Stonewielder

CHAPTER VIII

At first Ussuwas merely irritated by the late night summons from the Envoy, Enesh-jer. Hands at his back, he tramped up the shallow hillside of the Ancy river valley. A servant preceded him, lantern raised, while two Moranth Black guards followed.

The bodyguard was a recent precaution Borun had forced upon him since the assassination attempt a week ago. Only his sudden recourse to the Warrens, a reflex action, had saved his life that night. The unleashing of power that came with that summons had surprised even him. The assassin had been pulverized instantly, organs burst, fluid gushing from all orifices. The man’s slim keen blade had only brushed the surface of his neck — no more than a shaving cut. Later, he and Borun kicked through the wreckage of his tent. Neither spoke; Ussu imagined both their thoughts ran to suspecting a Claw. How many, he wondered, had Greymane arrived with… the openly self-declared plus the covert, salted away to remain hidden, watchful.

And the Lady had not intervened. She’d allowed him this — teasing? — access to his Warren. Perhaps even abetted his effort. Never had such raw puissance come at his call. It was, to be frank… seductive.

Pausing, he turned to peer back over the valley. Numerous fires glittered here on this west side of the Ancy while on the eastern shore hardly a one lit the pure dark of the night. False and true gods: they’ve even run out of firewood. The stories they’d been hearing of the privations endured on that far shore almost moved him to pity. Almost. Starvation, boiling leather to gnaw upon. Sickness. Countless soldiers cut down by bow-fire as they desperately attempted to fish the river. A number had even been caught here on this side having swum across. And were they spying? No — they carried panniers crammed with stolen food.

Ussu drew his thick winter cloak tighter about himself and continued on. A childish display, this summons. An attempt by the Envoy to remind everyone he was still in command, while succeeding only in demonstrating his pettiness.

Guardians posted at the iron-bound door allowed Ussu entrance to the keep proper. Within, he hung up his thick wool cloak. His Moranth guards bowed, halting, knowing they were not allowed in the private quarters. At the inner chamber doors two more Guardians of the Faith stood watch. These pulled open the heavy oaken leaves. Within, Ussu was surprised to see quite a crowd. Most of Enesh-jer’s coterie of minor Roolian aristocrats and army officers stood jammed almost shoulder to shoulder in the smallish meeting hall. More Guardians of the Faith lined the walls, fists on their iron-heeled staffs.

The entourage parted for him — and not with their usual sullen arrogance either; many carried knowing grins, some even let go soft laughs as he passed. Hands at his back, Ussu pursed his lips; so, some new form of torture thought up by Enesh-jer. What would it be now? Had he finally become reckless enough to follow through on his threat to arrest him for witchery?

He found Borun standing at the front and Ussu’s frown turned to a scowl. Lady look away! He’s not going to demand that Borun attack again, is he? He’ll only force the commander to refuse in front of everyone. The man’s instability was verging on dangerous, but Ussu said nothing. He took a deep breath and clamped his lips tight. This night the Envoy wore his full official uniform of rich fur cloak, gold rings at fingers, and thin silver circlet. He held a roll of vellum that he tapped in the palm of a hand. Ussu eyed the scroll. Word from the Overlord? If so, the night’s atmosphere just took on a far more dangerous tenor.

Enesh-jer briefly inclined his hound’s head to Ussu. He raised his hands for silence. ‘Commander Borun, Ussu. Thank you for attending. As many of you know, a messenger arrived a little while ago having ridden through the night from his posting to the west. He has brought word from our Overlord in Paliss.’ Enesh-jer motioned for silence again though hardly anyone had spoken. ‘My lords, the messenger’s credentials are confirmed, the missive’s seals are authentic and unquestionable. This is no fraud, no effort to sow confusion.’

The Envoy took hold of the scroll in both hands, regarded Ussu. A smile bared his sharp teeth. ‘Commander Borun, Ussu. It seems that my many justified complaints and communiques regarding your behaviour and performance have finally been answered. Your insubordination, your intransigence in the face of my orders, all is well known to everyone here. Now, the Overlord has heard of it and he has answered. You, Commander Borun, and you, Adviser Ussu, are hereby summoned to Paliss.’ And he extended the scroll.

Borun bowed, accepting the vellum. For a time he studied it through the visor of his helm, then silently handed it to Ussu. The mage read quickly — the wording was definitely Yeull’s… yet the missive cited no reason for the recall, just that he should travel with all dispatch and speed for Paliss.

Lady’s revenge! Was this a summons to execution? Enesh-jer obviously believed so. He thought himself vindicated and Ussu could see no reason why he should not. ‘M’lord,’ he ventured, ‘may I ask-’

‘No you may not! Enough talk from you. Enough words.’ The Envoy swallowed, forcing himself to stillness. ‘You have been pulled from the front… which was my request all along. Go! Now. This night.’

Teeth clenched so hard they hurt, Ussu managed a very curt bow. Turning, he saw that the entourage had remained parted. They all knew already. This was just a pantomime, a public humiliation and a show of power. Let all others considering dissent beware! This could happen to you too!

Pulling on his cloak to leave, Ussu discovered his robes were wet where a number of the hangers-on had spat upon him.

On the way back down the valley Borun summoned messengers to give quick commands in the clipped foreign Moranth tongue. Ussu was silent for a time. There was nothing to say. Finally, he sighed, and asked: ‘Will we ride together?’

‘Yes. We will go ahead with an advance force. It will take time for the full withdrawal.’

Ussu stopped short. ‘Withdrawal?’

‘Yes.’

‘You mean you are leaving with all your Moranth?’

‘Of course.’

Ussu’s voice rose with his amazement: ‘Does he know that?’

‘Yes.’ Borun’s tone remained maddeningly flat.

‘And he… approves…?’

‘Of course. You know he has long regarded me as an impediment to his overall command. He considers my removal a victory.’

‘Borun — you and your Moranth are the only reason this command remains. Only your heavy infantry is holding these Malaz-’ Ussu corrected himself, ‘Greymane back.’

‘Envoy Enesh-jer is not of that opinion.’

‘Dammit, man. They’ll all be dead within a week!’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Then Greymane will dog any retreat all the way to Paliss.’

The Black commander halted at the entrance to the tent he’d set aside for Ussu’s use. ‘I do not believe so, High Mage. Regardless, I suggest you redirect your energy and concern to what might lie in your own future. Have you not wondered what might stand behind this summons?’

‘No, not yet. I don’t know. Yeull has been convinced by Enesh-jer’s lies, perhaps.’

Borun clasped his gauntleted hands at his back, regarded the dark river. Ussu thought his mood reflective. ‘My reading of Yeull is that he is many things, but no fool. High Mage, he is a frightened man. Something has happened. Something that terrifies him. And he has called us to him.’

Ussu sighed. ‘I only wish I could share your… faith.’

‘Faith?’ The Black commander sounded bemused. ‘It is an estimation. A bet, if you will. Everything is a gamble.’

Ussu smiled now. ‘Really? Everything? What of those who do not gamble?’

‘Those who do not gamble do so betting that terrible things will eventually happen to those who do.’ And he bowed to leave. ‘High Mage. We both have a busy night ahead of us. Until then.’

Ussu bowed as well. He watched the commander march off. Messengers who had been keeping a respectful distance now crowded the man. Gods above and below, Yeull. What have you done to deserve the loyalty of such a man? It’s a mystery. Shaking his head, Ussu turned to packing his equipment.

The ground had been scoured naked here in what the Shadow priest, Warran, claimed was Emurlahn dissolving into the ‘between-ness’ of Chaos. Humped bare granite, resembling bedrock, gave way to pools of sand in dips and hollows that churned like water as if containing things just beneath their surface. Curtains of ash swept over them like gauzy blankets, only to drift on. A brief rainstorm out of the empty sky left them soaked in black dust.

Their bat-like guide led them steadily on towards the dark hole that lay on the horizon like a great unblinking eye, or an opening on to nothingness. The ravens took turns harassing the little flier, making half-serious attempts to snatch it from the air — at least when they were not hopping ahead of Warran and cawing their derisive calls.

Kiska had no idea how long they had been walking, or how much time had passed. Or even if such a consideration as ‘time’ was relevant here — wherever here was. In any case, it seemed that nothing had happened for a very long time when something heaved itself out of one of the pools of dust.

Warran charged ahead eagerly, only to stop suddenly. Good gods, Kiska thought, was the man hoping it was a fish?

But it was not. It was a twin to the daemon who had helped them earlier, Little Branch. It pulled itself free of the clinging quicksand then straightened to a similar height — twice Jheval’s — and carried the familiar brace of terrifyingly sharp spears on his back.

‘Greetings, Azalan,’ Warran called, raising his hands.

‘Murderer!’ the daemon bellowed, and in one swift motion drew a spear and thrust it through the priest until it splintered against the bare stone behind. Warran toppled. The huge length of the spear bobbed from him like an enormous quill.

Jheval’s morningstars whirred to life in his hands. Kiska leapt aside to give the lethal weapons room then struck a ready stance, staff extended.

It advanced on them, pulling free another spear. ‘Slayers!’

‘What do you mean?’ Kiska tried. ‘Slayed who? We’ve killed no one!’

‘It’s Chaos-maddened,’ was all Jheval had a chance to yell before the daemon was upon him, thrusting. He parried, knocking the deceptively slim and fragile spear aside, but found himself still a good two paces distant from the fiend. ‘Shit,’ he snarled as they both realized that neither could get close enough to strike.

The thin haft twisted then, whipping, and caught one of Jheval’s morningstars, sending it flying off into the sky. ‘Shit!’ Kiska agreed, and charged. The butt end of the spear flashed toward her; she parried, but the strength of the blow drove her sideways to land painfully on naked rock.

Jheval parried with his remaining morningstar, standing edge-on, retreating, as the daemon thrust again and again. Backpedalling far too swiftly he stumbled, and the spear whipped again, slapping him across the face to send him down with an arc of blood jetting from his nose.

Kiska glanced round in a panic for her staff but the creature was right there, rearing over her, spear raised. ‘Die, killers!’ it yelled.

Killed who? What? For this I die?

The daemon looked away, turned its spear to bear upon another, too late. A white blur struck it in the chest and the two fell rolling and tumbling over the broken rocks. Kiska levered herself on to her elbows to watch a great white hound, almost as large as a horse, clamp its jaws on the shoulder and neck of the daemon and bear down. Black ichor shot; the fiend shrieked, pounded a fist on the hound’s back. A great snapping and popping of cartilage sounded then, and the daemon’s head flopped loose, the body spasming. Hunched over the corpse the beast growled at Kiska. Its eyes glowed the deep red of heart’s blood.

She raised her open empty hands to whisper, ‘It’s okay, boy. Okay.’

Rumbling, gaze fixed on Kiska, the hound slowly dragged off its prize, leaving a smear of black over the rocks. Kiska let it disappear among the larger stones before heaving herself upright. She rolled a shoulder, wincing, rubbed her bruised back. Gods, what a blow!

She limped over to Jheval, found him sitting up, a fold of cloth pressed to his face dripping blood in his lap. She helped him up. He bent his head back and groaned. ‘Fucking broke my face! Shame about the old guy,’ he added.

Kiska nodded. ‘Yes. Poor fellow. He was harmless enough. Did you see the hound?’

He nodded behind the cloth pressed to his face. ‘Yes. I know a fellow who’d love to tackle that thing.’

Kiska decided that perhaps the man had taken too hard a blow to the head. ‘That was the beast we saw before we entered.’

‘Could’ve been.’

She looked down at the fallen priest — and frowned. Something was wrong. Then the man lifted his head and took a squinted, one-eyed look round. ‘Is it gone?’ The spear fell with a clatter.

Jheval let go a savage curse, blood exploding from under the cloth. ‘I saw you impaled!’

‘Not at all! It passed through my shirt,’ and he pushed a hand through the slash, waving it.

Jheval stalked off, cursing afresh. Kiska studied the old man while he dusted himself. ‘He’s right,’ she said. ‘It could not have missed you.’

The old man waved deprecatingly. ‘It was nothing. I merely edged aside.’ And he turned sideways, mimicking a dodge, and laughed.

That laugh raised Kiska’s hair; she’d heard it before, she was sure. It held an undercurrent of mockery that she found unnerving. Just who or what was the man deriding? She couldn’t be sure it wasn’t herself. In any case, she was far from satisfied. She watched while the old fellow picked up the long spear and held it out before him, bobbing it up and down. He glanced at her. ‘You wouldn’t by chance have any string, would you?’

Once Jheval returned, morningstars retrieved, they continued on, albeit at a slower pace. Kiska kept watch for the hound: was it following? Or had it fed its fill? Peering back she saw Jheval watching her and she cocked a questioning brow.

The man touched gingerly at his nose where a rolled-up bit of cloth blocked one nostril. ‘It’s there,’ he said, his voice pained.

‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve spent a lifetime hunting and being hunted. I know.’

Kiska was only half convinced: more of the man’s bluster? He raised his chin to indicate Warran, who walked ahead carrying the spear jauntily over a shoulder. ‘That one. He’s up to something…’

‘Who isn’t?’ she answered, eyeing him sidelong, smiling to take the sting from it.

‘Yes. Well. I mean it. He’s playing his own game and at some time it may not include us. Just a warning.’

‘I will keep it in mind.’ Yet not so long ago the Seven Cities native had dismissed the old man as useless. In any case he was only affirming her own intuition; the priest was dangerous — but if he was so dangerous then why travel with them? Safety in numbers would hardly be a concern of his.

They continued on under the unchanging sky, where sinuous writhing lights glowed both in the dimness of night and in the only slightly brighter diffuseness of day. Their bat guide flitted about them, apparently tireless. A band of bruising developed across Jheval’s face as black as tattooing; his dark eyes peered out of shiny swollen circles. The hound still followed, keeping its distance. Or so at least Kiska believed, as she caught occasional glimpses of snowy white on the edge of her vision. The two huge ravens, she noticed, went nowhere near the beast.

Ahead, the priest Warran suddenly stopped. He knelt to examine some long black shards lying on the scoured granite. Kiska and Jheval came abreast of him and halted as well. Jheval stooped to pick up a piece but the priest batted his hand aside. ‘Do not touch it.’ Jheval glared at the man’s hunched back. The priest held his hands over the shards as if sensing or testing for a time; then he gently lifted one of the longer shards and examined it closely.

To all appearances it might as well have been black glass. Kiska thought that if you were to reconstruct the pieces they would form a crystal-like length of about an arm’s span.

The priest let the shard fall. ‘This is very bad.’

Jheval snorted, straightening. Kiska asked, ‘What is it?’

‘A kind of prison. Very ancient. Perhaps from before the shattering of this Realm. It was forged to contain some thing for all eternity. But Chaos has eaten at it, weakened it, and the entity contained within has burst free.’

Jheval snorted again, scornfully.

Warran eased himself up. He peered about, squinting. ‘Shadow is something of the rubbish heap of time. Over the ages whatever others want hidden, or buried away, into Shadow it goes…’

‘Enough of your charlatan mumblings,’ Jheval growled. He waved to Kiska. ‘Let’s go.’

‘I believe him.’

Jheval gestured helplessly. ‘Fine. It matters not. We must keep going regardless.’

Nodding, Kiska tore her gaze from the seemingly infinite refraction of crystalline light and shadow. She forced herself to walk away; something deep within her shuddered at the fascination those broken slivers of night cast upon her.

After a time the priest sidled up next to her as they walked. He still carried the spear over one shoulder. ‘You said you believed me,’ he said, peering up at her with his age-yellowed eyes.

‘Yes.’

He was glancing about; he’d been doing that a lot since they found the shards. Even suddenly darting looks behind — perhaps only because it so obviously drove Jheval to distraction. ‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘Because it sounded a lot like something someone I met in Shadow would have said.’

The man’s greying brows rose as he walked along. The extraordinarily long spear bounced on his shoulder. ‘Oh? Shadow? Who?’

‘A strange being named Edgewalker.’

The priest stopped dead. Kiska walked for a time then stopped, peering back. The man was studying her narrowly, his eyes pinched almost shut. ‘Met him, have you?’ he asked, something tight, almost waspish, in his voice.

‘Yes. Once. Long ago.’

Now the priest snorted his disbelief. ‘An unlikely claim.’ He continued on past her. ‘He doesn’t talk to just anyone, you know.’

Kiska watched the man’s stiff back as he marched off. She had to stifle a laugh. Was this jealousy? Is the man put out that I’ve met and spoken with this strange haunt of Shadow? A kind of… what?… rivalry? She walked on, shaking her head.

Later she caught Warran watching her, only to quickly glance away. Good. About time I gave someone something to think about. I’m tired of being the only one here without some kind of cloak of mystery. The old man has his past; Jheval has his. Even the ridiculous ravens are enigmas. Maybe now he — and Jheval! — will take me more seriously.

Some time later all three suddenly stopped. Even the two ravens, exploring forward, came wheeling back squawking their alarm before flying off into the distance.

A figure stood ahead, midnight black from its rounded half-formed head to its feet. Sensing them, it turned. It held something in one hand close to its face, studying it. A tiny, frantic, flapping thing.

Oh, damn. As Warran said: this is bad. Kiska felt her insides tighten at the aura she sensed surrounding the thing. Intensity. Incredible potential. What use staff or morningstars against this foe? It would laugh at such toys.

‘Let me play this one,’ Warran murmured beneath his breath. Then he rushed up to the figure and clapped his hands as if in pleasure. ‘Ah! There it is! We’ve been searching everywhere. My thanks, sir, for catching it.’

Kiska and Jheval arrived to flank Warran. Fear coursed through Kiska more strongly than it had in years. She decided that at any sign from the entity she’d drop the staff and try her two throwing knives first — for all the good that would do. Jheval, she noted, kept his hands on the grips of his morningstars. She glanced about for the hound but prudently the beast appeared to be keeping its distance. No fool it.

The disturbingly blank moulded head edged down to regard the short priest. Ripples crossed the night-black visage and Kiska was unnerved to see a mouth appear and eyes blink open. ‘This construct is yours?’ The words sounded unlike any language Kiska knew, but she understood them just the same.

Warran was rubbing his hands together. ‘Well… not ours, of course, so much as our master’s…’

‘Your master?’ The bat flier flittered in its hand like a trapped moth.

‘Yes. Shadowthrone… the ruler of Emurlahn.’

The matt-dark head cocked sideways. ‘An unlikely conceit. Emurlahn has no ruler. Not a true ruler. Not since the beginning.’

The priest jerked upright, intrigued. ‘Really? Fascinating. But as you can sense — it is linked to power.’

‘Yes. There is a surprising weight to it. I am… piqued.’ It held the flier close, examining it. ‘There is something hidden within. Tucked away.’ It reached with its other hand.

‘Perhaps I may be permitted…?’ the priest asked quickly.

The entity regarded him for a time. ‘Very well.’ It held out the flier. ‘Do it.’

Warran bowed as he accepted the flier from the entity’s hand. He examined it. ‘Ah yes. All one need do is-’

The flier whipped from his hands and shot straight up into the air. Everyone watched it diminish to a dot among the flickering curtains of light. When Kiska looked back the entity’s gaze was fixed upon Warran in enraged disbelief, as if it could not comprehend that anyone would dare disobey it.

The priest covered his mouth with his hands. ‘Oh dear. It appears to have gotten away from me.’

‘You…’ the entity breathed.

Warran raised a finger. ‘Wait! To make up for that I have something that belongs to you.’

‘There is nothing you-’

From his sleeve Warran drew a length of black crystal. The entity flinched back a step, seeming to draw in upon itself. Kiska stared, amazed. She could’ve sworn the man hadn’t pocketed any of the shards.

‘That is of no use,’ the thing breathed. ‘You do not know the ritual.’

‘True. But, if you balance the symmetries…’ Warran broke off a section and threw it aside. He was left with a square facet about the size of a jewel which he held up for examination. ‘Then the remaining forces should be in equilibrium — don’t you think?’ And he tossed it to the entity.

The bright black jewel struck the being on its chest, like a drop of ink, and stuck there. It batted at it, turning in circles. ‘No! Impossible! How could you? No!’ It looked to Kiska as if it was now shorter than it had been, thinner. Yes, she was sure that as it flailed, staggering, it was diminishing in size. As if it was disappearing bit by bit.

Kiska winced, feeling ill at the sight. What an awful thing to witness. The entity was now no higher than her waist, the jewel an ugly growth on its chest. ‘Please!’ it begged in a squeaking voice. Kiska turned her face away. When she looked back the jewel lay alone on the bare stone ground.

Warran stooped to pick it up then tossed it high and snatched it from the air. ‘Ha-ha! Caught one!’

She glanced to Jheval, and though his face was ashen and sheathed in sweat, he rolled his eyes, letting out a long breath and rubbing his palms along his robes. Yes, a close one. And yet, given what they had witnessed, were they now any safer alone with this increasingly unnerving priest of Shadow?

Bakune was the most nervous he could ever recall being in his entire life. He stood on the pier, awaiting the invader launch that would take him out to meet the de facto new ruler of Banith — at least until a counter-offensive drove these Moranth daemons from their shores. His two bodyguards, Hyuke and Puller, he ordered to remain on the pier; he simply could not bear the idea of having the two imbeciles with him while he negotiated with this foreign Admiral. The priest had gone his own way, saying that for the time being Bakune could always find him at Boneyman’s.

The launch bumped up against the stone steps below and the Blue marine escort beckoned him down. Stiff, his heart almost strangling him so uneven and powerful was its lurching, Bakune edged his way down the slippery, seaweed-slick stones. He seated himself dead centre athwart the launch and drew his robes about him, one arm bound tight, hand tucked into his sash. The Moranth marines rowed.

Glancing back, Bakune thought that the city was quiet this morning — perhaps it had exhausted itself in its panic through the night. A few tendrils of smoke rose where fires yet smouldered. The waterfront was empty; usually it would be bustling with fishermen and customers at this early morning hour. He drew his collar higher against a cutting wind that blew in from Sender’s Sea, and perhaps had its origins in the Ocean of Storms itself.

The Moranth expertly and swiftly negotiated their way through the harbour mouth and out to the gigantic Blue vessels anchored far beyond, where, not coincidentally, they effectively blockaded the town. Bakune took the opportunity to examine these invaders more closely. Though the Overlord commanded a detachment of Black Moranth infantry, Bakune himself had never seen any of them close up. Like their black brethren, these Blue Moranth were encased head to foot in an armour of the most alien manufacture. Scaled, articulating, almost insectile in its appearance. And Bakune could now understand the terror of his fellow citizens: for all anyone knew these could be the Stormriders themselves come to take possession of the surface. They were that shockingly foreign, especially to a historically closed land.

None spoke to him, and he addressed no one. The launch came up against a particular vessel where steps of wood and rope had been lowered over the side. As he extended a foot to take the stairs one Moranth Blue reached out a gauntleted hand to steady him and Bakune flinched away, almost dunking himself in the bay. Recovering, he gingerly set a foot on to the wet staircase, and, catching the ropes in his one good hand, hauled himself on to the contraption.

More Moranth Blue soldiers — sailors perhaps, or marines, he had no way of knowing — waited on the stairs to aid him. While he could not help but avoid their touch, he had to admit they were damned solicitous. On deck, he found the vessel clean and well ordered, but betraying obvious signs of battle damage: scorching from fires, savaged gunwales where grapnels might have taken hold, ragged sails. The Marese had obviously fought hard. A Blue sailor invited him aft to the cabin. Up a narrow hall he came to a room that appeared to serve as reception chamber, office, and private bedroom all in one. Wide glassed windows let in sunlight and showed a rippling view of the open sea to the east.

A tall and very thin man stood from behind a table and offered a brief bow. Bakune responded, mystified. Who was this? A secretary of some sort? Where was the Blue commander?

‘You understand Quon Talian?’ the man asked, sitting, and inviting Bakune to do the same.

Bakune bowed again. ‘Yes. It is the language of the ruling class here.’

‘You are the local magistrate… “Assessor”, I understand?’

Bakune sat. He eyed the man more closely: quite old but well preserved. A shock of pale white hair, white moustache and goatee; face and arms sun- and wind-darkened to the hue of ironwood. Bright sharp eyes that appeared… amused. ‘I am Assessor Bakune.’

‘Excellent. I am Admiral Nok. I command this Malazan naval unit.’

Nok? Now where had he heard that name before? And a regular Malazan in command? Not some Blue Admiral? Well… that was something at least.

‘First of all,’ the Admiral continued, ‘let me reassure you that the last thing we wish to do is interfere with day-to-day life here in Banith. I want that to be the message you will pass on to your people

… that they should simply return to their normal routines and merely… ignore us.’

Ignore the enormous vessels blockading our harbour? You ask a lot, Admiral.

‘Secondly, I also want to reassure you and the people of Banith that we in no way wish to interfere with your local religious practices. You may continue to worship as you choose.’

Bakune struggled not to quirk a sceptical brow. Really? That flew in the face of everything he knew regarding these Imperials. Everyone agreed their goal was eradication of the Lady’s cult. A goal he himself had given no thought to prior to last night. He tried to keep all inflection from his voice as he murmured, ‘How very generous of you.’

The reply seemed to disappoint the Admiral, but he continued, hands clasped on the table before him, ‘We of course will require some small supplies and refitting: food, potable water, lumber, rope and such. You will supply a list of merchants and we will reimburse in Imperial script.’

That would make me popular… but I don’t have to tell anyone who supplied the list… would that count as collaboration? Bakune stirred uncomfortably, cleared his throat. ‘And your troops, sir? A billeting list?’

The Admiral waved the consideration aside. ‘The troops will remain on board our vessels for a time — to avoid any unnecessary tensions. However, there will be patrols.’

‘Of course.’

‘Very good. Then, we have reached an understanding. Our goal is to interfere as little as possible. The populace may even forget we’re here.’

I doubt that very much, Admiral. But we can always hope.

The Admiral stood, came round the table and invited Bakune to precede him out. Straightening, Bakune bowed and entered the hall. The Admiral, he noticed, had to hunch to avoid bashing his head in the companionway. On deck, Bakune was shown to the set of stairs hung over the side. Blue sailors moved about, handling gear, adjusting the sheets. Bakune passed an opening on to the hold and saw for an instant how empty it was. Where were these troops? Was this not a transport?

The Blues sailors with him urged him on and he stepped out on to the stairs. He bowed to the Admiral one last time, then firmly grasped hold of the rope guides and started down.

On deck Admiral Swirl came to Admiral Nok’s side at the gunwale. Together they watched the launch return to shore. ‘What do you think?’ Swirl asked.

Nok rolled his neck, easing the muscles. ‘Hard to say. Very guarded, that one.’

‘At least he was not overtly hostile.’

‘But no fool, either. I just hope we’ve bought enough time.’

‘How far away do you think he is?’

‘I don’t know.’ Nok scratched his moustache. ‘Frankly, I was half expecting him to be here already.’

The Blue Admiral nodded his helmed head, perhaps agreeing. ‘And the patrols?’

‘Four at first, let’s say. Two four-hour shifts.’

‘Reserve?’

‘A hundred marines at the pier.’

The Blue Admiral was nodding again. ‘That’s about all we can field

… Let’s hope they don’t test us.’

Nok grasped hold of the gunwale, eyed the townscape. ‘They will. But let’s hope we’re out of here before then.’ He leaned his elbows on the wood and let out a long low breath into the icy wind. ‘We’re here, Greymane… but where are you?’

‘Well — would you look at that,’ Wess drawled while hunched behind his wide heavy-infantry shield. Kneeling behind his own shield, Suth ignored him. Len, whom they both covered, shushed the man as he untangled his line. A pink and gold dawn was brightening beyond the eastern hills. The three stood at the Ancy’s muddy shore.

It was their turn to go fishing.

For his part, Suth silently prayed to his entire inbred menagerie of Dal Hon gods that they get a bite right away. Any moment now the archers would catch sight of them and the torrent would begin. He reached down to select a water-polished stone from the shallows and stuck it in a cheek to suck on. It was an old trick to stave off hunger and thirst. Being of the Dal Hon, he was no stranger to want. He’d grown up through a number of droughts and lean times, so these last weeks of privation hadn’t hit him as hard as some. Likewise Wess, who never seemed to eat anyway; the man would just jam a ball of some resin or leaf into a cheek and he’d be good for the day. Lard, however, could hardly muster the strength to stand, while Pyke had disappeared — deserted, probably. Dim they’d lost in the defence of the bridge. Keri had taken an arrow in the side and lay in the infirmary tents. Yana was sick with the epidemic of the runny shits, which afflicted almost everyone in camp and added terribly to the general indignity of dying by degrees. Goss seemed unaffected, though his eyes were sunken and his cheeks behind the salt and pepper bristles were as hollow as caves.

‘You guys really should take a peek,’ Wess said.

‘Quiet,’ Len hissed, sotto voce.

Suth watched the water, seeking any slim darting shape. If only he held a sharp fishing stick now instead of this bulky shield.

‘Okay, but I gotta tell you-’

‘What?’ Suth cut in, glaring. Wess inclined his head towards the far shore. Suth scanned the slope; the lightening dawn was revealing the enemy — and themselves as well to the archers keeping watch on the shore. Smoke hung like mist, slowly drifting. Suth’s own breath plumed in the chill morning air. He examined the ranks. Something strange there… he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. ‘Something,’ he breathed.

‘Un-huh. No Moranth. Them Black bastards is gone. Their whole encampment’s picked up ’n’ flown.’

Len straightened. ‘What?’

Wess was right. Where the Moranth encampment had stood now stretched an empty field of churned-up mud.

Len started rolling up his gut fishing line. ‘Let’s go.’

‘They’ll all see in a minute,’ Wess objected.

An arrow hissed past them. ‘Now everyone can see,’ Suth cursed.

‘We haven’t caught a thing,’ Wess pointed out. ‘Unless we bring something to the pot we don’t get a share…’

Len shoved the line into a shoulder bag. ‘This is important.’

An arrow slammed into Wess’ shield, throwing him back a step. Len started backing away and Suth moved to cover him. Sighing, Wess followed. Outside bow range they met a crowd gathered along the shore, pointing and talking, and pushed their way through. Suth heaved the heavy shield on to his back. ‘We should report,’ Len said. Wess just rolled his eyes.

They crossed to where their squad had set up camp. Yana lay under an awning made from a tattered blanket. Goss sat before the blackened pit where they used to cook their meals when they had food and firewood.

‘The Moranth look to be gone,’ Len told Goss.

Goss nodded at the news. ‘So I heard.’

‘Good report there, Len,’ Wess said, lying down.

‘Now what?’ Suth asked Goss.

A slow shrug from the man where he sat in his threadbare padded aketon. ‘Guess we’ll attack.’

‘Attack? Half of us couldn’t drag our backsides across the bridge.’

Goss pondered that for a time. ‘I hear they got lotsa provisions over on that side…’

‘If we controlled the river we could build weirs,’ Len added.

Suth was suddenly maddeningly hungry. It was as if the mere mention of a solid meal was enough to set his juices flowing. He almost said aloud how desperately famished he was, but refrained: those who mentioned that forbidden subject were looked on as if they were idiots. Who in the name of Togg and Fanderay isn’t, you horse’s arse? was the usual comment. He lay down to sleep, mumbling, ‘Let’s just get it over with.’

*

An aide summoned Devaleth to the command tent. It was still quite early; she hadn’t even broken her fast yet with a glass of thin tea. She finished dressing hurriedly and headed across camp, which was seething with the most commotion she’d seen in weeks. Was there to be a fresh assault? Or an attack? The bridge was quiet; rather, everyone was studying the far shore. Glancing over as well, she tried to see what was of such interest but couldn’t identify it.

She found Greymane and the Adjunct, Kyle, standing before the tent, scanning the west shore. The High Fist appeared more animated than she’d seen in a long time. The man had frankly been deteriorating; losing weight, becoming withdrawn and sullen. Only Kyle seemed able to rouse him from his dark moods. Now a faint smile, or eagerness, kept pulling at his mouth behind the iron-grey beard he’d been growing. Kyle bowed, greeting Devaleth. Even Greymane offered a smile — though one tinged with irony. ‘What do you think, water-witch? What are we to make of this?’

‘Make of what?’

Kyle raised his chin to the west. ‘It seems the Moranth Black have decamped.’

‘Really? Whatever for?’

The High Fist nodded. ‘That’s what everyone’s wondering.’

Fist Rillish appeared, walking stiffly and carefully towards the tent. Devaleth fought an urge to help the man — that he was even on his feet was painful to see. The dysentery ravaging the troops had drained pounds from the man: his face was ashen and greasy with sweat, and his shirt hung loose on him. He saluted and the High Fist curtly responded.

‘I understand the Blacks have marched off,’ he said weakly.

‘So it would seem,’ Greymane rumbled.

‘Then we will be attacking?’ Devaleth asked.

‘Not quite yet…’ Greymane answered, his shaded gaze on the far shore.

‘Oh?’

‘It could be a ploy,’ Rillish explained. ‘A fake withdrawal to draw us into committing ourselves. The remaining troops would fall back, then the Moranth would counterattack, catching us exposed.’

Devaleth knew she was no strategist, but she was dubious. ‘Sounds very risky.’

The High Fist was nodding his agreement. ‘Yes. And unlikely — but best be sure.’ He looked to the Adjunct. ‘Kyle, take some scouts north, cross the river, and follow them till nightfall.’

Devaleth felt a stab of empathetic pain for Fist Rillish: strictly speaking, the Adjunct was not currently in the hierarchy of command. Greymane should have addressed the Fist. Yet the nobleman’s taut strained face revealed nothing. Kyle invited the Fist to accompany him, saying, ‘Perhaps you can recommend some names…’ Kyle at least seemed aware of the awkwardness.

The High Fist watched the two leave, his mouth turning sour once more, and ducked back into the tent. Devaleth was left alone to ponder the news, and she wondered whether this was the opportunity Greymane had been waiting for, or just another false hope. The gods knew some relief was desperately needed. Fist Shul remained bogged down with the rest of the invasion force, stymied by landslides, floods, downpours and two Skolati uprisings. It seemed the supplies the High Fist had counted on sat rotting in the rain and snow along some nameless track.

*

Around noon, while Suth dozed, someone came to camp. He thought he heard his name mentioned, then someone shook him. He sat up, blinking in the harsh light, to see Captain Betteries scowling down at him the way someone might regard a dog turd he’d just stepped in. Suth saluted.

The captain returned the salute; he was bareheaded, his red hair a mess. His eyes were bruised, and he wore only a dirty linen shirt hanging down over wool trousers. ‘You Suth?’ he asked, his voice hoarse.

‘Aye, Captain.’

‘You can scout?’

Suth thought about saying no, then decided he’d probably already been volunteered for whatever it was so nodded. ‘Aye.’

‘Come with me.’

Suth dragged himself upright, grabbed his armour. ‘Leave that,’ Betteries ordered. Shrugging, Suth complied.

Sergeant Goss eased forward. ‘I’ll go, sir.’

‘No, not you. Just the young bloods.’ The sergeant’s face clouded, but he said nothing. ‘Let’s go, trooper.’ Goss saluted and the captain acknowledged it. ‘Sorry, Goss.’

The captain collected three others, two squat Wickan plainsmen and a tall girl recruit, coarse-featured, wearing thick leathers, with a wild tangled mane of hair tied off with beads, bits of ribbon and leather braces. ‘Barghast,’ one of the Wickans mouthed to Suth.

The Adjunct was waiting for them. He wore plain leathers. Tall moccasins climbed all the way to his knees. His sword was sheathed high under his shoulder, wrapped in leather. Suth had seen a good deal of the young man, but he was struck anew by how rangy the fellow was, squat but long-limbed, his face seemingly brutal with its long moustache and broad heavy chin. He motioned to piled equipment. ‘Kit yourselves out.’

Suth picked up a shoulder bag and found a stash of food. A strip of smoked meat went straight into his mouth while he searched through the rest. Belted long-knives went to his waist, a bow and bag of arrows on his back.

The Adjunct spoke while they readied themselves. ‘We’ll head north then cross the river. We’re to shadow the Moranth. If you’re spotted, cut away — no leading back to anyone.’ All three nodded, stuffing their mouths. ‘All right. Let’s go.’

They jogged off. The Adjunct led them east at first, off behind a hillock until out of sight of the far shore, then cut north. Suth was wincing for the first few leagues: gods he was weak! But then his legs loosened up and he found his rhythm.

The Barghast girl jogged along beside him. ‘You are Dal Hon?’ she asked, grinning.

‘Yes.’

‘They say you are good warriors, you Dal Hon. We must fight sometime.’

Fight? Ahh — fight. He eyed her sidelong: heavier than he usually liked, but that was a promising grin. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Tolat, of the Yellow Clay clan.’

‘Suth.’ He flicked his head to the two Wickans following, their eyes on the western skyline. ‘What about those two?’

‘Them?’ Tolat shook her head. Her tangled mane swung in the wind. ‘Too much like my brothers. But you… you are different. I like different.’

Wonderful. Some Barghast gal out to taste the world. Well… who was he to complain? The same could be said of him. ‘Any time you want lessons, you just let me know.’

She let out a very unladylike braying laugh and punched his arm. ‘Ha! I knew I would like you!’

‘Quiet back there,’ breathed the Adjunct.

Tolat made a face, but Suth did not. He remembered the solid iron grapnels clutching the stern of the Blue war galley, and the Adjunct swinging, severing each cleanly. And on the bridge, shields parted like cloth by that bright blade wrapped now in leather. He also recalled overhearing Goss mutter something while eyeing the young man: ‘Damned Crimson Guard,’ he’d said, as if it were a curse.

Crimson Guard? Some here claimed seeing them at the Battle of the Crossroads, where the new Emperor was victorious, but Suth wasn’t sure he credited stories like that. Surely they were long gone by now… In any case, he was fully prepared to follow this one’s orders.

Mid-morning they crossed the river. The Wickan youths held their bows and arrow bags high out of the water as they half drifted, half paddled across. Tolat and Suth followed suit. On the far shore they ran anew, now picking up the pace, eating as they went.

Night fell and still they hadn’t caught sight of the Moranth column. They’d found the main west trader road and seen signs of a large force’s passing; but still the Adjunct wanted confirmation, and so he pressed on into the dusk. Even the two Wickans, Loi and Newhorse, grimaced their pain when he’d signed for them to start off west anew.

Suth was beyond grimacing: his chest burned as if aflame, his legs were numb dead weights, even his vision swam. All his gods forgive him. Not one decent meal in weeks and now this? Neethal Looru — the god that comes in the night whom no one has seen. Take me away from this!

Tolat cuffed Suth on the back, grinning. ‘Come now, Dal Hon. Show me what you can do!’

He was beginning to dislike that grin.

It was near the middle of the night before they sighted the Moranth. The reason became instantly obvious as they saw that the damned Blacks hadn’t stopped. They obviously intended to march through till dawn and then probably through the next day as well — otherwise why bother stealing the night march? They meant to get as much room between themselves and Greymane’s forces as they possibly could.

Suth and his fellow scouts were crouched in the dark amid the brittle brown stalks of a harvested field. Snow lay in patches. The frozen ground numbed Suth’s hands. The Adjunct gestured a withdrawal back behind the ridge of the hill.

Inside a crude shack, a harvest shelter, they sat together, watching the darkened surrounding fields. ‘They aren’t stopping,’ the Adjunct said, blowing on his hands. No one disagreed. ‘We’ll rest here, then return.’

‘I’d rather rest in that farmstead we passed,’ Newhorse said.

‘No — no distractions.’

Suth sympathized completely with Newhorse. In this run, more than a full day’s march for any army, they’d come across occupied farmsteads, corralled cattle, a herd of sheep, even orchards. No scorching tactics of withdrawal and burn here. This country was rich and unspoiled.

‘I smelled cooked meat…’ the lean Wickan continued.

‘I only smell your foul breath,’ Tolat said.

The Adjunct raised a hand. ‘Save it. Rest. I’ll take first watch.’

Suth could barely hold himself erect; he lay down immediately, wondering what this Adjunct was made of to have run him into the ground — and then stand watch!

He was nudged awake what seemed the next instant. It was still dark, though close to dawn. Everyone was tense; Tolat was readying her bow while keeping the weapon down amid the grass. ‘Something’s up,’ she breathed. Suth did not move because he immediately saw the Adjunct standing at the edge of the field.

‘What is it?’

‘Don’t know. He just woke us, walked off.’ She continued readying her gear. ‘It’s like he’s listening.’

Squinting, he saw how the man clutched his blade, head cocked, before he came jogging back.

‘I shouldn’t have come. I’ve attracted… attention. We have to go.’

‘What is it?’ Newhorse asked.

‘Just run.’

Suth set off as best he could but he hadn’t recovered from yesterday’s exertions. None of them had; their pace was much reduced. Only the Adjunct seemed unaffected. He often ran ahead, scanning the hillsides while the day brightened around them. A few farmers and herdsmen worked the fields. All fled when they caught sight of them. It appeared that some sort of evacuation had been imposed upon the population, but not all had complied.

Then Suth caught sight of shapes shadowing them through the fields: low, loping. Hounds. A great pack of beasts. Even as Suth saw them the Adjunct shouted, pointing to an outcrop of rock. They swerved, making for it. Charging the formation, the five set their backs to the thrusting rock face. The hounds burst from the fields all about them, closing. They came snarling, and Suth saw how foam lathered their mouths, their eyes rolling, white all round.

‘Rabid!’ he yelled, certain.

‘Ancients take them!’ Tolat answered and she snapped out her bedroll, wrapping it round an arm.

Suth had no time; he’d lost the chance to follow suit. He and the Wickans drew their long-knives. The Adjunct unwrapped his bright curved blade. The animals leapt upon them. Suth used his blades to parry slashing claws. Loi went down almost right away, missing a lunge and falling screaming. The hounds closed over him at once and his cries were cut off instantly. They flinched in, closing upon each other, pressed their backs to the cliff wall. Tolat chanted some sort of war song as she stabbed, rammed her blanketed arm into open maws. Newhorse stabbed as well, using the point to force the hounds away. Suth followed suit. The Adjunct waded in using the tulwar blade one-handed, a long-knife in the other, taking the fight to the hounds. They lunged but he met them full-on, severing heads, limbs, torsos. Two clamped their teeth into him, an arm and a leg; he swung the gleaming tulwar to sever their heads.

Then the animals suddenly ran, yelping, skittering and falling in their desperation to flee. The four stood still, listening, only their harsh breaths sounding in the night. Suth felt his limbs quivering their anticipation… some thing was coming. They could all feel it.

Argent flame burst to life in a pillar of roaring, blinding, coruscating power. Suth flinched away. He covered his eyes with an arm, squinting. He could just make out a shape within the searing brilliance, a woman’s outline.

The Adjunct struck a ready stance, weapons raised.

‘Greetings, Outlander,’ a woman’s voice whispered, jarringly sweet in tone, yet coiling with venom. ‘The stink of that sorceress bitch is upon you. Where came you by this blade of yours? Was it a gift… from her?’

Suth could barely stand: the voice itself hammered at him like blows. It gnawed at his thoughts like acid.

The lashing flames drew closer yet the Adjunct did not retreat. ‘Who are you, man? What land are you from? There is a strangeness in your blood. I smell it. Perhaps… I should taste it…’ Suth shouted a useless warning as high above a lash of flames whipped up to come slashing down. The Adjunct did not wait for it. He rolled forward into the pillar, swinging his bright blade two-handed across the maelstrom.

A blast like an eruption of Moranth munitions blew Suth backwards off his feet. He rolled tumbling to strike the stones at the base of the outcrop and lay dazed.

Suth did not think he’d lost consciousness. He remembered staring at the overcast sky watching snowflakes come floating down to tangle in his eyelashes. He blinked his eyes, rubbed an ear where ringing deafened him. Groaning, he levered himself to his feet. Gods, that reminded him of the blasts that took the wall of Aamil. He staggered forward to find the Adjunct. He found Tolat with him, his head on her lap.

‘Is he alive?’ Suth asked, or thought he did; he couldn’t hear his own voice.

She shrugged, mouthed something.

‘We have to get out of here!’

She stared up at him, uncomprehending. He mimicked picking up the Adjunct and moving. She nodded, then pointed behind him. He turned, alarmed, but it was Newhorse limping up. Blood gleamed down his torn shirt. Suth motioned to the man’s wound; Newhorse pointed to Suth’s head. He touched gingerly at his numb temple and came away with a smear of blood. Damn stones!

The Adjunct’s scabbard was empty. Suth cast about and eventually found the blade lying amid burned stalks. It still smoked. Using a fold of leather, he picked it up and shoved it back into its scabbard. Had he killed this ‘Lady’ they were all going on about? Probably not.

He and Tolat carried the Adjunct while Newhorse scouted ahead as best he could. It took them a day and a night to reach the Ancy, and there they were defeated. They could not cross. All they could do was stay hidden and keep watch for any foraging or scouting parties on the far side of the river whose attention they could attract.

The Adjunct never really recovered. He babbled in a foreign tongue, sweated and shivered in some sort of fever. Eventually Tolat, who could at least claim to have swum before, argued she should go ahead for help. Suth and Newhorse agreed that was better than waiting to be seen. So before dawn Tolat waded out into the frigid Ancy and pushed off, disappearing from sight amid the chop and froth of the swift current. Suth collected some water and returned to the copse where they hid from any Roolian patrols.

*

It just so happened that Devaleth was up already when word reached her that one — one! — of the Adjunct’s party had finally returned. She went as swiftly as she could to the High Fist’s tent. Had it been an ambush by Roolian scouts? Had they been detected by the Moranth? Or was it this new mage she’d been sensing? Somehow the man could act without raising the Lady’s ire. All along something had bothered her about sending Kyle; the prospect had troubled her but she hadn’t spoken up during the meeting. Now she wondered.

A guard raised the opened flap and she saw the female scout, soaked to the bone, standing before the High Fist. Fist Rillish sat to one side, pale but intent.

‘By the gods, let the woman sit!’ Devaleth burst out before thinking.

‘I’d rather stand, thank you, High Mage,’ the woman managed, her voice a croak.

‘As you choose, Tolat,’ said Greymane. Aside, to an aide, he said, ‘You have that?’

‘Yes, sir. A copse a few hours north. They should see us.’

‘Only one squad should approach the river,’ Greymane warned. ‘We don’t want to attract any attention.’

‘Sir!’ gasped the scout Tolat, wavering on her feet.

‘Yes?’

‘That’s just what the Adjunct said, sir. Attracting attention… that he did… attract…’

Devaleth took the woman’s arm; she peered at her confused, her eyes glazed. Her weight shifted on to Devaleth, who grunted, suddenly having to support her. Two other aides took Tolat from the mage and carried her out.

‘Of course,’ breathed Rillish from his chair. ‘I should have seen it… that sword of his. It must have attracted the- Her attention.’

Greymane turned on the man. ‘So only now you think of that, Fist Rillish Jal Keth.’

‘Sir!’ Devaleth called out, dragging the High Fist’s attention from Rillish. ‘We all missed that. If anyone is to blame, it is me. I should have foreseen it.’

For the first time Devaleth felt the full force of the High Fist’s furious ice-blue gaze and she was shaken by the feyness churning there just below the surface. Then the man somehow mastered himself, swallowing, drawing a great shuddering breath, and nodded at her words. ‘Yes… you are right. Yes.’ He turned away, drew a hand across his face. ‘I missed it too.’ And he laughed. ‘I! Of anyone, I should have thought of that!’

She thought then of the grey blade the man had once carried. Said to have been a weapon of great power. It was responsible for his name in these lands: Stonewielder. And that name a curse. What had happened to it? No one spoke of it, and she’d yet to see anything more than a common blade at the man’s side. He must have lost it during all the intervening years.

‘Kyle is wounded — attacked by the Lady,’ Greymane told Devaleth. ‘Can you heal him?’

She thought little of her chances but she nodded. ‘I’ll get ready. Send him to my tent.’

The High Fist nodded and Devaleth bowed, exiting.

Greymane turned to a staff officer. ‘Spread the word. We attack at dawn.’

The woman’s brows climbed her forehead. ‘But it is dawn… sir.’

‘Exactly.’ He gestured to the tent flap. The woman almost fell in her scramble to leave.

Rillish pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll ready my armour then, High Fist.’

Greymane had gone to the rear of the tent, thrown open a travelling chest. He studied the Fist as if seeing him there for the first time. ‘No. You stay here.’

Rillish’s face twisted as he fought to control his reaction. ‘Then

… who will lead the assault?’ he asked, his voice as brittle as glass.

The High Fist slammed an iron barrel helm on to the table. He set a hand atop it, and his eyes burned with a bright blue flame. ‘I will.’

*

Rillish went to Devaleth’s tent to await delivery of the Adjunct. He eased himself down into a chair and said to the Marese water-witch, ‘Thank you for your support.’

The woman was readying pots and cloths. ‘Certainly,’ she replied, distracted. ‘The man is too harsh. Too unforgiving.’

‘He is a storied commander…’ he began.

‘With much to prove?’ she suggested, peering over a shoulder. ‘… for whom men and women will fight. But, yes, there is a history there. A history I was a part of.’

Turning, wiping her hands on a cloth, the stocky woman eyed him. ‘You need not wait here. There’s nothing you can do. As,’ and she sighed, ‘I suspect there will be nothing I can do, either.’ She waved to the open flaps. ‘Go on.’

He offered her an ironic courtier’s bow, then, straightening, he waved to a guard. ‘Bring my armour.’

Too weak to walk steadily, Rillish ordered a horse. Armoured, with the help of two grooms, he mounted. He felt much better sitting well supported between the tall cantle and the pommel. He hooked his helmet on the latter and eased on his gauntlets. The day was overcast and cool. Good weather for a protracted engagement — though he doubted Greymane had any patience for such. He regarded the bridge and the column of heavies jamming it, all eager to press forward, and frowned. He signed to a messenger. ‘Bring me the saboteur lieutenant.’

‘Aye, Fist.’

He kneed his mount to start it walking down to the bridge. Not much later a mud-spattered gangly woman jogged up to his guards and pushed her way through. She gaped up at him, grinning with snaggled discoloured teeth, and her bulging eyes appeared to stare in two directions at once. ‘You asked f’r me, Fist?’

Oh yes, Lieutenant Urfa — once met, never forgotten. ‘Yes, Lieutenant. The bridge… should it be so… burdened?’

The woman squinted at the structure. She turned her head to stare first with one eye, then the other. Then she burst out with a string of the most unladylike curses Rillish had ever heard and charged off down the slope without even saluting. Rillish watched her go, and leaned forward on his pommel, sighing. ‘Send word to Captain Betteries — no more than four abreast across the bridge.’

‘Aye, Fist.’ Another staffer charged away.

Gods! Did he have to tell them not to jump up and down too? Just what they needed, collapsing the bridge now after all this time. He saw an unattached lieutenant, a messenger. ‘Where is the High Fist?’

‘At the barriers, sir, organizing the assault.’

‘I see. He’s waiting for sufficient troops, I suppose?’

‘Yes. I believe so, Fist. You have a communique?’

‘No. We shan’t bother him.’

He and his guards had reached the jam of infantry choking the bridge mouth. Swearing under his breath, Rillish kneed his mount forward, shouldering the armoured men and women aside. ‘Captain Betteries!’ he shouted.

‘On the bridge, sir,’ a sergeant answered from the press, saluting. ‘Held up a touch.’

Rillish sawed his reins ruthlessly to stand his mount across the bridge mouth, blocking it. ‘You! Sergeant…?’

‘Ah. Sergeant Tight, sir.’

Tight? Oh well… Rillish pointed to his horse. ‘Form up your squad here — four abreast!’

‘Aye, sir.’

Tensing his legs, Rillish rose up high in his saddle to bellow so loud and with such force that his vision momentarily blackened: ‘Next squad form up behind!’ Weaving, he grasped hold of the pommel.

A hand steadied him from behind — Captain Betteries. Rillish nodded to the officer, who acknowledged the thanks and then turned to the soldiers. ‘Scouts we sent across report they have livestock on the other side!’ he shouted. ‘Full larders. Even beer.’

Sergeant Tight rubbed at his tearing eyes. ‘Bless ’em.’

‘But no one advances until we’re all formed up right and proper!’

‘Aye, sir!’ came the shouted response. The captain turned back to Rillish.

‘My apologies, Fist,’ he murmured, his face pale.

‘Quite all right. Something of a whim this… deciding to cross today.’

A fierce smile from the company commander. ‘Yes. Good day for a walk.’

‘Sergeant,’ Rillish called over the shouting and barked orders.

‘Aye, Fist?’

‘A word of advice. If you ever make Fist grade, change your name.’ And he kneed his mount out of the way, leaving the man behind frowning and scratching his head.

Captain Betteries held back the press with his bared sword. He waited until the mass that already jammed the length of the bridge had filed across, then allowed on one squad at a time. Rillish scanned the far shore. The Roolians had raised barricades — overturned wagons, heaped logs and stones. Greymane had his forces forming up short of the barriers, waiting.

The Roolians were also forming up. More and more of their forces were converging. This assault held the promise of eventually embroiling all combatants from both sides. Greymane, he imagined, would not withdraw or let up until he’d broken through — perhaps even if it meant fighting on into the night. Rillish cast about and found a messenger. ‘For Captain Betteries. Have a quarter of our forces held back.’

The messenger saluted and ran off.

Shortly later the man returned, saluting. ‘Compliments of Captain Betteries, Fist. He responds — a quarter of our forces? That would be the sick-list.’

Damn Soliel! True enough. They don’t have the resources. It’s today, or never.

A great thundering animal roar of rage swelled then from the barriers and the Fourth Army arose at the command of a giant of a man in banded iron armour raising two swords, and charged.

*

Suth could not believe his eyes and ears as he stumbled along the east shore of the Ancy, far behind his rescuers. Columns crowded the bridge, horns sounded orders, and already there was clashing at the barriers on the west shore. They were attacking! And it was happening without him!

Once they’d been helped across the Ancy, Suth had waved the squad on: they were burdened enough carrying the still unconscious Adjunct and Newhorse, who was too weak to walk. He could make it on his own. Waving good luck, the rescuers had jogged off, leaving him to follow as best he could.

Now they were attacking without him! And he exhausted and without his armour. He was never going to live this down. Footsore, his head throbbing, he went to find his gear.

*

Devaleth thanked the squad that had carried in the Adjunct, yet wasted no time in hurrying them out. Closing the flaps, she turned to the young man lying on the pallet. It was far worse than she’d imagined. She cut away the leather and cloth around savage bites in thigh and arm — already they festered. A compound of leaves steeped in a tincture that cleaned wounds went on those. As to his mind — she pressed a hand to his hot brow and reached out, ever so tentatively, to his thoughts, then yanked her hand away as if stung.

Chaos and confusion, yes, but not shattered. Astounding. His mind ought to be irrevocably crushed — so much so that it would be a mercy to let him slip away. Perhaps it was because the man was no mage. No talent, as they said among these Malazans. Not cursed, as she’d say herself.

Yet… something else. Something deeper, more troubling. Her brow furrowing, she bent closer to the man’s eyes. Reaching, she lifted one lid with a finger then flinched away. Ancient One protect her! For an instant… but no. Impossible. It must have been the light. That could not have been an amber glow.

*

They’d left his gear at their camp. Wincing and hissing his pain, he pulled on his long padded gambeson then laced up his hauberk and grieves. Helmet high on his head, he limped down to the bridge. A mounted officer, an unattached lieutenant acting for Command, thundered past then reared, halting.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

Suth saluted. ‘Just returned from scouting up north, sir.’

The officer grunted, accepting this. ‘You’re wounded.’

Suth wiped his face, finding a layer of flaking dried blood. ‘It’s nothing, sir. I can fight…’

‘Report to the infirmary.’

‘Sir, no. I-’

‘No?’ The officer wheeled his mount to face him directly. ‘I order you to the infirmary!’

Suth bit his tongue. Fuck! Should’ve just saluted, dumbass! ‘Yes… sir.’

Nodding a warning, the officer kicked his mount and raced off, dirt flying. Suth glared at the ash-grey overcast sky then headed for the infirmary tents.

*

Envoy Enesh-jer watched the engagement from a narrow window in the top floor of the Three Sisters stone tower. Some time ago he’d summoned the field commander, Duke Kherran, and now impatiently awaited the man’s arrival.

Far later than he expected, the man appeared, helmet in hand, cloak dragging in dirt behind. His round moon face gleamed with sweat. Mud spattered his fine mail and Roolian brown surcoat. ‘With all due respect, Envoy, it is unadvisable to summon me from the-’

‘Duke Kherran!’ Enesh-jer cut in. ‘Last I knew I was the Overlord’s chosen and so you shall treat me as such.’

Stiffening, the Duke clamped his lips shut. He knelt on one knee, bowed, then straightened.

Enesh-jer nodded. ‘That is better. Now… I have been watching the engagement and I am rather surprised to see that our lines have in fact retreated. Why is that, Duke, when I gave strict orders that these invaders were to be swept from the bridge?’

The Duke blinked at Enesh-jer, utterly at a loss. At last he cleared his throat and said, ‘Of course, Envoy. I will see to it myself.’

‘Good. Do so. And Duke…’ Enesh-jer bent closely to him. ‘If you cannot fulfil my expectations then remember — there are many others here awaiting their chance.’

Duke Kherran bowed again, his face held rigid. ‘Envoy.’ He marched out. Enesh-jer eyed the mud the man had tramped into the room, his mouth sour, then returned to the window.

Behind him the thick doors swung closed and the lock rattled shut. The Envoy whirled round. ‘Hello? Is someone there?’

A man all in black stepped out from behind a display of carved ivory icons of the Lady. He was quite short and he smiled with small pointed teeth. The Envoy backed away. The man plucked an icon from a shelf, studied it. ‘You remember enough, don’t you, Enesh-jer, to know who I am.’

The Envoy reached behind him to touch a wall, pressed his back to it. ‘I will call for the guards.’

The man waved the icon towards the entrance. ‘Those doors are built to resist a siege.’

The Envoy raised his chin, ran a hand down the front of his robes, straightening their folds. ‘I am not afraid to die. The Lady will welcome me.’

‘A true believer.’ The man tossed the icon over a shoulder to shatter on the flagstones. The Envoy winced. ‘You come across them… now and then.’ The man walked to one of the slit windows, peered out. ‘Ah! He’s broken through. Took him longer than I thought.’ He offered a wink. ‘Guess he’s out of practice.’

Enesh-jer slid along the wall to a window, glanced out. His face paled even further. It was the invaders who had broken through. Leading the charge came an armoured giant. Even as the Envoy watched, the man heaved aside an overturned cart, knocked soldiers from their feet with raking blows.

‘In a rare fury, he is,’ the assassin commented.

‘Both his swords are broken,’ Enesh-jer said, wonder in his voice.

‘Breaks all his swords, he does.’ The man glanced at him again and bared his pointed teeth. ‘All ’cept one.’

The Envoy raised a hand to clutch at his throat. ‘No. I refuse to believe it. Lies.’

The little man’s smile was a leer. ‘Yes, it’s him. Your old friend, Greymane. I hear he carries a grudge for all you betrayers. Voted to oust him, didn’t you?’

Enesh-jer was shaking his head in denial. ‘Yeull would have told me.’

‘Or not.’ The man leaned back against the window slit. ‘Question is then… do I kill you or not? Who’s it going to be? Me or him?’

The Envoy straightened, adjusted his rich silver-threaded robes yet again, jerked his chin to the assassin. ‘You.’

The man smiled. Long thin daggers slid into his hands. ‘Good.’

*

Devaleth reached the end of her options quite quickly with the wounded Adjunct. She’d cleaned the wounds as best she could and studied the man to diagnose what afflicted him. The problem was that what had happened to him was far beyond her own quite minor expertise. Some sort of fever coursed through his blood, probably inflicted by the animal bites. As to what his contact with the apparition of the Lady might have done to his mind — she had no hope of ameliorating that.

Someone spoke from the front of the tent. ‘Mage of Ruse. May I enter?’

She straightened, reached out to her Warren. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Carfin, of the Synod of Stygg.’

The Synod of Stygg? She’d thought that mere legend, stories. An association of mages who met despite the Lady’s best efforts to stamp them out. She relaxed, slightly, calling out, ‘You may enter.’

‘My thanks.’

Devaleth flinched, spinning: the mage had spoken behind her.

He was tall and skeletally thin, wearing tattered dark finery: trousers, vest and shirt. Arms clasped behind his back, he was studying the Adjunct. ‘You seek to heal him.’

‘Yes.’

‘We in the Synod agree that he must be healed. Certain of us foresee a role for him.’

‘A role? In what?’

His gaze had not left the Adjunct. He pursed his lips distastefully. ‘This one is foreign indeed.’

‘What do you mean? Foreign — how?’

‘Unfortunately… what ails him cannot be treated in any mundane way.’

She let out a long breath. ‘I see.’

He lowered his head to study her from under his stringy black hair. ‘Yes. One or both of us must access our Warren.’

‘Ah.’ And bring down the Lady upon them. They may heal the Adjunct, but then one or both of them would be dead or no better off than the Adjunct was now. ‘I don’t know if I’m ready for that.’

‘No one is,’ said someone from the flaps and both Carfin and Devaleth jumped sideways to regard the newcomer. He was an older man, bearded, in battered, travel-stained clothes.

‘Totsin?’ Carfin said, his gaze narrowed. ‘What in the name of the ancients are you doing here?’

The man entered, pulling the flaps closed behind him. ‘I’ve come to see what I can do here.’

Carfin returned his gaze to the Adjunct. ‘Well. Damned late, but welcome, I suppose.’

The man, Totsin, bowed to Devaleth. ‘Mage of Ruse. Not many of the Marese have joined the invaders, I presume?’

Devaleth offered him a thin smile. ‘Not many. You are with this Synod?’

‘From very far back, yes.’ He gestured to the Adjunct. ‘What do you intend?’

‘He must be healed by Warren.’

‘Ah…’

Devaleth nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Who?’ Totsin asked.

‘We are… considering,’ Carfin answered. He sniffed the Adjunct and wrinkled his nose. ‘Terribly foreign.’

Totsin smoothed his greying beard. ‘If it must be done, then, well, no option to flee exists for me. As to our host, well, we are not at sea…’

Carfin cocked his head, looking like a tall emaciated crow. ‘You are suggesting…?’

The older man raised his hands in a helpless shrug. ‘Well — if now is the time to commit fully, as the Synod appears to have voted…’

The tall mage ran a hand down the edge of the pallet, the other going to his chest. ‘True enough, Totsin. Though coming from you that is a surprise.’

Devaleth cast a look between the two. ‘What are you getting at?’ she demanded.

Totsin bowed. ‘Carfin here is a mage of Darkness — Rashan, I believe the Malazans name it.’

‘I see.’ So, Carfin could heal the Adjunct then flee into the Warren of Rashan, hoping to shake off the Lady. Seemed straightforward enough. ‘Yet… you are reluctant… you fear the Lady’s attack, of course…’

Carfin was shaking his head, almost blushing. The man’s not afraid — he actually looks embarrassed! He cleared his throat. ‘Unlike Ruse, madam, we here under the thumb of the Lady rarely dare to exercise our, ah, talent. The truth is — though I know how to do it — I have never actually entered Rashan…’

Oh. Oh dear.

‘And so having entered…’ Carfin continued, ‘I have no way of knowing whether I’ll ever be able to return — if you see the dilemma.’

‘Yes,’ Devaleth breathed. She touched his arm. ‘I understand fully.’ She regarded Totsin. ‘What of you? You seem ready enough to push others forward.’

He raised his hands apologetically. ‘My talents run in, ah, other directions.’

The tall pale mage took Devaleth’s hand, kissed the back of it. ‘Madam, it is of no concern. I will do this. It is something I should have done long ago, in any case.’ He looked to the older man. ‘Totsin. My thanks. You, of all of us, stepping forward has emboldened me. My thanks.’

The older mage was dragging his fingers through his ragged beard, his gaze fixed on the Adjunct. ‘Yes. Now is certainly the time to act.’

‘You should both wait outside.’

Devaleth nodded. She clasped the man’s hands in hers. ‘My thanks.’ He bowed very formally.

Outside, Devaleth focused on emptying her mind of all concern for what was going on within. She turned her back to watch the engagement on the far shore. It appeared that the infantry, even with the aid of Greymane, had yet to break through. Just as before. Too narrow a front to assault. And they were all so weak — famished, sick.

Totsin had walked off to one side and was kicking at the dirt, hands clasped at his front.

Though Devaleth was prepared for it subconsciously, the sudden levelling of the Lady’s awareness and ferocity left her staggered. Behind her the tent cloth billowed and tore as if a silent explosion of munitions had been unleashed within. One pole yanked free, falling crooked. She sent an alarmed glance to Totsin, who had turned, his gaze hooded. He raised his thin shoulders in a shrug.

She closed on the tent while making a strong effort to withhold any sensing outwards. ‘Carfin?’ she called. No one answered. She edged aside the cloth, peered into the darkness. ‘Carfin?’ Totsin entered after her. She found the Adjunct as before: lying supine, undisturbed. But he was alone and her possessions had been reduced to wreckage. Either the Lady had snapped up the mage of Darkness, or he had escaped. Made his own leap of faith.

She quickly laid a hand upon the young Adjunct’s brow, let out a long breath of relief. ‘The fever has lessened. His mind is… calm. He sleeps.’

‘He actually did it,’ Totsin mused from the entrance. ‘I am astonished.’

Something in the mage’s manner irked Devaleth. ‘You should be grateful.’

‘And… he is gone.’ The man studied her now, hands loose at his sides. ‘What of you, mage of Ruse? It must be hard — being so far from the open sea, from the source of your power.’

Searching for a clean cloth and water, Devaleth said, distracted, ‘I do not have to be on the sea to call upon it.’

‘Ah. Yet you are weakened, yes? By such separation?’

She looked up from digging among the scattered pots and boxes to where he stood at the entrance, his eyes oddly bright in the gloom. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

The man appeared about to say something. He raised his hands to her.

Then someone threw open the tent flap behind him.

*

Suth sat in the grass outside a tent in the infirmary area waiting to be seen by one of the bonecutters who had been sent along with the expeditionary force. Personally, he had no faith in them, though he understood the use of herbs and poultices and such to cure sicknesses and fever and cleanse wound-rot. He also accepted the need to drain the black-blood that can sometimes come to even the smallest cuts. All these mundane healings and procedures he would grudgingly go along with — all except head wounds. From what he’d seen growing up on the Dal Hon plains, head wounds were a mystery to everyone, even these self-professed healers. They’d prescribe the strangest things, from temple-bashings to drilling holes in the skull to remove ‘pressure’.

He swore that if they tried anything like that he’d be out of the tent quicker than shit from one of these gut-sick soldiers around him. From the fighting across the river a great roar reached him and he bolted upright. There appeared to be movement at the front; a breakthrough? Dammit! And he was stuck here!

A man joined him. His shirt-front was sodden, blood dripping to the ground, and he was wiping his hands on a dirty rag. ‘What is it?’ the fellow asked.

‘Might be an advance.’

A grunt and the man eyed him up and down. ‘What in Togg’s name are you doing here?’

Suth pointed to his head. ‘Fell on a rock.’

‘You can walk, talk — you’re fine. Bugger off. There’s enough to handle.’

Suth jerked a salute. ‘Yes, sir!’ He dashed down the slope.

On his way to the bridge he noticed the High Mage’s tent. It leaned drunkenly aside, the cloth torn in places as if it had been attacked. Where they said they were taking the Adjunct! He ran for the tent.

He threw open the flap and an old man he’d never seen before turned upon him. The fellow gestured, his mouth opening. Suth reacted automatically and his sword leapt to the man’s throat.

The man snapped his mouth shut. ‘It’s all right, trooper!’ a woman called from within. ‘Relax.’ The High Mage came forward, pushing the sagging cloth out of her way.

Suth inclined his head. ‘High Mage.’ He sheathed his sword.

‘High Mage…’ the man breathed, something catching in his voice.

‘Honorary only,’ she told him.

He touched a quavering hand to his throat, said, ‘Perhaps I had best be going.’

‘If you must,’ the High Mage answered, her gaze narrow.

‘Yes. In case she should return. Until we meet again, then,’ and he bowed.

The High Mage lowered her head ever so slightly. ‘Until then.’

The man gave Suth a wide berth and walked off down the slope. Suth watched him go, then remembered why he’d come. ‘The Adjunct — how is he?’

The High Mage pulled her gaze from the retreating figure. A frown turned into a smile, her plump cheeks dimpling. ‘I believe he is well, trooper. I do believe he will recover.’

Suth let out a great breath. ‘My thanks, High Mage.’

‘Don’t thank me. Though perhaps I should thank you,’ she added musingly.

‘I’m sorry, High Mage?’

‘Nothing. Now, no doubt you wish to return to the fighting, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well.’ She shooed him away. ‘Go, go.’

Bowing, Suth turned and ran down the slope as best he could. He jogged, hand on his helmet, wincing where it dug into his wound, and he wondered whether he should have told the High Mage that for an instant he could have sworn he’d seen murder in that fellow’s eyes. But that was not something you would mention to a High Mage based upon a fleeting impression, was it? Not if you didn’t want to make a lot of trouble for yourself. And he’d already missed enough of the damned fighting.

*

The Malazan guards posted at the doors to the Envoy’s chambers saluted and stood aside for Greymane. He entered, pulling off his helm, which he slammed down on a convenient table, scattering icons and small reliquary boxes. He pulled off his bloodied gauntlets and scanned the room. A man dressed all in black — black trousers, black cotton shirt, and black vest — sat in a plush chair, smoking. Something that might be a body lay on the floor, hidden under a rich silk bedsheet.

Greymane slapped the gauntlet into his helm, then pulled a white scarf draped over a tall statue of the Lady and wiped away the sweat sheathing his face and the blood smearing his hands. ‘How many more of you are there, hidden away like lice?’ he asked.

The man smiled, revealing tiny white teeth. ‘I’m more of a freelance.’

The High Fist only exhaled noisily through his nostrils. He raised his chin to the body. ‘Is this him?’

‘In the flesh.’

Still wiping his hands, Greymane used a muddied boot to pull the cloth away. He stared at the pale face for some time. ‘Enesh-jer,’ he breathed.

‘You knew him?’

The High Fist scowled at the question. ‘Yes. I knew him well enough.’

The man was studying his thin kaolin pipe. ‘What do you want done with him?’

Greymane stared down at the body for a time. ‘I used to want that head on a pike. Now, I don’t care. Burn him with the rest.’

The man coughed slightly, covering his mouth. He eyed the High Fist anew. ‘These Roolians don’t burn their dead. They bury them.’

‘We don’t have the time.’ He tossed the bloodied scarf on to the body. ‘See to it.’

The man offered a vague bow as the High Fist picked up his helm and stalked out. He sat for a time, tapping the pipe in a palm, frowning.

Ivanr chose to walk rather than riding in the large two-wheeled cart that had carried Beneth. The conveyance was his now, holding the tent and brazier and few simple goods belonging to the spiritual leader of the Army of Reform. He’d set aside his sword and armour, wearing instead layered plain clothes and a cloak against the winter. He used a walking stick, yes, but other than a shortsword hidden under his cloak he appeared weaponless. His self-appointed bodyguard surrounded him as before, but at a greater, more respectful — and less visible — distance.

Walking in this manner he felt he now had a much better feel for the army. Infantry, men and women, would call out or bow for his attention and he would listen to their comments. Often they were only looking for reassurance that they were doing the right thing — a reassurance he had no reservations in providing. As the days passed he saw an ever greater need for such comfort… or, dare he say, hope. Was this the great secret of leading any revolution? That really all anyone needed was the assurance, the faith, that they were doing the right thing? At least Ivanr felt in his heart that their goal was desirable. Perhaps that was all he needed.

At night Martal, and sometimes the cavalry commander Hegil, visited after the evening meal. These informal command meetings were quiet and uncomfortable, the memory of Beneth still too raw. Mainly Ivanr asked Martal questions about the strategic aim of the campaign. Apparently this amounted to marching on Ring and defeating the Imperial Army before its walls.

‘Very… ambitious,’ was Ivanr’s comment. ‘You know you will be facing the flower of the Jourilan aristocracy. Hundreds of heavy cavalry who fight with lance and sword. They will mow down these pike formations just by weight and shock.’

‘They may,’ Martal allowed.

‘What of you, Hegil? You know what we’ll be facing.’

The aristocrat leaned back on the cushions, sipped his cup of honeyed tea. The man was nearly bald, his hair all rubbed off from wearing his helmet for most of his adult life. ‘Yes, Ivanr. These won’t be lights, or lancers. But we’ve known what it would come down to. From the beginning Beneth knew. He and Martal worked up a strategy to support the pike squares.’

‘And that is?’ He regarded Martal.

Her short black hair gleamed with sweat and oil. She shrugged, her mouth turned down. ‘We’ll be bringing our own fortress.’

He eyed her, waiting for more, but she would not raise her gaze. Was this all he was to get? Should he push now, in front of Hegil? She may think nothing of outright refusing him… Very well. He’d wait. Push again tomorrow.

Soon after that Hegil cleared his throat, and, bowing to Ivanr, left for his own tent. Martal rose as well. ‘Please,’ Ivanr invited. ‘Won’t you stay a little longer?’

She nodded stiffly, but sat. He studied her more closely now while she kept her gaze averted: her smashed nose, the scars of sword cuts on her forearms and the marks of heavy blunt blows to her cheek. Where had this woman gained her military training? Surely not in any Jourilan school, nor among the Dourkans. Yet she had obviously seen fighting all her life.

‘You are not of Fist, or Jasston, or Katakan. Where are you from?’

A smile of nostalgia touched her mouth, but she was still looking away when she spoke. ‘I was born in a minor city named Netor on the Bloorian plains.’

‘Bloor…?’

‘I am Quon Talian by birth. What you would call Malazan.’

Ivanr did not know how to react. All the gods! Should this get out

… No wonder the distance. The air of mystery surrounding this Black Queen served a good purpose. ‘I’m… amazed,’ he managed. She was the enemy. The grasping foreigners who would steal this land from them — or so ran the common wisdom.

‘How came you…’ But of course.

She was nodding. ‘Yes. The invasion. I grew up the daughter of a minor landholder on the border with a neighbouring country. There were always raids and clashes for control of territory. I experienced my first battle — seven of them against five of us — when I was thirteen. Shortly after that I ran away to join the Imperial Army. I was a captain with the Sixth Army when we landed on Fist.’

‘And you… deserted?’

If the woman was offended, she did not show it. Her expression turned more grim as she studied the far tent wall. ‘You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you? Greymane, Stonewielder, denounced by Malazan Command. Betraying the army, or some such nonsense.’

Or consorting with the Stormriders to undermine the Korelri.

She shrugged. ‘In any case, I was too vocal in my support for him. When he was ousted I had to flee, or face the knife.’ She shrugged again. ‘That’s about it. I wandered, was unable to find transport out of the subcontinent. An attempt to travel south overland brought me to Beneth. And he saved my life.’

‘I see,’ Ivanr breathed. What more could one say to such a tale? Dear gods, are you no more than manipulators of chance and fate? No wonder so far her tactics had defeated the Jourilan. Ivanr knew his own land was too tradition-bound in its methods, too tied to known ways of doing things. This woman came trained in a tradition infamous for its pragmatic embrace of the unconventional. These Malazans would adapt whatever worked; and in Ivanr’s eyes that was to be admired, even though such flexibility and adaptation served them ill here in these lands — leaving them Malazan in name and no more.

Martal bowed and left soon after, and Ivanr let her go. He set the revelation far back in his mind — no hint could be given to anyone — and part of him, the tactician, couldn’t help but admire how in a single stroke the admission, the intimacy of the secret, had entirely bought his trust.

And he tried not to dwell on the conversation until word came to the Army of Reform of a second Malazan invasion.

Some days later a runner summoned Ivanr to the command tent. There he found Martal and lesser officers, including Carr, now a captain, cross-examining a sweaty and exhausted citizen.

‘What evidence was there?’ Martal was asking.

The man, dressed like a common labourer, blinked, uncertain. ‘No evidence, Commander. Everyone agreed, though. The entire ship’s company was alive with the news. Malazan vessels had broken the Mare blockade.’

Ivanr looked sharply at Martal. The woman did not glance at him.

‘Ship’s company? How many?’ another officer asked.

‘Over two hundred, sir.’

‘And they were all in agreement?’

The man blushed. ‘I did not question all. But everyone was talking at once on the pier and none contradicted or disagreed with the others. All carried the same news.’

‘And this vessel came from Stygg?’ Carr asked.

‘Yes, sir. From Shroud. Everyone said they saw signs of Stygg readying for invasion.’

Someone else entered behind Ivanr and all the officers stared, quietening. Ivanr turned: it was the mage, Sister Gosh, in her layered muddied skirts, shawls and stringy iron-grey hair. Martal raised a hand. ‘It is all right. She is welcome.’

‘The news is true,’ Sister Gosh said. ‘A second Malazan invasion.’

Martal glared at the old woman. ‘Everyone out,’ she grated. The officers filed out. Sister Gosh and Ivanr remained. Once they were alone, Martal ground out, ‘You knew.’

‘Oh, yes. But you wouldn’t have believed me. Yeull, the Overlord, has managed to keep it quiet. But Malazan forces are marching upon him and a foreign fleet has entered Black Water Strait.’

Martal crossed to a table kept stocked with bread and cheese, meat, wine and tea, but she touched none of it, her back to them. ‘That man, one of Beneth’s agents in Dourkan, also mentioned certain — hardly credible — rumours about who was leading this invasion…’

‘Yes,’ Sister Gosh said softly, her expression softening. ‘They are true as well.’

The woman’s head sank forward and she leaned much of her weight upon the table. Ivanr looked to the mage. ‘Who? Who is it?’

Sister Gosh eased herself down on some cushions. ‘I think we really could use some tea.’ She looked to Ivanr, cocked a brow.

Ah. He went to the table and poured three small glasses. One he left with Martal, who had not moved, had not even acknowledged him. One he gave to Sister Gosh, and the last he sat with.

‘The second invasion is led by the man who led the first,’ Sister Gosh told him.

Ivanr’s gaze snapped to Martal’s rigid back. But that would mean… ‘No. He was discredited, denounced. How could they reinstate him?’ The very man Martal refused to condemn — at the cost of her career, almost her life. Stonewielder. The Betrayer, as the Korelri named him.

Still facing the tent wall, Martal spoke, her voice almost fey. ‘The worship has been stamped out here in these lands, but we Malazans pay homage to chance, or fate, in the persona of twins. Oponn, the two-faced god of luck.’ She shook her head. ‘Who would have thought…’

‘I believe Beneth did,’ said Sister Gosh.

Martal turned and for a fleeting instant Ivanr caught something in her gaze, something like hope, or a desperate yearning, before the woman’s usual cool hard mask reasserted itself and he felt a pang of disappointment. I am no Beneth. To this woman there can be no other Beneth. Like her loyalty to her previous commander, this woman’s devotion is hard won, but once given is never withdrawn.

‘How so?’ she asked, crossing her arms and leaning back against the table.

Unlike so many others, Sister Gosh did not flinch under the commander’s hard stare. ‘Think of the timing. Beneth has been hiding in the mountains for decades, receiving pilgrims, freethinkers, all the disenfranchised and disenchanted, and sending them back out as his agents and missionaries all over the land, into every city, founding sects and congregations of brethren. Laying the groundwork, in short, for a society-wide revolution. Then, out of nowhere, unbidden, inconceivably, his priestess arrives to ignite firestorms of uprisings and outright insurrections all over Jourilan. Yet still Beneth does not act. He waits years. Why?’

Her gaze narrowed, Martal almost sneered, ‘You are suggesting he was awaiting this second invasion?’

The old woman raised her shawl-wrapped shoulders. ‘Think of it. Suddenly, this year, he descends from the safety of his mountain to bring a central organizing presence to this war and reform in Jourilan. Why this year? Perhaps in his visions he saw it.’

‘Coincidence,’ Martal scoffed.

‘Coincidence?’ Sister Gosh answered, a note of scolding in her voice. ‘You who invoke Oponn?’

‘Someone had to act,’ Ivanr mused, almost to himself. ‘The Priestess so much as told me she would not fight.’

A long silence followed that comment and Ivanr looked up, blinking. ‘Yes?’

Both women were staring at him. ‘You’ve met her?’ they said in unison.

‘Well, yes.’

‘When-’ began Sister Gosh.

‘What did she say?’ Martal demanded.

‘She…’ Gods, she asked that I sit at her side… and I refused her! He swallowed, shaken. ‘She… told me… that is, she said she believed I was on the right path…’ He rubbed at his suddenly hot and sweaty brow. ‘She seemed to be…’

She believed I’d come to the path intuitively, she’d said. Laughing gods! She was trying to give me reassurance! He pressed a fold of cloth to his brow, cleared his throat.

‘What was she like?’ Sister Gosh asked.

Gods! What was she like? He daubed the cloth to his face, struggled to speak. ‘She was young. Too young for what she’d experienced. On her hands, her thin arms, and body, there were scars of beatings. Of a life of hard manual labour. Of starvation. And there was blood, too, in her past. She’d done things that tormented her. I saw all this in her eyes. Heard it in her words…’ His voice trailed away into nothing — he could bear no more.

‘I didn’t know,’ he heard Martal say, quietly.

When he looked up they were gone and he was alone. He sat staring at nothing, suddenly desolate. How could he possibly… He was nothing! Wretched! Any comparison was laughable! A mockery! How dare he parade himself as her… as some sort of… no. Impossible. He should slink off into a hole.

And yet… she had come to him. She chose him. Should he not have faith — faith! Gods, do not laugh! — in her judgement? If he had confidence in her — and he did! He felt it — should he not then honour her choices?

But it was hard. Looking ahead he saw that embracing her path would be the most challenging, the most difficult calling he could ever take on. In its light everything he had done to date could only be seen as preparatory. So be it. Whether he was worthy or not was beside the point. Only in the doing can the measure be made, and then only in hindsight.

That task he would leave to others.

The storm was as violent as any Hiam had ever witnessed. Through driving sheets of sleet he watched rolling combers the size of mountains come crashing in like landslides. The reverberations of their impact shook even these stones here in the upper reaches of the Great Tower. The clouds massed so low it seemed the very Stormwall itself was blocking their passage, while above all the sapphire and emerald glow of the Riders rippled and danced. It was as if they somehow knew. Could somehow sense this was their moment.

The closest they might ever come.

But not victory. Never that. He would not allow that. She might choose to test her instruments to their very limit… but they would not break.

They would endure.

The heavy plank door to his apartments rattled and Hiam closed and barred the shutter on the storm. Quint entered, cloak wrapped tight about him, spear in one hand, helm in the other. He’d just come from the wall and Hiam noted how the lingering energies of the enemy sorcerers, the Wandwielders, glowed like an aura about the spear’s keen tip. ‘Wall Marshal. What brings you here this ill-favoured night?’

Quint pressed up close against the desk. His scarred face was clenched, the eyes darkened slits against the light of the chambers. ‘Where is Alton?’ he whispered. Hiam winced; he’d dreaded this moment, knowing it was unavoidable. He drew breath to speak but the Wall Marshal continued: ‘Where is Gall? Longspear? Went?’ Hiam raised a hand, nodding for silence, but the man ground on, his voice cracking: ‘I can find them nowhere. No one knows where they’ve gone.’ He set his helm on the desk and gripped the spear in tight, scarred fists, the knuckles white.

‘I can answer that, Quint-’ Hiam began, but was interrupted again.

‘Section Marshal Courval is missing. A fifteen-season veteran on the wall. One of our best. He, too, has been reassigned. Lord Protector… what have you done!’

Hiam raised both hands. ‘Calm yourself, Quint. I knew you would not agree and so I did not inform you. I acted on my own authority.’

‘To do what?’ He raised his chin to the window, the storm, and the sea, beyond. ‘To weaken us now? In our time of greatest need?’

Hiam watched, fascinated, while that keen spear-tip edged down towards his chest. Strangely, he felt no fear. I let the Lady decide — as she chooses. ‘You are right, Quint. They have all been pulled from the wall.’

‘Where?’ the man gasped, sounding close to weeping.

‘An exchange, Quint. Overlord Yeull of Rool has promised ten thousand troops for one hundred Stormguard. Soldiers, Quint! Not starving, cringing prisoners or bullied conscripts. Trained fighting men.’

The man was shaking his head, his eyes swimming in tears. ‘Ten… You fool… he is laughing at you right now. They’ve been invaded — he’ll never send any of them!’

The spear was almost level now. So, it is to be the blade for me, is it, Quint? Hiam fought to keep his voice level. ‘Then Courval will return. Do you really think those Roolians could stop a hundred Stormguard?’

The Wall Marshal took a shuddering breath. His arms quivered; and Hiam knew it was not with exhaustion. The blade tilted up a notch. ‘No. No one in this entire region could stop them. Section Marshal Courval will see the impossibility of this exchange and he will return. And when he does…’ The spear’s butt slammed to the stones. ‘We will have an assembly on your leadership, Hiam. I swear to that.’

Hiam inclined his head in assent. ‘I agree, Wall Marshal. Until then.’ He waited until Quint reached for the door, then spoke again. ‘I have before me entries from your quartermaster clerks, Quint. Were you aware of Master Engineer Stimins’ many requisitions?’

From the door the man grimaced his impatience. ‘What?’

‘Monies for labourers. For tools, stone, chain, rope, and other such equipment?’

‘What do I care for the man’s stones and rope?’

‘You should, Quint. If I were you I would be far more concerned about Stimins’ continuing construction work than my, ah, unorthodox efforts to bolster our numbers.’

The Wall Marshal dismissed Hiam’s words with a curt wave and slammed the door shut behind him.

Hiam sat for a time in the dim office. Beyond the shutters the wind howled and battered like a fiend struggling to break through. You kept quiet about it, Stimins. I wouldn’t have found out but for oh-so-conscientious Shool. Pray let it not be the foundation behind Wind Tower. What had been his words? We may have one hundred years — or one.

Poor Quint. Did he not see that should these desperate clutchings at straws fail, we will all be far too busy for a leadership review. Perhaps I should step down? Save him the trouble. It would be good to be facing them spear in hand again when…

But no. That is an unworthy thought. Forgive me, Blessed Lady! I mustn’t give in to weakness. We will prevail as we always have. Too much rests upon our shoulders. The lives of every man, woman, and child of this region even unto the Ice Wastes rely upon us!

Hiam pressed his hands to his hot face and felt the wetness there at his eyes. Forgive my weakness, Lady. Yea, though the shadow of doubt is upon me, I shall not waver…

For some reason Shell hadn’t anticipated that they would be split up. It was done expertly, with a brutal efficiency born of centuries of handling captives. Lazar had led their manacled file — either by chance or by design — while Shell followed, then Blues, and lastly Fingers. Their escort chivvied them up along a steep climb through a town whose bundled inhabitants hardly looked up from their daily tasks: just one more file of condemned on their way to an anonymous death upon the wall. They climbed to a fortress that squatted half sheltered under a rocky slope that rose even higher. Once inside the fortress they were pulled and pushed into a series of underground corridors. After much marching Shell was thoroughly lost and they had passed far into what seemed a great sprawling underground complex. Heavy bronze-bound doors led off the halls into tiny rooms, cells perhaps, and further corridors.

Without warning barred gates thrust across the narrow corridor they walked, separating Lazar at the front and Fingers at the rear. Lazar tensed to fight but a sharp sign from Blues stood him down, and he relaxed, reluctantly. The guards unlatched the big fighter from the chain gang and led him off down another corridor; the same was done to Fingers, who called after them: ‘See you around!’ Shell and Blues were left together for the moment until a Chosen soldier in his silvered blue-black armour and dark blue cloak unhitched Blues and led him off.

She was alone. After the Chosen escorting Blues up another corridor had disappeared, a regular local guard pulled at her blonde hair. ‘You’re for the wall, then,’ he said, so close she could smell his foul breath. ‘What a waste. How ’bout a last screw before you die? Hmm?’

She kneed him in the groin and he fell gasping. Before the rest of the escort could react she stomped on his upturned face, spraying blood all down his chest. Only then did they grab her arms and she allowed them to pull her away — that had been enough of a demonstration. Two of her escort remained behind to walk the injured guard to an infirmary, leaving only three to restrain her. She realized she could easily overpower these, but that was not her intent. She could hardly find Bars as a fugitive on the run. And so she meekly submitted to their amateurish cuffs and prodding.

Now she sat in a holding pen, fettered at the ankles, legs drawn up tight to her chest to help conserve her warmth. Lining both walls of the long narrow chamber were her putative co-combatants: a more surly and unimpressive lot she couldn’t have imagined. Prisoners all, unwilling, uncooperative, more like those condemned to die by execution than fighting men and women who believed they possessed any chance for survival. Shell was mystified. With these tools the Chosen expected to defend the wall? They might as well throw these people off the top for all the difference it would make.

‘Who here is a veteran?’ she called out to the entire chamber. ‘Anyone stood before?’

In the torchlit gloom eyes glittered as they shifted to her. A brazier in the centre of the room crackled and hissed in the silence. ‘Who in the Lady’s name are you?’ someone shouted.

‘Foreign bitch!’

‘Malazan whore!’

A man who had been ladling out stew up and down the line knelt before her. ‘There’s no point,’ he murmured as he dropped a portion of stew into a bowl at her feet.

‘We’d have a better chance if we-’

‘Chance? What chance is it you think most here have?’ On his haunches he studied her, his gaze sympathetic. ‘You are Malazan, yes?’ She nodded. ‘Already then they hate you. What’s worse, you are a veteran, yes?’ She nodded again, but puzzled now. ‘So most here hate you even more. And why? Because already you stand a much greater chance of surviving than they — you see?’

‘If we worked together we’d all stand a much greater chance.’

He shook his head. ‘No. It does not work that way.’

His accent was strange to her. ‘You’re not from round here either.’

‘No. I’m from south Genabackis.’ He stood, motioned to a man apparently asleep two places down, older, with a touch of grey in his hair. ‘Ask him how it works.’

‘Thank you — what’s your name?’

He paused, looking back. ‘Jemain.’

‘Shell.’

‘Good luck, Shell.’

She squinted over at the older fellow, ignored the continuing insults regarding her person and what she might do with a spear. ‘Hey, you — old man!’

The fellow did not stir. He must be awake; no one could sleep amid all this uproar. She found a piece of stone and threw it at him. He cracked open an eye, rubbed his unshaven jaw.

‘What’s the routine?’ she demanded.

He sighed as if already exhausted by her, said, ‘It’s in pairs. One shieldman. One spearman — or woman,’ he added, nodding to her.

‘That’s stupid. We should mass together, fend them off.’

He was shaking his head. ‘That’s not the Stormguard’s priority. Their priority is to cover the wall. There’s a good stone’s throw between you and the next pair.’

‘That’s stupid,’ she repeated. This entire exercise struck her as stupid. An utter waste.

The older fellow shrugged. He was eyeing her now, narrowly. ‘You’re not Sixth Army.’

‘No. I’m not.’

‘What’re you doing here then?’

‘Shipwrecked on the west coast.’

‘What in Hood’s name you doin’ there?’

It was her turn to shrug. He bared his yellowed teeth in answer to his own question. ‘Reconnaissance, hey?’

She didn’t reply and he leaned his head back against the stone wall. ‘Don’t matter. We’re not goin’ anywhere.’

Two days later the Chosen came for them.

The bronze-bound door slammed open and a detail entered to unlatch the chain securing their ankle fetters. Covered by crossbowmen, the lines along both walls stood. At an order one file, Shell’s, began shuffling along out of the door. The line walked corridors, ever upwards, the air getting colder and steadily more damp. They came out into a night-time snowstorm. Guards pushed them up steep ice-slick stairs cut from naked stone. The cold snatched Shell’s breath away and bit at her hands and feet. To left and right lay slopes of heaped boulders rising up to disappear into the driven snow that came blasting from the darkness. The guards urged them on with blows from the flat of their blades. As she walked she tore a strip of cloth from her inner shirt and wrapped it round her hands.

From down beneath the rock came a great shudder that struck Shell like a blow. Stones tumbled and grated amid the boulders. A roar sounded above, a waterfall thundering, which slowly passed. The file of prisoners exchanged wide-eyed, terrified glances.

The Stormwall. She was to stand it. Only now did the certitude of such an unreal and outrageous fate strike home. Who would’ve imagined it? The stairs led up into a tower and a circular staircase. In a chamber within the tower two Chosen Stormguard awaited them at the only other exit, a portal leading to narrow ascending stairs. A single brazier cast a weak circle of warmth in the centre of the room. ‘Sit,’ one of the Stormguard told them.

While they waited, regular guards distributed sets of battered armour, mostly studded leathers, some boiled cuirasses, a few leather caps. All the equipment bore the gouges and scars of terrible blows — many obviously mortal. Just for the warmth, Shell grabbed a cap and strapped it on tight. No one spoke. Two men vomited where they sat. One shuffled to the piss-hole in a corner at least five times. The vomit froze solid on the stone-flagged floor.

Shell saw piled rags and took a bunch to wrap round her head, neck and hands. The old veteran, she noticed, had unwound a scarf from his waist and wrapped it round his head and neck.

A shout echoed from the stairway and the Stormguard closed on the front of the line. While one watched, the other struck the chain from the fetters. The first two, the first ‘pair’, were pushed up the stairs.

Counting off, Shell looked at the man next to her, her partner to be. He was skinny and shuddering uncontrollably — either from the cold or from terror. ‘What’s your name?’

The man flinched as if she’d struck him. ‘What?’

‘Your name… what is it?’

‘What does that matter? We’re dead, aren’t we?’

‘Quiet,’ one of the Stormguard warned.

‘We’re planning!’ she answered, glaring. The man scowled but didn’t answer. ‘Have you used a spear?’

The fellow looked on the verge of tears. ‘What? A spear? You think it matters? You think we have a chance?’

‘This is your last warning,’ the Stormguard said quietly.

Shell muttered a response. Shit! I’m going to be chained to this fool? I’d be better off on my own. She leaned forward, trying to pull more warmth from the brazier. Well… it may just come to that…

The wait lengthened. Everyone sat in an agony of tense anticipation. After what seemed half the night one of the Stormguard squinted up the narrow chute of stairs and then back at them. ‘Sleep,’ he said.

Shell did not sleep. She sat back, eyes slitted, while the man next to her nodded off — though perhaps he simply passed out in an utter exhaustion of dread. At intervals, one Stormguard paced the chamber. She watched him when he passed. Who were these soldiers? Their manner struck her as one of a military order, one dedicated to their Blessed Lady. She’d heard of them all her life, of course; they were always cited in admiration. And she could admit to having once shared that awe for what seemed — from far away — an honourable calling. Once.

Now, they’d rather fallen in her regard.

Eventually, inevitably, their turn came. The Stormguard struck them from the chain and pushed them up the narrow stone stairway. Her partner went first, and when he reached the top someone passed him a spear, which he flinched from before shakily taking.

Fanderay help us. The shield was thrust at her. It was a broad curved rectangle of layered wood, bone and bronze. The narrow chute of the stairway opened on to a small frigid room with one door; that door was lined in rime, its threshold wet with melted ice and slush. She knew where that door led.

While she fought with the shield’s old strapping the entire structure around and beneath her shuddered, jerking, and a great booming burst through the room like a thunderclap. She rocked, taking a step. Ice fell like glass shards from the walls. The regular guards holding cocked crossbows on her and her partner grinned at them over the stocks of their weapons.

The outer door slammed open and in came a Stormguard. Sleet and wind-tossed salt spume coated his cloak. His longsword was drawn and he gestured to them with it. Her partner, to whom she was linked by a few arms’ length of chain, gaped at the Chosen, frozen in terror, or disbelief. His eyes blazing within his narrow vision slit, the Stormguard snatched the spear close to its wide leaf-shaped blade and yanked the man forward.

In this undignified manner they stumbled out on to the marshalling walk of the Stormwall. A brutal wind cut at Shell while sleet slashed almost level. The coming dawn brightened the east behind massed heavy clouds. The Stormguard urged them along, now tugging on the chain linking them. As he force-marched them he was yelling: ‘You will face the enemy. You will fight! If you flinch or cringe I will kill you myself! And believe me… you have a better chance against them than against me!’

He led them up stairs that were no more than flows of ice cascading down from a higher wall, a machicolation perhaps. Here the cut stones sloped downward, no doubt to cast the wash of the crashing waves back over the face of the wall.

Shell reached the top and had her breath stolen from her. The sea raged beneath a horizon-wide ceiling of black cloud. White caps tossed up scarves of spume while overhead curtains of blue-green bands shimmered and danced.

The Stormguard was hammering their chain to a pin close to the lip of the wall. Shell’s partner stared at her, horror and despair in his eyes. Past him, through a gap in the blowing snow, she caught two figures crouched in the middle distance.

Straightening, the Stormguard faced them. ‘Fight, and there’s a good chance you’ll live. Refuse to fight and I’ll slit you like a dog. Remember that.’ And he jogged away down the stairs.

The man with her threw down his spear.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Give me the shield!’ he demanded, shivering as if palsied.

‘What?’

‘Give me the shield!’

She considered breaking his neck right then and there, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She thrust the shield at him and retrieved the spear. ‘You cover me with that blasted thing,’ she told him, but he didn’t seem to be listening.

They didn’t have long to wait. From the east came a distant rumbling as of a roll of thunder. A wave’s coming. The Riders come with the crest, probing for weaknesses. She readied the spear, opted for a broad stance, the haft extended out as far ahead as possible. Best then not appear weak.

The sea appeared to swell as a great rolling comber heaved itself shoreward. It came at an angle, striking to the east first, rumbling down the wall like an avalanche. Phosphorescent light gleamed within, shimmering and winking. The Riders.

As the wave drew abreast it crested the wall to send a wash over her numb feet and legs up to her knees. Some thing flowed past, a shape, gleaming in oily rainbow shades of mother-of-pearl. Her partner recoiled, bumping her — for a moment she was afraid he was going to try to clutch her.

‘You saw it!’ he stammered. ‘They are daemons!’ He threw down the shield to claw at the ring and pin imprisoning them.

‘Pick up the shield,’ she told him, fighting to keep her voice calm. A secondary swell grew following the main crest. ‘Hurry.’

He yanked, sobbing. Blood from his frozen, torn fingers smeared the naked iron.

‘Pick it up.’

The swell rolled abreast of them. The man reached out to her. ‘Use the spear! Lever-’

A slim jagged weapon thrust from the face of the water to burst through the man’s chest. It withdrew before Shell could respond. Something reared, lunging, a humanoid figure, armoured, helmed. Steam plumed from it as it thrust at her. Despite her shock Shell parried, then the Rider’s own momentum carried it off and away with the receding wave.

Shell was left alone, chained to a corpse in the blowing snow. To the west she watched another pair engage the wave as it passed their station, then all was quiet as the sea withdrew. It seemed to be readying itself as lesser waves hammered and clashed. She shivered; her feet were now far beyond any feeling whatsoever. She wondered whether she could walk even if she had the chance.

It seemed she would have to wait. She considered the body hardening at her feet, the chain linked to its ankle fetter, the razor edge of the spear. A lever, he had suggested… but no. He wasn’t impeding her. Not yet.

No relief came. Shell knelt down on her haunches, blew on her fingers while hugging her frigid legs to her. Damn the shield; she’d use the spear two-handed.

The temptation to reach out to her Warren was almost irresistible. Just the quickest summoning of power and she would be free — but then where would she go? And the Lady would sear her mind more surely than these Riders might skewer her. She might be a mage foremost… but she was also an Avowed of the Crimson Guard, and she would show these Riders what that meant.

The huge cut stones of the wall shuddering beneath her feet announced the arrival of another wave. She watched its ice-skeined bulge as it came rolling in from the north-east. Flashes of lightning accompanied it, and greenish light danced above. Like mast-fire it was

… the brilliance that sometimes possessed a vessel.

Shell readied herself, searched for purchase over the treacherous ice-sheathed stone. Her hands, she noticed, alarmed, were now frozen to the spear’s haft. The wave rolled along the fortifications, cresting over the top as it came. When it swelled abreast of her a figure seemed to lift itself from the water, carrying lance and shield. It reared, heaved the lance at her. She parried. As it went for the sword sheathed at its side she thrust with her spear, taking him, or it, on the shield. In a practised move the Rider took hold of her spear haft then threw itself backwards into the water, taking the weapon with it. Her hands flamed as skin was torn in strips.

She cursed in a blind white fury worse than any she had known before. Damn these scum! I will not die here! The vow I swore was against the Malazans! A second Rider reared before her on whatever it was they rode — water animate as half wave, half beast-like mount. Weaponless, there was nothing for it but to hammer an arm across the front of the attacker, unhorsing him. As he fell she grabbed the pommel of his sheathed sword but the touch burned her hand as if she’d sunk it into embers and she cried out, recoiling.

Thankfully, the wave subsided, rolling on. She sank to her knees, cradling her numb hand to her chest. Damn them all! Stupid fucking waste!

Still no relief came. She knelt, panting; blood froze in a sheath on her hands. She felt so sluggish, utterly numb. Strangely, there was no pain. It was as if she were floating. Maybe if I just lie down for a moment…

Rattling shook her to wakefulness. Someone was hammering at the ice-encrusted ring and pin imprisoning her. Her chains came free and he reached for her. Standing, she straight-armed the man from her. She swore at him but her lips were numb and she could only mumble. He seemed to study her for a time through the narrow vision slit of his helm, then he grasped the chains and dragged them, pulling her and the corpse off the wall.

They knocked the fetters from her in the tiny marshalling room, then she was prodded back down the stairs. A guard kept her moving, a bared blade levelled against her. In the prison chamber she was reattached to the main gang-chain and she allowed herself to slide down the wall in what felt like the most luxurious warmth imaginable.

Almost immediately she fell asleep. Some time later she awoke to a touch on her foot. It was the prisoner who’d fed them earlier, Jemain. He knelt to rub a greasy unguent on her face, arms, legs and hands. ‘It will prevent infection and aid healing,’ he told her.

She saw his bare ankles. ‘You’re not chained,’ she noted belatedly.

‘I’m a trustee.’ Lowering his voice, he added, ‘That was quite a show you put on. Be careful or they will move you to a hot spot.’

She laughed, hurting her cracked lips. ‘That wasn’t hot?’

He smiled. ‘Oh no. First they put you on a slow station — see what you can do.’

A new Chosen entered the chamber, blue cloak wrapped tight about him. He spoke in low tones with the two Stormguard. Jemain lowered his head to mutter, ‘Too late.’

The two posted guards marched down the line to Shell. While one watched, hand on swordgrip, the other struck her from the chain. This one then freed the older Malazan soldier as well, and linked her and him together.

‘She needs time to heal,’ Jemain told them. ‘Her hands-’

The nearest Stormguard struck him a blow that sent him tumbling. Shell lashed out but the Chosen slipped the blow, drawing his weapon to strike her in the gut with the pommel. She grunted without falling and the man fell back one step, his eyes widening behind the narrow vision slit. The old Malazan veteran threw an arm across Shell to draw her back as well.

She knocked his arm aside. ‘Don’t you dare touch me, Malazan scum.’

The veteran let his arm fall to look her up and down, wonder on his face. ‘Togg take me…’ he breathed. The trustee, Jemain, also stared up at her — he looked about to say something. The Stormguard drew his blade, gestured to the exit.

Glaring her fury, Shell gave the faintest of nods. She edged her way through the narrow chamber. The eyes of all those chained along both walls watched her pass. As she came to Jemain he raised an arm and she helped him up. Hugging her close, he whispered, ‘Do you know Bars?’ Then he gasped as her grip tightened convulsively.

‘Where is he?’ she grated.

‘I know.’

‘Come to me.’

‘Get a move on,’ the Stormguard ordered.

Pulling away, he murmured, ‘I’ll try.’

She let him go, forcing her burning hands to open, then shuffled on. The Malazan veteran, she noted, also gave the trustee a long hard stare as he passed.

So this Jemain knew Bars. But then, here on the wall, who did not? Perhaps it was nothing. But the Malazan appeared close to guessing her identity as well. And she was now paired with him. Well, as before… she may be better off alone…

Esslemont, Ian Cameron

Stonewielder