Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 6

In the main hall of Mock’s Hold, Malaz City, a battle raged back and forth across the central dining table. It shook and echoed from the thick tarred timbers that crossed the hall’s ceiling and rattled its closed and locked doors.

At the long table where so many Malazan pirate admirals and captains once sat were now gathered Surly and the Napans who happened to be on the isle that day: Choss, Tocaras and Urko, together with Nedurian, Dujek, Jack, the mage Tayschrenn and the Dal Hon swordsman Dassem.

Nedurian sat in stunned silence, his brows rising higher and higher as the fight wore on unrelenting all through what was meant to be a dinner of consolidation and organization. He exchanged a look of amazement with Dassem at his side.

‘No, I will not be the commander of this military,’ Tocaras emphasized for the twentieth time.

‘Then who?’ Surly pushed once more. ‘Give me a name.’

‘Amaron,’ Urko supplied.

Surly looked to the ceiling. ‘He is not available for that.’

Urko jabbed a finger. ‘Aha! So he is still alive!’

Surly’s already sour expression deepened even further.

Nedurian noted that so far no one had offered the position to Urko.

Surly’s impatient gaze shifted to Tayschrenn. ‘And what have you to report? How goes the organization of our vaunted mage cadre?’

The lean Kartoolian cleared his throat, leaning back. ‘Ah … well, the organization is that there’s no organization.’

Surly pressed her hands to the table – its wood much scarred and abused by centuries of fights, stabbings, feuds and murders. ‘Clarify,’ she fairly snarled.

‘We have agreed that there will be no encumbrance of a hierarchy, nor the awkward delaying hindrance of a chain of command. Each elected cadre mage will report directly to Kellanved, or any one of a very few chosen representatives.’

Nedurian couldn’t resist leaning to the Kartoolian and murmuring, ‘I like the positive light you cast that in …’

Tayschrenn shot him a glare.

‘And these “chosen representatives”?’ Surly enquired, brow arched. ‘They are …?’

The mage cleared his throat once more. ‘Ah. So far? Well … myself.’

‘I see. So, as command grade of one of our departments, you need a title.’

The young mage appeared rather taken aback by the suggestion. ‘Well,’ he managed, ‘I suppose so …’

Surly’s sour expression crooked upwards as she considered this. ‘You are the highest of the mages – so to speak. So, you are the High Mage.’

Tayschrenn lifted a brow. ‘Really? High Mage? You’re going to—’

Surly rapped her glass to the table. ‘Done.’

Tayschrenn pressed a hand to his head and slumped in his chair.

Nedurian elbowed him, murmuring, ‘Congratulations!’

The mage pinched his brow, his expression pained. ‘Gods please deliver me.’

Surly’s narrowed gaze now shifted to Choss. ‘You are the commander of our military then,’ she announced.

With his long history of working with the woman, burly Choss merely waved a raised finger. ‘No. Not me. I’m no commander.’ He pointed to Dassem. ‘The lads and lasses will follow this one, though.’

The swordsman, pale for a Dal Hon, shook his head. ‘No. I am a swordsman. Not a general. I do not have the training.’

Her voice tight with impatience, Surly observed, ‘No one here has the training or the experience.’

Into the following silence Urko leaned forward and said, ‘I nominate Cartheron.’

Cartheron Crust, Nedurian knew, was currently at sea, coordinating the raiding.

Surly pursed her lips, considering.

‘I second the proposal,’ Tocaras quickly put in.

Surly nodded, and banged her glass to the table. ‘Done. Cartheron is military commander.’

‘And his title?’ Urko asked, rubbing his hands together. ‘Lord High Commander of All Armies?’

Tocaras threw his hands out. ‘What armies?’

Urko appeared affronted. ‘Well – mine’s the Seventh.’

Surly pinched her brows again. ‘You can’t call your command the Seventh Army, Urko. We only have one.’

The huge fellow leaned back, crossing his thick arms. ‘Seven is my lucky number – so my command is the Seventh.’

Surly exchanged a significant look with Choss and Tocaras then waved her acceptance. ‘Fine. As you like.’

It occurred to Nedurian that Cartheron wasn’t here – and only Cartheron had any influence over his gigantic brother.

Surly looked to the veteran Dujek. ‘You have a command,’ she told him.

Dujek rubbed a hand over his thinning hair then pointed to Jack next to him. ‘This one has the officer training …’

Surly shook her head. ‘Cartheron has expressed his confidence in you. So, for now you’re in command.’

Dujek nodded. ‘My thanks … ah, what do I call you, if I may ask?’

The woman appeared genuinely surprised by the question. She waved it aside. ‘I prefer to work behind the scenes.’

‘She’s in charge of intelligence,’ Tocaras put in. ‘In command of the – what do they call themselves again?’

‘The Claws,’ Surly supplied, in a subdued voice.

‘Right. The Claws.’

‘So,’ Urko pressed. ‘Is there a title there?’

Surly eyed him for a long time without saying anything, until the big fellow cleared his throat and shrugged. ‘Just asking. But what about Cartheron? Could we make him, like, the Munificent and Splendid Lord High Inspector General? Because he’d really want that, I’m sure.’

Leaning forward, Nedurian dared to offer, tentatively, ‘In the Talian hegemony, the title would have been Sword of the Emperor.’

Surly studied him, and he felt himself shrinking under her evaluating gaze. ‘How go things with the battle mages?’ she asked.

Nedurian coughed to clear his throat. ‘Well. We now have as many middling talents, hedge-wizards, wind-callers and such as we want to assign to the ranks.’ He didn’t supply that this only happened after Agayla gave her tacit approval to his recruiting efforts.

‘Infallible Highest Lord of All High?’ Urko suggested.

Surly’s hard gaze swivelled back to the giant Crust brother. ‘We have Claws,’ she said meditatively. ‘Why not Fists? Fists for commanders rather than Swords. That would make Cartheron High Fist.’

Urko rubbed a paw across his chin, thinking, then he shrugged. ‘Not nearly as embarrassing as I’d hoped, but it’ll do.’

‘And the sea-lord?’ Choss asked.

‘I will ask Admiral Nok,’ Surly said. ‘I believe he will accept.’

Nedurian blew out a breath. Admiral Nok! Last great Napan sea commander. The man had scuttled his vessel in defiance of Tarel’s taking the throne and been in hiding all this time. Through her corps of messengers and intelligence agents – these Claws – Surly must be in communication with him.

The lean woman nodded at that, as if in conclusion. ‘That about covers it, I believe. Unless anyone has any other issues to raise?’ No one spoke. ‘Very good. Then this meeting is adjourned. I suggest we all have work to do.’ And she pushed back her chair, rising.

Everyone rose with her, bowing.

The Napans went their separate ways, but Dujek, together with his young aide Jack, lingered behind with Tayschrenn and Nedurian. The Kartoolian mage eyed Nedurian speculatively, then said, ‘You are a veteran of the military – are you as appalled by all this as I expect you must be?’

Nedurian blew out a breath, surprised by such frankness. In truth, he had been shocked by the chaos and disorganization. But in another way he was reassured, as he saw no blind dumb blowhard aristocrat striving to take control of things, as had been a problem in the later Talian hegemony. Surly was obviously brutally efficient, while Kellanved’s partner, this assassin Dancer, also struck him as no fool.

‘Everyone has to start somewhere,’ he offered diplomatically.

The High Mage’s answering smile was one of amusement – guarded amusement. ‘Indeed.’

‘And what about you?’ Dujek asked Nedurian. ‘No command?’

He waved a hand, demurring. ‘I’ve had my fill of that, thank you. I’ll help get things rolling, then I’ll take a position in some regiment or company.’

‘In my command, I hope,’ Dujek said, slapping his shoulder.

They exited the hall, Nedurian heading for Rampart Way, and the long walk down into town. He reflected that all this concern about military command would have been funny if it weren’t so pressing and dire – as Malaz Island had no military to speak of.

Oh, there were fighting men and women aplenty; an entire isle of them. But an army? No, that was something else entirely, as he knew full well, having seen the most organized and regimented example of recent times close up.

His duty, then, was to do everything he could to help these fledgling soldiers have a fair chance on the field.

Footsteps behind brought him up short and he turned to see the Dal Hon swordsman Dassem. He nodded a greeting, which the wiry youth returned sombrely, as was his manner.

For a time they walked together in silence. Nedurian enjoyed the cool wind and the view over the harbour. Most vessels, he noted, were still out on raids. Then he looked at the swordsman. ‘Tayschrenn asked me if I was dismayed after what we witnessed in there. What of you? Any second thoughts?’

The youth shrugged his enviably wide shoulders. ‘Hood directed my footsteps here. That is enough for me. As for the personal foibles or inadequacies of any of these people, all that is irrelevant. I am reminded of a story I heard of a duellist in Unta who was considered very boring and dull in his style. He possessed no flair or inspiration – no, how do you say, panache. Everyone mocked him and looked down upon him for it. Yet in bout after bout he emerged victorious. He simply ground down his opponents.’

Nedurian nodded expectantly. ‘And so …?’

Dassem waved a hand. ‘And so, what appears as a weakness may in fact prove a strength. No one can know until contact with one’s opponent is made.’

Nedurian allowed himself a half-smile, and continued down the stone steps. ‘Well … to my mind a good dose of preparation wouldn’t hurt.’

‘Our thinking,’ murmured Dassem, ‘runs on similar lines, I believe.’

Nedurian scratched the scar down his cheek; it always itched in the cold. ‘Oh?’

The dark youth eyed him sidelong. ‘Tell me of the famous Talian military. What in your opinion worked, and what did not?’

* * *

The crossing to the Isle of the Blessed was a boggy stretch of tidal mudflats exposed a few hours a day at each low tide. Heboric waited patiently for the tide to go out, along with a shabby gathering of sick and crippled who sat wrapped in their tattered remnants of clothes on the sands. Some rocked themselves in silent misery, others jabbered insanely to no one. For a time the more hale of them had pawed at Heboric, begging for food or coin, but seeing how the man merely brushed aside their reaching hands, all diseased and rotting, some flowing with pus, the beggars turned away in disgust – no coin could be cadged from this one, even if he bore the mark of a priest of Fener.

Once the waters of the bay became low enough, the day’s gathering of penitents pushed out into the waves. The passage was difficult; some became trapped in the heavy clinging mud. These, the most infirm, called out to their fellows for aid but the passing file, all struggling through the muck, ignored them.

Save for Heboric, who slogged over to the nearest and heaved him free. The man promptly pulled a rusted blade from his clay-smeared rags, demanding, ‘All your coin, fool!’

Heboric gestured down his naked torso to his sodden loincloth. ‘I wear only this wrap, friend – but you are free to search it if you wish.’

The hunched pilgrim flinched from him and floundered away, snarling, ‘What are you? Some kind of freak?’

Heboric watched him go, amusement crooking his mouth.

‘The sick are ever selfish,’ another voice called from farther away, and Heboric turned. A slim hooded form, wrapped in tattered lengths of dirty rags, stood in the waves some distance off.

‘Not all,’ Heboric answered.

This one tilted his, or her, head in acquiescence. ‘True. But none of those will you find on the Isle of the Blessed.

Heboric glanced to the island rising just a few leagues distant. The other struggled onwards to join him. ‘And what of you?’ he asked the stranger.

‘I am as selfish as any other,’ the figure answered, closer now, and from her voice Heboric knew her for a woman. ‘Those,’ she added, ‘who claim not to be selfish are usually lying.’

Heboric nodded his agreement. ‘True. Those who find it necessary to make the claim.’

‘And you?’ the woman rejoined.

Grinning his frog-like lopsided grin, Heboric gestured to his naked form. ‘As you see, I have spent a lifetime acquiring enormous wealth.’

She looked him up and down. ‘Well, I see that you are at least rich in faith. What errand brings a priest of Fener to Poliel’s house?’

Heboric lost his grin and slogged onward, his pace slow to accommodate the woman at his side. ‘This plague. It is unlike our sister of sickness. Its touch seems … different. I would ask about that, and other things.’

‘And you expect answers?’

He shook his head, chuckling. ‘Do I look that much a fool? No, I can only ask. That is all we mortals can do – make the effort. Try. The rest is in the hands of the gods.’ He extended a hand to her. ‘And you?’

She lifted her rag-wrapped shoulders. ‘The truth is the island is my home. It is one of the few places I am welcome.’

Heboric nodded at that. Where else might the afflicted go? ‘Yet you would leave it?’

‘I am not yet ready to let go of the world.’

‘I am told none leave the Isle of the Blessed.’

The woman cocked her wrapped head. Only her eyes peered through, brown and large, and Heboric found them very attractive eyes indeed. ‘Well,’ she allowed, ‘that is at least poetic.’

He smiled. ‘Yet isn’t it dangerous for you? I mean …’ Heboric realized he was treading into uncomfortable ground. ‘That is, some people would fear you as a carrier …’

She nodded. ‘Some do throw rocks and garbage to drive me away. Some have attacked me with staffs and rods.’ She shrugged again, conveying equanimity. ‘But they are not the worst. The worst are those who ask how much for sex.’

Heboric coughed into a fist, quite taken aback. ‘Sex? Really? I mean … not that you are no longer … that is …’

She rescued him from his floundering, saying, ‘It is believed in some circles that sex with an afflicted will make the partner immune.’

Heboric nodded his understanding. ‘Ah … I see. But that is absurd.’

‘Yes. Just like the other belief that sex with a virgin will cure various illnesses, or make the partner younger.’

‘That I’ve heard of,’ Heboric commented, shaking his head.

They had reached the island and climbed a shore of black gravel. Here stood ramshackle huts of sea-wrack and hides. A few small cookfires smouldered about. The inhabitants of the huts scrambled away as they approached, limping, some crawling on no more than stumps. Heboric wondered if they were fleeing in shame.

‘Why do they hide?’ he asked his companion.

‘They are frightened of you,’ she answered. ‘You are obviously strong and healthy. They fear you are here to take from them what little they have.’ She gestured ahead with a hand that may have been wrapped in dirty linen but was quite obviously nothing more than a knot of bone. ‘This way to the house of Poliel.’

They climbed a path of beaten dirt. Crude shrines and altars lined the way, no more than piled stones draped in ragged scarves or covered in wax from countless candles. One larger shrine, tall and humped, like a hood, was obviously dedicated to the god of death. Heboric gestured to it, surprised. ‘Hood?’

‘The Grey One is no stranger to this isle,’ she said, passing on.

They came to a narrow gorge between two tall cliffs pocketed by caves. Again the inhabitants scurried away before them, all bent and limping, some on crude crutches of sticks. It was as if, Heboric mused, he carried the plague or some such thing.

‘This is not the reception I was expecting,’ he told the woman.

‘We are not yet at the house. Come.’ She urged him onwards.

Uneasy, but unable to pin down his suspicions, he followed, warily. The path led to a wide valley, cultivated with fields. Workers, perhaps the more healthy of the isle’s inhabitants, could be seen hoeing and scraping the stony soil. Beyond rose a structure of dressed bluish native stone – the Temple of Poliel, goddess of pestilence and illness.

The woman calmly walked on and Heboric was beginning to suspect that he had fallen in with one of the priestesses of the house. ‘I will be welcome?’ he asked. ‘I do not wish to trespass.’

‘All visitors to this isle are welcome. You may make your petition before the altar.’

He bowed to the woman. ‘Thank you. You have some authority here, I take it?’

The woman paused as if surprised. Her liquid brown eyes regarded him with humour. ‘Some.’ She urged him on with the hand that was no more than a stump.

The entry to the Temple of Poliel possessed no door; it stood as an open archway of stone. Shabby ragged figures lined each wall, every one of them hardly more than bundles of sticks. Outstretched arms ending in bone or rotting pus-filmed flesh beseeched Heboric. He could not help but cringe from them as he and his escort passed up the hall between.

Another, inner archway opened on to a broad central courtyard paved in stone. Across its expanse rose the central sanctum, tall and domed, the dwelling of Poliel herself. The woman paused in the archway, gesturing ahead. ‘Here the children of Poliel once congregated, having sworn pilgrimage to her presence. Now it stands empty, awaiting the devoted.’

Sighing, she turned to continue on and Heboric followed. ‘Passage to the isle is difficult,’ he suggested.

‘No more so now than before.’

Again, a third entranceway stood as an open undoored arch. A pillared hall, thick with hanging layers of incense, lay before them. Here, at least, sat a crowd of worshippers. And within the enclosed space, despite the cloying scented incense, the rank stink of rotting flesh and voided fluids was enough to make Heboric pause and determinedly force down the rising gorge of his stomach.

The woman at his side, however, walked forward without pause. She stepped over huddled shapes, either dead or near to it; Heboric could not tell as he followed her. They approached the altar and its shape both fascinated and repelled him, for it was carved in a human form, slightly larger than life, reclining, yet contorted in agony – presumably the agony of a deathly illness.

He turned to ask what next of the presumed priestess, but she walked on, climbed the dais, settled herself languidly upon the starvation-hollowed stomach of the humanoid altar, set chin on stump, and silently regarded him. Amusement now played openly upon her large brown eyes.

Quite chagrined, Heboric fell to one knee, then, thinking better of that, went even further to lie flat upon his stomach, offering full obeisance despite the sticky layer of dried blood and other bodily evacuations upon the stones.

‘And what,’ asked the goddess, ‘can Poliel do for Heboric, chosen of Fener?’

He slowly rose, but kept his gaze downcast. ‘O goddess, I believe I have been quite frank. You know what I wish.’

‘Indeed you have been quite frank. And so too shall I be. You are correct in surmising that this most recent affliction shares no origins with me.’

‘Then … who? If I may ask.’

‘Another.’

‘Another,’ he repeated. ‘I … see. Why? I mean, who would dare?’

‘Why? A demonstration, no doubt.’

‘A demonstration. I see. To what end – if I dare ask.’

‘To what end? Why, power, of course.’

‘Power. And your answer to this?’

‘I am … considering.’

A wave of dizziness took Heboric then, and he pressed a hand to his brow, finding it hot and sweaty. He suddenly felt quite poorly. ‘Apologies, m’lady,’ he stammered, ‘but I feel … unwell.’

The goddess eased out of the throne and came down to him. ‘You have been too long in my presence.’ She brushed one rotted remnant of a hand across his forehead and pain lanced him there. He weaved upon his feet, hardly able to stand.

‘You have been marked for a great fate, Heboric,’ she murmured. ‘And I admit I was curious to meet you. The next step in that fate may be found in Li Heng. Try to remember that, Heboric. Heng. For if you recall anything else of this audience, you will dismiss it as a fever dream.

‘Now,’ she breathed, ‘you must go.’ She touched the tip of one diseased finger to his forehead and an explosion of agony blasted him into darkness.

He awoke lying in the wash of waves. He pushed himself up on one arm and promptly vomited up the thin contents of his knotted stomach. Groaning and wiping his mouth, he peered about, groggy.

He was on the mainland shore of the shallow crossing to the Isle of the Blessed. He must have passed out when some sort of sickness took him. He pressed a hand to his fever-hot brow. What a fool he’d been, thinking of attempting that pestilential isle! Who knew what contagion or disease surrounded it? Obviously, something of its fetid air had already infected him before he’d even managed the crossing.

A timely lesson, he decided. His arrogance may yet be the undoing of him.

The hermit ascetics in the hills south of Li Heng – that was where he should go. They had dedicated their lives to religious study. If he were to find any answers, it would be there – not here on this island of the wretched. Merely being ill didn’t make you holy!

He strove to rise to his feet, paused, then clutched his stomach as his bowels exploded in a hot wet gush. He sank back into the frigid water, whimpering.

* * *

Orjin Samarr was at his usual post on the south catwalk peering gloomily over the pointed logs of the fire-treated palisade wall when a messenger came scrambling up the ladder, followed by his escort, Terath.

The squat hill-man touched his brow, bowing his head. ‘M’lord, forward scouts have them sighted. Their van is entering the pass.’

Orjin rubbed his unshaven cheeks. ‘About bloody time.’ He squinted up to the high slopes. ‘Four days? Who in Hood’s name is in charge over there?’ He nodded to the messenger. ‘That’s captain, by the way. My regards to Prevost Jeral. Remember – the baggage train! Hit the train.’

The hill-man touched his brow once more. ‘Yes, captain, m’lord,’ then he scrambled off.

Orjin eyed Terath dubiously. ‘What are they up to?’

The Untan duellist drew off her helmet and ran a hand through her brush-cut sweaty hair. Orjin thought her very handsome but for her habitual expression of sour disapproval of everything before her. ‘Taking their time,’ she judged.

‘Damned foolish decision.’

‘In your view,’ she answered; she was second in command, officer-trained, and saw it as her duty to test her commander’s views. ‘They think these forces beaten already. Why rush?’

He shrugged. ‘Gives the enemy time to organize.’

‘You don’t understand, Orjin. They don’t consider the Purge military a real threat.’

He regarded the south once more. ‘Well,’ he mused, ‘I’m not of Purge.’

‘That’s for sure. You’re from some rotten little fishing village, right?’

‘I wouldn’t even call it a village.’ He gestured her to her post. ‘Looks like a dusk attack. Get everyone ready.’

The Untan duellist saluted smartly, hand to chest. ‘Aye aye.’ Watching her go, Orjin wondered once again what might have taken her from Unta; clearly she missed the city, her friends and family. Her silences and obvious discomfort when talk among Orjin’s troop came to love interests – who was currently chasing or pining for whom – made him suspect that an unhappy romance was involved in her quitting the city.

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a bad love affair had driven someone to run away and join the military, mercenary company or not.

As for himself, well, it was hard growing up in a hamlet you could throw a fish across. Especially for anyone with a dollop of wanderlust. It hadn’t taken him long to sail across to the mainland and dive into the only thing he was ever good at – fighting.

Jeral’s hill-folk were accurate in their estimate; soon after they disappeared the first of the Quon Talian mounted scouts appeared, investigating the valley. Orjin made no secret about his occupation of the Two-River Fort. His troops on the walls watched the Quon Talians ride by on their way further down-valley.

Next came the foremost elements of the force’s van: light cavalry followed by loose parties of skirmishers and light infantry.

The infantry surrounded the fort, just outside bowshot, and squatted down to wait. Orjin knew what they were waiting for – orders from higher up.

He saw the main force long before he heard it; three dark columns appeared high in the pass to come crawling down – the famed Talian medium and heavy infantry. Cavalry flanked the columns, kicking up clouds of thin snow that rose like banners in the winds.

Orjin’s worried gaze climbed to the bare rocky slopes overlooking the valley but saw no sign of anyone; nor was there any alarm or excursion from the invading force betraying detection of Jeral’s troops.

He did a quick calculation of numbers and came up with close to thirty thousand. His brows rose: damn, they meant it this time. Troops enough to quell and control Purge. This was no quick punitive excursion. It looked as though the Quon Talians were coming to stay.

No wonder it had taken four days to pull together.

Still – not the way he’d have done it.

While Orjin and his troops watched from the palisades, more and more Quon Talians settled in to surround them. As the medium infantry arrived, the lights quit to continue on down the valley.

All this took most of the day. And still not one bow had been shot in anger; the investiture was handled in a very professional manner. Eventually, very late in the afternoon, a mounted delegation of ten approached the closed front gates. Here Orjin met them on the wall, together with Terath and Arkady – the Wickan scowling ferociously, his hands tight on the antler grips of the curved long-knives sheathed across his chest.

Terath noticed Arkady’s fierce expression and murmured to him, ‘I see you have your war-face on.’

He answered from the side of his mouth, ‘There’s a damned lot of them.’

Once the ten were close enough, one of their number called out: ‘Hail, Fort Two-River!’

‘Hail, invaders,’ Orjin answered.

The spokesman was a lean older fellow, in a mail coat set with larger plates of iron at his chest and upper and lower arms. He undid the strap of his helmet and pushed it up his head until it sat high above his brow, then he started pulling at the fingers of his leather gloves. ‘To whom am I speaking?’ he called.

‘Someone who asks that you pack up your dog and pony act and go.’

That got a small smile. The fellow leaned forward from the cantle of his high saddle, gloves dangling in one hand. ‘Come, come. Don’t be coy. You are obviously no Purge or Nom officer. Who are you?’

‘Who in Hood’s name are you?’ Orjin called back.

The fellow nodded. ‘Fair enough. I am Commander Renquill of the Quon Talian Legion. And you?’

‘Orjin Samarr, in the queen of Purge’s service.’

The fellow ducked his head once more. ‘Ah. I have heard of you.’ He gestured about with his gloves, and, leaning forward even further, asked, ‘What in Burn’s mercy do you think you are doing here?’

‘I’m about to kick a lot of pissant Talians off Purge territory.’

Renquill peered about at his infantry circumvallating the fort. ‘I’m told you can’t have more than a few hundred in there,’ he called.

Orjin’s long grey hair blew about and he pulled a hand through it to drag it back. ‘More than enough to beat you arselickers.’

Again the thin smile. ‘I see your game.’ He sighed. ‘Very well. You’ve made your point. How much do you want? How much to go away?’

At that question, Terath, at Orjin’s side, snarled and jerked forward as if about to jump the wall, a hand going to one of her swords.

‘You lot packed up and headed back south would do it,’ he answered.

Renquill shook his head in regret. ‘Foolish.’ He turned to the officer next to him. ‘Keep them in there until the only thing left to eat is each other.’ The officer bowed his acceptance. Renquill pulled his gloves back on, calling up, ‘I’d like to stay and have you put down like the dog that you are, but I can’t have you holding us up, now can I?’

The party turned and cantered away.

Orjin yelled after them: ‘Who’s the damned dog slinking off now, hey!’ But the commander merely waved negligently over his shoulder, apparently big enough to ignore Orjin’s proddings. He muttered to Terath, ‘Well, that didn’t work. I guess we’ll have to see what Jeral can cook up.’

‘If she’s still out there,’ she commented darkly.

‘She’s still sending messengers. They’re even sweeping together broken elements of the Purge army up there.’

As the hours passed, the Quon Talian main force continued its march northwards, filing by the fort. Orjin’s lieutenant, Arkady, made a circuit of the walls and reported back, ‘I make it some seven hundred surrounding us.’ He glowered, his long moustaches fairly bristling. ‘That’s a damned insult.’

Orjin raised a placating hand. ‘It’s all right. They don’t know who they’re dealing with – yet.’

All they could do now was wait. For him this was the hardest part of any engagement. Where he had control he was at ease; where he had no control he was unbearable. And so he stood the wall as the hours passed, thinking, reviewing his choices. What more could he have done? Every twelve hours he’d sent messengers northward to the Purge commanders, informing them of his preparations – and the enemy’s deployment. Now, he had only to wait. Would they respond and send a contending force? Or had they already pulled back to Purage, reconciled to a siege? For Orjin, these unknowns were more uncomfortable than a dose of the clap.

Though he burned to know what was going on high in the pass, he kept a northward post, watching the Quon Talian forces marching onward; it wouldn’t do for the Talians to wonder why everyone in the fort was eyeing the south with such anticipation.

Towards sundown word came from Terath that the baggage train was now descending the pass. He clenched the logs before him, rocking, forcing himself to remain. Now came the gamble. Would Jeral take this opportunity to hit the invader? That at least was his reading of her. She’d struck him as a fighter, not a runner.

After an agonizing wait in which he absolutely decided that she’d betrayed him, then flipped to grant her more time, then changed his mind again a dozen times over, gasps of awe – and a good deal of relief – sounded from his troops scanning the south. He turned, squinting into the purpling distance. Everyone was shouting now, and pointing high to the pass far above, even the surrounding Talian forces.

It all unfurled in breathtaking silence at first. Boiling clouds of snow descending not one but both slopes of the pass simultaneously, closing in on the ant-like file of the army baggage train like the twin arms of a vengeful god. Orjin was staggered by the scale of it; he’d expected a few falling rocks and logs, not this complete sweeping of the high slopes. It occurred to him that the witches and shamans of the hill-folk must have thrown their weight behind it.

Then the thunder of the avalanches hit his chest, momentarily drowning out the appalled cries of the surrounding Talians and the cheers of his troops. Terath appeared at his side, flushed and panting from running across the enclosure. ‘What now?’ she bellowed.

A massive storm of snow now utterly obscured the pass. The Quon Talian train – all the supplies, the support, the wagons with their teams of oxen, horses and donkeys gathered for the coming campaign – must have been obliterated. The catwalk of the log palisade juddered and shook beneath him; the very wall rocked as in an earthquake.

He peered round at the halted ranks of the invaders, the thousands upon thousands of backward-staring infantry, no doubt enraged by the attack, and nodded to his lieutenant.

‘This is a far greater blow than I’d hoped for. I’m thinking we’re about to be overrun. Time to head for the hills.’

She jerked a nod and ran to spread the order. Orjin waved his troops off the north wall and pointed to the east. They’d scale over and make a run to join Jeral.

Opposition was determined but thin. Orjin’s command broke through the encirclement and charged on. The Quon Talians were slow to react; they seemed completely stunned by the scale of the catastrophe. By the time mounted skirmishers were sent after them they’d reached a wooded slope and then it was too late. From there on they loped upwards, always searching out higher ground. When it became too dangerous to continue climbing in the dark Orjin ordered a halt.

They hid among tall boulders, their breath pluming in the cold night air. The most canny veterans among them always carried travelling blankets and these they wrapped about their shoulders, keeping watch through the night.

No pursuit appeared chasing after them; no files of torch-carrying infantry poking among the rocks. The lights they could see bobbed up and down the pass: this commander fellow, Renquill, was rightly concentrating on searching through the wreckage choking the pass, salvaging what troops and equipment he could.

Orjin leaned up against a great granite boulder, unlit kaolin pipe between his teeth, his hair blowing about his face. He watched the torches and lanterns moving like tiny fireflies.

Yune came to his side. He nodded to the high slopes. ‘The pass is well nigh unusable now. If we cross over we’ll be stuck on the wrong side for the winter.’

‘A small force could make it back.’

The Dal Hon elder pursed his wrinkled lips. ‘Perhaps.’

‘And there’s always the coast.’

The shaman gave a snort. ‘Too many days.’ Orjin nodded his agreement.

‘What are you planning?’ Arkady asked, his dark gaze narrowing suspiciously.

Orjin studied his pipe. ‘We’ll see on the morrow.’

The Wickan bared his teeth in a savage grin to show that, knowing his commander, whatever it might be it would no doubt involve a fight.

With the dawn a pink light came crawling down the westward slopes and Orjin awoke where he sat leaning up against a rock. A rime of frost glittered on his vambraces and gauntlets and he groaned, straightening his arms and legs. He rubbed and thumped his chest to warm up.

Once everyone was kicked awake they headed up-slope once more. They kept to the thinning woods, seeking what cover they could. Orjin was worried about Quon Talian archers, but no sudden salvo came rattling down among them from the sky.

The valley wall steepened and the pine gave way to brush, lichen, and tufts of sharp grasses. They scrambled up on all fours now, seeking the crest of the wall. The wind was much stronger here, cutting through Orjin’s cloak, his cuirass of laminated iron bands, and even the quilted and padded hauberk of layered linen and cotton wadding beneath. He shuddered at the biting cold, so high and exposed. From this elevation the Talian troops still digging among the avalanche now appeared to be the ants.

A light flashed in the corner of his vision and he peered higher. There, among the uppermost teeth of the ridgeline, a light blinked – sunlight reflected to them. Terath now pointed, and he nodded. Hill-folk scouts arrived shortly thereafter and guided them to Jeral’s position high above.

Here, amid bare granite and a howling wind, they met. Orjin gave the Nom aristocrat a hug. ‘Well done.’

She shrugged. ‘It was your plan.’

He pulled his long wind-whipped hair from his face. ‘How many have you cobbled together?’

She gave a mischievous grin. ‘Near four thousand survivors of the battle have come to us.’ He grunted, impressed; more than he’d dared hope for. ‘Now we hit them from above, don’t we,’ she said, her eager grin widening.

He shook his head. ‘No.’

The grin faltered and she frowned, confused. ‘No? Why ever not? They’re in disorder, disheartened. They may even break.’

He continued shaking his head. ‘No. We may win that one battle. Maybe even the next. But there’re too many. We can’t beat that army.’

The frown became a scowl of disapproval. ‘I’m not scurrying back to Purage.’

It was Orjin’s turn to grin, chidingly. ‘You were planning to four days ago.’

She almost blushed, looking away. ‘That was … before.’

He raised a hand, waving aside his remark. ‘Don’t worry. We won’t be withdrawing.’

‘Then what?’

In answer, he peered down the long broad slopes of the south side of the pass to the misted green farmlands, fields, and hills below that led onward to Quon Talian lands. ‘They’ve invaded Purge territory, prevost, so I intend to return the favour. We will march south, and burn and loot and destroy until their barons and burghers howl for the return of their army to drive us out.’ He shifted his gaze to her. ‘What say you, Prevost Jeral?’

The Purge officer’s eyes had grown huge. ‘Invade Quon Talian lands with only four thousand?’

Orjin nodded. ‘We’ll keep moving, burning everything before us until they squeal for Renquill to come chase us down.’

The woman’s mischievous grin slowly climbed anew and she took hold of her thick braids, one in each hand. ‘I’m with you, Captain Samarr.’