Stonewielder

CHAPTER X

Entering Banith, Greymane established his headquarters in the warehouse the Moranth Blue occupied. Devaleth was pleased to see that when the High Fist and Admiral Swirl met, they shared a long clasp. Admiral Nok, she’d heard, was not present as the man had famously sworn a vow never to set foot on land again. The two immediately sat down to discuss tactics. Orders went out to the Fists, Rillish and Khemet Shul, who were in the field overseeing the disposition of the troops.

While she was pleased by the High Fist’s cheer, what he intended was now absolutely clear to her and the immensity, the audaciousness of it left her reeling.

Kyle noticed, and invited her aside. ‘You are unwell?’

Her voice was shaky as she answered, very low, ‘Do you have any idea what this man is actually going to go through with?’

‘A landing on Korel, yes.’

She stared at him, shocked that he could say that so casually. ‘It is clear you are all from elsewhere. What-’ She stopped herself, searching for the right words. ‘What does he intend regarding… regarding the Stormwall?’

The young man did not look sure himself. He felt his way through it as he spoke: ‘I believe he intends to break the power of the Korelri here in this subcontinent. That he sees that as the only way he can truly win here.’ He was nodding as he finished. ‘And I agree,’ he added half to himself. ‘As to the Stormwall… The Malazans may have to step into the Korelris’ place for a time.’

Devaleth twisted her hands across her stomach where they clenched, knuckles white. ‘If you do that you will be trapped there for ever.’ And she walked away, gaze lowered.

Fist Rillish entered, and saluted. ‘You requested my presence, High Fist?’

Greymane leaned back against his table, which was cluttered with ledgers and curled orders. He pushed back his long iron-grey hair, and for a time eyed the man from under his heavy brows, his blue eyes stormy. ‘Yes. Fist. We are disembarking for Korel with all speed. You know that. However, the worst option is that we may be repulsed. In which case we will need a secure port to return to. Banith, here in Rool, will be that port. Therefore, we cannot entirely abandon Rool.’

Devaleth’s stomach clenched in dread. Oh, no, Greymane — do not do this to him…

The Untan nobleman paled, swaying. ‘High Fist,’ he whispered, his voice cracking, ‘I beg you. Do not separate me from the Fourth.’

‘I will leave four thousand troops with you.’

‘Captain Betteries, or Captain Perin, surely…’

‘A captain cannot be the effective administrative head of a country, Fist. You know that.’

‘Greymane,’ Kyle murmured, ‘perhaps-’

‘You’re staying too.’

Kyle flinched upright. ‘What!’ He stared in disbelief. ‘You will need me for the landing!’

Greymane met his gaze: he seemed to be trying to tell the lad something. ‘With you here, Kyle, I’m confident at least Rool will remain in Malazan hands.’

‘With your permission…’ Fist Rillish grated, turning abruptly and leaving. Kyle glared his confusion but Greymane looked away, lowering his head, mouth clenched. Muttering a curse under his breath, Kyle stormed out to find the Fist. Bowing, Devaleth followed.

She found them down on the wharf. The Fist was staring out over the harbour where the Blue vessels were readying to disembark. Already troops were heading out on launches for the larger men-of-war anchored in the bay. Kyle was standing nearby, also deep in thought. A chilling wind off the bay clawed at all of them and clouds roiled overhead, coasting inland.

‘You must be very angry with me,’ the Fist said, casting Kyle a quick glance.

‘Angry? With you?’

The man shrugged, still staring out over the bay. ‘If it weren’t for me you’d be accompanying him, yes?’

‘I think he is right in keeping you here,’ Devaleth said. ‘If only he’d done it differently…’

A strained smile from Rillish: ‘Diplomacy is not Stonewielder’s strength.’

‘We need to be with him. The landing will be butchery.’

‘No,’ Devaleth snapped, fierce. ‘It could easily go so badly — you will be needed here.’

The Fist took a deep breath of the icy sea air then turned to face them. His face was pale, the lines at the mouth savage. His greying hair blew about, neglected and unkempt. ‘The High Fist has made his choice. We cannot but obey. Even with Yeull fled to Korel with the majority of the Sixth there still remain the Roolian militia, straggling units, renegade companies, and this self-appointed “Baron” to deal with. We will more than have our hands full.’

‘That is not reason enough to leave us behind,’ Kyle ground out.

‘You are not considering another reason,’ Devaleth said, her gaze arched. ‘I believe the man has just saved both your lives.’

Kyle and Rillish shared a rueful glance, then she saw in their faces the realization: as High Mage, she would be accompanying Greymane.

*

Suth charged up the stairs of the inn the 4th Company had occupied when it entered Banith, threw open the door to his squad’s room and began pulling his equipment together. Pyke lay on one pallet while Wess lay on another, apparently asleep.

‘Get a move on,’ he told them, quickly packing his roll. ‘They’re lining up to board.’

Pyke watched, an arm under his head, a mocking smile at his lips. He raised a bottle and took a sip. ‘Haven’t you heard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘We ain’t goin’.’

Suth looked up from his packing. ‘What?’

‘We’re stayin’.’ Pyke held the bottle on his stomach. ‘Garrisoning Banith here. Sweet berth, if you ask me. We’ll be pulling in protection dues in no time. Maybe there’ll be some girls who need extra protection, if you know what I mean.’ He winked.

Suth gripped his sword, newly sharpened and wrapped in its belt. He goes to find a grinder and now this happens? He threw it down. ‘You’re full of shit, Pyke.’

For once the man wasn’t nettled. He grinned, sipping his wine. ‘Go ask fat-arse Goss. He’s downstairs.’

Suth waved him a gesture and stormed down the stairs. He found the sergeant, and most of the squad, at a table towards the rear. ‘What’s this?’ he demanded, standing over them.

Goss sank back in his seat, a tall stoneware stein before him. ‘It’s true,’ he growled, sounding defeated. Yana nodded, head in her hands, elbows on the table.

‘Imparala Ar take them! That is so full of shit!’

Someone cuffed Suth from behind, a trooper he recognized from the 10th. ‘Good luck with these old ladies here in Banith — watch out for their canes!’ The next table over burst out laughing.

Suth waved him off with a sick laugh of his own. Len kicked out a chair. Suth threw himself down. ‘Who else?’

‘The 11th, the 6th, a few others,’ Len answered.

‘The 20th?’

Len shook his head. ‘They’re going.’

‘Sure — they get to go!’ Yana snarled.

‘It’ll be damned ugly,’ Goss warned, taking a deep drink. Len frowned down at the table. Keri looked pained, either for herself or for those going, Suth wasn’t sure.

Lard just sighed. ‘An’ we’re gonna miss it. I was so lookin’ forward to it.’

Suth eyed the big man. He really couldn’t say he was looking forward to it; he no longer needed to clash swords to see who was stronger or faster. The reason he wanted to go was to be there for everyone else — they’d all be needed for this ugly set-to. ‘I can’t fucking believe it.’

Goss was nodding. ‘Welcome to the army.’

*

From the windows of his office Bakune watched the occupying Malazan Army march through the streets of Banith. So they march in and they march out; Malazans go and Malazans come. Our old overlords had been Malazan yet somehow these feel different. But then I wasn’t there when the Sixth first marched in. I imagine this is what they must have looked like then too: disciplined, hardened, the veterans of invasions on five continents. But after a few decades of occupation, now look at them…

He turned away to his desk. Paperwork cluttered it. Demands from the religious hierarchy that Banith pay for repairs to the Cloister and Hospice. His denial of said demand: the church can pay for it. Though, given their disarray, there was no way of telling when that would occur. Demands from citizens for recompense regarding billeting and the occupation of rooms. Lost income, damages. Bakune could only shake his head. Didn’t they understand that these were their conquerors? They could do as they pleased. So far no one had been killed on either side: that was the important fact.

And his request for an audience with this new High Fist — though he was far from relishing meeting the greatest fiend of the age. The Betrayer, Stonewielder, Greymane himself! Who would have thought it? A figure out of the old tales mothers used to scare their children.

Now here to scare them in truth.

So far, to his relief, his request had gone unanswered. He’d dealt with only minor officers to date, captains and lieutenants. Brusque and rigid all, but reassuringly professional in their demeanour. It was all cautiously encouraging — but then, no doubt the Sixth had also been similarly professional. In the beginning.

And Ipshank? Where was he? Gone to ground? He missed the man’s counsel, especially now. Damn the man for disappearing when needed most.

A knock at his door. ‘Enter.’

Captain Hyuke of the City Watch entered, and slumped down into a chair. He brushed thoughtfully at his fat moustache. Bakune regarded him. ‘Well?’

‘They’re leavin’ all right. Shippin’ out for Korel. Chasin’ after the Overlord. Gonna have it out with him. It’s outta our hands now…’ He shrugged.

As it ever was. ‘And so?’

He continued grooming the long moustache. ‘They’ll leave some kinda small contingent behind, course…’

Bakune glared impatiently. ‘Yes?’

The man lifted his shoulders in a regretful hunch. ‘Well, there’ll be trouble. People will start gettin’ ideas. There’ll be ambushes, killin’. Then there’ll be retribution, arrests, executions. Things’ll escalate. It’ll be ugly.’

Bakune pressed his fingertips to his temples. Damn all the gods! An insurrection. That was the last problem he needed right now. Just when things were settling down. He regarded his Watch captain. ‘You’ll just have to keep that from happening then, won’t you?’

The man scratched his scalp, examined his blackened fingertips. ‘Well, that’ll put your name and mine at the top of their list, won’t it?’

Bakune blinked. Am I not already condemned as a collaborator? Have there not already been attempts on my life? Hasn’t someone already tried to break into my house? ‘That would seem unavoidable. Unless you wish to quit? Or are you suggesting there exists an alternative?’

The man seemed to squirm in embarrassment. He coughed into his fist. ‘Well, there is this Roolian general up in the hills… he already controls most of the south. Mosta the militia ’n’ insurgents ’n’ such swear loyalty to him. He’s offered to quash all that violence. Keep a lid on things…’

Bakune sat back, his gaze narrowing. He did not like the direction this was headed. ‘And?’ he mouthed, already knowing the answer.

Again, an almost apologetic shrug from Hyuke. ‘All you have to do is look the other way while he’s recruiting and resupplying ’n’ such, that’s all.’

Bakune felt his gaze harden into an icy glare. Play both sides. How distasteful. Was he to betray his vows to uphold the laws of the land? Yet whose laws? The laws of an occupying foreign military elite? What loyalty could they demand from him? Or reasonably expect, for that matter?

He cleared his throat. ‘And what guarantees can this general possibly offer that he will not launch any operations here in Banith? The Malazans are here, after all. I’ll not have this city become a war zone!’

Hyuke nodded, pained. ‘Oh, that won’t happen. He gives you his sworn word. He’s busy consolidating right now anyway. Bringing order to more provinces.’

‘Eliminating his rivals, you mean.’

An embarrassed shrug.

‘And does this Roolian general have a name, then?’

‘Ah, well, that’s his guarantee, you see…’

Bakune sighed, impatient. ‘Yes?’

‘The general’s name is Karien’el.’

Lord Protector Hiam met Overlord Yeull in a pavilion raised to the east of Elri. Wall Marshal Quint accompanied him, as did his aide, Shool. The encampment of the landed Roolian troops sprawled like an instant city down the shore to the very strand. Ships lay anchored off shore. Reports from the regular Korelri guard had made it clear that far more than the agreed-upon ten thousand had disembarked. Arriving, Hiam saw this to be true. It occurred to him that any other ruler would view such a landing as an invasion. But no other ruler had standing behind him the Stormwall and the absolute truth of his indispensability.

Guards opened the heavy cloth flaps and Hiam ducked beneath them. Within, a wall of heat struck him like a fist closing on his chest. Overlord Yeull sat next to a great glowing heap of embers resting on a wide iron bowl. Next to him stood a tall slim man, grey-bearded, in pale creamy robes sashed at the waist. The Overlord stood, straightened a thick fur hide slung over his shoulders, and bowed.

Hiam answered the bow. ‘Welcome, Overlord, to Korel.’

‘Lord Protector. You are most gracious to allow us to land.’

Quint and Shool entered and Hiam introduced them. Overlord Yeull gestured to the man beside him. ‘Ussu, my chief adviser.’

‘I must say,’ Hiam began, ‘I was most surprised to hear that you would be accompanying your troops.’

Yeull sat, held his hands over the embers. The man acted as if he were chilled to the bone despite the crushing heat within the tent, his layers of clothes, his fur cloak, and the sweat dripping from his sallow brow. He nodded his assent to the point. ‘I will not prevaricate, Lord Protector. I am here because the Betrayer, Stonewielder, is coming here.’

Hiam glanced at Quint, who could not keep the scorn from his expression. ‘Really, Overlord? I rather thought you’d come here because the Betrayer had defeated you and you had nowhere else to go.’

The man leapt from his chair, blood darkening his face. ‘How dare you! Here you are, hard pressed, with barely the numbers necessary to defend the wall, and I come offering aid — and this is how you repay me!’

The adviser, Ussu, eased the Overlord back into his seat. He raised his hands to speak. ‘Please. Lords. Let us not quarrel. It seems to me that like any agreement both parties have something to gain and something to give. We pledge ten thousand in support of the wall — our half of a pact of mutual defence. Surely our presence is a welcome boon, yes?’

Hiam inclined his head in acquiescence. ‘Well spoken, sir. You are welcome, Overlord. For so long as you contribute to the defence of the Stormwall, you may remain as guests in our lands.’

‘And should there be Malazan landings here in Korel we will defend the shores,’ said Yeull. ‘Surely, in such an event, you too would fly to the defence of your lands.’

‘Certainly,’ Hiam responded. No matter how unlikely.

Ussu bowed. ‘Very good. Then we are in accord. Our thanks, Lord Protector.’

Overlord Yeull inclined his head a fraction. ‘Agreed.’

‘Agreed,’ supplied Hiam. ‘And now, my apologies, but duties on the wall demand my presence. I really must return.’

‘I understand,’ said Yeull, thinly. ‘Another time, Lord Protector.’

Hiam bowed. ‘Another time.’

Outside the tent, the adviser, Ussu, joined their party as they walked back to their mounts: three of the few horses the Stormguard kept for extremely vital messages. Hiam nodded to him. ‘Adviser Ussu, how may we help you?’

The man walked with hands clasped at his back, head bowed. ‘Lord Protector, a small request.’

‘Yes?’

‘Word has reached me of your current champion of the wall…’

‘Yes?’

‘That he speaks Malazan, that is, Quon Talian, yet is not of the Sixth Army…’

‘Yes. That is so.’ They reached their horses. Roolian troops steadied them while they struggled to mount.

‘I wonder if I may have permission to see him? To speak to him?’

Tightening his reins, Hiam shrugged. ‘I do not see why not. If you wish. Shool, arrange it, won’t you?’

‘Certainly,’ Shool answered as he fought to get his foot into the stirrup.

Ussu helped the aide steady his foot then bowed as they cantered off. Poor riders, these Korelri. I wonder how much support we can count on when Stonewielder arrives. Very little, no doubt. I do not see this man pulling troops from the wall. And this champion. Malazan, yet not Malazan. Bars. An unusual name. Could he be the Bars? Avowed of the Crimson Guard? Practically unkillable, these Avowed. Imagine what I could accomplish with one of them…

Ussu returned to the command tent. He found Yeull bent over the brazier.

‘Lady deliver me,’ the Overlord groaned. ‘This cold is killing me.’

‘M’lord, when can we expect Borun and the Moranth? Soon, I should hope. Greymane may be here any day.’

Yeull sank back into his chair. ‘What’s that? The Moranth? Ussu — no ships have been sent. Nor will they ever be sent.’

Ussu felt as if he’d been slapped. He stared, open-mouthed. So shocked was he that he almost took the man by his collar and shook him. ‘What? I do not see-’

Yeull roused himself, furious once more. ‘See? See? You do not see? Who are the Malazan allies in this, Ussu? Did you not see those reports?’

‘Yes. The Moranth, but-’

‘Yes! The Moranth. Exactly! They cannot be trusted. They are foreign. You cannot trust these foreigners.’

We are foreigners, you fool! The man had just thrown away their greatest advantage! How was he to salvage this? How could he salvage it? Lady — give him strength! Ussu forced himself to move to a table where tea brewed. He took his time preparing a glass. Eventually, he cleared his throat. ‘He will land here, south of Kor?’

‘Yes. Of that I am certain.’

‘How so, may I ask?’

The man’s voice took on a cunning, almost insinuating whisper. ‘The Lady guides me in these things, Ussu. Now go and prepare. We will meet them on the shore and they will drown in the waves.’

Ussu knew not to dispute that tone. He bowed. ‘Very good, m’lord.’

*

As they rode north, Hiam gestured Quint up beside him. The Wall Marshal awkwardly urged his mount into a faster canter. ‘So what do you think?’ Hiam asked. ‘And none of your usual smooth talk.’

Quint spat, hands in a death’s grip on the reins. ‘A lot more than ten thousand arrived, Hiam,’ he pointed out.

The Lord Protector laughed. ‘Is that the closest to an apology I’ll get out of you?’

The man winced, his facial scars twitching. ‘They came all right,’ he admitted. ‘But he came with them.’

Hiam shook his head. Poor Quint — the man apologizes then takes it away with his next breath. ‘Yes, he came. And his men will buy us the time we need till the end of the season. Then, come spring and summer, we will help reinstall him. He will only be on his throne because of us. And our price will be high. Very high. We will keep him there for ten thousand men a year… for the next ten years.’

Quint’s brows rose as he considered this immense number. He nodded his approval. It seemed Hiam would have this ruler squirming beneath the butt of his spear. As it should be. Every ruler from Stygg to Jourilan ought to consider themselves so indebted to us. It was only right.

‘Sir,’ Shool said, speaking up, ‘what of this claim that the Betrayer, Stonewielder, is coming to attack us? His fleet is in Banith.’

Hiam just shook his head. ‘Too much to hope for, I should think. Let him cripple his forces in some disastrous attempt at a landing. Then let the broken remnants limp back to Rool. It will be all that much easier to sweep them away come the spring.’

‘But, Stonewielder…’

Hiam glanced back. Ah, those rumours. Damn the apocalyptic leanings of these mystics of the Lady. I, too, felt their fascination once. There had been much alarm and uncertainty then… and I yielded to Cullel, allowing him to go. How I regret that now! It was… shameful. He cleared his throat. ‘He is only one man, Shool. One man cannot undo the wall.’

‘Then we just have to last the season,’ Quint growled.

Young Shool was quite shocked by this blunt admission. Hiam clenched his teeth — Quint never watched his tongue and he wished he would. This time, however, he could not bring himself to dismiss the grim forecast. Yes, Quint. We just have to last.

The Army of Reform finally reached the muddy snow-wreathed fields on the outskirts of the walled city of Ring. It gathered up its long trailing tail of camp followers, wagons, and petty merchants, into its own informal crowded township. The circumstances reminded Ivanr forcibly of Blight. Except that Ring city was some hundred times the size of Blight and they dared not enter it for fear of drowning in its sea of citizenry. In any case, smoke plumed over its red and black tiled rooftops and towers as Reformist factions battled Loyalists for control of precincts. One tall bell tower and chapel of the Lady burned even as Ivanr watched from the hillside overlooking the walls.

Inland, to the north, just on this side of the Lesser White River, lay the encampment of the Jourilan Imperial Army. Or rather, a tent city of thousands including the Emperor’s eldest son, rumoured to have been blessed by the Lady herself. He would lead the charge of the Jourilan aristocracy, which would sweep these rag-tag upstart peasants from the field — or so he no doubt imagined. And Ivanr could not help but half agree. This time he imagined they could not count on rain or some other miracle to deliver them, though it was overcast and cold, damned cold. The depths of the Stormrider-induced winter that tormented this region so.

He ducked back into his tent. Martal was overseeing the disposition of the troops. He knew she would forbid it, but he intended to be there in the front line. It would hearten these citizen-soldiers to see him there. So far it looked as if the foreign woman was proceeding as before, arranging pike formations backed by archers. Ivanr pulled his robes tighter about himself and paced his tent, unable to eat. The Imperials had seen this trick already and he’d spotted their response: their own archers and infantry milled in huge numbers in that encampment.

They would answer volley for volley. And who would win? Time, it seemed to him, was not on their side. And somewhere within that sprawling tent city was the Priestess herself. The Imperials threatened to execute her tomorrow, at dawn. What would be the army’s response? They had already lost Beneth. He would have to be there in the front lines to sense their mood, to respond, and, perhaps… to intervene.

A sigh from behind made him spin, shortsword appearing from his robes. Sister Gosh sat cross-legged on a carpet. She arched a brow at the pointed weapon, and Ivanr sheathed it beneath his robes. The old witch looked exhausted. Her thick layered skirts and shawls were dirtier than ever and she was haggard, her hair a rat’s nest of matted dirty knots.

‘Where have you been?’ he growled, though he was relieved to see her.

‘Hiding.’

‘What? Hiding? Why?’

The old woman pulled a silver flask from within her shawls, took a quick sip and sighed her pleasure. ‘Because I’m being hunted, that’s why.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t know. Some betrayer, I’m sure. There’s almost none of us left. If anyone other than I approaches you, don’t trust them, yes?’

‘If you say so.’

She relaxed, letting out a long breath, and eased her shoulders. ‘Good, good.’

‘What’s going on?’

The woman’s gaze took on a measuring cast as she seemed to examine him. ‘The end of everything, Ivanr.’

‘What? The end of the world?’

She grimaced her disgust. ‘No, no! Just change. The end of one order and the possible beginning of another. Though some do choose to see that as the end of everything, yes. In three days it will come. All I can see is that you must remember your vow, Ivanr. That is all that comes to me. Remember that.’

‘Well, if you say so. I will try.’

‘Very good.’ A spasm took the woman and she grimaced, forcing down the pain. ‘I’m sorry that I cannot be of more help, but I will be fighting my own battle — you can be sure of that.’

‘I understand. Will I not… see you?’

Grunting, the woman tried to rise. Ivanr leapt to help her up. ‘Thank you. Who is to say? Perhaps we will see each other again. I do not know. But I don’t think so.’ She crossed to the tent front.

‘What of the battle?’

Sister Gosh paused at the flap. ‘Trust Martal, Ivanr. Trust her. Yes?’ She arched a brow again.

He inclined his head in assent, smiling. ‘If you say so.’

She did not appear convinced by his contriteness, but accepted the gesture all the same. ‘Fare well, Ivanr. May all the gods guide you.’

‘Fare well.’

After she left, he sat for some time, reflecting. Yes, trust Martal. Trust this foreign Malazan. That was the question, wasn’t it?

Through the night he was woken by the noise of construction, of mattocks banging and heavy weights falling. But no alarms sounded and he eased back into sleep — it seemed Martal was constructing her siege weapons. Rather too early, he thought.

In the morning he broke his fast with hot tea and bread. When he pushed open the tent flap he was looking at a blizzard of swirling snow, and beyond that the walls of a fortress. He stared, turned a full circle. Encompassing the entire Army of Reform camp rose plank-and-beam walls extending between the tall carriages that now reared like towers in castle battlements.

By all the gods above and below! A fortress! The damned woman has built a fortress!

He walked through the camp, trying not to gape. How did she do it? Reaching the nearest wall he noticed that the inner sides, backs and fronts of the carriages had been disassembled. They now stood as open-backed, two-floored archers’ platforms. Their bottom floors were almost entirely taken up by vicious-looking ballistae that appeared able to shoot multiple bolts in a fan-shaped pattern. The woman was ready for her own siege. Nodding to the troops nearby, he climbed a ladder to a narrow catwalk that ran behind the wall. Turning left and right, he peered all along the curve of the fortress.

Amazing — but really, she didn’t mean to yield the field to the Imperials, did she? They’d just stand back and starve them out. The soldiers gathered at the wall did not appear pleased by their accomplishment; they were almost all staring silently out over the fields and Ivanr turned. There, halfway between the armies, stood a pyre of heaped wood.

The Imperials had also been busy last night.

While Ivanr watched, a detachment of some fifty horsemen slowly approached from the Imperial side. With them came a cart pulled by an ox and in the cart a slim figure in rags. Behind, the heavy cavalry were already in line, mounted and armed, pennants limp. Bearing witness. More and more men and women of the Army of Reform gathered now on the walls. He saw Martal in her black armour gazing from a nearby carriage.

Gods. What will happen? Will they rush out in a maddened fury? Isn’t that what these Imperials want? Disorder, blind rage?

Yet he sensed no rage around him. Only a quiet watchfulness; a collective breath held.

The detachment gathered to one side of the pyre. The woman — the Priestess, Ivanr could only assume from this distance — was dragged out. A priest of the Lady read charges, all in silence through the blowing snow. A tall figure in banded armour that glittered as if chased in gold led the detachment — the Emperor’s eldest son, Ranur the Third? He sat slumped forward, helm under an arm, apparently bored.

The woman was pulled up the tall heap and tied to a pole. Brands were thrust into the piled bracken, but due to the snow and sleet the pyre was reluctant to start. The Imperial soldiers tried to coax the fire to life, but it only smouldered. The woman stood straight throughout it all, unmoving, not even attempting to speak. Often, Ivanr knew, such victims had their tongues cut out prior to their execution.

The crowds of the Army of Reform massed on the walls and carriages and had to be pushed back as the plank-and-pillar construction could not support such a weight. The soldiers were sullen, but cooperative. The anger was now palpable to Ivanr — a simmering dark rage born of offence at the indignity being played out before them.

The gold-armoured figure dismounted, waving and giving orders. The woman was dragged from the smoking pyre and forced down to her knees. The man drew his sword. First, he pointed the blade in their direction in a gesture that needed no words, then he raised it over his head in both hands and brought it down in a clean sweeping cut. The Priestess’s head fell away and the troopers released her body, letting it slump into the mud and melting snow.

The wall Ivanr stood upon seemed to shake as hundreds flinched as one with that stroke.

Through the blustering snow the Imperials unlimbered a pike, set the head upon it, and left it standing on the field. They then mounted up and rode off, the ox cart bringing up the rear.

So ended the Priestess who brought the message of tolerance and worship of all deities to the subcontinent. What legends would arise, he wondered, from this day? That the fire refused to harm her holy flesh? That she went bravely to her end, scorning her tormentors? That the very sky wept to see it? For his part, Ivanr saw a sad and tragic end to a young life. A corpse in the mud and a head on a pike. He saw waste and a useless unnecessary gesture that solved nothing. Why did she comply? What lesson was there here for anyone?

Horns blaring within the compound brought Ivanr out of his reflections. The call for forming up? What was Martal thinking? He went to track her down. Pushing his way through the milling infantry, he came to the side of her big black stallion, took hold of her stirrup. ‘What are you doing?’

She peered down at him, steadied her mount. ‘What I must, Ivanr. And I’m sorry… she meant something to you, I know that.’

‘You build walls then you charge out on to the field? You’re doing what they want!’

‘Let’s hope they think so.’ She kneed her mount forward.

Yet perhaps you are, Martal. He climbed the nearest wall offering a view over the western fields. Crowds pushed a number of carriages aside and like an unruly mob the horde of pike-wielding infantry was disgorged from the fortress. They washed down the gentle slope, pikes upright, a rustling forest on the move. From the distant Imperial encampment horns answered the challenge. The heavy cavalry cantered forward.

Form up, damn you! What are you waiting for? More horns sounded, an urgent clarion call. The armoured mounts picked up their pace. Seven distinct waves sorted themselves out among the hundreds of cavalry. For now the lances remained upright, couched at hips — he knew they would not be lowered until the last possible moment.

Panic appeared to grip the pike men and women. They milled in a shapeless mass, flinching back towards the fortress walls. Form up! Have you forgotten everything? Then a final brilliant blast upon the Imperial horns and the pace surged into a charge. Lances edged forward at an angle. Ivanr felt the reverberation of tons of flesh and iron pounding the ground.

The infantry flinched back in a near-retreat to the walls, only to hold fast at the last possible moment, presenting a layered serried fence of iron blades. And in their midst Martal, mounted, bellowing orders.

Ivanr clenched the wood in a spasm as the iron wave of armoured men and horse came on, charging into the wall of set pikes. The crash sent rippling shockwaves through the massed infantry. Wood shattered, horses screamed, wounded coursers tumbled through two, three ranks. The charge penetrated much farther than any Ivanr had yet witnessed. Men and women scrambled over the fallen cavalrymen and pulled down those caught in the press, knives thrusting through gaps and visors.

Yet Ivanr watched with dread as behind, down the slope, the second wave now surged forward to charge, lances descending. Martal was waving, sending orders. Horns sounded the re-form. The mass of infantry retreated yet again to set their lines just behind the carnage of the first wave. Ivanr watched in amazement as the second came on regardless, unflinching, as if their own impetus would carry them through the mass of flesh and out the other side. Many leapt the fallen horses and men; some failed, clipping the corpses or wounded to tumble through the lines like thrown boulders. And into these gaps further cavalry pressed, lances shattered, drawing swords.

The impact penetrated even through to the wall, causing it to shudder as horseflesh and impetus struck unyielding iron. A new horn sounded among the Reform ranks: withdrawal.

Withdraw! Why even sortie in the first place? For this? Martal! What were you thinking?

And the third wave came thundering on. Pikes steady, the Reform infantry withdrew step by step, rear ranks filing back into the fortress. And beyond, far across the field, the Imperial archers were left far behind. They’d outstripped their support! Was this- A noise as of a forest of wood bending brought Ivanr’s attention around.

The enclosed ground within the fortress was one solid mass of archers. Bows raised almost vertical, they strained, arrows nocked.

The third wave of cavalry smashed into the triple-layered wall of razor iron. The impact drove through to shock the wall as infantry hammered back into it. A nearby carriage rocked as Imperial cavalry pressed upon it. A barked order brought the archers on the wall rearing up, firing at will. No need for great range now, he saw: all that was required was a quick rate of fire. Secondary banging and clattering shook the carriage and he peered down to see the shutters swinging open. With a shuddering recoil the ballistae let loose, clearing the field before it in a blast of four-foot iron bolts.

Behind him a great thrumming shook the air and a sleet-like hissing rose overhead. The archers on the walls and carriages loosed as well and Ivanr flinched, ducking. The salvo came sheeting down for the most part just beyond the wall of pikes, though some did strike their own. The fusillade raked the field, leaving carnage behind. Complete slaughter. Horses fell kicking, crippled. Men tumbled, tufted like targets. The ground itself was stubbled like a field after harvest. The following cavalry waves heaved to right and left, sloughing aside, curving back upon themselves. A further salvo chased them off. The chevrons turned, coursing in a broad circle, unwilling to close.

The remaining pike infantry slowly withdrew by brigade, all in order, and the carriages were pushed back into place.

Ivanr looked out upon the field. Already snow drifted wind-tossed over bodies. Wounded called. Parties slipped out through narrow doors to retrieve Reform wounded, at the same time finishing off any Imperials. The Imperial cavalry cantered back to their encampment, pennants flying and plumes still high. He went to find Martal.

Aides surrounded her: she sat on a field stool while a bonecutter removed her armour. Blood splashed her left side. Her cuirass lay beside her and her mail-and-leather hauberk underpadding came off over her head revealing a deep gash high under her left arm. Whatever Ivanr might have wanted to say he set aside. When she saw him, a weary smile came to her glistening sweat-sheathed face. ‘Not how you would have done it, eh, Ivanr?’ she said while the bonecutter wrapped her torso.

‘No,’ he allowed. ‘But maybe that’s how it had to be done.’

‘Not going easy on me, are you?’ She winced as the cutter had her raised up.

‘She has to rest,’ the man said to Ivanr, who nodded. Two aides helped her walk off.

Drawing Ivanr aside, the grey-haired medic asked, ‘Was that her?’

‘Who?’

‘This morning. Was that the Priestess?’

Ivanr paused, thinking. How to answer that? Gods, what an awful choice to have to make! Finally, he nodded. ‘Yes. I think it was.’

‘But nothing happened,’ the man said as he wiped the blood from his hands.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘When she died — nothing happened.’

Ivanr took a deep breath. ‘No. Nothing. She was just a woman who carried a message. And that message hasn’t died, has it?’

The old man nodded, taking his meaning. ‘Perhaps that is part of her message.’

‘I believe so.’

He bent closer, lowered his voice. ‘And this morning…’ He inclined his head to the fields beyond. ‘What is your estimation?’

Once more Ivanr considered his answer. Personally, he thought it a draw but he knew he mustn’t say that. He said, loudly, so that all could overhear, ‘Every day they haven’t broken us is a victory for us.’

The old man’s answer was a knowing smile. He wrapped his bloody knives in a length of stained leather. ‘Now you’re talking like a leader.’

He was left thinking about that. Depending upon how badly Martal was wounded the lead may indeed fall to him. His vow said nothing against giving orders. It was long past the time he ought to talk to Captain Carr regarding what further surprises Martal might have set aside.

If Prince Ranur the Third was in charge of the assembled Jourilan Imperial forces, he gave them no time to recover from the blunting of their first cavalry charges. Ivanr failed to track down Captain Carr before alarm horns blared from the walls of the fortress. The splendidly armoured counts and barons of the lands were driving their massed crossbowmen and archers out on to the field. Ivanr recognized the coats of Dourkan mercenaries and Jasstonese free companies among the ranks of the local peasants and burghers.

Normally, a cavalry sortie would scatter such forces, but the Army of Reform’s cavalry, so greatly outnumbered for so long, had been reduced to almost nothing. Its commander, Hegil Lesour ’an ’al, now fought on foot in charge of a brigade. Before the heaving lines of the Imperial archers could be cajoled into range for a volley on the fort, horns blazed again, summoning the Reform pike units to debouch. Ivanr ran to a wall to watch as carriages were pushed aside and the infantry jogged out. A forest of the tall pikes rustled and clattered, held upright. More horns called and broad lines formed then advanced upon the Imperial skirmishing crossbow and archer forces.

Ivanr thought this lunacy. The skirmishers could dance round the pike formations; were these Martal’s orders? And who was in charge? Martal’s wound was too severe, surely. These pike men and women were exposed to counter-charges from the cavalry. It was worse than foolish to sortie. Yet she could not relinquish the field to these archers, could she? They would ring the fort and grind us down.

Sure enough: movement among the flags and pennants of the Imperial cavalry. They would answer this challenge. Far across the field, ranks of the heavy cavalry assembled before tents and wagons of spectators. Spectators! They’d brought courtiers from Jour. Perhaps members of the Imperial family as well. Gods. So sure were they of crushing these insolent peasants.

And before today Ivanr would have half agreed with such an estimation. But the dawn execution of the Priestess before the eyes of all these men and women who had set everything aside, risked everything they knew in their life, to answer her call, seemed to have changed that. He sensed in them a grim, annealed resolve that perhaps had been within them all along, which before today he had failed to notice — or, he could admit, had discounted.

Yet on the field the harassing crossbow mercenaries and archers had brought the pike units into disarray. Seeing their chance, the Imperial cavalry sounded a call and the distant reverberation of hooves reached Ivanr once more.

Form up! Ivanr urged from the wall; he cut his palms, so tightly did he clench the timbers. But the mercenaries and undisciplined Imperial archers — perhaps completely oblivious of the threat now plunging down upon them from behind — stubbornly kept the units engaged.

Horns blared and the knot of mounted guards and messengers of command parted, revealing the black-armoured figure beneath the Reform pennant. Martal! What was she doing? This would kill her! She was not gesturing: she seemed to have a death’s grip on the pommel of her saddle. Upon the field the pike units milled, hafts clattering. Out of this malformed ungainly mass ranks formed as if by magic and once again the layered serried points faced the cavalry. Ivanr raised a fist, recognizing movements he and they had worked upon for months, now perfected out upon the field.

Only now did the milling archers and hired crossbow mercenaries recognize their peril. They were caught between the two forces. The Imperials did not hesitate; further horns sounded, announcing an increase in pace, and lances angled down. The hired skirmishers panicked, scattering, and the coursers charged through. Pennants and flag heraldry went down beneath churning hooves. Entire units disappeared, ground into the muddied field like chaff.

The charge shuddered home on to the layered pikes and the reverberations of the impact rippled through the entire massed square. He wondered at the training and discipline necessary to force a horse to impale itself on sharpened iron and an impenetrable crowd of massed humans. First and second ranks disappeared beneath tumbling horseflesh, the armoured riders caught amid stirrups and strapping, crushed and broken. Helms and other unidentifiable pieces of armour flew overhead. Yet the square held, solid and unmovable. The trailing courses of cavalry swung off, circling to assemble for another charge.

Away from the centre, however, things were not going as well. The archers and Jasstonese mercenaries who had withdrawn to the extreme left now punished the pike brigade of that flank. Men and women fell, helpless beneath the withering volleys.

A second wave came charging down upon the centre. A call Ivanr didn’t recognize sounded from the Reform signallers and nothing immediately seemed to come of it. Then, just before the heavy cavalry struck, movement rustled amid the main square and men and women shifted aside, clearing three channels — effectively breaking into four smaller units. An extraordinarily dangerous move completed just as it should be, at the moment of impact. Many of the coursers struck home, smashing pike hafts and driving through into the ranks, but most of the horses curved aside despite the raking and thrusting of knee and spur, preferring these opened corridors.

The ranks then closed in upon the cavalry from either side. Heavy armour might prevent impalement but the impact unseated many riders. Mounts went down, snapping hafts thrust into flanks and necks. It was a slaughter as all those countless pikeheads of sharpened iron closed together like jaws upon the enemy.

Even as the second charge was obliterated the left flank collapsed. That brigade broke to run pell-mell to the rear, effectively abandoning the field. Horns sounded as Martal, or Carr, or some other commander, ordered the centre to shift to the left. The hired Dourkan archers and Jasstonese crossbow companies jogged forward into the gap, sending up harassing fire, but seeing another disciplined square marching down upon them — one fresh from mangling their heavily armoured superiors — they melted away.

No third massing of Jourilan aristocracy appeared. Either they had had enough for the day, or, as Ivanr suspected, so supremely assured of their victory were they that all those barons or dukes interested in taking the field this first day had already done so. Others would have their day tomorrow.

And Ivanr wondered how the Army of Reform could possibly survive another day like this. Martal’s command group now turned to ride back to the fortress. He noted how closely two of her guard flanked her, covering her and simultaneously guiding her mount as she rode stiff and unmoving within her armour. He left the wall to be at her tent when she returned.

The men and women of the camp acted as if they had won a crushing victory. They cheered him, calling out, ‘Deliverer.’ The title surprised and irritated him, for behind it he sensed the cynical guiding hand of Martal. Two female pike infantry, dirtied and sweaty from the field, knelt in his way asking for blessing. The act embarrassed him excruciatingly, but he did not show it. Instead he raised them up and said loudly enough for all around to hear: ‘Your bravery is our blessing.’

The tears that started from their eyes burned him for the betrayer and impostor he felt and he moved on quickly, clearing his throat and wiping his own eyes. Damn them for tormenting me! Don’t they see I’m not what they think? That they are casting upon me the weight of their own hopes? Their own dreams? No one should be asked to carry such a burden. It’s impossible!

He found a circle of guards turning everyone away from Martal’s tent. They’d lifted her from her horse and now she lay within. The same bonecutter was removing her armour once more and cursing her and her aides as he did so. The woman’s face was white with agony and blood loss, wet with sweat — or perhaps shock. She was barely conscious, her eyes staring sightlessly upwards.

The clenched, pale lips parted. ‘Carr has command,’ she hissed through clamped teeth.

‘You still command,’ Ivanr said. ‘You will always command.’

‘Ivanr…’ she said, peering around, straining.

He knelt at her side. ‘Yes?’

‘I must be seen tomorrow! I must… no matter what!’ Ivanr looked to the bonecutter, who shook his head. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Martal,’ he answered, simply to quiet her. ‘I understand.’

She eased back, letting go a taut breath. ‘Tell him I tried. I tried my best. I would so like to have seen him again.’

‘Who?’

‘My old commander. Tell him that, won’t you?’

Ivanr could not answer. Her old commander! The Malazan… Greymane! ‘Yes,’ he managed, clearing his throat, hardly able to speak.

‘That’s enough,’ the bonecutter said. ‘Everyone out.’

Straightening outside the tent, it took all the strength Ivanr possessed to fix upon his face an expression of resolve, even one of firm optimism. He entered the gathered crowd, which parted before him. He squeezed shoulders, set hands on bowed heads, and answered their questions and worries: yes, she was wounded but she was recovering. She would lead them tomorrow. Never fear. Tomorrow they would finish the Imperials. The Black Queen would see them through again.

Yet he hardly heard his words or saw their faces. Instead Martal’s parting words haunted him. Her old commander… Greymane. The

Betrayer… Stonewielder. Tell him she had tried… Tried what? I thought she’d been fighting for us! Yet what if all this time she’d been serving his command? And he was now back! But no — that was too incredible, too far-fetched. More likely she saw herself as remaining loyal to his… what? His… intent. Perhaps that was it. She’d been honouring his intent. And that — according to the Lady’s priesthood — nothing less than the annihilation of their faith itself.

But Beneth chose her! He chose her. A neat dovetailing of purpose? Nothing more? Perhaps so.

Still, he was shaken.

That night sleep would not come. He lay restless until, giving up and rising, he threw a long loose jerkin over his shirt and trousers and went to a gap in his tent flap to stare out at the night. Overcast, as usual, the winter clouds scudding so low as to be almost within reach, yet stubbornly yielding none of their snow. Occasionally stars winked through openings only to disappear. Torches of pickets upon the walls flickered orange and red. The smell of an army in the field wafted over him: wet leather, unwashed bodies, the stink of privies too close for comfort.

‘She’s dead,’ a man’s voice whispered behind him.

He started, tensing. The fellow was an old man in dirty torn shirt, vest and dark trousers, bearded, with wild grey-shot hair. His eyes seemed to glow in the gloom of the tent. ‘Dead?’ Ivanr asked, his throat dry, even though he knew.

The man gestured him back in with a crook of a finger. ‘First Beneth, now Martal. Leaving… you.’

Ivanr considered rolling backwards, a feint to the right…

Deep crimson flame alighted on the man’s hand and he bared yellowed teeth in a knowing smile. Ivanr let the flap close. ‘You are a mage. The Lady doesn’t usually permit such things…’

‘Special dispensation for those who cleave to the path of the righteous.’

‘Which would be…?’

The smile twisted into a sneer. ‘Save your sophistry for the sheep outside.’ He gestured and a vice clamped itself round Ivanr’s body. Invisible bonds tightened like rope in a crushing agony. He could not breathe, could not shout. His vision darkened.

Then relief as the bonds dissipated, seeming to shred. Ivanr drew a shuddering breath. Blinking, he saw the mage frowning, uncertain.

‘There is some sort of passive protection upon you,’ he muttered. ‘How…’ His eyes widened and he glanced about in sudden alarm. ‘No…’

The tent flap was thrust aside and an old woman entered — if anything she appeared even older than Sister Gosh. She was lean and wiry, dark as aged leather, her wiry hair up in a tight bun. The man bowed, his tongue wetting his lips. ‘Sister Esa.’

The old woman, Sister Esa apparently, was pulling the gloves from her hands. ‘I was hoping you would come, Totsin.’

Totsin edged around the tent as if searching for a way out. ‘Now… Sister Esa… let’s not jump to conclusions.’

The old woman’s gloves came off, revealing hands twisted like claws, long nails broken and thick like talons and black with dirt. She gave a strange gurgling hiss and her lips drew back over teeth now black as well, and needle sharp. Ivanr flinched away, horrified. Soletaken? She launched herself upon Totsin.

The two wrestled in silence, the woman straining to set her claws or teeth into the man, he holding her wrists, head twisting aside. They fought, gasping and panting. The woman’s hands and teeth edged ever closer to the man’s flesh until she shuddered suddenly, her back arching in anguish. She fell to the floor, spasms twisting her limbs. The old man straightened his clothes and spat upon her.

‘The Lady is with me, Esa. And now she has you…’

Ivanr leapt to his pallet and spun, his shortsword in hand, to slash Totsin. Incredibly, the man flicked his head aside, the blade merely gashing across his face. He clamped a hand to his head. Blood welled between the fingers. Ivanr closed, but searing pain bit into one ankle and he fell: the old woman had him.

‘I leave you to the Lady,’ Totsin gasped, rage and agony in his voice. He disappeared in a moil of greyness that enveloped him then vanished, leaving Ivanr alone with Sister Esa. He almost called for help, but caught himself — gods, if this got out it would terrify everyone!

The hand clenched, its talons cutting into his flesh and grating the bone. The head rose, eyes rolled back all white. The hair on Ivanr’s neck stirred as a voice gurgled from the throat: ‘Embrace me, Ivanr, and I will forgive you…’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and brought the blade down through the neck.

Some time later steps in the tent roused him and he leapt up, short-sword readied. It was Sister Gosh, pipe in mouth, staring down at the wrapped corpse of Sister Esa. A sudden fury took him that only now did she appear. ‘Where were you?’ he demanded. ‘Together you might’ve taken him!’

She shook her head. ‘I told her not to step in. We can’t fight the Lady.’

Ivanr fell back on to his pallet, exhausted. ‘Well, he got away.’

She let out a lungful of smoke. ‘I think we’ll meet yet.’

‘And then what?’

She drew hard on the pipe and its embers blazed. She peered at him from deep within the crow’s feet wrinkles at her eyes. ‘Then we’ll see.’

Ivanr grunted at the predictable, maddening opaqueness. He hung his arms over his knees. ‘So… is she really gone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he…’

‘No. The wound.’

He grunted again, accepting that. In other lands, he knew, such wounds could be treated by healers with access to Warrens. But here, the Lady denied all. That alone was more than enough reason for her destruction. How many needless deaths all these ages…? ‘Well,’ he said, gazing at the dirt floor, ‘I don’t know if we’ll last tomorrow.’

‘Keep them fighting, Ivanr. You’re here to do more than defeat these Imperials. More eyes than you know of are on this confrontation. The walls of Ring city are within sight. You have to show that these nobles can be stood up to. That there’s a chance.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘We’ll see. Tomorrow.’

He gestured to the decapitated corpse. ‘And her?’

‘Have some men you trust take her off and bury her. Now, before dawn.’

He nodded. ‘And you?’

Sister Gosh had crossed to the flap. ‘I don’t know. I’ll do what I can. Before, I said we may not meet again. Now I’m even more sure of that. Good luck to you.’

‘And to you.’

She ducked from the tent. Ivanr lay down again to try to steal some rest before dawn.

After Shell and her partner, Tollen, the Malazan Sixth Army veteran, had stood short stints at various posts along the wall, two Korelri Chosen came for them. They were in holding cells, separated. The Stormguard didn’t seem to know what to do with Shell, being female, and so they emptied out a pen for her private use. Personally, she thought it was more for their sensibilities than hers. She could squat to relieve herself just as easily anywhere — it was they who seemed all shirty about it.

The two were fettered again and led off along one of the maze of corridors that ran like a rat’s nest within the Stormwall. It was a long walk, much farther than any previous one, and took up more than the day. Deep into the evening they were tugged up stairs to exit a minor tower — the kind that only bore numbers — in this case, Tower Fourteen. From here they walked into the punishing frigid wind and sleeting snow. They’d been given tattered old cloaks, and Shell retied the rags she had wrapped over her sandalled feet and up over her legs, her head and neck, and finally her hands as well.

The wall climbed before them, high above the shore below, more of a connecting corridor than a working part of the Stormwall. At the crest of the pass it fell steeply in lethal sets of stone stairs to a section that looked to span a narrow inlet. Snow flurried in Shell’s face as she hunched, scrabbling with her numb fingers for holds and grips to help herself down. Tollen descended facing the stairs, almost flat on all fours. Waves pounded below, reverberating like thunder. Riders drove those waves. She recognized the pitch of their force, their enmity.

The descent levelled to a smoother grade. Shell now made out a wide marshalling walkway more ice-choked than any she’d seen so far. It even seemed broached in courses of frozen rivers of ice. Stone blocks cluttered the walk, as did canted broken tripods. Ropes lay unusable beneath layers of ice. They passed a work gang where labourers hammered at a block to free it from its sheath of ice. One armed guard, a hired mercenary judging from his heavy armour, stood watch.

The two Korelri escorted them to a tower so layered in blue-tinted ice running in flows down its sides that it appeared as if the water had been poured. A single narrow doorway gave access to inner chambers where braziers burned, giving light and heat to close, damp rooms. Workers squatted, eating; bedrolls over straw crowded the wet stone floors. Down a narrow circular staircase they came to cells, more holding pens. Their fetters were struck and Shell was pushed into one, Tollen another.

Shell sat on the straw-littered raised stone slab she supposed was the bed and leaned back against the wall, only to flinch away — the stones were glacial and glittered with ice. Across the narrow corridor the opposite cell was occupied by a squat fellow in ring armour over leathers, rags at his feet and hands, his hair unkempt and growing a beard, leaning back asleep. He was much the worse for wear, but Shell would recognize Blues anywhere.

She whistled a call and one eye cracked open; he sat up, staring. Shell signed: A Malazan soldier with me. Any news?

Lazar is here. Fingers?

Don’t know. I met someone who knows Bars.

Who?

Shell spelt: Jemain.

Blues shrugged. Don’t know him.

Said he’d get back to me.

A second shrug. We’ll see.

Shell said aloud: ‘How is it here?’

‘Damned desperate. Too many Riders, not enough guards.’

‘Losing people?’

‘Losing workers.’

‘What’re they doing here?’ she asked.

‘This is Ice Tower,’ a new voice answered: Tollen. ‘Always rough here. Looks like the waves are really cresting now.’

‘Get some rest, damn you!’ someone barked. ‘You’ll need it.’

Shell lay back, hugged herself. Whoever that was, he was right. Best think of what was to come. Don’t let yourself get caught unprepared. And that accent… another damned Malazan?

Come the dawn, the nightshift of guards came trooping down the stairs exhausted, soaked through and shivering. A new shift was pulled together; neither Shell nor Blues was selected. ‘How long you been here?’ she asked.

‘Only a few days.’

‘How many of us prisoners are there here?’

Blues cocked his head, signed: Thinking of breaking out?

Can’t stay for ever.

‘Don’t know,’ Blues answered aloud. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether we should interfere…’

Shell stared at the man. A shiver took her; good gods, that Blues should be uneasy about this…

She jumped as a guard appeared to unlock her cell. He motioned her out.

‘Good luck,’ Blues called. ‘Guard yourself.’

She gave him a nod. Sword out, the man forced her ahead up the circular staircase. At the top four regular guards covered her with cocked crossbows. Weapons cluttered the far wall. ‘Take your pick,’ one invited her, grinning. She eyed the spears and two-handed swords, but decided on a more conservative approach and selected sword and shield.

The guard motioned her to the door. ‘Let’s go.’

The door led to the corridor that exited the tower. Outside, the guard pointed to the right and they crossed the walkway, hunched, heads turned away from the punishing, cutting wind. They came to a work crew struggling with a tripod and block and tackle. The guard motioned Shell to the outer ice-entombed machicolations here. He hammered at the ice to expose an iron ring and shackled her to it. Waves pounded, soaking them with spray that shocked her though she’d felt its teeth before. Another defender squatted off to the right. He appeared to be an old man, wearing nothing but rags, his long hair and beard grey-shot and matted. Who was this fossil?

‘Hey, grandfather,’ she called, cupping her hands at her mouth. ‘What are you doing here?’

The haggard head barely edged over to glance. She caught a glimpse of a gaunt, skeletal face as it turned away. The sight of that seeming death mask made her shudder.

A great bell-like resonance sounded then from the waters of the inlet. That was new. Some sort of extra effort here? Maybe they think this is their chance. She strained to penetrate the blowing snow. Far out, the surface of the waters seemed to bulge, swelling. That’s a lot of water — and it’s headed for a very narrow gap! Shell braced herself. Behind, the workers scrambled for cover. A block the size of a cart hung suspended from the tackle. Raising the wall from the rear, working towards the front.

Glancing back Shell caught the old fellow staring at her. He quickly glanced away. The tall bulge rolled inexorably down upon them. Like a tidal bore. Only generated by the Riders. Shell edged forward as far as she dared, peered over and down. They looked to have only some three fathoms of freeboard here. That surge could overtop them! Feeling a rising panic she glanced about, but no one appeared unduly alarmed. Queen preserve her! This was what they fought here!

The old man straightened, his arms loose at his sides. He appeared completely unarmed.

Shell edged back: the ice-webbed surge was almost upon them. She reached behind with one foot, sought a knob or irregularity to brace, found one.

The surge struck the wall; or rather, it began rising up the side of the wall. Shell’s footing rocked backwards beneath her as if fluid itself. The water came on and on, swelling with Shell’s own dread until it washed up over the top and swept her feet out from under her. Frigid glacial waters flowed over her. The shock almost took the life from her, but she straightened, braced against the flow, gasping in air, throwing her head back, to face a Stormrider standing atop the wall. The entity, wearing armour like shells sewn into a coat, thrust at her. She took the blow on her shield, swung a clumsy counter that the rider sidestepped. It circled, attempting to force her to put her back to the inlet. She dodged to forestall that. She shield-bashed but lacked the raw power to drive the Rider back. It slashed at a leg and she dodged back. It glanced behind her but she refused to look. Then it simply sank down into the receding waters to wash away in the flow. Shell was left standing, panting, her flesh in an agony of cold. She risked a quick glance behind: the tripod and block were gone, swept clean off the wall.

A loud high-pitched report, as of iron tearing, sounded from her right and she looked over: the old guy’s post was empty. Where Hands took her throat from behind, lifted her from her feet.

‘I knew I recognized you!’ someone snarled. ‘Skinner sent you, didn’t he?’

With a despairing, almost bizarre feeling that this wasn’t really happening, Shell recognized the voice. ‘Bars!’ she gasped.

‘No torc, I see,’ he hissed. ‘Going to wait for a wave then take me down while I’m busy, yes? Then off to your Warren. Looks like you missed your chance. Now… where is he?’

‘No — you don’t-’

Bars’ frigid hands, like two wedges of ice, throttled her. ‘Raise your Warren and I’ll tear your head off. Now… where is he!’

‘Who?’ she managed, stealing a breath.

‘Quit stalling! Skinner! Damn his betraying soul!’

Deceiving gods! Oponn, you have outdone yourself! Skinner! He was renegade now. His attempt to usurp K’azz failed and he was forced out — disavowed. And Bars thinks he’s sent me! Shell drew upon all the strength those of the Avowed possess and yanked Bars’ own hands a fraction apart while her legs kicked uselessly. ‘Blues is with me!’ she gasped before those iron fingers cinched like vices to cut off her breath utterly. Stars flashed in her vision and a roaring drowned out all sounds.

She came to lying in frigid water. A Korelri Chosen held a spear levelled at Bars while a regular guard helped her up. ‘What is this?’ the Korelri demanded.

‘An old grudge,’ Shell croaked, rubbing her neck.

‘You are both finished then?’

Shell nodded. Bars crossed his arms. Blues, he signed, insistent. She nodded again.

‘Your shift is done,’ the Korelri told Bars, motioning him off. ‘You… you stay as yet.’

Shell continued massaging her neck. Frankly, she would rather face the Riders.

They left her alone, staring out over the slate-grey waves whipped into white caps. After a time it occurred to her that the Stormrider had seemed more interested in damaging the wall itself than in killing anyone.

Suth sat on Banith’s wharf, leaning forward on piled equipment, chin in his arms, watching the battered fleet of Blue dromonds and Quon men-of-war lumbering out of the bay. ‘All the in-bred gods! I can’t damned believe it.’

‘Wish them luck,’ Len said, saluting.

Lying back, eyes closed, Wess saluted the sky. Lard grumbled, ‘Lucky bastards.’

Keri blew out a breath. ‘Someone has to stay behind…’

‘Hood take this Fist,’ Pyke said. ‘’Cause a him we’re missing all the action.’

Yana gave the man a look of contempt. ‘You’re glad we’re staying, so stop your mouth.’

Pyke straightened. ‘I’ll stop your-’

‘Store it!’ Goss cut in.

‘I need a drink,’ Yana said, pushing herself up. ‘Let’s go.’

Suth stood and adjusted his cloak against the cutting wind. ‘Aye. Let’s go.’

‘Your sweetie’s still here,’ Keri told Suth.

‘Who?’

‘That Barghast gal.’ She made a fake grab for Suth’s crotch. ‘I hear once they get hold they don’t let go.’

Suth flinched away. ‘We ain’t doin’ nothing.’

Lard got a dreamy look on his wide face. ‘Too bad. That sounds pretty damn good.’

They walked the near empty streets, heading back to their inn. Snow blew across the cobbles. They passed the occasional burned or boarded-up pillaged building, remnants from the riots and panic of the landings.

Yana flinched abruptly, hissing, a hand going to her side where a crossbow bolt had suddenly sprouted. Goss, Suth and Lard rushed the abandoned building opposite. Lard kicked down the boards covering the broken door. Suth charged the stairs, Goss following. Noise brought him to a rear room where a window gaped open. He leaned out: someone had let himself down, jumping, and now ran up a back alley. A slim gangly figure. A kid. A Queen-damned young kid. Goss arrived, a crossbow in hand: Malazan made. Suth shook his head in disbelief. ‘Did you see him?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, I saw him. A kid.’

Suth blew out a breath. This was gonna be ugly. What could they do? They couldn’t let it go unanswered. Everyone and their grandmother would be taking potshots at them. They had to respond. No choice. They went back down to see Yana.

Wess had his shield unslung and was covering her while Keri treated the wound. ‘We have to get back to the inn. Lay her down,’ she said. Goss nodded.

‘Who was it?’ Pyke demanded. ‘Did you get him?’

‘Just a kid,’ said Suth. ‘He got away.’

‘A kid?’ Pyke said, offended. ‘So? Why’d you let him go?’

‘I did not-’

Goss pulled Suth away. ‘Shut that mouth of yours,’ he warned Pyke. ‘Lard, carry Yana. Let’s go.’

Inside, they checked their rooms, laid Yana down and summoned a bonecutter. Goss placed Wess and Lard on guard then sat with Suth, Keri and Len. ‘Started already,’ he told Len, who nodded.

‘What?’ Suth asked.

‘Insurgency. Attacks, killings, fire-bombings an’ such. A vicious mess. Might get orders to pull back into the garrison.’

Len took a deep pull from his stein of beer. ‘I hate occupations. Bad blood all around. Hate. Suspicion. We’ll be prisoners in our own garrison.’

Goss just hunched, depressed. ‘Reminds me of damned Seven Cities.’

*

Captain Betteries and Captain Perin joined Fist Rillish for dinner that evening in the commander’s rooms in the old Malazan Sixth Army garrison. The stone fort was crowded, holding two thousand men and women when normally it would hold less than half that. The rest of the Malazan expeditionary forces were encamped inland, in the hills around Banith. Captain Betteries was a red-haired Falaran native, while Captain Perin hailed from north Genabackis, his skin almost as dark as a Dal Honese, but his face much wider and more brutal in features than the more refined lineaments of the Dal Hon. They had just finished a first course of soup when a steward opened the door to allow Captain Peles to enter. All three officers stood. Captain Peles waved for them to sit.

‘Welcome,’ Rillish said, inviting her to a seat.

Peles sat, as did they. Rillish wondered to see her now without her helm and thick mail coat. Her long silver hair was unbraided to fall loose; she wore a long-sleeved jacket over a pale shirt. And while most would not consider her battle-flattened nose and scarred cheeks beautiful in the narrow, stereotypical image of some floaty, cultured, urban lady, Rillish thought her extraordinarily attractive, even desirable. He discovered her answering his stare.

‘Yes, Fist?’

He swallowed, looking away to pick up his wine glass. ‘How are the security arrangements?’ Captain Peles had been appointed chief of his guard.

‘This garrison is a death trap. There’s no well. The storerooms are too small. The arsenal is as empty as a merchant’s generosity.’

‘I agree,’ Captain Betteries added.

‘What would you suggest?’ Rillish asked Peles.

‘I suggest we withdraw to outside the town. Build our own fortress.’

‘That would cut down on the nuisance sniping,’ Captain Perin commented.

‘What’s the report?’ Rillish asked.

‘Two troopers wounded in separate incidents. Plus the usual vandalism, theft and physical assaults.’

The main course arrived. The news had blunted Rillish’s appetite. So soon. Occupations breed mutual disgust, harden divisions, and brutalize all parties. Should they withdraw from town? Perhaps they should. Yet even if they went now, of their own choosing, it would look as if they’d been chased out. And so they were already effectively trapped. ‘You have taken all the usual steps?’ he asked Captain Betteries.

The man nodded, a little worse for drink. ‘Arrested the local leaders. This acting Lord Mayor, who’s also the local magistrate, apparently. A few others.’

‘But I understand Admiral Nok had some sort of agreement with the man.’

‘Better to have him where we can keep an eye on him.’

‘Where is the Adjunct, may I ask?’ Captain Perin enquired.

‘With the troops outside the town.’

‘And you, sir, Fist. I understand you have been here before?’

Rillish’s jaws tightened. ‘Yes, Captain. It was my second posting.’

Captain Perin seemed unaware of Captain Betteries’ not-so-subtle glare for silence. ‘Here, in Rool?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Rillish answered, a touch tartly.

‘Then…’ The captain tailed off as he appreciated the dangerous waters he was entering. ‘Ah… interesting.’ He addressed his dinner. After a time his gaze turned to Peles, where it rested while they ate. ‘You are of Elingarth?’ he asked finally.

The broad-boned woman almost blushed. ‘Around there,’ she muttered into her plate.

‘I am surprised. It is rare for one of the military orders to strike out on his or her own.’

‘There are those of us who are selected to travel, to learn other ways, other philosophies.’

‘A sound strategy,’ Captain Betteries said.

Captain Perin was nodding as well. ‘Yes. You could bring back information, useful knowledge. But you may also bring back dangerous ideas. The contamination of foreign beliefs…’

Peles cut up her fish. ‘We do not follow the philosophy of purity versus pollution. That is a false choice, a false dichotomy. The truth is, nothing is “pure”. Everything is the product of something else.

To name something “pure” is to pretend it has no history, nothing before it, which is obviously false.’

Rillish stared. That had been the longest speech he’d heard from the woman, who now blushed at the silent attention she was receiving from the three men.

‘Well argued,’ Captain Betteries said, and he took another drink.

Later that night Rillish sat in his offices reviewing quartermaster reports. After sorting through the entire pile of paperwork he came to an envelope addressed to him and sealed with wax. An aide’s note said that it had been left by the front gate. He broke the seal and opened the thick folded paper, careful not to touch the inner slip — he knew of some who had been poisoned in this manner.

He read the short message once. Its contents obviously confused him as he frowned, puzzled. Then he read it again. The third time he snatched it up and stood, swearing and cursing. He summoned his aides.

*

The building was unprepossessing. It had the look of long abandonment, of having been looted then occupied by squatters for some time. It was deep into the night when Rillish arrived. He came alone, wrapped in a dark cloak. The name in the note was enough to assure him of the message’s validity and of his safety. He waited in the main room among the rubbish and filth until a light grew above and a man came down the stairs, lamp in hand. The man was squat and muscular and bald. Seeing him, Rillish stared, amazed.

‘All the gods above and below… Ipshank. You still live. I couldn’t believe it.’

The priest appeared uncomfortable. ‘Rillish Jal Keth. I don’t believe we actually met.’

‘No. But I heard much of you. You saw Greymane, then? You must have.’

‘We met.’ The man waved the lamp. ‘Right here. Secretly.’

‘Secretly? There’s no reason for secrecy. All that was a long time ago.’

Ipshank set the lamp on a low table. He rubbed a hand over his bald pate. ‘There are those who still remember. You. Myself… others. And the enemy remains.’

Rillish shook his head. ‘It’s over. Finished. You should have gone with him. How could you not have, knowing what he faces?’

There was a long measured acknowledgement from the man as he crossed his arms and hung his head. In the dim light the faded boar tattoos gave his face a death-like cast. ‘That was what he said. That I should come with him. But I couldn’t. My work is here. Our work is here.’

Rillish found himself a touch frightened of the man. ‘What do you mean, ours?’

‘I mean that Greymane — Stonewielder — goes to face his enemy while we must confront ours here. If we do not, then there can be no victory for us.’

‘This is what you told Greymane?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he agreed?’

‘Yes. He agreed by leaving you here.’

The sudden urge to flee gripped Rillish. He paced instead, his heart hammering. ‘You asked that I be left behind?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? Why me?’

The man sat on a low stool — perhaps only to set Rillish at ease. ‘I’m sorry, Fist. I wish I could say that it was because of some innate quality you possess. That you were born to fulfil this role. That there was a prophecy foretelling you would be the one. Or that your father’s father was one of the ousted rightful kings of Rool — one of a series of them, actually. Or some such nonsense.’ He leaned forward on his crossed knees. ‘But no. I’m sorry, there’s nothing special about you. There you are. It’s disappointing, I know, but that’s how it is for everyone.’ His wide, thick-lipped mouth drew down. ‘And that just makes it all the harder, doesn’t it? Not being special. Not having that funny mark or that omen at your birth. Just an ordinary person asked to step up to do the extraordinary.’

Rillish had been pacing the empty room, kicking at the litter. ‘If this is your way of persuading me to help I can well understand your reputation as a difficult fellow. Just what is it you are asking?’

The man pressed his hands together as if praying. He set them to his lips. ‘To help slay the metaphorical dragon, Fist.’

Rillish gaped. All the gods, no. That was impossible. Yet this man obviously thought there was a chance. And he and Greymane were in agreement — or so he claimed. What evidence has he shown? None. Yet, Ipshank… he was one of those who remained loyal through to the bloody end. He stopped pacing. ‘I’ll listen. That’s all I can promise right now.’

Ipshank opened his hands wide and bowed his head. ‘Good enough. That will do for a start.’ He stood, took the lamp to the gaping doorway and shone it out. ‘First, there are some papers here I’d like you to go through.’

Shambling steps approached and two men entered, burdened by the large heavy chest they carried between them. Rillish thought one, a big fellow sporting a ridiculous long moustache, very familiar. An officer of the City Watch? They set the chest down. Ipshank invited Rillish to the low table and stool. He sat and the men opened the chest to hand over the first packet of an intimidating collection.

He read slowly, rather reluctantly. Then, with each document, he sat forward further, scanned each with greater intensity. He read through the entire night.

Come the dawn the guards were gone, and Ipshank sat leaning up against a wall, apparently asleep. Rillish sat back, pinched his gritty eyes and blinked repeatedly. Gods, he was thirsty. A lifetime’s work and dedication here. An amazing story to be pieced together.

He eyed Ipshank. ‘Should we let the man out?’

The priest shook his bullet head from side to side. ‘No. He’s already damned as a collaborator. If you release him you’ll only confirm those suspicions and he’ll be killed, or completely discredited. Every day he stays in the gaol is another day of rehabilitation for him.’

‘Rehabilitation? I don’t want to create a local leader here.’

One eye cracked open. ‘Just who do you want as one?’

Rillish grunted, conceding the point. He stretched, yawning. ‘So. What was it you wanted me to see? The Cloister and Hospice have been destroyed. Burned to the ground.’ He eyed the priest anew. ‘You didn’t

…’

Again, the head shake. ‘No. Local adherents to the Lady. They wanted to incite hatred against you Malazans, so they torched it. Where else would the blame fall?’ The man set his thick arms over his knees. ‘No. Mainly, I wanted you to see evidence. Proof. Mixed in there are a series of interviews with minor workers for the Hospice: grounds keepers, cleaners and such. In those interviews are reports of a chest, a kind of box, brought out of the Cloister and loaded on to a wagon about a month ago.’

‘Around the time of the landings.’

‘Yes. I believe I know what was on that wagon, and where it went.’

‘Yes?’

The priest took out a skin of water, tossed it to Rillish. ‘Let me tell you a story, Fist. An old story whose particulars I have spent most of my life tracking down. Legends of this region tell of the three most precious relics of the Lady — the Holy Trilogy. Three sacred icons housed in chests. One, according to tradition, was lost in the great sinkhole, the Ring, far back during the attacks of the Stormriders. The greatest, as most know, was reportedly used to bless and sanctify the foundations of the wall itself. After which it was hidden away by the Korelri Stormguard. Most consider it to be housed in the great tower on Remnant Isle, the Sky Tower, guarded by hundreds of Stormguard. And they would be right.

‘The third was the most difficult. After eliminating countless holy shrines, sacred cairns, monasteries and temples, I narrowed down its location to here, the great Cloister of Banith. It has since been moved — and I know where.’

‘Paliss?’ Rillish said, rousing himself from the hypnotic tale. He took a drink of the warm water.

‘No. The caves of the mountain ascetics at Thol on the shores of Fist Sea.’

‘Thol? That’s more than ten days’ journey by horse. You can’t be asking me to pack up the army and march across the country to besiege Thol.’

The man shook his head, unperturbed by how outrageous Rillish made the request sound. ‘No. This is for a small party only. And we must be there within the next few days, or so I believe.’

‘Impossible. You know that. Only a mage travelling through Warren could manage that.’

‘Or a shaman. And there’s one here, nearby. A descendant of the native peoples of this region, tribes that can trace their roots to the ancient Imass themselves. The Lady scorns them, views their practices as beneath her. But all this time they have maintained their ancient ways, employed their Warren — a version of Tellann, I believe — quietly, without notice. Him we have to convince to help us.’

Rillish stared, amazed. Gods, the man’s actually thought all this through. Outrageous. ‘And,’ he began, his mouth dry, ‘what would you require of me?’

‘Select a small party. Some twenty or so. And be ready for me.’

Rillish slowly shook his head in denial. An expression almost of horror clenched his face. ‘Ipshank. Greymane ordered me to remain here. I cannot abandon my command. If I go I would be…’ He could not finish the thought. ‘Hood forgive me. I cannot betray his trust again.’

The priest displayed no sympathy. ‘You have to. You have no choice.’

The Liosan were, if anything, rigidly formal and strict observers of manners and rules. Tight-arses, Jheval called them. Good to their word, they’d allowed the three of them the freedom of the camp. Kiska wanted to get away, of course, but not without her equipment. And so far their tiny guide had yet to show itself; that was either very reassuring, or very worrying. The huge lumbering ravens, however, were quite insolent in showing themselves, depositing great white smears as indelible signs of their presence.

After two days, or what large hourglasses housed in a main mess tent artificially dictated to be two days, they were invited to dine with the army’s commander, Jayashul. They were escorted to her private quarters, and she met her at the hangings that separated off the rooms. A Liosan man waited within, sour-faced, his expression openly hostile. Jayashul invited Kiska to sit, then Warran, then Jheval. The Liosan male, introduced as Brother Jorrude, sat last.

Dinner came in numerous small courses of soup, bread and vegetables, none of which struck Kiska as particularly tasty or well prepared. Bland, serious and practical. Like these people themselves. She longed to escape this encampment and return to her mission. The only amusement of the night came from the faces Jheval made when tasting the food.

An after dinner tea was served, a watery green infusion utterly without flavour, and Jayashul announced: ‘We are now prepared to mount an assault upon the Devourer.’

Kiska thrust aside her tea, spilling it. ‘An assault? Shouldn’t we determine just… what it is, first?’

Jayashul was undeterred. ‘We know it is a powerful magus, or what some would name an Ascendant. No doubt quite mad. Perhaps brought on by exposure to your otataral dust, or some form of mental attack or breakdown. Merely visiting Chaos can induce such a reaction — it is not uncommon.’ She turned to Warran. ‘What say you, priest of Shadow?’

The priest had been very eager for dinner, and now he sat looking quite defeated by what had appeared on his plate. Kiska imagined he’d been expecting fish. ‘It would be best, would it not, to examine this anomaly more closely first to determine all its particulars, before striking?’

Jayashul shook her head rather condescendingly. ‘My dear priest… if one of our white hounds were to launch itself upon you with an intent to consume you utterly, would you take the time to enquire as to his pedigree or antecedents? No, you would strike! Defend yourself!’

Warran offered a thin smile. ‘The hound would find in me a rather insubstantial meal.’

Jayashul thought nothing of the comment but Kiska shot the little man a sharp look. Insubstantial? Was the fellow playing games? Mocking this Liosan Ascendant. Perhaps mocking everyone, the entire situation?

A guard brushed aside the cloth hanging, and Jayashul looked up. ‘He is here?’ The guard nodded. ‘Good.’ She stood and everyone followed suit. ‘The one we have been waiting for has arrived.’ A man entered. He wore his long pale hair loose, and layered green robes. ‘My brother. L’oric.’

The man’s gaze swept them all. Then, as he was about to bow to Jayashul, he straightened, stunned surprise almost comical on his face, and his eyes returned to Jheval. ‘Blood of my father…’ he breathed. ‘Leoman?’

Jheval’s mouth twisted his chagrin and embarrassment. He bowed ironically. ‘L’oric. As soon as I saw these Liosan I was afraid you would show up.’

‘Show up?’ L’oric echoed, disbelief in his voice. ‘Leoman, your arrogance remains undiluted, I see.’

Leoman? The name was familiar to Kiska but she couldn’t quite place it. L’oric turned his attention to her. Brother to Jayashul, but at first Kiska saw almost no similarity. His face was thin, but there was a certain haughtiness in its expression in which she saw the relationship. This man should speak of arrogance! It marches emblazoned across his face completely unbeknownst to him.

‘Malazan, I see,’ he mused. ‘Claw, no doubt. Come to spy.’ He turned to Warran. ‘And a priest of that Shadow usurper. He is worried about the integrity of his stolen Realm, yes?’

Warran arched a brow. ‘Stolen? The house was empty, unclaimed.’

L’oric’s mouth pursed with distaste. ‘The problem, I should think, is that by far too many claim that house.’

Warran’s gaze narrowed in the first betrayal of annoyance Kiska had yet seen from him.

L’oric now bowed to his sister. ‘Jayashul.’ He indicated Jheval. ‘What reason has this man given for coming here?’

‘They say they came to investigate the Anomaly, the Devourer.’

L’oric’s gaze was openly sceptical as he studied them in turn. Kiska felt as if she’d been mentally frisked for stolen goods. ‘For what reason, I wonder,’ he mused. ‘All three must be arrested.’

‘I have extended the status of guest to them.’

‘Then you did so too quickly — you should have waited for me.’

It was now Jayashul’s turn to reveal annoyance. Jheval laughed. ‘Still the diplomat, I see, L’oric.’

The man frowned, completely unable to penetrate Jheval’s taunt. ‘This one, at least, must be chained. If only for our safety.’

Kiska couldn’t contain herself any longer. It was stunning how these two could stand here speaking of them in the third person. ‘We have done nothing!’

L’oric regarded her, bemused. ‘How strange to hear a Malazan defending Leoman of the Flails.’

Leoman of the Flails! Kiska gaped at Jheval. The man at least had the scruples to appear ashamed.

‘I am sorry, Kiska,’ he said.

‘Ah!’ L’oric snorted, as if vindicated. ‘He lied to you. Typical.’

‘I believe we’ve established that,’ Warran commented, arching a brow.

Leoman of the Flails. Follower of Sha’ik, and the last commander of the Seven Cities insurrection. The man who lured the Malazan Seventh Army to its greatest tragedy in the city of Y’Ghatan, where a firestorm consumed thousands. Possibly the greatest living threat to the Empire.

And a man she would have brought to Tayschrenn! Whom the Queen of Dreams pressed upon her! Could he have deceived her? Surely not. But then… gods turn away! What was she to do?

Kiska sat heavily, gazing at nothing.

‘Perhaps,’ Warran suggested, ‘you might settle this on your own.’

L’oric gave a curt nod. ‘Yes.’ He snapped his fingers and a guard edged aside the cloth hanging. ‘Take these three back to their quarters and put them under close watch.’

The guard’s gaze flicked to Jayashul. Though obviously irked by her brother’s infringement on her prerogative as commander, she gestured her agreement.

Kiska remained sitting until hands urged her up and guided her back to her tent.

She sat on her pallet, staring at the blank cloth walls long into the night. Leoman. Had he planned assassination? The Queen of Dreams could not have been fooled. Did she then… approve?

Her gaze fell to her hands. Impotent. Deluded. Abetting!

The hands clenched into white fists.

No. Never. I will kill him.

She stood, threw off her loose cloak and travelling jacket. She rewound her sash wider and tighter, pulled on her gloves. Only now did she notice the noise without the tent. Many men and women moving about. She glanced out of a gap in the cloth opening: the Liosan were readying for their assault. Utter insanity! What can an army do against a Void?

She saw a detachment of five Liosan marching towards her tent, led by the man from the dinner, Brother Jorrude. Damn! They might be…

She pulled on her cloak, wrapped it around her and sat on the pallet, hands tucked within the folds.

A sharp knock on the tent’s front pole. ‘Yes?’ she called.

‘We must enter. Dress yourself.’

‘What is it?’

‘I will give you one more moment.’

‘Enter, then. If you must.’

The flap was pulled aside and three Liosan stepped in, Brother Jorrude and two female soldiers. They peered about the empty interior of her tent.

‘What is it?’

Brother Jorrude ignored her.

‘Courtesy-’

‘Courtesy?’ the man cut in. ‘You Malazans are not deserving of courtesy. I find your manners… offensive.’

Kiska smiled. ‘Came away poorly from a previous meeting, did you?’

The man glared, gestured the others out, then followed.

Kiska gave them a moment then peered out of the gap in the cloth. They appeared to be gone. She bent to examine the cot. Two legs came off, giving her short batons as weapons. These she tucked into her sash at the rear. She went to the flap, tucked her fingers round the edge and waited for the alley in front to clear.

‘There’s too many for that,’ a voice said at her back and she nearly jumped from the tent. It was Warran; the man was standing directly behind her.

‘Don’t do that!’ she hissed.

‘It looks as if we’ve all decided it’s time to go.’

She eyed him, not liking that. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Jheval — that is, Leoman — has escaped.’

‘I knew it! That was why they came here!’ She regarded him anew. ‘And you as well, it would seem.’

A modest shrug. ‘I come and go as I please. These Tiste Liosan truly do not understand Shadow. To them it is merely some sort of bastard hybrid. A crippled, or inferior, Liosan. But it is not that at all. It is its own Realm. Separate and equally legitimate.’

In that speech she heard something new in the priest: pride, yes, but the touchy insecure pride of the outsider, or newcomer, to a very old and long-running game. ‘Will you help me get away?’

The priest’s answering grin was unnervingly sly. ‘Of course.’

Pyke choked on his beer when Lard and Wess thumped down at his table. He finished drinking from the heavy tankard and wiped his mouth. ‘What do you two want?’

‘We’re waitin’ for Suth.’

Pyke snorted. ‘Then I’m goin’.’ He moved to rise but Lard grabbed his forearm. ‘What’s this shit?’

Suth entered, peered round, then sat at the table. He nodded to Wess, who yanked something from Pyke’s waist — his money pouch. Wess upended it over the table. Silver and copper coins tumbled over the uneven planks and on to the floor. Pyke writhed to escape Lard’s grip. ‘You guys crazy? That’s mine!’

Suth shook his head. ‘I wasted my entire day following you, Pyke, from one shop to the next. Guess what I saw?’

Pyke wrenched his arm free and rubbed it, sneering. ‘What’s the matter with you guys? It’s the routine. Why should we miss out?’

‘We get paid,’ Lard said.

A laugh from Pyke. ‘When was the last time you saw any Malazan coin?’

‘Coin or not,’ Lard ground out. ‘I signed on to fight, not steal.’

‘Well then, you’re just a stupid fucker, ain’t you?’

Lard surged forward but Suth pulled him back, saying, ‘You’re digging a grave with that mouth of yours, Pyke. Consider this the warning it is. No more giving us a bad name, or we’ll put you in the infirmary.’

Pyke bared his teeth in a derisive smirk. ‘You can try.’

Suth sat back, disbelieving. All the gods of the lands. How dense can a man be? ‘All right. Outside.’

Wess inched his head aside, his eyes to Suth’s rear. Suth turned to see Goss approaching. The sergeant rested a heavy hand on Lard’s and Pyke’s shoulders, giving them all an evil smile. ‘Good to see everyone together like one big happy family. Now kit up. We’re on.’

The squad assembled in front of the inn. All were present, including, of all people, Faro. Yana only was absent as she was still recovering from her crossbow bolt wound. Suth had been named acting corporal. Len and Keri showed up last, jogging from the direction of the garrison. They cradled fat shoulder bags at their sides. Something in Suth shivered upon spotting those bags: whatever this was, it was gonna be ugly.

They marched east. Before they left the last outskirts of Banith, the 6th joined them led by Sergeant Twofoot. Suth couldn’t miss the giant shambling Fish, the squad’s muscle. The man held out a hand to Wess, who pressed a pouch into it. The two tucked rolls of leaves into their mouths. Peas in a damned pod.

Beyond the outskirts they passed tilled market gardens, leafless orchards and harvested fields of stubble and snow. They passed through Malazan checkpoints, were saluted onward. A mounted messenger joined up with them and led the way to a copse of trees north off the road. Here they were ordered to form up.

People advanced from the gloom of the woods. Suth recognized the Adjunct Kyle, Fist Rillish, and the mail-coated woman from the bridge battle, Captain Peles. With them was some squat meaty fellow who had the look of a wrestler, and an old man in ragged shirt and trousers, barefoot. One of the local tribesmen. The Fist stepped forward, studied their ranks.

‘Troopers of the 6th and 17th. You have been selected for a special mission. We will be making a dash to a Roolian stronghold, a series of caves in the mountains. There, our objective is to acquire or destroy a small box or chest. If any of you should locate this object — do not touch it! It could be deadly. Call for the saboteurs.

‘Now, you may be wondering how we could be making a dash to the mountains… well, you are Malazan troops. How many here have travelled by Warren?’

Suth looked round, curious, while a few hands went up — less than a quarter of the company. Goss’ hand was up, as was Twofoot’s, also most of the saboteurs’. Faro’s hand wasn’t up, which didn’t surprise Suth; the man would hardly volunteer any information. Peering about, Suth was startled to see that someone new had joined their ranks at the rear: a giant. The fellow was nearly half as tall again as the average height. He was also by far the broadest across, as well. Suth stared, then remembered he was in ranks, and returned his eyes forward.

Fist Rillish was nodding. ‘Very good. Those who have travelled before help the others, if necessary. Now, our guide for the quick journey will be this man.’ The Fist indicated the elderly local. ‘Gheven is his name. You will follow his orders explicitly. While we are in Warren, you will do as he says without hesitation or question. Is this clear?’

‘Aye, sir!’ came the bellowed response from all throats.

The Fist nodded again. ‘Very good. Now, I requested you because I know you’ve been in the fire before. You can handle yourselves. Follow orders, be responsive and quick, and we’ll be back before your lovers can miss you. That is all. Sergeants.’

Goss and Twofoot stepped forward. ‘Squads! Form up double column!’

The 17th lined up next to the 6th, while the Adjunct and the Fist led with their party. Then they merely set off through the woods. The night was partially overcast. Occasionally, a crescent moon dropped silver beams across the tree trunks. It was chill, but not uncomfortable. ‘Who’s the big guy?’ Suth asked Goss as they marched.

A shrug. ‘Came with the priest. Strange feller. Don’t see what help he’ll be.’

‘Priest?’

Goss gave him an amused look. He pointed to his face. ‘Priest of Fener.’

Suth hid his annoyance: too damned dark to see, wasn’t it?

‘Where’re we-’

Goss had raised a hand for silence. Crossbows were readied all up and down the two columns. The lines became ragged as some hesitated, anticipating a halt. But the order came back to keep moving. None should stop unless directly ordered to do so.

They marched, scanning the woods to either side, crossbows at shoulders. Suth caught a glimpse of some huge beast moving through a glade — of a set of gigantic antlers upraised, almost occluding a surprisingly fat and large moon. That none fired a bolt spoke of the strict adherence to the wait-for-go orders.

Suth stared back at that moon. He could’ve sworn it had been a sliver crescent last time he’d seen it. He was so absorbed he stumbled over Goss’ heels and the man righted him. ‘Ignore everything,’ he told him. ‘Unless it bites you.’

Suth nodded, chastened.

Things got very strange after that. The forest became extraordinarily wild and dense. Everyone released the tension on their crossbows and swung them on to their backs. Swords came out to hack a route. A mist rose, obscuring everything but the tall thick trunks and the vines surrounding them. Those vines occasionally snagged ankles and wrists but quick work from everyone hacked them away; Suth couldn’t tell whether that catching was accidental or deliberate. Soon the mist was swept away by a lashing heated wind that halted them with its fury. Branches slashed them. Suth held a forearm across his eyes, head down. After the wind had passed smoke boiled over them, chokingly thick. It slowly dispersed as they felt their way onward. Ahead, the forest was a blackened wasteland of standing shattered trunks. Beyond that rose a wall of ridges and cliffs, bare and black, billowing plumes of smoke, flame-lashed and glowing, obscuring half the night sky.

*

Rillish steadied Gheven whenever he faltered, which was becoming ever more frequent. He wondered, not academically, what would happen if they were still in this strange Warren when the man died. Would they be lost for ever? It was selfish of him to think of it, but it was a worry. He studied the man’s lined, sweaty face and received a nod of reassurance.

‘She’s anxious,’ the old man explained, his breath coming hard. ‘I sense it. There are things happening all across these lands. Control is slipping away. Now is our best chance.’

‘And how are you?’

Gheven answered with a tired smile. ‘I will manage. I have been hiding and watching long enough.’

Rillish answered the smile with one of his own then looked back to study the company. They were climbing the rocky slope of the crescent of mountains, the Trembling range, that contained the inland body of water known as Fist Sea. Somewhere ahead waited the cave complex of Thol. Below, the coming dawn revealed that at some time the forest had returned; the thunderstorm plume streaming from behind the peaks above was gone as well. A morning mist obscured the greenery of the forest, while the usual thick cloud cover now obscured the sky, seeming to pile up against the shoulders of the Trembling range.

The line of troops snaked below, the men and women dodging from cover to cover. Coming abreast of him, the priest Ipshank shot him a glance and Rillish directed his gaze to the elder. ‘Can’t you help him?’ he murmured, keeping his voice low.

The priest shook his head. ‘No. She’d sense me immediately. He’s having a hard enough time obscuring the Adjunct’s and my presence.’

‘Are we… out?’

‘Yes. Some time ago.’

Rillish nodded, relieved. ‘As soon as there’s cover I’ll order a rest. Everyone’s tired. We’ll have one shift to try to get some sleep.’ He waved for the sergeants. Now, his nagging suspicion returned that he’d not brought enough troopers. But Gheven had been adamant: he could manage no more.

So be it. They would have to succeed with what they had. The Adjunct, Kyle, had been insistent that he come. He had Captain Peles, who was extraordinary in a fight, Ipshank and Manask who were both legends, and two squads of Malazan heavy infantry. What more could any commander wish? It would have to do. After all, what could possibly be awaiting them here, in the middle of nowhere?

This time it was no Korelri Stormguard who came for Corlo; it was a regular Theftian guardsman. It would seem that now, at the very height of the season, the Korelri were too hard-pressed, too thin on the ground, to spare a Chosen for such a menial task. For his part Corlo took renewed comfort from this. The chances for their escape were looking better and better.

The guard manacled his hands behind his back then urged him on with the point of his spear. Jemain had not returned, but the wall was long, and gathering intelligence a chancy business. Corlo trusted the Genabackan could find him again should he need to. What worried him was the possible cause for his summoning. Was Bars despairing again? Already? It rarely struck during mid-season. Was he just sick of it all? A reasonable reaction, actually. Just a little longer, Bars. I have news!

He was urged east in a long walk. One of the longest ever. He’d never been this far towards the eastern end of the wall. It was mostly higher ground here, but for one notorious low-lying section. Ice Tower. His anxiety clawed ever higher in his throat as they headed onward for another day’s march. He was startled at one point to pass a column of soldiers coming the opposite way: a detachment of fifty in Roolian brown. True soldiers, not frightened indebted citizens, or sullen criminals. Men well accoutred in ringed and studded armour, iron helmets, swords and shields. Had these Korelri struck some sort of deal with the Roolians? Looked like it.

The Theftian guard urged him onward down a treacherous icy descent to the curve of the Ice Tower curtain wall. Here he found chaos. Work crews struggled with stone blocks. Streams of ice coursed over the wall and down its rear where it disappeared into the driving snow. Guards waved them on as they might at a fire or some other catastrophe in any city. In the slashing frigid spume from the crashing waves, the guard hurried his pace. They both ended the journey running for cover into an ice-sheathed tower guarded by a single Korelri, his blue cloak trimmed in icicles, hoarfrost its own silver inlay on his Stormguard’s full helm. Corlo stomped his feet and rubbed his hands in the guardroom, and wondered that perhaps such a sight was what lay behind the silver chasing on all the Chosen’s armour: an imitation, or reminder, of the true inlay their sworn duty freely provided.

Within, a Korelri Stormguard motioned to the Theftian. ‘Is this the one?’

The guard nodded, shivering too violently to speak.

The Chosen regarded Corlo from behind the narrow vision slit of his helm. ‘Your friend has lost sight of his purpose again.’

Corlo felt his shoulders tightening. ‘There is nothing new I can say to him.’

A gauntleted hand smashed across Corlo’s face, sending him to the floor. He lay stunned. These Stormguard were never subtle, and the time for subtlety has long passed!

‘Wrong answer. Convince him to fight or you both die. Am I clear?’

Corlo lay rubbing his jaw. ‘Yes, sir. Very clear.’

‘Good.’ He picked up his spear. ‘This way.’

The Korelri led him down narrow circular stairs past levels of holding pens, guardrooms, and crude dormitories no more than halls scattered with straw in which men lay dozing or sat passing the time, talking and playing dice. Down towards the bottom of these levels they entered a slim hall faced by cells. The Korelri stopped at one and peered in the tiny window. He turned to Corlo. ‘Talk to your friend now. Convince him, or you’ll stand the wall together.’ He unlatched the door and pushed Corlo in.

Bars sat hunched against the far wall, elbows on knees, head hanging. He was filthy. His skin was blackened, cracked and scabbed from exposure, his greying hair long and matted. Corlo slid down the wall near the door. What to say? What could he possibly find to say? All he had left were lies.

The head rose and Bars gave him a wink. He stared, speechless. What was this? His commander stepped to the door, listened, then grunted. He pulled Corlo to his feet.

‘I have news,’ the big man said.

‘As have I,’ Corlo stuttered, still surprised.

‘Avowed are here. Shell and Blues. They say K’azz has returned, driven Skinner from the Guard.’

Corlo studied his commander, his pleasure at seeing the man revived and animated fading. Gods, no. Jemain mentioned the possibility of Avowed… but has all this finally proved too much for the man? Has he gone mad?

Bars pulled away. ‘Don’t give me that look. It’s real. I’ve met them. We just need to locate the survivors of the crew then we’re out of here.’

Borun spent his days in the tower of the Sea Gate in Lallit, gazing out at the iron-grey waters of Sender’s Sea. The Moranth sub-commanders knew not to disturb him as every day that passed without news worsened his mood until any question, no matter how tentatively set, received nothing more than an icy mute stare.

Two more days passed without the arrival of the promised ships. Then, Sub-commander Stoven, a companion of the commander from their youth, was selected to approach and ask what to do next. The woman knelt on one knee behind Borun, head bowed. ‘Commander. You have guided us faultlessly all these years. None question your choices. We ask… what are your orders?’

The commander turned. His arms were crossed. A great breath expanded his chest and his head moved from side to side, vertebrae cracking audibly. A long low breath escaped him. ‘Rise, Stoven. You are right to ask. I have been… negligent. It would seem that for reasons we have yet to ascertain, we are on our own. Very well. Round up all craftsmen, impress labourers. Begin construction of a defensive wall round the city. We may be here for some time.’

Stoven bowed. ‘Commander.’ Straightening, she peered out to sea. Her surprise was quite obvious despite her obscuring visor. ‘Commander — look.’

Borun turned. A vessel was entering the small bay. That alone was not worthy of note: what was unusual was that it was a Moranth Blue message cutter. As it neared Borun made out flagging raised on its yards requesting truce and parley. He set his gauntleted hands on the weapon belts crossed around his waist. ‘Well, Stoven. Let us go and see what our good cousins have to say.’