Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 19

The next night Kellanved and Dancer walked the main marshalling grounds of the Napan palace cum garrison in Dariyal. Kellanved made a vague waving motion with his hands. ‘Where are all the troops?’

‘I understand all the recruits have been sent to Malaz for training under Dassem,’ Dancer replied.

‘Ah. Of course. Well – have ships sent to take them to Cawn with us. Now, this very night.’

Dancer frowned. ‘Raw recruits? Is that wise?’

The mage waved again, dismissively. ‘The Cawn merchants will have no fight left in them, I assure you.’

Dancer had to admit that after a visitation from the Hounds, this would probably be quite true. ‘Very well.’ He raised a hand to beckon a courier to him. It occurred to him that half these messengers attending Kellanved were probably Surly’s Claws in disguise, but this did not worry him overmuch as he knew he had Talons working among her own that even she knew nothing of.

‘How many?’ he asked.

‘All,’ Kellanved answered. ‘Every single soldier available.’

Dancer paused. ‘Really? I’m sure that would be thousands.’ The mage nodded, apparently unconcerned. Troubled, Dancer pressed the issue. ‘Why so many? As you say, Cawn should be prostrate. A garrison shouldn’t even be necessary.’ He knew his friend well, and the furtive look the falsely aged fellow got in his eyes made him suspicious. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

Kellanved twisted his fingers together and hummed and hawed, until finally admitting, after a deep breath, ‘I want Cawn cowed because I want the Idryn open.’

‘The Idryn? Why would you … oh, no …’

‘It’s time,’ the mage asserted, nodding.

They had been pacing, but now Dancer stepped before him to face him directly. ‘You don’t mean to head back there, do you?’

Kellanved raised his chin, defiant. ‘It’s time. They have it coming.’

A courier arrived and Dancer bit his lip against speaking in front of the woman. Kellanved gestured her close. ‘Order all available vessels to Malaz to pick up all troops in training there for transport to Cawn. Dancer and I shall accompany them. We leave at dawn.’

The woman bowed and raced off.

Dancer waited until they were alone once more. ‘They do not have anything coming – especially from us. They broke the back of the strongest army on the continent. This is foolish, Kellanved. Truly foolish.’

The mage raised his hands, his walking stick in one. ‘Do not worry, my friend. All is in hand. We have an answer for the Five now. Myself, Tayschrenn, Nightchill, and the rest. We are a match for them. All that remains are the walls. It’s the walls that defeat their enemies, not their wretched troops. The walls. And I have an answer for that now as well …’

Dancer looked to the night sky. ‘Oh, so you have some army that can ignore the strongest walls in Quon Tali? What? You think they’re just going to—’

He froze in mid-step and faced Kellanved, who waggled his greying bushy brows. ‘Oh no …’

Kellanved raised his walking stick in emphasis. ‘Oh yes, my friend.’

Dancer shook his head. ‘No. Don’t do this. I mean it. Don’t.’ Peering right and left to make certain they were alone, he leaned close to hiss through clenched teeth, ‘Remember Jadeen!’

Kellanved disparaged that with a wave. ‘As I said – do not worry yourself, my friend. All is in hand. I have a plan!’

Dancer wanted to groan, but the little mage ambled off, humming to himself and tapping his walking stick. Why was it that every time the fellow said that he was less and less reassured?

*

In the midst of the preparations for departure Urko came stomping off the gangway of the Sapphire to face Kellanved. ‘What’s this about a raid?’ the huge fellow demanded.

The mage nodded to him. ‘Indeed. Cawn. But first we leave with the morning tide for Malaz to pick up troops.’

Urko snapped his fingers. ‘Right! Surly wouldn’t let me go to Vor, but we’re all refitted now. I can meet you at the Bay of Cawn.’

Kellanved nodded indulgently. ‘Very well. Two days hence. The Bay of Cawn.’

‘I’m short of captains I can trust – can I dragoon my brother?’

Kellanved waved him off. ‘Yes, yes. Whatever you think appropriate.’

The huge fellow tramped down the gangplank, chortling to himself.

Dancer watched him go, then turned to Kellanved. ‘We’re leaving Surly shorthanded.’

‘No we’re not,’ the mage answered, and he pointed his walking stick up to the shrouds. Dancer looked up to see a female sailor come descending the ratlines, handhold over handhold, to thump down barefoot to the deck to face them, hands clasped at her back.

Surly. She eyed them the way Dancer’s old teacher used to eye him when he’d been careless. ‘You’re up to something,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

Kellanved laughed, a touch nervously. ‘Why, we’re taking possession of Cawn, of course!’

She shook her head. ‘Cawn’s a smokescreen. What are you really after?’

The mage pressed his steepled hands to his lips and nodded. ‘Very well. Divide and conquer, Surly. I intend to take control of the centre of the continent. I will isolate east from west. They will be divided, unable to coordinate against us. Divide and conquer.’

The woman let out a long taut breath – clearly she’d been dreading, or anticipating, this moment for some time. She nodded to herself. ‘I see … and if you fail I will still hold Nap. Yes?’

Kellanved waved his accord. ‘Oh, of course! Nap shall always be yours. Just as Malaz shall be mine.’

Surly snorted to show what she thought of Malaz, but nodded her agreement. ‘Very well.’

Dancer eased out his own breath and loosened his shoulders. That was the hard part. Now, we shall see. This is it. The throw for the mainland. At least it wouldn’t be him summoning their eldritch friends.

*

The task force sailed for Malaz. There they picked up all the recruits and trainee marines, together with further Malazan vessels, and sailed immediately for the Bay of Cawn. On board the Sapphire, Dancer was surprised to find that damned stuffed-shirt cultist Dassem Ultor himself present.

He looked the young man up and down, resenting, only slightly, those wind-blown curly black locks. ‘What’re you doing here?’

‘You’ve come for my soldiers,’ the fellow asserted. ‘You’ll not have them without me.’

Dancer looked him up and down again, than glanced to the surrounding lads and lasses crowding the deck, all of whom had eyes only for Dassem, as if hanging on his every whim, and he had to shrug his shoulders. ‘Fine. It doesn’t matter. We doubt there’ll be any resistance.’

‘None the less, I’ll not have the life of one man or woman in my care thrown away on some wild scheme of your partner.’

Dancer fought the urge to slap the fellow down. ‘As I said … we don’t anticipate any major resistance.’

‘Let us hope so,’ the swordsman answered, his hand going to the grip of his weapon.

Dancer almost – but not quite – rolled his eyes to the sky.

In the Bay of Cawn they rendezvoused with further vessels from Nap, including those under the command of the brothers Urko and Cartheron Crust. Then they swung inland for the harbour of Cawn itself. It was night when they arrived – they were twelve hours late out of Malaz – and Dancer knocked on the main cabin door of the Sapphire and let himself in. He found Kellanved behind a desk, feet up, snoring.

He resisted smacking the fellow, settling instead for noisily slamming down a chair and sitting. The mage gasped, his feet falling, and he blinked about. ‘Yes? What?’

‘Is it done?’ Dancer asked.

‘Is what done?’

‘The Hounds! Did you loose them?’

The mage nodded his greying wizened head. ‘Oh yes, last night.’

Dancer rubbed his neck, almost wincing. Gods. Just like that. He shook his head. ‘So. They should be pretty damned cooperative.’

‘I should think so.’

Dancer shifted uncomfortably in the chair. ‘I have to say, I don’t understand. Why Cawn? Why now? The Hounds are a devastating weapon …’

The mage nodded, sat back and steepled his fingers before his chin – a gesture Dancer loathed as too self-aware and affected. ‘I see. But tell me, what use a weapon none know? This way stories of the harrowing of Cawn will spread to serve as a warning to all. Also,’ and here the mock-elderly mage gave a wink, ‘you did tell me to throw them a bone …’

Dancer felt his shoulders slump in surrender. Yes. He did say that. ‘Still, Cawn?’

‘One could say the same of anywhere, my friend. It had to be. Better here than elsewhere.’

Dancer cocked a brow. Well, maybe that was true. After all, no one gave a tinker’s damn about Cawn.

At dawn they drew up to the broad wharf of Cawn’s harbour. Lines were thrown and the gangway was wrestled into place. A troop of soldiers debarked first, then Kellanved and Dancer came down. A contingent from the city awaited them. Peering up past them, Dancer noted smoke rising here and there across the city, as from disparate fires. Trash and broken carts and barrels littered the broad cobbled way as if some sort of demolition had been taking place.

The Cawn representatives themselves bore witness to the night’s terrifying ordeal; dishevelled, their eyes dark and sunken, hair a-tangle, they all kept bowing to Kellanved, hands clasped, eyes downcast.

Kellanved raised his hands in benediction. ‘You have had a taste of my ire, citizens. It would not be well to try me once more.’

The merchants threw themselves down to their knees, hands raised. ‘Never, lord. We are yours. How may we serve?’

Kellanved gave a deprecating wave. ‘Just one small thing only. Your boats. All your trading river craft. I have need of them.’

The merchants glanced amongst themselves, mystified. ‘River boats, my lord? Truly?’

Kellanved rapped his walking stick to the cobbles. ‘Indeed. Now. Immediately.’

The representatives of the merchant houses scrambled to their feet. ‘At once, m’lord!’ They backed away, bowing over and over. Dancer watched them go, half shaking his head. Doing so, he saw among the gathered Malazan and Napan troops the scowling figure of Surly, arms crossed, lips compressed, a frown between her eyes. He crossed to her.

‘River boats?’ she asked quizzically.

‘Transport.’

‘So we are headed upriver.’

‘Indeed.’

She snorted. ‘I’d half doubted it. What about the Five?’

‘We have Tayschrenn, Nightchill, and the rest. We can match them.’

Now she appeared more worried than vexed. ‘It’s been hundreds of years since a confrontation on a scale like this. Who knows what might happen?’

‘Don’t worry. It may not come to that.’

Now she appeared truly puzzled, and she opened her mouth to ask, but Dancer pulled away, motioning after Kellanved. ‘Have to go. Don’t worry. You’ll see.’

Over the course of the morning every Napan and Malazan trooper was transferred to a river craft of lesser draught. Joining Dancer and Kellanved on board the first vessel were Surly, Tayschrenn, Nightchill, Hairlock, Calot and Dassem. Thankfully, the Idryn was a shallow and wide river of sluggish current and so sails served to take them on the first leg of the journey.

Dancer sat back against the low railing while the vessel tacked its way north. Tayschrenn, who had been on board another ship out of Malaz, came to stand next to him. The lean mage drew a hand down a patchy beard he was growing, eyeing him on and off. Finally, Dancer sighed and motioned to him. ‘What?’

The High Mage nodded and cleared his throat. ‘So, you succeeded?’

Dancer didn’t have to ask what he meant. Peering at the passing low farmlands, he nodded. ‘Yes. After a fashion.’

‘And Jadeen?’

‘She … failed.’

The High Mage nodded again; clarification was unnecessary. Both understood what failure meant at these stakes. ‘And?’

‘And … what?’

The High Mage smoothed his thin beard. ‘Will we … see?’

Dancer drew his hands down his thighs, let out a long breath. ‘Let’s hope not.’

The mage’s brows rose in understanding. ‘Ah. I … see. Indeed. Let us hope not.’ And bowing, he took his leave.

Dancer returned to watching the flat farmland pass. So, Li Heng. The one city he wished never to see again. Still … once all this was over, perhaps he should go by to see how she was … But no. Better not to draw any more attention to her – he’d brought enough misery into her life as it was. In three days and nights – if the winds were with them – they should make Heng. As far as he was concerned this was it. Taking a no account pirate haven named Malaz was one thing. Overcoming an entrenched cabal on the mainland was another entirely. There would be no going back after this. Every hand would be raised against them. Quon and Tali would march. Perhaps even Unta, noble haughty Unta, would be forced to wade in.

It would all be different from this point onward – should they succeed.

And if they failed … well, both he and Tayschrenn understood what failure meant at this point. It was what they had put down as a stake – and this was the toss of the bones.

* * *

Two weeks into her captivity, the mage Gwynn came to see her in her room, or cell as she called it. She was of course blind at this point. The cell had a window, but only rarely did a bird ever come by and she refused to command any to remain, being a prisoner herself.

The mage sat in the one chair while she sat up on the rope and straw pallet of her bed. He sighed, and she imagined him knitting his fingers together across one knee as he regarded her. The few times she’d seen the mage he’d struck her as curiously old in his dress and mannerisms, as if he were in a hurry to age; or perhaps trying to compensate for his youth.

‘You have not been out for some days now,’ he said.

She ignored him.

‘Sister Lean is offering lessons on the dulcimer. Would you be interested?’

Ullara resolutely continued to stare in the direction she was fairly certain the window lay.

‘Or literacy, perhaps?’ Gwynn asked. ‘I am teaching reading and writing. It is a rare and valuable skill.’

She had to turn her head to him at that. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m blind, you fool.’

‘Ah. About that.’

She heard him rise, heard the door open. Then, instantly, miraculously, she could see. It took her a moment to get the perspective right, but it appeared the man was carrying a small wicker cage within which a tiny bird darted and fluttered. He offered it to her. ‘A chickadee. They overwinter here. A hardy bird. Surprisingly resourceful and resilient for its size – rather like you.’

She clutched the cage to her chest. ‘Thank you,’ she managed, her voice thick.

‘Not at all. Can you read and write?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Our family couldn’t afford the tutors.’

‘Ah. Well, then. Lessons?’ She nodded. ‘Very good. The commons, at noon.’ He clapped his hands to his thighs and rose. ‘Until then.’

Ullara proved an avid student; more than once Gwynn expressed his astonishment at the speed with which she advanced. Soon she was pursuing her own studies and her room became cluttered in scrolls and rare texts. She read with her bird, Tiny, on a hook just over her right shoulder.

A month and a half passed and more and more often, despite the diversion of worlds of written histories Ullara had never even guessed existed, she found herself peering up at the window for long hours. Her appetite faded and it seemed to her that she would never escape this new prison.

Late one night her door opened, waking her, and Gwynn entered holding a dimmed lantern. Ullara sat up, alarmed – twice before a stable-lad and then a hired hand had come pushing their way into her attic room in Heng – but back then she’d had her pets to protect her. Both times she’d had to rescue them.

This time the intruder sat in her one chair and regarded her. She pulled her blankets up her chest, blinking suspiciously. ‘Yes?’

‘They say some birds never take to captivity,’ the mage said. ‘They simply give up the will to live and fade away.’ He tilted his head, regarding her. ‘I fear we are tempting the same fate with you.’

‘Are you going to force me to eat?’

Gwynn just smiled. ‘I’ve decided on a much more radical solution.’ He got up and pulled something into the room. Ullara straightened on her pallet; it was a large backpack. He pulled out two long objects, tall boots of oiled hide. ‘Sheepskin lined,’ he told her. Then he tossed her a bundle of clothes. ‘Woollen trousers, sheepskin jacket and mittens. A fur hat.’

She immediately began dressing, while he averted his head.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked as she dressed.

‘I believe it was wrong of us to interfere with your journey and I am sending you on your way. In the pack you’ll find dried meat and grains. Flint and steel and tinder for fires. Tiny here will be your eyes.’

Once she’d finished dressing he rose and shouldered the pack. ‘This way.’

She lifted Tiny from his hook and followed.

He led her through narrow back passages, almost always downwards. The halls became ever more chill, until hoar frost glittered on them in the golden lantern-light. He stopped at a thick door bearing a layer of ice that he began hammering at with the pommel of his dagger.

After some work he was able to edge the door open a crack wide enough for her to slip out. Frigid winds blew into the corridor. Outside, the deep blue of starlight reflected from snow. He handed her the backpack. ‘Fare thee well, little bird.’

She didn’t know what to say, could only gasp, ‘Thank you, Gwynn.’

‘Please do not think too badly of us,’ he answered. ‘Our commander believed he was doing the right thing.’

‘I understand. Fare well. And thank you again.’

‘Thank me by surviving.’

She waved and turned away to the snowy slopes.

Gwynn watched her go until her path took her from his sight, then pushed closed the door. He returned upstairs, and here, in the common room, he found Seth waiting for him at a table next to the low embers in the stone fireplace. He sat at the table and poured himself some wine.

‘You’ve sent the girl to her death,’ Seth said. ‘I’ll have you drummed out of this company. You are no better than a murderer.’

‘We were wrong to interfere.’

‘So you say.’

‘So the cards said.’

Seth scowled. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘The Dragons Deck. I am no talent, formally. But I have some small ability. Every night this last month I have consulted the deck. And every time the connotations have been the same. I’ve tried all the arrangements and permutations I am familiar with. The Southern Arc. The Old and the New House. The Great Circle. Every time it has been clear. The girl has a Fate. A Wyrd. And we were wrong to come between her and it.’

‘Regardless. I will take this to Courian and have you dismissed.’

Gwynn shrugged. ‘Go ahead. Cal-Brinn will support me.’

Seth pushed himself from the table and stood. ‘Damned mages. Consider yourself under house arrest.’ He snapped his fingers and two guardsmen came forward. ‘Take this man to his room and hold him there.’

Pursing his lips, Gwynn slowly swirled his wine in the glass and finished it.

* * *

Orjin had the word spread through the ranks that come the dawn they would be making a break west. He knew he was taking a fearful chance in trusting the word of this agent and normally he would never have done so. Frankly, he would not have done so this time either, save for the support of his Dal Hon shaman Yune.

That night Arkady came to him with a band of hill tribe youths. ‘We will fight with you,’ their spokesman said.

Orjin shook a negative. ‘You shouldn’t. There’ll be retribution against your people.’

The youth laughed. ‘They sneer at us. Push us into poorer and poorer ground. Starve us. What worse can they do?’

‘I’m sorry,’ was all Orjin could say. ‘We will be honoured to have you with us.’

This lad inclined his head and the youths withdrew. Arkady remained, peering after them, and, to Orjin’s eyes, appearing troubled. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘It’s the same story among us Wickans,’ Arkady said. ‘And the Seti tribes. Encroachment. You coastal people with your city states creeping over the land.’

‘Surely you Wickans are too strong to be threatened.’

The scout shook his head. ‘It will happen. In time.’

Personally, Orjin didn’t think any force could subdue the Wickan tribes, but perhaps the same had once been said of the Seti. He lifted his shoulders. ‘We shall see.’

The Wickan lad gave him a wintry smile and followed the tribal youths.

This left the thorny matter of a rearguard. Orjin, of course, considered himself part of it. But so too would his lieutenants, and this was a problem as he needed them up front to bull through any strong resistance they might encounter.

So he ordered them all to take the van, while they, in turn, ignored his order.

Even as troops were filing out of camp he was still arguing the point. ‘I mean it,’ he told them. ‘Get going.’

‘You must take the van,’ Orhan answered.

‘No – I’ll take the rear, make certain everyone gets out.’

‘This time rearguard’s mine,’ Terath said. She motioned Orhan forward. ‘Guard him.’

The huge fellow nodded. ‘Very good. Orjin and I shall lead the charge.’

Orjin gave the Untan ex-officer a hard look. ‘You’re certain?’

She waved him off. ‘Get going or the fight’ll be over.’

He let out a hard breath, rolled his shoulders to loosen them. ‘Fine. This time. But next time it’s mine.’

‘Whatever. Go.’

He gave her a nod, then clapped Orhan on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’

As Orjin suspected, breaking through the encirclement was the easier job – for now. Of course the Quon Talian troops were expecting a desperate last-minute break for freedom, but not to the west. The west was their stronghold, firmly in their grip, and of course beyond lay the coast. An insurmountable barrier. A dead end.

And they would be right – should no relief arrive from these erstwhile new allies.

In a squall of blowing snow he and Orhan came crashing through an encampment of cookfires and lean-tos of fresh spruce branches over frames, scattering the Quon Talian infantry. While shock and surprise were on their side he paused here to wave his troops through.

A small victory, but the infantry would reorganize and then it would be a chase. The last unit through was Terath’s; she urged him up the path while arranging her troop behind cover.

‘We’ll hold them up for a while,’ she told him.

‘Unnecessary. Let’s go.’

She pushed him on. ‘Get back to the front, dammit!’

He pointed for emphasis. ‘Do not delay.’

She waved him onward. ‘Yes, yes.’

Orjin jogged off up the path.

The rest of that day was something of a game of hide and seek with the Talian infantry. Orjin’s hill tribe youths scouted ahead, chose routes, and sent them by roundabout paths, cliff-side walks, and down the rocky spillways of frigid mountain streams to avoid strongpoints and ambushes.

Come nightfall, once it was too dark to travel safely, the scouts had them hole up among the bare boulders of a gorge. All day Orjin had seen nothing of Terath and the rearguard, but with night the last units came jogging in, accompanied by Terath on a makeshift stretcher carried by two of her troops.

Orjin knelt next to her, took in the ghostly pale face, the blood soaking her wrapped torso. He clasped her bloodied, cold hand in his. ‘We’ll fix you up.’

She shook her head. ‘Lost too much blood.’

Prevost Jeral appeared and knelt next to the stretcher. ‘She shouldn’t be moved,’ she told Orjin.

Terath shook her head again, and weakly motioned Jeral closer. The prevost lowered her head, and her brows rose in astonishment as Terath planted her mouth on hers. ‘Always loved those … braids,’ Terath whispered, and her head fell back.

Jeral sat on her haunches, seemingly stunned. Orjin pulled his hand down the Untan swordswoman’s face to gently close her eyes.

The next morning they headed onward. Orjin ordered there would be no more rearguard actions; everyone was to keep moving, never engage, always pushing forward. He and Orhan kept moving up and down the lines, ready to act should any group get pinned.

So they wound their way up and down steep valleys, following circuitous routes known only to the locals, always a few bare steps ahead of pursuit, but always returning to angle westward.

Sunrise was a victory by Orjin’s count.

Two days, he kept repeating to himself as he staggered, exhausted, along narrow rocky paths. Just two.

Then, finally, one.