perhaps.’

Pran Chole added nothing to this, as there was no more to say. The mummified sinew of his joints clung to his bones as if he were strapped together, all animated by the eldritch ritual of Tellann. Most of the dried leather flesh of his face remained, though patches of it had fallen or been worn away. Mostly along the ridges of bone: the sharp edges of the cheekbones, the upper orbits of his empty sockets, or where the flesh had been thinnest, such as across his forehead where the skull peeked through, smooth and polished like old seasoned wood. The skullcap of the ancient deer he wore as a helmet had fared far worse. Grey with age it was, and utterly dried. It would probably weigh next to nothing in her hands. Its muzzle where it rode high above Pran’s head was longish and narrow.

She knew she was drifting … delaying.

‘Summoner,’ Pran began, and he always used this form of address when he wished to be stern with her. She could almost hear him clearing his throat, had he breath to do so. ‘We cannot delay any longer. We must confront them.’

No. We mustn’t. She had made her decision. ‘This time you must remain behind.’

If a desiccated mien of bared grinning teeth could express surprise and dismay, Pran’s features came closest. ‘Summoner …’ his breathless voice whispered. ‘Do not cast us off.’

‘I alone must speak to them. You have brought me this far and for that I thank you. Now you must remain. I’ll won’t-’ She stopped herself. ‘That is, I cannot risk losing any of you.’

‘And what of you?’

‘You know I will be safe. Fetch my horse.’

He inclined his head until the empty sockets of the beast skull seemed to stare at her in direct remonstration. ‘As you order, Summoner,’ he murmured in his sad dry voice.

He shuffled off and she went to talk to Kilava. A cold wind buffeted them all, slicing down out of the mountain heights. The beaded laces of her shirt rattled and her long tangled grey hair tossed about her face. She drew it aside. She sensed something, far in the heights behind the dense cloud cover. But just what it was she couldn’t be certain. Oddly enough, she had no interest in the Jaghut themselves, or their sorcery. Her purpose was not to prosecute the Jaghut; her purpose was to bring an end to the ritual of Tellann. No doubt, however, it was this stirring that had so distracted Kilava these last two days.

She stopped next to the squat muscular woman whose midnight black hair, being even longer than hers, lashed violently in the gusting wind as if reflecting her angry thoughts. She stared north for a time, trying to see what this elder Imass Bonecaster might be seeing.

‘You have not seen a Jaghut refugium before, have you?’ Kilava asked.

She shook her head. ‘I am a child of the warm prairie.’ She might not have seen one, but in response to the Bonecaster’s question there came a cascade of images provided by the three awarenesses that shared her being: Nightchill, crossing one such windswept waste beneath hanging curtains of flickering lights tinged pink at their frills; Tattersail, sailing past gleaming cerulean cliffs of ice far taller than those they glimpsed just to the south; even Bellurdan, sharing a fire with a Jaghut elder within one of these remaining enclaves.

‘I see them through other eyes,’ she said.

Kilava nodded her understanding. ‘What I see troubles me. It has been a long time …’ she glanced to her, ‘an unimaginably long time — but what I sense hidden there reminds me …’ She frowned then, losing whatever memory it was she hunted. ‘Well, perhaps we will have to chase the Kerluhm even there.’

‘I hope it will not come to that.’

The Bonecaster turned to Pran, Tolb, and the waiting T’lan. Silverfox looked as well. How painfully few this remaining handful, some thirty only. Yet incalculably precious to her.

‘You have hurt Pran’s feelings,’ Kilava observed.

‘They have no feelings.’

Kilava raised one silken black brow. ‘You know that is not so.’

‘Yes,’ she sighed, exhausted. She was just so tired of their company. Their rigidity. Their silence. Their unrelenting … alienness. ‘Yes,’ she sighed again. ‘They feel twice with their spirits what they can no longer feel with their flesh. I know this.’

‘Do not forget it. It is too easy to forget.’

Pran arrived, leading the watered and rested mount. Tolb followed, his withered hands clasped at his ragged belt. ‘We are to remain behind,’ Pran told Kilava.

The Bonecaster eyed him. ‘I see. Yet why should the Kerluhm listen to her now?’

Silverfox stroked the bay’s neck, avoiding her gaze. ‘I’m not going to ask this time.’

‘Then perhaps I should follow at a distance,’ Kilava offered.

Silverfox felt her brows rising. This was a day of days. The legendary Kilava being obliging. ‘There is no need.’ She added, mounting: ‘You would be too far away to intercede in any case.’

But the three Bonecasters were paying her no attention. All three had turned to the north, as had the faces of the rest of the Imass. She glanced that way, shading her eyes. What was it? She sensed there, behind the bunched soot-black clouds, the stirring of Omtose — was that it?

Then she saw it. Through her own Bonecaster’s vision she glimpsed a kind of wave descending the upper slopes. Invisible, yet visible by the disturbance it evoked as it came, like a wave through water. It came on, descending the slopes at astounding speed.

Kilava spun to her. ‘Protect yourself!’ she ordered.

She could only gape. What was this thing?

Then a hammer struck her across the head and she tumbled sideways off the horse to land numb with the shock of it. Pink coloured the swirling visions that assaulted her. She sensed her awarenesses, like survivors lashed to a raft, battling to remain afloat. The most potent of them, Nightchill, appeared to swim before her. Not in ten thousand years have they dared! she snarled, enraged. Bizarrely, behind the cracks widening between her shared essences, came the bellowed joy of Bellurdan as the giant gloried in the unleashed puissance washing over them. Darkness took her then.

*

A jolt awoke her to the utter blackness of a deeply overcast night. Except in one direction: bright mage-fire flickering in greens and blues far off. She was being carried over steep ground while lying flat in some sort of litter. Distant thunder rumbled and murmured and she thought it odd that a storm should be rising — perhaps it was all these clouds. She closed her eyes.

When she woke again it was day, or a fog-choked attempt at one in any case. Branches of conifers passed overhead. The ground was rough. Four T’lan Imass carried her. Again distant rumblings and eruptions rolled over them in sharp distinct blasts; were they moving into a thunderstorm?

‘What happened?’ she asked, rather groggily.

Kilava’s head appeared in her vision. Black flakes of dried blood marked where her nose must have bled. ‘You are with us still — good. They were of course quite worried.’

‘Worried that I had fallen apart?’

The Bonecaster nodded her agreement. ‘Something like that.’

She rubbed her forehead where it seemed as if a spike had been driven between her eyes. ‘What happened?’

‘We are privileged,’ the Bonecaster remarked with something like very dry humour.

She blinked, not certain she understood. ‘Privileged?’

‘To witness something thought long gone from the world. The birth … well, the rebirth of a Jaghut ice barrier. The T’lan are understandably rather … angered.

She’d like to see that — an angry T’lan Imass. How would one know?

‘What of the Kerluhm?’

‘They travel north as well. The, ah, disagreement has been set aside until we have dealt with this new threat.’

Silverfox allowed her throbbing head to fall back to rest upon the cloth of the litter. ‘Good.’

Kilava, however, appeared not to share her relief. She walked along, one hand on one of the wooden poles of the litter, and brushed aside branches that rained cold droplets. Nearby, rocks clattered and crashed in a slide. ‘Do not be glad, child, nor think those survivors safe. The rejuvenated ice barrier will grind them to splinters of bone if they do not flee.’

‘They will retreat.’

‘Let us hope so.’

She rubbed her head, astonished to find no wound upon it. The impact must have been sorcerous alone. A wave of Omtose Phellack colliding with Tellann. Fraying it with its intensity. She and Kilava, both alive, both Bonecasters, felt the punishment of this dismembering. The T’lan, being undying, remained immune. Thus the ritual of Tellann.

‘So we travel to it, then,’ she murmured, and winced as the litter jerked in the hands of its bearers.

Kilava’s darkly tanned features took on an odd look, almost pained. ‘Well … the truth is, it is coming to us.’

The constant low rumblings took on an awful new meaning in Silverfox’s awareness. She raised her head to try to see, but all she could make out was an army of mist-shrouded trees on a steep rocky slope. Somewhere, though, stones shifted and hissed, punctuated by the crash of a tree falling. Like an enormous beast arising from the black depths, the awareness of what coming clarified in her thoughts and she eased her head down in wonder. Gods. They really went and did it. And we drove them to it. I hope the damned Kerluhm are happy now! And perhaps they are. Perhaps this was what they wanted all along: proof of the Jaghut’s threat. And now it’s a threat that would swallow us all.

* * *

K’azz, Shimmer and Blues led the way up the wide course of the ice-tongue. To either side naked ridges of rock rose like knife-edged barriers. It was snowing now, and above, through brief gaps in the massed storm clouds, the white expanse of the ice-field glittered in a hard cerulean light. They prodded the ice ahead with trimmed branches they had collected, searching for hidden crevasses in the creaking and groaning surface beneath their feet. Indeed, this course of ice, this frost-serpent, struck her as nearly a river in truth as she imagined it bucking and writhing under her boots. She had the unnerving sensation that they were actually moving backwards and making no progress at all.

Yet they struggled on. All without a spoken word. More than ever now was she determined to see this thing to its utter end. They had come too far; too many had fallen. She could never face the Brethren if the day came and she had no answer for them. So she planted one tattered leather boot before the other and leaned upon the long branch, prodding and probing as she went.

Something, however, seemed to be resisting her. Some force pressed down upon her, dimming her awareness. Each footfall felt like an eternity. At times she had trouble lifting her boots as the ice seemed to grip and pull at them. Once or twice she found herself on her knees; these spells she shook off and lurched to her feet once more.

A hand tugged at her mail armour and she turned, blinking. It was the Myrni girl, Siguna. ‘I have been calling,’ she shouted, looking oddly panicked.

Shimmer frowned. Calling? Whatever could she mean?

‘Your friends! They have fallen behind! One won’t rise. Another is missing!’

Shimmer had to force herself to concentrate upon the words and their meaning. Missing? Fallen? Understanding finally reached her and she nodded her thanks, pointed to where she’d last seen Blues through the swirling fat flakes of snow. ‘Get Blues.’

The girl gave a quick nod and ran off.

For a moment Shimmer watched her go, wondering at her energy and lightness of foot over the snow. Whatever was weighing upon her didn’t seem to be affecting the girl at all. Then she shook her head and began tramping back to find the rest of the column.

A knot of figures, no more than dark outlines amid the brushing curtains of blowing snow, waited below. She found Gwynn, Bars, Black the Lesser and Turgal with the two Heels, Baran and Erta. They stood around a figure keeling in snow up to her waist. Lean.

Gwynn greeted her, gestured to Lean. ‘She will not get up.’

Shimmer knelt before her friend, gripped her chin and lifted it to study her. The woman’s face was slack, her eyes unfocused. ‘Come to me, Lean,’ she called.

Lean blinked. The eyes searched, found Shimmer’s face. ‘Let me sleep,’ she mumbled through lips nearly frozen shut.

‘No. Time to move out. We’re waiting.’

‘I’m too Togg-blasted tired.’

Blues joined them, followed by K’azz. Shimmer looked up. ‘What should we do?’

‘Where is Keel?’

Bars’ dark hair hung in an unkempt mess; he was growing a thick black beard. He winced and gestured down behind them. ‘I’m sorry … I should’ve noticed.’

‘None of us did,’ Gwynn said.

K’azz raised a hand to end the matter. ‘You four will go back — take Lean with you. Find Keel. Cross to a rock ridge. Get off the ice. Wait there.’

Bars’ face revealed his shocked disbelief. ‘You can’t send us back!’

K’azz’s voice softened. ‘Not back, Bars. Off the ice. It is dangerous for you.’

‘But not for you, or Shimmer, or Blues?’

‘We … seem able to fight its effects better. Now, pick her up and go.’ He gestured Gwynn to him: ‘Make sure they all make it off.’

Gwynn, his long staff in his hands, nodded grimly. ‘Yes, K’azz. We will await you.’

‘Thank you.’ He turned to find Blues and Shimmer planted directly in his path. ‘And what of us?’ Blues said.

Their commander offered a lift of his bird-like bony shoulders beneath his torn leather jerkin. ‘You wished to find your answers … they await above.’

‘And Cal-Brinn?’ Shimmer demanded. ‘It is he we are really here for.’

K’azz nodded. ‘He is near. The same … difficulty … is affecting him. If we do not find him above, then we shall search for him.’

Shimmer stood aside. ‘Very well. But we had better find him.’

K’azz closed his eyes in tired agreement. ‘We will, Shimmer. I swear.’

The man appeared exhausted, his eyes sunken, his cheeks hollow. And clearly the strange spell of general lassitude pulled upon him as well, but she thought there was something more weighing him down: he was sad. So very regretful. What was it that affected him so? Whatever the answers were, they seemed to be breaking his heart.

At that moment she was almost ready to agree that they ought to simply find Cal-Brinn and go. If whatever lay above was so distressing to K’azz, perhaps it was best left alone. Yet to have come so far … and they were so near … She shook her head. Whatever it was, perhaps it would weigh less heavily upon him if they all shared it. It seemed almost near to breaking him even as she watched.

Yes, that was it. He need not bear this all by himself. She turned to the rest of the Guard gathering to retreat. Bars, she saw, was steadily returning her gaze. It was a good few moments before a voice spoke in her thoughts: what are you waiting for? You should go to him. She did so, and a strange relief flickered across his face. She stood close, peering up at him, and raised an arm to slip it behind his neck.

‘You have been distant of late,’ he said.

‘Yes, I have.’

‘We must get to the bottom of that.’

‘Yes, we will. When I return.’

‘Very well. When you return.’ He bent to kiss her and jerked away, shock on his face: ‘You are so cold!’

‘Is that a complaint?’

‘I mean it. Here, take this,’ and he moved to slip off his woollen cloak.

She closed her hand on his. ‘Keep it. I do not feel the cold.’ He frowned, troubled. ‘Do not worry. I will return.’

Something of his old manner slipped through as he growled, ‘See that you do.’

She turned to where K’azz and Blues waited, then gestured, inviting them, Baran, Erta and Siguna onward. She turned for one last wave farewell, wondering again: what is wrong with me?

* * *

Marshal Teal stood at a brazier in his command tent high in the upper vales of the southern slopes of the Salt range. He warmed his hands over the charcoal and considered his next course of action. Scouting parties would have to be sent, of course, to determine whether the last renegades had chosen to hang about. His orders from Luthal had been explicit; his future position depended upon his thoroughness.

Still, he was confident. This was, after all, a mere mopping up. He was eager to return to clean out Mantle. Once their grip was secure upon this north coast of the Sea of Gold, they could consider their next move. Consolidation of the south coast, most likely. Then onward to the Bone Peninsula.

All funded by their war-chest of gold dust.

Thunder rumbled beyond the hide tent walls. A storm was on its way. Good. Perhaps the renegades would die of exposure and save them any further expenditure. Still, he would like to get his hands on that white blade. It would bring a fortune in Lether, or Darujhistan. He could name his price.

The thunder intensified into a constant deep ongoing roar that Teal thought he could feel through his feet. Then the ground moved. The brazier would have fallen had he not steadied it and singed his fingers. Panicked shouts sounded without. He threw open the tent flap, demanded of a guard: ‘What is going on?’

‘Earthquake, sir.’

‘Yes, I know that!’ He waved to indicate the men rushing about bearing torches. ‘What is everyone upset about?’

The guard swallowed hard. ‘Well, sir. Most of these lads have never experienced one. They say … well, talk is, the northern gods are angry at us.’

‘What a load of bullshit. You get out there and you calm them down!’

The guard saluted crisply. ‘Yes sir!’ He ran off, waving for others to accompany him.

Teal drew in a deep breath of the cold clean air. Gods give him patience! What could he possibly be expected to accomplish with these pathetic recruits! Give him drilled and trained regulars over these amateur foreigners any day.

He crossed his arms, hugged himself for warmth against the fiercely cold wind and peered into the low clouds to the north. It looked as if something was moving there behind the swirling banners of mist. He took a few hesitant steps, squinting. It was almost as if the entire slope above them was slowly shifting. Was it a rockslide triggered by the earthquake?

The ground beneath his feet began to vibrate. Not in the rolling of any earthquake he’d ever experienced, but as a constant low drumming vibration. A distant avalanche, perhaps?

The swirling clouds parted then, as if thrust aside by some broad front of wind. Through the dimness of the overcast night he saw that the slope above was much steeper and closer than he remembered. And it was moving — roiling and churning as it came. Even as he watched, entire swaths of tall spruce and fir fell before its advance, only to be sucked beneath the leading edge of tumbling rock and soil.

True panicked yells sounded now about the camp, all nearly drowned by the roar of the coming cataclysm. Teal stood transfixed. In his experience this was unanswerable. How could anyone respond to such an onslaught? There was simply nothing to be done.

Lieutenants came, shouting to be heard, but he merely waved to them to flee. ‘Save yourselves,’ he mouthed. And they fled. He chose not to. There was something inexorable, almost magisterial, in what he was witnessing. Running might gain one a few more minutes of life, but why fall in an undignified mad scramble?

He preferred to meet what was coming. And he did — just before the end.

The screen of conifers above the camp was the last layer of trees still standing before the mountain of churned-up soil and rock tumbling its way down upon him. The ground now juddered as if in agony; he could barely keep his feet. The avalanche roar was so loud it deafened him.

And he glimpsed, above the mounded-up tons of loose soil and talus, something glowing with an inner cobalt-blue light. A broad and low wall descending out of the heights, pulverizing rock, and growling an immensely deep basso rumble that was shaking the ground, and his breath left him in awe.

How beautiful, and how terrible …

* * *

‘You must all flee.’

They were in conference within the stone tower at Mantle. Lady Orosenn stood with the aid of Jute’s shoulder — he winced whenever her full weight threatened to bow him — and he with one arm bandaged and bound across his chest. They stood together with the new king, Voti, and Malle at his side. Cartheron was there, gritting his bristled jowls, and Tyvar, dabbing a cloth to the cut above his temple that would not stop bleeding.

The young king continued to shake his head. ‘This is our home. We will not leave.’

Lady Orosenn shifted her entreating gaze to Malle, whose black skirting was now slashed and spattered with dried blood. Having seen her fighting upon the wall Jute felt even more terrified of the woman: she threw slim knife blades, then hatchets that had snapped back the heads of more than one Imass. Now, though, she merely pursed her thin colourless lips as if to say: there is nothing I can do …

Orosenn shifted one awkward step backwards, signalling that she would go. ‘But reconsider while there is still time.’ Jute helped her turn round. Cartheron and Tyvar followed them out. ‘Stubborn fools,’ she complained as they went.

‘We cannot force them to go,’ Tyvar observed as he refolded the bloodied cloth.

The Jaghut sorceress, for that was what everyone now knew her to be, studied the Blue Shield commander for a time. ‘No. But there is something you can do. The task that perhaps you were truly sent here for.’ She headed off, limping, for the eastern curtain wall. ‘Come with me.’

Jute helped her up the ramp to the catwalk. She gestured over the wall to the ragtag encampment the invaders had set up along the shore east of the fortress. Smoke from countless camp fires hung over it before gusting southward over the sea, driven by the fierce frigid winds blowing down from the heights. Jute put their numbers at close to six thousand.

However, he was far more interested in the five vessels anchored a safe distance off the coast. Through it was foggy, he would recognize the Dawn anywhere. With it lay the Ragstopper, the Resolute, the Supplicant, and that Genabackan pirate’s galley.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, Tyvar said, ‘They are wise to stay off shore.’

Jute nodded. ‘Aye. They’d be swamped immediately.’

‘You see these people?’ Orosenn asked Tyvar, who stroked his beard, a touch mystified. ‘In less than two days they will all be dead if they do not move south.’

The mercenary commander narrowed his gaze. ‘You are certain?’

The sorceress let out a hard breath. ‘I know what is coming.’

‘What, then, would you have us do?’

‘Tyvar Gendarian, you said Togg gave you one last geas — to save innocent lives. Well, there lie thousands. I believe that is truly what our god had in mind. Not battle. Saving lives! You are the Blue Shields, are you not? Escort them south! Organize the evacuation of the women and children on to the vessels, then guide the rest down the Bone Peninsula. Guard them. Ward them. See them safe. There is a true challenge!’

The commander studied the rambling camp and his brows tightened. ‘We are fewer than one hundred now,’ he murmured.

‘Work with that woman who was organizing their defence — she lives still.’ Her eyes rose to the heights, where some sort of lightning storm flickered and glowed behind the dense cloud cover. Jute could hear the rumblings of the thunder even from this distance. She returned her gaze to Tyvar, fierce. ‘This is my request of you, Tyvar. See them safe. I’m sure Togg would approve.’

He had been stroking his beard. His eyes now glittered with renewed passion. He bowed his head in assent. ‘Saving innocents,’ he answered. ‘Yes. Togg would approve. Thank you for reminding me of my purpose, my lady. We will go at once.’ He jogged down the ramp, shouting for his lieutenants.

‘And what of us?’ Jute asked. ‘Will we be safe here?’

She turned a warm gaze upon him. ‘You will return to Ieleen on board the Dawn and sail south, Jute of Delanss. You have lingered here too long.’

‘But will you be safe?’

‘Never mind about us. See the evacuees safe. Enjoy your life. Give your love to Ieleen. She is very worried for you.’

‘But what of you?’

‘Go. Now. Leave me here at the wall. I wish to … study the storm for a time.’

He was unwilling to abandon her, or Cartheron for that matter. She had arguably saved his life twice now. Thinking of the Malazan gave him an idea. He bowed his leave and went to find the old commander.

It took him a long time to track the man down. Eventually he was pointed to the cliff edge and there found the fellow peering down at the sea. He had the look of a man who’d forgotten something he suspected was important. He nodded a distracted greeting to Jute. ‘Damned thorough, those Imass,’ he muttered. ‘Took out our access to the water. Now I know what it’s like to be on the other end of their stone swords.’

‘Sir,’ Jute began, attempting to grab his attention, ‘you have to talk sense into Malle. Something tells me she wouldn’t ignore a direct command from you.’

The fellow lifted his chin in assent. ‘Once, aye. But there’s a new regime now, and I’m not welcome. In fact, I’m officially drowned.’

‘The sorceress has asked Tyvar to escort all the newcomers south. I believe he’ll do it.’

‘Sounds like an impossible task. I’m sure he’ll relish it.’

‘We can get the women and children into the vessels.’

Cartheron nodded approvingly. ‘And you go with them, Jute. But not the Ragstopper.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s full of water. Won’t sail no more. And I have to admit I’m kinda curious ’bout what’s coming. I have my suspicions.’

It took some time for Jute to accept what he was hearing. ‘So … you’re saying you’re going to stay?’

‘Aye. I believe it could be quite a sight.’

‘And the crew?’

He shrugged. ‘They can choose, o’ course.’

Jute let out a long breath. He didn’t know what to say. He discovered himself plucking at the edge of his shirt. ‘Well, then,’ he sighed. ‘I guess I’d best go help.’

Cartheron gave him the old salute of a hand to the chest, then waved him away. A few paces off, Jute turned back and called: ‘What was he like?’

‘Who?’

‘The old emperor.’

Cartheron pulled a hand down his greying jowls, nodded his understanding of Jute’s interest. ‘I could never make up mind if he was the biggest fool I’d ever met, or the most cunning bastard.’

The answer wasn’t what Jute had expected, but the commander, once a High Fist, turned away to stare out over the waters of the Sea of Gold, and so he went to find Tyvar.

The vessels, it turned out, were wisely allowing none to approach. Early in the morning, Jute went out alone in the battered old skiff that the invaders’ commander, Lyan, had sent out through the night to beg for berths. He arranged for the young and the wounded to be taken out to the Resolute and the Silver Dawn. Lady Orosenn also offered up the Supplicant. Jute was wary, but when he climbed a rope ladder, one-handed, and inspected the vessel, he found it completely empty of any crew. He did not know where the silent figures he’d glimpsed had gone now that the sorceress had no more use for them. He had his ideas, of course, but these he kept to himself.

The Genabackan pirate, Enguf, offered berths to the highest bidders, and in this manner did well out of the venture after all. He was the first to sail off, if rather sluggishly, with a perilously slim freeboard, as he’d taken on far too many passengers. Greed, Jute reflected, seemed immune to all setbacks.

Next went the Resolute. As passenger on board this vessel went a crippled youth who seemed to be family to the Genabackan shield-maiden officer. The woman, however, remained with the camp; she seemed satisfied with the protection that the Blue Shields offered, sending five of their number with the vessel, together with their pledge to reunite her and the boy in south Genabackis.

The Supplicant followed slowly, its crew of veteran sailors from among the invaders doing their best with the unfamiliar lines of the strange vessel.

This left the Ragstopper and the Silver Dawn. Jute clapped his hands on young Reuth’s shoulders and looked him up and down. The lad appeared to be prospering; gone were the bruises of his escape — at least those apparent in the flesh. He was eating well and even occasionally smiled. Jute had noticed that he asked almost every new passenger for news of Whiteblade, the ex-Malazan swordsman.

He waved the lad off and turned to Ieleen, who sat in her usual place next to the tiller arm, hands on her short walking stick, her head tilted to the wind. It seemed to him that she’d been watching him out of the edge of her snow-white orbs. He rubbed a hand over his unshaven cheeks and cleared his throat.

‘You’re staying, then,’ she said, and he jumped, startled.

‘How did you know?’

‘I know that throat-clearing.’

He continued to brush his fingers over a cheek. ‘I have to see this through to the end, love.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’ He gazed about the deck, now crowded with evacuees. ‘Curiosity, I guess. I have to see how it ends.’

She banged the stick to the deck. ‘It could end in your death!’

‘Don’t let’s fight, dear. Not during my leave-taking.’

‘I’m supposed to like it?’

‘Don’t worry. The Ragstopper remains. We can evacuate in that, if we must.’

She shook her head in a knowing negative. ‘That hulk sounds as full of water as a bathtub.’

‘Well … it’s still afloat. In any case, we can always run for it.’

She continued shaking her head. Her grey curls blew about in the wind. ‘I’ve always feared your curiosity will be the death of you.’

‘I’ll be careful, dearest.’

Her silver orbs narrowed, promising her wrath. ‘You’d better be.’

‘Of course I will. I’ll await your return. If not here, then further south down the coast. Yes?’

She tapped the stick to the deck thoughtfully. ‘I do not want you to go. But if you must …’ She shook her head. Sadly, this time.

‘Thank you, my chick.’ He pecked her on the cheek.

She urged him off with the stick. ‘Go on, then.’

He saluted the ship’s weapons master, Letita, who appeared miserable herself, her eyes red and her cheeks wet. He recalled that Lieutenant Jalaz was remaining with Cartheron. Then he climbed down one of the rope ladders to a waiting skiff.

The shore was now empty. Where a temporary encampment of thousands had arisen, only smoking fire pits and the trash of torn canvas, abandoned boots and broken tools and mining equipment remained. The unruly mob of civilians had been urged, cajoled, and plain browbeaten by Tyvar and his remaining Blue Shields, plus the Shieldmaiden and her Genabackan veterans, into marching south down the coast.

Walking back up the slope of the rise topped by Mantle, Jute noted the closing storm from the north. The cloud front had rolled down the upper heights of the Salt range and was now obscuring the vales immediately above. The constant roar of thunder shook the ground and the strong winds lashed the branches. He spotted elk and deer bounding along the treeline just above the fields. Flights of birds came peeling out of the fog: ravens, gulls, ducks, and apart from these, soaring higher, the outlines of prey-birds: eagles and falcons.

Something was driving all before it. The thing Lady Orosenn spoke of. All that Jute could imagine was a sort of huge landslide or avalanche, churning its way down the slopes.

He found Cartheron and Lady Orosenn in conversation at the wall, also looking north. Cartheron was gesturing, explaining something. ‘Am I interrupting?’ he asked, approaching up the earthen ramp.

‘Always welcome,’ Lady Orosenn greeted him. ‘Commander Cartheron was just explaining the geography of this location.’

‘Commander Cartheron?’

‘Considering his experience, King Voti has placed him in charge of Mantle’s defences.’

‘For what it’s worth,’ the man grumbled.

‘It is worth a great deal,’ Lady Orosenn corrected him. ‘I myself had hoped to reach the north and there kneel before my mother and beg her forgiveness. But,’ she pressed a hand to her wounded thigh, ‘it was not to be. Now we must weather the coming storm from here.’

‘And this storm,’ Jute now dared ask, ‘what is it exactly?’

The Jaghut shared a glance with Cartheron. ‘You know the great ice cliffs we passed to the south?’ Jute nodded; he had seen such along many shores. ‘Like that, only moving across the land.’ Jute blew out a breath — he couldn’t even imagine what that would be like. Nothing, it seemed to him, would be spared such a grinding passage. ‘And Commander Cartheron has some ideas on this front.’

The old Napan held his hands out over the wall as if describing an inverted V. ‘This is bedrock we’re built on. Been here for ages. This is the highest piece of land across the entire north coast. See how we’re atop a wedge that slopes down away before us and off to either side?’ Jute nodded. ‘We can use that natural rock incline.’

‘How so?’ Jute asked, still mystified.

Lady Orosenn was examining the slope. Free of her headscarf and veil, her features were rather harsh, Jute thought — the jaw too square and heavy, the cheekbones too jutting. But her wide expressive eyes still held their glamour for him. They carried sceptical calculation now. ‘Why are we discussing this? You would need some sort of immense push even to get the motion going.’

Cartheron winked. ‘Oh, I got me a big motivator.’ He looked around, found Lieutenant Jalaz where she waited nearby for orders, and waved her to him. ‘Send word to the Ragstopper. I want it brought in to shore and Orothos up here.’ Jalaz saluted and jogged off. ‘Now we wait.’ He peered round again and shouted to a nearby local spearman: ‘Hey, how about a meal? I’m starving up here.’

A meal eventually appeared, comprising a trencher of bread, cold venison, a block of hard cheese and a leather tankard of beer. With the meal came Malle. She shot Cartheron a knowing glare and raised her chin to the cloud front descending the forested vales amid a now constant reverberating booming. ‘What’s the plan?’ she asked, raising her voice to be heard above the din. ‘Do we jump into the sea?’

‘Might come to that,’ Cartheron agreed. Then, aside, ‘Ah! Here we are.’

His first mate, Orothos, came walking up the dirt ramp. His shirt hung in tatters from his emaciated form, as did his trousers of canvas, which were tied up with a worn hemp rope. ‘What now?’ the mate grumbled in a manner far from respectful. ‘I’m busy bailing.’

Cartheron ignored the tone — or possibly it meant nothing to him. ‘I want the springals and scorpions mounted on the wall here. And I want all the consignment brought up for use.’

The first mate blinked his incredulity. ‘What? All of it?’

‘It’s of no use to us at the bottom of the Sea of Gold.’

The man gaped at his captain. He spluttered, ‘But that’s our nest egg. Our retirement fund! What’re we gonna do without it?’

‘The king here has offered us a place. I understand I’m takin’ over as foreign adviser once Malle here leaves.’ The wiry old woman tilted her head in agreement.

‘If there’s anything left!’

Cartheron finally snapped: ‘Then let’s see to it! Now do as I say!’

The first mate glared his defiance, which Cartheron met with a scowl, and then the man slapped a hand to his forehead, spun on his heels, and slouched his way down the ramp, muttering to himself, ‘… now he drops anchor? … not Nathilog? … damned nowhere … not one tavern to be found …’

In the silence following the mate’s departure, Malle clasped her hands and stepped up to Cartheron. ‘I, too, must express my concern. I mean — must you use all of it?’

‘It’s it or us, Malle. And I intend to hit it with all I got.’

A strange smile crept up one edge of her thin lips. ‘Well … that is the old Crust I remember.’

The ex-High Fist snorted, then gestured Lieutenant Jalaz to him. ‘Take the lads and lasses and see to the unloading.’ She saluted again, and offered a savage grin.

All the Malazans, including Malle’s guard, lent a hand. As the light darkened to the honey-yellow of late afternoon, the four siege weapons were mounted and test shots were executed with weighted stones to measure distance. A steady train of black wooden chests were carried up from the Ragstopper, each sealed with a silver sigil. Lieutenant Jalaz came to Jute as he studied the chests and she pointed out the seals. ‘See the sceptre? Sign of the imperial arsenal at Unta.’ She ran a caressing hand across the wet black wood. ‘When K’azz’s Crimson Guard attacked the capital they blew the main imperial depot. All the Moranth munitions were supposed to have been lost. But look at this. A cache such as no one will ever see again.’

‘So this is rare — even for you Malazans.’

The lieutenant choked down a laugh. ‘Rare? Captain … you could buy a kingdom with this.’

‘Perhaps that’s what Cartheron aims to do with it.’

To her credit as a one-time servant of the throne, Jalaz flinched from such frank language. ‘He sees a chance to defend an ally and he does not shrink from it.’

Jute would not release her from his steady gaze. ‘Lieutenant, you are from Genabackis. I am from Falar. Our fathers or grandfathers were conquered by the Malazans, yet here we are. Why?’

Giana Jalaz turned away to stare off at the thick cloud that hung overhead like a hand about to crush them. She hugged herself against the chill wind, tucking her hands under her arms. ‘When I was child,’ she said, after a time, ‘my world was very small. Just my village and the valley we and the neighbouring villages occupied. To travel beyond it was unthinkable. You would be robbed or enslaved or killed out of hand as a stranger — an interloper. But then the Empire came and my world broadened beyond measure. I could travel from Cat in the north to Pale or even to Darujhistan if I wished … all under the aegis of the imperial sceptre. I was treated as equal, able to sign up to serve. I could hold what was mine under the law and the law held. That was what the Malazans brought. Granted, there were abuses, corruption, just as there had been under the old provincial rulers — human nature doesn’t change. But the opportunity was there. Hope was there. At least a chance.’ She lowered her gaze to him. ‘And now the new emperor is from Falar, isn’t he?’

Jute pulled away, but not because of the rearing head of imperial politics. ‘We don’t speak of him in Falar.’

‘No? Why not?’

Jute straightened from the stacked chests, glanced about. ‘You have been frank, and I thank you. That is a rare gift. I am only a ship’s captain, a small-time recovering raider. But we of the sea trade in Falar know of the old blood-cult, the Jhistal. Its followers terrorized our islands for generations. He-’ Jute broke off as a gang of Malle’s guards arrived to carry the chests up to the top of the wall. Once they were gone, he turned back to Giana and lowered his voice: ‘You speak of limited horizons. We in Falar had squirmed in the grip of those priests for generations. To speak up was to find one’s children selected as the next sacrifices to the sea. The Malazans broke that grip and for that I will be for ever grateful, despite the cost. But the new emperor … he tries to rewrite the history of it, but there are those who still dare to whisper that he came out of that hierarchy. That he was once a priest of the Jhistal. And so as long as he may rule we will never speak his name.’

The lieutenant blew out a long ragged breath and held out her hand. He took it in a tight grip. ‘Honesty is a rare gift among strangers,’ she said with feeling.

‘An easy gift, since we may not see the morrow.’

She lowered her gaze to the chest at their feet. ‘Well then … let’s get to it.’

They each took a handle, and together they carried it up to the top of the wall.

Lady Orosenn was on the catwalk speaking to Voti and Malle. Beyond, up the valley, the fog appeared to be breaking up. The rumbling was not diminishing, however. Even atop the wall, Jute felt the vibrations hammering through his boots.

‘This is your people’s last chance,’ Lady Orosenn was saying. ‘There will be no escape once it is upon us.’

The young king’s mouth pulled down, accentuating his long jaw. ‘We will not abandon what is ours.’

Lady Orosenn simply dipped her head in acceptance. ‘Very well. I have to confess — I hold little hope.’

Voti bowed. ‘Thank you for that frank admission. I will go to tell my council.’

Lady Orosenn answered the bow and he descended the ramp, followed by his bodyguard of ten spears. Malle remained; she leaned against the shaking stone blocks of the wall, peering out.

Cartheron arrived and nodded to Lieutenant Jalaz. ‘Time,’ he said. She gave a curt bob of her head. ‘You’ll need eight veterans.’

Malle turned from the wall. ‘Riley and his boys are up for it.’

Cartheron gave his assent.

‘Time for what?’ Jute asked, feeling a strange sort of growing unease.

Lieutenant Jalaz squeezed his shoulder, grinning. ‘Wish me luck, Jute of Delanss.’ She jogged off down the ramp. Malle leaned out over the catwalk and snapped her fingers. The majority of her remaining guards rose where they’d been squatting below among the chests.

‘What is going on?’ Jute asked everyone.

Cartheron shouted down: ‘Open the gates!’

‘Open the gates? What for?’

But Cartheron ignored him, going to the wall to lean out, peering down. Jute went to his side. Below, the gates of bronze-sheathed timber swung open and Lieutenant Jalaz appeared, jog-trotting north at the head of a train of four munition chests, each carried by two men and piled with shovels and picks.

‘What is this?’ Jute demanded.

Cartheron finally turned to him. He was rubbing a hand over his balding pate. ‘A gamble.’

‘A gamble? What sort of gamble?’

‘Orosenn assures me that all the soil and dirt ’n’ such is going to be scraped up, so no point in burying a charge. But there’s rock crevices and cracks where the bedrock comes mounding up. They’re gonna look for some of those at our maximum range. Push a few munitions down there for a little extra oomph.’

Jute snapped his gaze to where Lieutenant Jalaz and her team were disappearing into the banners of ground fog. ‘There’s no time for that!’

Cartheron just brushed his fingers down his jaw. ‘It’s a good throw. Worth four chests.’

Jute could not believe such callousness. ‘Four chests! What of nine people?’

That must have stung, as the old commander’s gaze flicked to him and he grated, his voice tight: ‘Don’t lecture me, son. They’re good people doing what they do best, so leave them to it.’ He walked off, unsteady, looking bowed. Jute moved to follow, but Malle caught his arm.

‘Let him go. Do not add to his pain. Nine lives, you say? Well, what of all of us?’

‘But-’

The hardened old woman stopped him with a look. ‘There will always be buts, captain. The important thing is that choices be made. Now comes the hard part.’

‘The hard part?’

‘Yes.’ Her gaze shifted to the north. ‘Now we wait.’

The walls became crowded as the evening passed. Everyone wanted to watch; perhaps out of a kind of perverse fascination to see the end. Conversation was almost impossible: one had to press one’s mouth to anyone’s ear to be heard over groaning earth, the rumbling avalanche, and the growing thunderous grinding of tonnes upon tonnes of moiling rock and earth.

To make it worse, it was now blowing snow. The fat flakes came out of the heights, driven by a cutting wind that only grew in intensity. Far to the east and west, all along the uplands as far as Jute could see, the thinning clouds hinted at a wall of white covering the heights — an unbroken sheath of snow that was utterly featureless except where tall ridges of black rock poked through like knife-edges.

He scanned the curved rock before the fortress where it descended to the north; the bedrock carried only low brush and dwarf trees, but it combed downward into a forest of cedar, fir, and birch. Just at the fringe of these woods was where Giana and her team were supposed to be digging. He could see no sign of them, however.

The vibration punishing everyone’s feet was becoming almost unbearable. One of the pounded dirt ramps collapsed into a heap of soil, it seemed soundlessly, as the cacophony of the leagues-wide avalanche grinding down upon them drowned everything out.

Squinting into the blowing snow he could make out entire swaths of forest disappearing as if swept down by an invisible hand. The enormous blocks of the wall juddered and bounced as if toys. The last screen of trees between them and the avalanche fell towards them, their crowns swinging down as if bowing in farewell. Come on! he urged Giana. Run!

Something appeared through the curtain of snow but it was not what Jute expected. To all appearances it looked like a flood of extremely muddy water creeping up the slope of the bedrock. Sticks and detritus roiled amid the froth of the approaching tide. It took him a moment to grasp that the sticks were in fact the stripped trunks of mature trees, and that the coming tide was a churned froth of mud, silts, soil, and sand, all being scooped downslope towards them in front of a solid wall of one of the ice-tongues. And before this flood emerged six figures, running pell-mell for the high land and the wall.

Jute tottered and stumbled his way down the ramp to the gates, where a team of locals waited to swing closed the twin leaves. The figures, completely mud-covered, ran on while the very earth jumped and shuddered beneath them. Now Jute counted only four.

The quartet came barrelling in, dripping, sheathed in mud and streaks of blood, and fall to the ground, panting and gasping. King Voti’s people pulled shut the leaves. Jute and a number of Malazans stooped to the four, rubbing away muck, pulling a shattered length of wood the size of a dagger from the arm of one of them. To Jute’s immense relief Lieutenant Jalaz emerged, bruised and bloodied, from the layers of clinging muck encasing another of them.

‘You fool!’ he growled, though of course she could not hear. She understood, however, and shrugged weakly. He waved for her to stay where she was and tottered up the ramp.

What he found above reminded him of what Lady Orosenn had said about there being no escape. Entire forests of tangled trees were building up amid the coursing wash of suspended soil and earth that was passing to either side of the rise. Orothos, under directions from Cartheron, had his crews blasting these logjams to pieces. Meanwhile, the roiling mass of coming earth just kept mounting higher and higher. Of the township of Mantle there remained no trace. The effect of all this was as of the worst naval engagement Jute had ever endured. He ran to Lady Orosenn, motioned that he wished to speak. She lowered her head. ‘What are they doing?’ he yelled.

She made a pushing gesture. ‘Moving it along.’

‘Why?’

‘We don’t want it to catch and heap up.’

‘Why are they firing into the mud?’

‘We don’t know when the ice will arrive,’ she called back. ‘I suspect the leading edge to be thin — under the muck at first.’

After that, Jute was too hoarse to continue yelling so he merely nodded and allowed Lady Orosenn to return to studying the flow. He tried to imagine what it must be like on the shores of the Sea of Gold as all this earth and gravel and loose rock came thrusting out on to the mudflats, perhaps taking them with it. It suddenly occurred to him, horrifyingly: could the entire sea be erased? All that water heaved further south? How far away were the ships? Had they made it through the channel yet? He prayed to the gods that they had. If not, they were in for a memorable ride.

One of the crews on the springals thrust their arms skyward, shouting soundlessly, and Jute scanned the base of the rise. Pulverized white flakes came floating down from an eruption. They momentarily painted white the foaming, shifting flow, only to be sucked beneath. Cartheron was gesturing, signing to the crews, who shifted their aim. He raised an open hand and the crews waited, hands at the releases.

Why was he waiting, Jute wondered. Shouldn’t he be punishing the ice now that it had arrived? Perhaps he was waiting for the flow to thicken — no point in blasting the thinnest leading finger. Perhaps. Then he noticed that the commander’s gaze was fixed upon Lady Orosenn, who had a hand outstretched as if reaching for him.

The walls rocked then, as in a true earthquake. Or perhaps a collision. Jute turned his head to the north, terrified of what he might see. There, what he’d taken earlier for a thick wall of falling snow revealed itself to be a steep upward-sweeping wing-like slope that went on and on, perhaps for leagues, up the entire lowest shoulder of the mountains: an ungraspable immensity of ice and weight and might all bearing down upon them like a war dromond striking a water beetle. He knew it to be a plain physical manifestation of ice and rock, but he couldn’t help also feeling a palpable sense of deliberate menace and ruthless will pointed directly at him — and he the size of a flea beneath it.

Lady Orosenn snapped her hand down and Cartheron made a fist.

All four siege weapons fired.

The four cussors arced upwards, disappearing into the driving snow. Almost immediately spouts of smashed ice shot upwards, without any accompanying sound. Jute was appalled. The best we had. Like a child throwing a rock at a landslide. Cartheron signed to fire again. The four now simply kept firing and reloading, pounding that one same spot. Jute imagined that that must be where the cussors had been jammed down into cracks and crevices in the bedrock — if they hadn’t yet been plucked out.

The eruptions came almost continuously now, in a constant shooting spray of pulverized ice that arced high into the blowing snow. Jute thought the pushing lip of the ice-tongue was climbing the hump of bedrock. Soon, he imagined, it would sweep them off like dust from a tabletop.

All four crews kept pounding, and it did seem to Jute that larger chunks of broken ice now flew with each eruption. He gripped the topmost stone of the wall before him, itself many hundreds of pounds of rock, and felt the immense power of the grinding advance transmitted to his bones through the juddering of the stone. Break, damn you! he exhorted the ice. Break!

He’d seen towers brought down by one or two well-placed cussors. Entire harbour defences reduced to rubble with just a few casts. And now this man, Cartheron Crust, was pouring half the imperial arsenal of Moranth munitions into this unstoppable mountain of ice in a colossal contest of wills that would grind all else into dust.

The stones of the wall jerked towards him then, knocking his hand aside as if it were alive and flinching. Ahead, through the curls and scarves of snow, a great fountain of white was burgeoning upwards like a dome swelling over a surfacing swimmer. Enormous shards of blue-white ice now arced skywards. They blossomed outwards in all directions. A roar washed over Mantle that overcame even the valley-wide growling of the ice.

Smaller chunks fell all about him. They burst to shards against the wall. Some punched through the timbers of the catwalk. Nearby, a man fell as if mattocked, his head a shattered ruin. Jute ducked, arms over his head, and staggered down the ramp to take cover under the catwalk. Here, beneath his hand and his rump, the bedrock shook as if drummed. A deep wounded-animal sort of groan mounted into a high-pitched cracking. In his mind’s eye, he imagined the stupendous weight of the ice pulling it downslope to the east and to the west, naturally tugging in opposite directions. And so it would split — not of intent, but because the great ice-river merely wished to find the lowest level. He rose and clambered out to look. The ramp had been shaken to nothing more than a heap of dirt, and this he climbed to pull himself one-handed up on to the catwalk. The huge blocks of the wall were now misaligned and uneven in their course, and it seemed wondrous to Jute that the snow still fell as if nothing had happened. To the right and left coursed the dirty snow-blown river of ice, down to where the two arms came together again before sweeping out over the obliterated shore of the Sea of Gold.

They sat atop a scoured-clean island of naked rock.

He went to find Cartheron and spotted him collapsed against the wall, watched over by two of his crew. He was pale, squeezing his chest, his face clenched against pain. Jute knelt next to him. The roar of the creaking and groaning ice was still like a thunderstorm, and he had to yell to make himself heard. ‘Are you all right?’

The old man laughed weakly. ‘When Lady Orosenn sewed me up she told me to avoid any stress.’

‘Good thing you’re taking it easy, then.’

There was a tremor in the Malazan’s hands that he didn’t seem to notice. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘it’s the retired life for me.’

Jute stood. ‘I’ll get Orosenn.’

The old commander was too exhausted even to respond. Jute ran, searching for the sorceress. He found her at the extreme southern end of the catwalk close to the wall’s edge overlooking the cliff. She was watching the great tongue of ice where it crept out over the Sea of Gold.

Gaining her attention, he put a hand to his mouth to shout: ‘Cartheron is in a bad way.’

She nodded. ‘I’ve done what I can for him. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.’

He gestured out towards the sea. ‘What can we do?’

‘We wait.’

‘Will it be like this for ever?’

She bestowed the familiar affectionate smile upon him once more. ‘No, Jute of Delanss. This was a ferociously rapid invocation. It will fade faster than most. Perhaps a mere hundred years.’

Oh. A mere hundred years. ‘So it is over,’ he breathed, immensely relieved.

But the sorceress shook her head, her long black hair blowing like a veil. ‘No. This was only the opening salvo. The true confrontation is taking place high above. I wish I was there to add my voice.’

‘Add your voice?’

‘Against the rekindling of an ancient war. And I do not mean the animosity of the T’lan Imass for the Jaghut. There have been far older wars, Jute of Delanss. And there are some who never forget, nor forgive.’

He not know what the sorceress meant; did not have her deeper vision of events. He only knew that a friend was in pain, so he gestured once more that they should help Cartheron and Orosenn nodded, squeezing his arm.