Stonewielder

CHAPTER XI

The next morning brought fresh Jourilan nobles. They looked eager to show up their brethren from yesterday with a murderous charge that would finally sweep these heretical rabble from the field. Ivanr, exhausted and aching from the struggles of the night, wondered if perhaps their confidence was not misguided.

He watched from the wall. By now he’d realized that his place was not in the ranks. Too many looked to him for reassurance and a kind of guidance that, for the life of him, he felt he could not offer. Yet look they did, and so he must be here, though he felt a fraud and feared that somehow he would fail and betray them all.

Again, the impressed Imperial infantry and hired mercenary companies were left to find their own way. Whoever was in command over there seemed to have no idea what to do with them, though he or she seemed to understand by now that they were somehow necessary. The noble cavalry ignored these foot soldiers and had already demonstrated that they were even ready to run them down should they find them in their way.

The Reform pike rankers marched out once more to meet the challenge. Ivanr knew they would be better off remaining behind the raised walls of this instant fortress — no matter how frail its timbers may be — but failing to emerge would be tantamount to surrender. They were the ones who had to prove themselves.

He scanned the ranks, searching for some sign of a commander. Carr’s banner was there along with the brigade colours. But what of Martal? What were they going to do? Everyone must be looking for her. So far, the official story was that she was too wounded to ride — he wondered how long that would last.

As it was, the marshalled nobles gave no one the chance to speculate. Almost immediately the front ranks urged their mounts forward. The pike formations took up long rectangles less than twenty deep, covering a broad sweep of field quite close to the fortress walls. He wondered if Carr was the one behind this new strategy. The heavy cavalry came on steadily; the Imperial infantry milled lost to the rear, apparently far less keen for action.

This morning he sensed a lack of confidence and crispness in the pike manoeuvres. Martal’s absence was being felt. The oncoming cavalry seemed to sense this as well: the call for charge sounded and their pace picked up. Horns answered within the Reform brigades and movement began among the pike ranks, but it was confused and slow. Ivanr stared, sickened with the prescience that the manoeuvre, an effort to open another cleared corridor, would not be completed in time. This worst nightmare was realized as the cavalry charge descended too quickly for all ranks to face uniformly, all pikeheads to present parallel, and every member brace.

An eruption of flesh and iron as heaving tons of muscle ploughed all the way through to the rear to burst outward, pikes glancing aside, men and women trampled. The wedge of noblemen, emboldened, even galloped onward to the fortress walls. They swung alongside, hacking at the planking. One horse reared, kicking, and that bowed a section. Ivanr clutched a log as the wall shuddered where he stood. Archers loosed point-blank from the walks and carriage-platforms.

These heavy cavalry seemed to have come prepared for this eventuality as they drew ropes that ended in nooses and small grapnel hooks. These they threw over the wall. The defenders hacked at the ropes but the nobles spurred their mounts and that section bowed outward, wavering. A tearing and sickening snapping of wood announced its fall. The archers jumped, tumbling. A great roaring cheer went up from the Imperial camp.

Yet an answering roar swelled among the Reform army and Ivanr peered around for its source: there, at a carriage-platform, in her black armour, Martal directing the defence. But not Martal. Someone in her armour. The chant arose: The Black Queen! The Black Queen! She was sending orders to her signallers and the horns sounded.

The cavalry turned to find themselves surrounded. The call went up to close and the razor pikeheads and billhooks advanced from all around. The noblemen spurred their mounts to escape but they had no room to gather momentum. They could only hack at the pikeheads as they thrust at them. In moments they were slaughtered to a man.

Across the field another cavalry mass was hastily forming up. The Imperials had seen success and now it appeared they intended to finish things. Every remaining horse and rider looked to be being pressed into this deciding charge. A great dark mass of men and horses started on its way towards them. The very timbers under Ivanr’s hands shivered as the ground shook.

Even though he knew the woman in Martal’s armour to be just some female officer, Ivanr could not help but glance to that dark figure where she gave orders on the carriage-platform next to the gap; like everyone constantly checking, making sure of their charm, their talisman against defeat. She’d been right — she had to be seen. She had to be here.

This final total charge bore down upon them in a dark tide, spreading out to cover the entire battlefield centre. The thick rectangles of pike wielders hunched, braced, pikes static, holding the equidistance between sharpened points that had been drilled into them day after day, month after month.

Loose pieces of iron rattled and the timbers thrummed with the advance. Archers upon the walls and within, filling the interior of the camp, aimed skyward, arrows nocked. All eyes went to Martal, arm poised, waiting. The arm cut down. A great hiss momentarily drowned out the thunder of the horses’ hooves. The salvo arched overhead, denser and darker than the constant cloud cover, to descend, cutting a swath through the centre and rear ranks of the cavalry. But the front ranks were spared and these charged onward, lances levelling.

The front chevron ploughed into the thick rectangle of men and women. Ivanr witnessed the front two or three, in places up to four, ranks disappear beneath the iron and bone and relentless momentum, but the formation absorbed all that terrifying punishment and held. A second wave now hit home but with less energy as all the carnage and litter of fallen horses and defenders impeded them. Countless horses went down, tripping and stumbling upon the gore.

A cheer went up from the Reform camp but it was short-lived as bow-fire now raked everyone: the hired crossbow and archer companies had advanced to support the charge. This time the cavalry did not wheel away to re-form; they remained, dropping lances and spears to unsheathe swords. A melee broke out and Ivanr had to stop himself from jumping the wall to join in. This could not be allowed. The pike men and women were at too much of a disadvantage. Many wore no armour at all.

But a new element had entered the field. Some sort of horde of irregular infantry armed haphazardly with spears and billhooks and scythes and lengths of wood had taken the left flank and were advancing across the centre. They mobbed the cavalry as they went. Ivanr had taken up a shield and he raised it now overhead to stand as tall as possible — the city! Damned civilians had taken to the field in the thousands! While he watched, this undisciplined mass took the cavalry from the rear to exact a bloody and thorough revenge. Men and women, young and old, pulled nobles in banded armour from their mounts to jab daggers through joints and visors. The merciless bloodthirst reminded Ivanr of the village he’d passed through and he had to look away. Around him the Army of Reform cheered its unlooked-for allies. Even those nobles who surrendered, throwing down their weapons — and probably expecting to be held for ransom — found themselves dragged off their mounts and torn to pieces. By this time the mob was turning its attention to the distant Imperial encampment and panic stirred among those bright pennants and gaily decorated tents.

He descended the wall to join the camp followers and Reform archers pouring out on to the field. His remaining guards followed him. He shook countless hands, squeezed countless shoulders, and lost all tentativeness in blessing all those who asked. The black armoured figure of Martal had remained upon the wall but when Ivanr looked back she was gone. What would the story be, he wondered. Succumbed to her wounds this night? A sudden turn for the worse?

In the carnage of the field he found no prisoners. He knelt to a wounded girl, a pike wielder, one of many in the brigades; it had been his experience that what women may lack in raw brute strength they more than made up in spirit, bravery and dedication to the unit. Her leg had been shattered at the thigh, trampled by a horse. She was white with shock and blood loss. All he could do was hold her muddied hand while the life drained out of her. He brushed the wet hair from her face. ‘We won,’ he told her. ‘You won. It’s over. Finished.’ Through the numbing fog of shock she smiled dreamily, nodding. She mouthed something and he knelt, straining to hear.

‘Kill them all…’

He flinched away, and looking up he saw a familiar figure. It was the old pilgrim, Orman, leaning upon his crooked staff. Now, however, a crowd of civilians surrounded him and he was quite obviously in charge. Orman bowed to him. ‘Greetings, Deliverer.’

‘You appear to be the deliverer this day.’

A modest bow of his balding, sweaty pate. ‘Ring city is ours. Your example turned the tide.’

‘I see.’ Now he understood Sister Gosh’s words. This day the struggle had been to win something much more important than a mere battle. The confidence of a people? When does the movement become the institution? The rebel, the ruler? When comes that tipping point? It seemed it could happen without one even noticing. The cynical twist on Ivanr’s lips fell away and he lowered his voice. ‘About Martal…’

Orman nodded. ‘I know. I’ve been in contact all this time. It is up to you now, Ivanr. You carry our banner.’

‘No.’ He glanced down: the girl was dead. Gently, he lowered her head then stood. But the old man would not be put off. His gaze had hardened, unnerving him.

‘Yes. You have no choice now.’

‘You won’t like it.’

The old man bowed. ‘It is not for me to judge. You are the Deliverer.’

‘Then stop the killing. There’s been more than enough of that.’

Orman bowed again. ‘I will give the order. But there are risks. The people want revenge. There are enthusiasts who call for the cleansing of all followers of the Lady-’

‘No. None of that!’

The old man’s tongue emerged to wet his lips. He adjusted his grip on the staff, uneasy. ‘I will do my best to enforce your wishes, Deliverer.’

‘Do so.’ Ivanr dismissed him and went to visit Martal’s tent. What was going on there? Had that final rumour been unleashed already? Surrounded now by thousands of cheering jubilant veterans of the Army of Reform, he suddenly felt completely, and terribly, alone.

The much diminished fleet of Moranth Blue dromonds and mixed Falaran and Talian men-of-war made good time westward across the Fall Strait and up the Narrows, or Crack Strait. Strong constant winds off the Ocean of Storms allowed them to make the journey in two days and two nights. Poring over the antique maps of the region, Nok and Swirl argued for a landing further west, towards Elri, but Greymane was adamant: the landing had to be south of Kor, hard up against the Barrier Mountains. The Admirals finally appealed to Devaleth, but she could not help them. ‘I really do not know this shore,’ she had to admit. ‘Though I have heard it is rugged.’

Nok pushed himself from the low table of his stateroom. ‘There you have it. Unsuitable for a landing, I’m sure.’

‘Especially one that may be contested,’ Swirl added.

But Greymane would not budge. ‘It must be here. We are coming up on it. The landing must go ahead.’ He looked to the last member of Command present: Fist Khemet Shul. ‘Strike inland, take control of the highlands. Use them as your base. Retreat to Katakan, if necessary.’

The squat man nodded. The lamplight reflected gold from his bald blunt head. ‘I understand.’

Devaleth looked from face to face: the two reluctant Admirals, the flat uninflected Fist, and the growling, coiled High Fist. She wanted to scream: How can you do this? But she knew she’d be dismissed out of hand. Best to swallow her dread, follow along, and do the most she could to ameliorate the certain disaster to come.

‘That is all, then,’ Greymane said, crossing his arms. ‘A dawn assault.’

Fist Shul saluted. ‘Sir.’ Bowing, he left to see to his preparations.

Devaleth bowed as well. ‘I’ll try to get some rest, then.’

The three wished her a good sleep. When she pulled the door to the stateroom closed, Admiral Nok was making tea.

Outside, Devaleth leaned on a gunwale railing. It was after midnight, and they were passing the last of the Barrier range rising north of them into the night like a distant set of ragged teeth. The sea was calm though the winds were high. And those winds chilled her, coming directly off the Ocean of Storms and bearing a hint of the Riders themselves.

As tentatively as possible she opened up to passively reach for her Ruse Warren. The response almost overwhelmed her. Raw churning power taut with anticipation. Something is coming. Ruse senses it, or carries it like the gravid swelling of power before its release. What is it? Our destruction? Whatever it might be it is immense; there is power here for the taking — more than I’d ever dare to take, or even suspected flowed there for the taking.

Drawing back, what frightened her the most was the dread that before tomorrow was over, she may be driven to reach for it.

The day dawned with the fleet approaching the coast on a wide front. From the side of Admiral Nok’s flagship, the Star of Unta, it looked to Devaleth as if these Malazans and Moranth had used up all their tricks and stratagems getting by the Skolati and the Mare forces, and now all they were left with was a plain straightforward assault.

They’d entered the lee of the Barrier range and many vessels had had to break out the sweeps to continue shoreward. It was clear that the rocky coast was too rough for the ships to anchor anywhere close and so crews readied launches. Ashore, bonfires burned and Devaleth could make out timber barriers and massed troops. The Roolians. Obviously Yeull also understood that this length of shore was the crucial landing place.

The vessels nosed as close to the shore as possible. Smaller cutters and sloops swept in closer, carrying as many troops as could be jammed on board. But while the water was still too deep for the men and women to jump off sheeting bow-fire met them, arcing up from massed archers. Devaleth’s stomach clenched seeing the troops delay while launches and all manner of rowboats were readied. They were sitting targets!

The coast was so rocky and dangerous here, only the smallest boats dared approach, so only the barest handful of troopers could land at any one time. Parties slogged ashore in fives and tens through the waist-deep water, and, while Devaleth watched, overwhelming numbers jumped up from behind fallen logs and rocks to charge. She saw entire boatloads of infantry cut down one at a time before escaping the wash of the waves.

This is a catastrophe! And the Korelri haven’t even yet lent their weight to the battle.

Then, just as Devaleth could not imagine things unfolding any more disastrously, batteries of mangonels, catapults and onagers opened up from the shore. A barrage of projectiles came streaming up from the hidden weapons. Devaleth jumped, flinching at the sight of the fusillade. She watched frozen in a sort of suspended fascination as the stones descended, roaring, amid the anchored fleet. Most struck only water, sending up massive jets of spray. But a few found targets and punched down through decking and hull. This is insane! Where was Greymane? The fool! Yeull was waiting for them!

But yet again she’d forgotten about the Moranth. The engines that had cast so much death and destruction among the Mare fleet now responded. The colour of the dawn changed to an orange-red as a great sheet of flaming projectiles arced up from the Blue vessels. She watched just as fascinated as this barrage passed over the immediate shore to land a good hundred paces back from the lip of the sand cliffs masking the coast.

A firestorm blossomed, roiling in fat billowing flames and black smoke. It spread in great arcs of incendiaries that reached like claws, secondary bursts scattering the inferno even farther. The blast reached Devaleth like a distant rockslide or titanic waterfall. She was shaken from the spell of that eruption by soldiers jostling her: the Star of Unta was unloading its some four hundred infantry on to launches and jolly boats.

Smoke now veiled the shore. Wave after wave of infantry from the Fourth and Eighth Armies heaved themselves over the sides of the boats to wade into the killing zone where the surf broke amid rocks and pockets of gravel strand. She could not quite tell if any foothold had yet been gained. The bodies that had not sunk now washed about, crowding the surf like driftwood.

Punching through the smoke came a continued barrage from the defending engines, only now aimed higher, to fall short among the crowded boats and knots of men. Great jets burst skyward with each impact, throwing troopers like rags. Some few struck boats, exploding them in a great eruption of wood splinters and disintegrated bodies.

A hand grasped Devaleth’s upper arm and she jumped, gasping. It was Greymane.

‘I was calling you,’ he said.

She swallowed, her heart pounding. ‘I’m — I’m sorry. I’m so… Is this as bad as it looks?’

The big man grimaced his understanding. ‘It’s ugly — there’s no way round it. Attacking a hostile shore? You can only push and keep pushing. It’s up to the troops now — they mustn’t flinch.’ He looked to shore, his pale eyes the colour of the sky. ‘But I have every confidence in them.’ His gaze returned to her. ‘Now I have a request of you, High Mage.’

‘Me?’

‘A journey through your Warren. I’m needed elsewhere.’

‘What?’ She gestured to the shore. ‘But what of this? You’re needed here!’

He shook his head. ‘No. It’s no longer up to me here. I can only watch. Nok and Shul have their orders and they will see things through. I must go — believe me.’

‘But the Lady…’

His lips crooked up in a smile. ‘We’re on water, mage.’

She sighed as she acknowledged defeat. ‘Very well. Where?’

‘West. I will let you know. In fact, you may sense it yourself.’

‘All right. West. If you must.’ She took hold of his forearm. ‘Gods — it’s been ages since I’ve done this.’ She reached out to Ruse

… and stepped through.

She found herself on a flooded plain, standing in shin-deep water. The sky was clear, deep blue. Greymane was with her in his heavy armour of banded iron, helmet pushed high on his head. He hooked his gauntleted hands at his belt. ‘Where are we?’

‘I don’t know.’ She turned full circle: flat desolation in all directions. The water was fetid, heavy with silt and muck. The stink, gorge-rising.

‘Which way?’ Greymane asked, wincing at the smell.

‘This way.’ She headed off, slogging through the flood. Her sodden robes dragged as she pushed through the water.

They came to a long low hill, like a moraine, and there washed up against its side lay a great line of pale things like a high-water mark. At first she thought them stranded sea-life, seals or porpoises, but as they drew closer the awful truth of them clawed at her and she bent over, heaving up her stomach. Greymane steadied her.

‘God of the Sea preserve us,’ she managed, spitting and gasping. ‘What has happened here?’

‘It’s me,’ Greymane ground out, his voice thick with suppressed emotion. ‘A warning, or a lesson, from Mael.’

‘A lesson?’ She studied him anew. ‘What is this? What is going on here?’

The man tried to speak, looked away, blinking back tears, then tried again. ‘I’m going to do something, Devaleth. Something I’ve been running from for decades. Something that terrifies me.’

She backed away, splashing through the shallow polluted waters. ‘No!’ A dizzying suspicion clenched her chest — she could not breathe. ‘Stonewielder! No! Do not do this thing!’

‘It must be done. I’ve always known that. I… I couldn’t summon the nerve, the determination, before. But now I see there’s no choice.’

She pointed to the swollen rotting corpses, men, women, children, heaved up like wreckage. ‘And what is this? You would do this!’

He bowed his head then raised it to look to the sky, blinking. ‘I was handed two ghastly choices decades ago, Devaleth. Mass murder on the one hand — and an unending atrocity of blood and death on the other. Which would you choose?’

‘I would find a third course!’

‘I tried. Believe me, I tried.’ He gestured off into the distance. ‘But it hasn’t stopped, has it?’ He added, more softly, ‘And do you really think it will?’

She had to shake her head. ‘No. It won’t. But… the price…’

‘It’s the only way to end it. Everyone is in too deep. A price must be paid.’

Devaleth hugged herself as if to keep the pain swelling in her chest contained. ‘I… I understand. For us the time for easy options is long past. And now our delay has brought us to this.’

‘Yes.’

She bowed her head. Gods — you are all a merciless lot, aren’t you? But then, how can you be any better than your worshippers? She started off again. ‘This way. I feel it. It’s unmistakable.’

She found the locus: a great current coursing through the flood where the water fairly vibrated with power. Here she brought them out of the Warren to appear in the shallows of a long wide beach that led up to a wooded shore.

Greymane turned to her. ‘My thanks. You didn’t have to…’

She waved that aside. ‘I understand. It’s time we made the hard choices. And I understand now why you pushed everyone away. Your friend Kyle. Us. All of us.’

He winced at that. ‘Speak to him for me, won’t you? I… I couldn’t tell him.’

‘Yes.’

‘And give my apologies to Rillish. He proved himself. He deserved better.’

‘I will.’

‘Good. My thanks.’ He started up the beach, turned back. ‘Tomorrow. You’ll have till tomorrow. Get everyone into the hills — and see Nok through this. It’s up to you.’

‘Yes. I’d say good luck, but I can’t bring myself to. I’m sorry.’

The High Fist nodded. ‘Goodbye. Good luck to you.’ And he bowed his head in a kind of salute.

Devaleth watched till he disappeared into the forest of this unremarkable length of coast. A forest soon to be swept utterly away should the man succeed — which isn’t guaranteed, either.

She summoned Ruse and returned to the Warren.

Her return journey was uneventful. The shallow wash remained, either the remnant of a flood, or a flood from an earth tremor, or some such thing. She could not tell. She avoided the moraine but bumped up against waterlogged corpses sunk in the water. Though their flesh was disintegrating in a cloud around their bones, these bodies appeared unusual: very gracile, the bones curved oddly, the skull narrow, limbs elongated. Very pale, of course, as the bleaching of the water accomplishes that. But still, very pale indeed.

Unnerved, she hurried on. When her sense of the Warren told her she’d found the place of her entrance she reached out once more to step through.

And she entered a maelstrom of noise and smoke and screaming. Malazan dead carpeted the tidal interzone of algae-skirted rocks and pools. Troopers hunched for cover among those rocks. Arrows and crossbow bolts whipped past her and she quickly raised a shield from Ruse to deflect them. Launches and jolly boats choked the shore, abandoned or half sunk.

What was going on? Why were they still here?

Furious, she slogged over to the nearest crowd of soldiers. ‘What are you doing!’ she demanded.

The troopers gaped at her. One, a sergeant by his armband, offered a hasty salute. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, High Mage, ma’am. It’s them shoreward cliffs. Their archers beat back every charge.’

She studied the cliffs: some three fathoms of loamy soil, no handholds, no gaps. ‘Very well. Looks like you can use some help.’

The sergeant nudged the troopers near him. ‘Yes, ma’am. An even exchange, every time.’

‘Prepare yourselves…’

Ruse called to her. It practically sang. Yes, yes, she answered. So be it. She extended her arms to reach out over as wide a front as possible. Come. Rush through. Rise. She tugged the waters behind her, urging them into a swelling, a great roll or front that came surging upward. She sensed the enormous Blue dromonds and men-of-war anchored behind in the bay as tiny toys bouncing far above her consciousness. And she pushed.

Yells of alarm rang out around her but she did not turn.

An immensity now leaning forward behind her, rising inexorably. The weight was impossible, but she allowed it to flow through her, onward, promising release just ahead. A wave took her from behind, climbed her body and kept mounting ever higher. She sensed the launches and jolly boats surging overhead, men and women momentarily suspended, counter-balanced in their weight, kicked forward.

The surge struck the cliff like a tidal bore and was pushed upward, bulging, rising. It washed over the lip, taking with it everyone along this stretch of the landing, to burst outward in a great release of pressure, washing onwards, diminishing.

The surge sank around her, leaving her sodden, exhausted, and she slouched on to a rock. Water rushed round her knees, charging back to the sea, dragging the loamy soil with it, and peering up she saw the cliff eroded into draws that ran now like small waterfalls. A huge launch, some two fathoms in length itself, tottered on the lip of the cliff before sliding backwards, empty.

Troopers of the Fourth and Eighth splashed in from either side, charging, cheering, urging one another on. The charge thickened into a constant stream of soldiers as the entire landing converged on this gap to claw themselves up the slope. When next she raised her head for a look, a guard of troopers had her covered in a barrier of overlapping shields. She rubbed at a sticky wetness over her mouth and her hand came away clotted in blood. Nosebleed — of course.

Some time later the self-appointed honour-guard straightened, saluting, and, after bowing to her, jogged off. Devaleth turned to see the Blue Admiral, Swirl. The Moranth draped a blanket over her shoulders.

‘High Mage,’ he began, wonder in his voice, ‘I am amazed. Had I known — we would have merely stood aside to let you clear the way.’

She shook her head. ‘That wasn’t me. I just tapped something abiding within Ruse. Something so immense the mere possibility of it allowed this.’

The Blue Admiral tilted his helm. ‘I confess I do not understand. Does this bear on the High Fist’s last orders?’

‘What were they?’

‘Fist Shul is to strike inland, take high ground. The fleet is to withdraw from the coast.’

She jumped up, tottering, clutching the blanket. ‘Yes! That is it. We must withdraw to the centre of the Narrows. Shul will take the troops. He, all of us, we have until tomorrow.’

The Admiral bowed. ‘We will complete the unloading as soon as possible, then. Will you not return to the flagship?’

She nodded her relief. Gods, yes. I can feel her pushing against me. Raging. Full of hate and poison. Best to get away as soon as possible.

She took a step and would have collapsed but for the Admiral’s catching at her arm. Dizzy, she thanked him. He waved guards to him, ordered them to return her to the flagship. Despite her distaste for displaying weakness, she allowed them to walk her to the nearest boat.

‘What do you mean he isn’t here?’ Overlord Yeull stared at Ussu as if he were somehow responsible. ‘This is his landing! His moment! Why wouldn’t he be here?’ The man’s gaze darted about the tent, feverish, wild. ‘Where is he? He must be found!’ The eyes, white all round, found Ussu. ‘You! Find him! I command you! Find him and destroy him!’

Ussu drew breath to disagree but one look at the man hunched over the brazier, blankets and a fur cloak draped over his shoulders, hands practically sizzling over the embers, convinced him not to argue. He bowed. ‘I am your servant.’

The man glanced to him as if startled by his presence. ‘What? Yes! Go!’ He waved Ussu out.

Outside the darkened command tent, Ussu adjusted his robes and considered the Overlord’s degenerating condition. He always was unreliable — now, who knows what whim might take him? Things did not look promising.

Still, they were here in Korelri. Should these Malazans even gain a foothold, like a shallow wave they would break against the wall. He crossed to his tent, ducked within. His Roolian soldier attendants were still wiping up the blood from his earlier efforts. One was casting sawdust on the bare ground. The corpse had been wrapped and carried off. How the Lady mocked him for clinging to such crutches. Still, he remained reluctant to throw himself entirely into her hands.

‘Another prisoner, magus?’ an attendant asked.

‘No. That is all for now.’ No need to scry anew. Greymane was not here, that much was certain. Still, where was the man? It troubled him also that he could not find him. What was he up to? If he had sufficient power at his disposal he could locate the fellow — but not power pulled from the Lady, not yet. He wasn’t that desperate yet. But perhaps from another source…

‘I have need of a horse,’ he told an attendant. ‘Have we any?’

‘We brought a few across, sir. For messages.’

‘Very good. Prepare one.’

The man bowed and left. Ussu began packing a set of panniers. Should the Malazans gain a foothold then it would be an infantry battle, hedge-jumping and door-to-door skirmishing. Not his campaign. It seemed the Overlord had given him his mission, and thinking on it, he did believe it important. This man, Greymane, Stonewielder, must be planning something, and he, Ussu, the Lady’s erstwhile High Mage, was the only one with the slightest chance of locating him.

Outside, the horse was brought up and he mounted. Wishing the men good luck, he urged his mount inland. He was a good few leagues off, climbing the gentle rolling hillside, when something tugged at him from the Strait. Something’s gathering. He reined in and turned. Shading his eyes, he could just make out the distant Blue and Talian men-of-war anchored in the bay. What were they up to? Then he felt it: the puissance literally pushed him backwards. Ye gods, what was this? Ruse, awakening? Had an Ascendant taken to the field?

A great wave bulged in the bay, heaving shoreward. That renegade Mare mage! Sweeping the shore clear! Where came she by such might? Too much. Far too much for him to contest. That was one battle he had to concede. She could have the shore — but this was her one and only throw. He still had many more. He sawed the reins around and made inland as fast as he could urge the horse.

Warran took Kiska through Shadow — just how he did it she wasn’t sure. He simply invited her to walk to the darkened rear of the tent and she found herself stepping on much farther than its dimensions. The gloom then brightened to the familiar haziness of the Chaos region and she turned to him. ‘Where are we?’

‘Within the boundary threshold of the Whorl itself.’ The short fellow clasped his hands at his front. ‘Myself, I have no wish to go any farther.’

‘But it was dark…’

‘To those looking from the outside, yes. It would appear that those within create their own local conditions.’

Kiska peered around, dubious. ‘I don’t think I understand…’

The old priest cocked his head. ‘Some say every consciousness is like a seed. Perhaps that is true. I know of small pocket realms that act in this manner. Perhaps we create our own — for a time. Now I understand why the Liosan would come in such numbers. Their local conditions would be that much stronger, and more enduring.’

‘Enduring?’

Warran gave a serious nod. ‘You don’t really think you can forestall the eroding effects for ever, do you? Eventually you will be consumed.’ He raised a finger to his lips. ‘Or perhaps you will drift in nothingness dreaming for ever… Hmm. An interesting problem…’

Kiska stared at the ragged fellow. ‘That’s supposed to reassure me?’

Warran blinked. ‘Does it? It certainly wouldn’t reassure me.’

Exasperated, she raised her arms to turn full circle. ‘Well, which direction should I go?’

‘I really do not think it matters. Here, all directions lead to the centre.’

‘All directions lead — that doesn’t make any sense!’

The priest pursed his lips, head cocked. ‘You could say it has its own kind of logic… you just have to learn to think a different way.’

‘You sound as if you’ve done this before.’

The greying tangled brows rose in surprise. ‘Time is wasting. You’d better start searching.’ He raised a finger. ‘Oh! I took the liberty…’ He reached into his dirty torn robes and pulled out Kiska’s staff.

Mute with wonder, she accepted it, then stared from it to him: it was taller than he. ‘How…’

He waved goodbye, started off. Over his shoulder he called, ‘Take care. Remember the logic!’ He’d taken only a few steps when he disappeared.

Kiska stared, squinting. Was that the border of her own personal space? The thought unnerved her utterly. She squeezed the staff in her hands, feeling emboldened by its familiarity, and started off in the opposite direction from the one in which the priest had gone.

She had no sense of time passing, of course. It might have been a moment, or a day, but eventually the sky darkened, seeming to close in until she jogged beneath a night sky blazing with stars that showed no constellation she knew. The ground to either side fell away in steep slopes down to an equally dark abyss, leaving a narrow walk, and here someone was waiting for her.

It was Jheval-Leoman, arms crossed, an almost embarrassed look on his wind-tanned face. Kiska noted he once more wore his morningstars on his belt — that damned priest! She lowered her staff. ‘Keep your distance.’

He held up his opened hands. ‘Kiska. I have no vendetta. Believe me. My only motive is to get you damned Malazans off my back.’

She motioned him to walk ahead of her. ‘So you say. But I can’t trust that, can I?’

He let out a long breath, his arms slowly falling. ‘No. I suppose not.’ He walked ahead of her. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me of this manifestation, and I’m worried. You said Tayschrenn didn’t create this-’

‘Agayla would not deceive me! I trust her completely!’

He turned, walking backwards. ‘Kiska. She did not object to me…’

She stopped. Objections crowded her throat but none could escape. Agayla was deceived? Hardly. She didn’t know? The Queen of Dreams, ignorant? Even less likely. And yet… how could she accept this criminal? Nothing less than a mass murderer?

A dark shape caught her eye ahead. A figure, prone, wearing dark torn robes. Tayschrenn! She dashed ahead.

‘Kiska! Wait!’

She dropped to her knees next to the figure, an old man on his back, thin, with long grey hair. ‘Tayschrenn!’ She touched a shoulder. ‘It’s me…’

The figure stirred, turning over. A hand grasped her wrist. Kiska stared, stunned. For it was not Tayschrenn. The man stood, his grip on her wrist inhumanly strong. He was sun-darkened, with a great hooked nose and black glittering eyes. ‘And you are?’ he grated in accented Talian.

Kiska could not speak, couldn’t think. Impossible. All this… impossible…

The avid eyes slid aside, narrowing. ‘And who is this?’

Kiska followed his gaze to Leoman, kneeling, bowed.

‘Arise,’ the man growled.

Leoman straightened, inclined his head in obeisance. ‘Greetings, Yathengar. Faladan, priest of Ehrlitan. The Seven bless us.’

The man, Yathengar, pushed Kiska away. He took an uncertain step, his gaze furrowed. ‘Leoman? In truth? Leoman — Champion of Sha’ik?’ He clasped Leoman’s shoulders and laughed. ‘The Seven Gods are not so easily swept aside, yes? How they must have schemed to bring us together! We shall return, you and I. All Seven Cities will rise aflamed! You shall be my general. We will destroy them.’

Leoman bowed again. ‘I am yours to command.’

To one side a brightening disturbed the uniformity of this island, or eye of calm, at the centre of the Whorl. Yathengar peered aside, frowning. ‘What is this?’

Leoman shot Kiska a warning glance. ‘Tiste Liosan, m’lord. This place touches upon their Realm and they are here to destroy it.’

‘Fools to challenge me here. I will sweep them aside like chaff.’

Leoman had backed away a step. ‘No doubt, m’lord.’

Kiska eyed him — what was the bastard up to? Has he deceived everyone? Every friend or loyalty he has ever established, he has betrayed. And now he would whip this madman upon the Liosan? Was there no limit to his debasement? Was it all nothing more than gleeful nihilism?

Leoman looked up, directing her gaze to the sky. Unwilling to cooperate, she reluctantly glanced up anyway. And she saw it. A tiny bat-like dot flapping overhead.

Her gaze snapped back to him, her heart lurching. The man took another careful step away from Yathengar. She followed suit.

‘Watch, Leoman,’ the priest commanded. ‘See how I have grown in might here.’

Leoman bowed again. ‘Yes, m’lord.’

Kiska cast quick furtive glances to their little guide. It descended to the rear, behind them, where the ground fell away to the dark abyss that seemed to surround them. It disappeared, arcing down into the gulf, and Kiska’s gaze rose to Leoman, appalled.

He nodded, his gaze steady, insistent.

And she, hardly able to breathe, terrified, nodded back.

Leoman kicked her staff over the edge. Yathengar turned. ‘What?’

Kiska leapt into the black emptiness. A surprised roar burst behind her. Then, a bellow of pure outrage: ‘Leoman!’

It seemed Leoman could not help but remain true to his character.

Bakune imagined himself the most coddled prisoner in the history of Banith’s Carceral Quarters. Guards smuggled food and wine to him; guards’ wives whispered news from the countryside through the grate of his door. Even the commander of the quarters, Ibarth, a man who once openly scorned his judgements from the bench, appeared at his door to express his horror at the Malazans’ treatment of him.

‘Imagine,’ the man had huffed, ‘after all your efforts to be civil. These Malazans are barbarians!’ He assured Bakune that he’d have him out in an instant if it was up to him — but that the Malazans had his hands tied.

Bakune gave his understanding and the man fairly fainted his relief; he wiped his flushed sweating face and bowed his gratitude. News came only later via a guard’s wife that the Roolian resistance had named Bakune a patriot of the freedom struggle — a title he personally could not make any sense of.

The next night he was startled awake by a rattling at his door. A guard holding a lantern gently swung it open to wink and touch the side of his nose in a sort of comical pantomime. Bakune stared sleepily at the man. Whatever was he up to?

Another fellow slipped inside, wrapped in a cloak, hood up, a heavyset great lump of a fellow who sat on the end of his pallet. The guard set the lantern on a hook and backed away.

Bakune eyed the figure. ‘And who are you?’

The man threw back his hood. ‘Really, Assessor. Don’t you recognize old friends?’

It was Karien’el, just as fat, nose just as swollen, if a touch more tanned. Bakune jumped up. ‘Whatever are you doing here? You’re a wanted man!’

‘I was here in town so I thought I’d break you out.’

That silenced Bakune for a moment. He flexed his arm, massaging it and wincing. ‘Here? In town? Why? I told Hyuke there was to be no trouble here.’

Chuckling, Karien’el raised his hands. ‘Granted. The Malazans can have this pimple.’ He pointed to Bakune. ‘It’s you I want.’

‘Me?’

Karien’el chuckled again, shaking his head. ‘From anyone else I would take that as false modesty — but not you. I know you. That’s why I want you. I need an administrator. One I can trust.’

‘An administrator? What for?’

Karien’el lost his grin. ‘Gods you’re dense, man! For the bloody kingdom, that’s what!’

Bakune sat heavily. ‘There are others much more qualified…’

Karien made a farting noise. ‘Lady forgive you, but you’re taking all this fairness too damned far. Why them? Why not you? No, at this point it’s all about relationships. I know you. For example, I know you won’t waste both our time by scheming against me. Or trying to undermine my power to further your own.’ The man raised his eyes to the ceiling, sighing. ‘You have no idea what a relief that would be.’

Bakune couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. ‘But the Malazans…’

‘Neither the new Malazans nor the old Malazans have the men to hold the kingdom. And they both know it. It’s ours for the meantime — and we’re already fighting over it. Oh, they can try to retake it. But until then someone has to enforce order.’

Bakune looked him up and down. ‘And that would be you?’

If the man was offended he didn’t show it. ‘Or the next lucky bastard in line.’ Leaning over, he tapped a knuckle on the door.

Four armoured soldiers crowded the hall. Karien’el nodded to them and stood, letting out a long tired breath. ‘Welcome to the struggle, Chancellor, and Lord High Assessor of Rool.’

The guards bowed. One gestured up the hall. ‘This way, if you please, m’lord.’

Outside, it was a dark overcast night. Snow lay gathered against walls, melting, the streets glistening with water. He was hurried into a covered carriage. Two of the guards sat with him. Karien’el excused himself, saying he still had other business. Bakune did not like the sound of that, but he could hardly show such ingratitude now after the man had broken him out of prison.

As they rattled through the streets he peered out at lit windows. The town appeared just as it had, if a touch quieter, if not anxious. The garrison, he noted, sat completely black without sentries or watchfires. ‘The garrison is dark,’ he said to a guard.

‘They moved out. They’re building a fort outside the town.’

‘Ah. And us? Where are we headed?’

‘To Paliss, m’lord.’

Paliss? The capital? He sat back astounded. Karien’el controlled the capital? All the gods sustain him! He’d imagined a tent camp near some front, not the High Court itself! And without any interference from Karien’el, as well. Just as Karien’el said he knew him, so too did he know Karien’el. Just as he had no interest in ruling, so did Karien’el have no interest in the law itself.

But he mustn’t get ahead of himself. He found a horse blanket under the seat and pulled it over his legs. He flexed his hand — still a touch numb. Karien’el would have to win out, after all. And if he did… then he would have his chance to put his stamp on the laws of the land.

And he most certainly intended to.

For some reason the city of Ring made Ivanr uneasy. He preferred to stay out in the field, occupying his tent in Martal’s fortress, with a view of the city walls. He and the wrapped bodies of Martal and the Priestess. Many flocked to him now, begging for his blessing, hounding him. Inside the city it would be ten times worse.

He was the inheritor of a polytheistic movement nurtured and prepared by Beneth, inflamed by the Priestess, directed by Martal, and now in control of over half of Jourilan — and it terrified him. He had no idea what to do, or how to proceed. What next? March on the capital, Jour? Already Orman was harassing him with intelligence from the Dourkan border: news of Imperial loyalists negotiating for an alliance against the Reformist movement. He was no politician! Orman could handle that; he seemed to relish it.

He rested a hand on the cloth-wrapped body of the Priestess, the head and body reverently brought together, packed in salt, and lovingly bound. Such a small frame to have brought about such enormous change! Yet, as the churgeon said, nothing happened. Why did you allow it? Did you see, in the end, that nothing short of your complete sacrifice to the cause could assure their complete devotion as well?

‘Deliverer!’ a young girl’s voice called from without. Ivanr stirred from what was perhaps the closest he’d come to prayer in many years. Gods! Not another one!

He tossed aside the flap to see a young girl lying prone, hands out before her. ‘Stand up!’ he grated, much more ferociously than he meant. She stood, quivering her fear. ‘It’s all right. Don’t be afraid. Worship as you wish. There are no proscriptions now. The paths to the Divine are infinite.’

She nodded, gulping. ‘Yes, Deliverer. My father sent me. He is too old to come. He believes in your message of forgiveness.’ The girl visibly gathered her nerve to plunge on: ‘My lord, with the death of the Black Queen there is such anger among the troops. They thirst for revenge… M’lord, in the city they are rounding people up. People accused of worshipping the Lady. They are killing them all.’

‘What!’

The girl flinched, falling prone once more. ‘No! Not you!’ He glanced about the tent, found his staff. ‘Show me.’

The streets were utterly deserted but for roving bands of Reformist troops, drunk, breaking into shops, looting. Along the narrow streets of two-storey shops and houses many gaped empty, ransacked from the rioting. Looted broken furniture and private belongings littered the street along with the burned remains of bonfires and street barricades.

After a few blocks, the girl leading, it became easy to find the source of the trouble as the echoing roar of shouting and cheering reached him. They came on to a market square. A great crowd of Reform troops mixed with Ring citizens, obvious victors in the bloody street-to-street civil clashes, choked the square. Some had even climbed broken statues and fountains for a better view, and everyone was peering across the way to where an informal archery range had been set up. Reform archers fired down the narrow cleared alleys between the crowds to targets of crossed lumber on which men and women hung limp, studded with arrows. A great cheer greeted every volley.

Enraged, Ivanr bulled his way forward. He slammed men and women aside and stepped out to where tables supported bows and quivers of arrows. Archers gaped at him, astonished, and most lowered their bows. All save one, a youth who deliberately ignored him to take his time firing one last shot into a woman hanging by her arms. The shot went true, though the woman’s body didn’t flinch, supporting as it did an entire forest of arrows.

Two quick strides brought Ivanr to the fellow and he slapped the bow from his hands. ‘How dare you, you evil bastard!’ he raged. The archer whipped round and he found himself staring straight into the scarred young face of the boy he’d rescued.

For Ivanr everything stopped.

The noise from the crowd faded to nothing. Even his vision darkened at its edges. He staggered backwards, his heart lurching as if impaled. Gods forgive me! No! The boy’s face was different now — a kind of habitual cruelty twisted it. The youth snatched up his bow and defiantly nocked another arrow. No! Please… Ivanr started forward, reaching out for him. Please don’t do this — I’m sorry. I didn’t mean

…

The youth spun about and fired point-blank into Ivanr’s chest.

The answering roar of the crowd dazzled him. He stood confused. Hordes crowded in upon him. Hundreds of hands snatched the youth, tearing his clothes, his hair. The boy seemed to disintegrate before his eyes. All he could think of was that there was something he meant to do; he just couldn’t quite remember what it was. Someone was talking to him — the man’s mouth was moving but Ivanr couldn’t make out his words among all the roaring noise. He peered down at the palm’s breadth of shaft and fletching protruding from his chest. Something had to be done about this!

He asked the man if he could help him, or thought he did, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. Hands guided him to a room, sat him on a straw pallet. Breathing was hard now — the arrow had taken a lung. But he was of Toblakai stock, and hardy. He stayed conscious, even when an army bonecutter leaned him forward to snip the shaft at his back, then, looking to him for permission, yanked the arrow out from his front. Ivanr convulsed in a great spewing mouthful of blood. The bonecutter bound his torso in muslin. Eventually Orman appeared, accompanied by Hegil.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Orman told him, actual tears in his eyes.

‘They’re saying it was an assassin sent by the Lady,’ Hegil said.

Ivanr shook his head. ‘Stop them,’ he said, his voice papery dry.

‘Stop?’ Hegil asked. ‘Stop what?’

‘The killing. No more.’

The two shared glances. ‘Yes,’ Orman told him. ‘Yes, Ivanr. Do not worry. Ease your mind.’

Bowing, they left. He heard speaking outside but couldn’t quite make out the words. He was alone, straining to draw breath. Orman may have given his word to stop the killing but outside, on the streets, if anything the noise was swelling. Ivanr feared the attack on him had shattered all restraint. He tried to stand, but tensing his chest stole his breath completely and he almost blacked out.

The door opened and a young woman crept in like a mouse. A mouse dragging a huge stick with it. She looked up to see him staring at her and choked off a yell. It was the girl who had summoned him into the city. ‘They are saying you are dead!’

Ivanr, who had been pressing a hand to his chest, let it fall. ‘Who is saying?’

‘Everyone! On the streets. They are emptying entire quarters. Dragging families on to the streets. There is no sense to it. It’s just bloodletting, nothing more than bloodlust.’

He gestured for his staff. ‘Give me that!’

Together with the support of the staff and the girl, he managed to stand. ‘My shirt — there.’

She dressed him and, one hand on her shoulder, the staff in the other, he limped outside. Guards turned, amazed. Two were his sworn bodyguards. These two looked at him, stricken with remorse.

Ivanr surveyed the gathered soldiers. ‘Attend me,’ he commanded simply, and they fell to their knees.

As he limped along within his circle of guards, Ivanr clenched back his pain and asked, breathless, ‘Where should I go — the centre of things?’

‘The Cathedral of Our Lady. Loyalists are fleeing there. The garrison of Stormguard on the Ring have come ashore. None dare attack them.’

Stormguard? Yes, dragging old men and women into the street is one thing, taking on the most ferocious warriors of the region is quite another.

A broad open plaza surrounded the cathedral. They found it a churning sea of citizenry and Reform soldiers. Ivanr’s guard cordon pushed its way towards the wide front stairs. Ivanr heard chants to burn the entire structure to the ground. The tall oaken doors gaped open, guarded by four Stormguard. Even as Ivanr approached, Ring citizens, including entire families, darted up the stairs under a hail of rocks and rotten food to run inside. Within, he glimpsed a solid mass of pale terrified faces staring out.

Silence spread like ripples through the crowd around his passage. People pointed, shouting their surprise, even reverence. Ivanr raised his arms, staff in one hand, even though the gesture sent slashes of agony through his chest. He motioned for his guards to part and he climbed the trash-littered stairs alone.

‘Citizens of Jourilan! Hear me! The time for killing has passed. There will be no more blood spilled!’

A momentary lull in the crowd’s noise followed that, only to be filled by fresh screams. Those nearby pointed behind him. Ivanr turned to see a Stormguard descending the wide stairs, his thick blue cloak wrapped around him, spear held up straight. Ivanr’s guard charged forward but he waved them back.

‘You lead this rabble?’ the Korelri called, his voice lazy with self-assurance.

‘They seem to think so,’ he answered, fighting down the pain, dizzy with it.

‘Well.’ The man stamped the butt of his spear down on a stair, regarded him through the vision slit of his rounded full helm. ‘We within remain true in our faith. We are not afraid to die.’

Ivanr was afraid that if he coughed he’d collapse, but he cradled his chest, said, ‘But you are afraid of something.’

The Korelri waved a hand. ‘We fear nothing.’

‘You are terrified of change. So scared you’d rather die than face it.’

The man took a step back. His eyes widened within the helm, then he waved again. ‘Faugh! Play your games of rhetoric and argument elsewhere, apostate. We here are pledged to the Lady — flesh and blood — we merely wait for her to collect us.’

Flesh and blood. Ivanr stared. Gods! Could this be… deliberate? How many crowded within? Perhaps a thousand souls? Such an enormous blood sacrifice! All in the name of the Lady! No! I mustn’t allow this.

The Korelri had turned his back on the crowds, deliberately and mockingly, and stalked back to the doors. Ivanr scanned the mass where brands now flamed as bonfires burned in the square. Wood and trash arced through air to strike the cathedral walls.

‘Come and die!’ the Stormguard bellowed from the doors.

Ivanr raised his arms wide, staff in hand. ‘No! I forbid it! The way of the Lady is to worship death. I ask you to worship life!’

Many heeded his call, but too many out of reach of his voice continued throwing tinder and shattered furniture. It would only take one spark to light a conflagration! Ivanr’s heart spasmed. He could not breathe; his vision darkened.

He gathered all his remaining strength and clasped the staff in both hands before him, bellowing, ‘No! The time for vengeance and vendetta has passed! No more retribution! I forbid it!’ And he slammed the staff down on the stone stairway.

The crowd hushed at the echo of that great crack of wood against stone. All was quiet for one brief instant. Then Ivanr collapsed.

It may have been his delirious dimming consciousness, but as he lay sprawled it seemed that a roaring overbore all noise. The earth moved beneath him. It heaved, rocking, accompanied by a great landside rumbling. Shrill panicked shrieks penetrated even his fading hearing. Hands lifted him up. He blacked out, seeming to float in their tender grip.

It was an ants’ nest of tunnels and caves that seemed to go on for ever — always deeper into the bowels of the mountains that bordered the inland lake, Fist Sea. They went side by side, the Adjunct and Rillish leading. The local Drenn elder, Gheven, who had brought them through Warren, walked in the middle of the column. All they had met so far were emaciated ascetics who gaped at them, or priests of the Lady who, unarmed, launched themselves upon them, gibbering and clawing with their naked hands. All these Rillish ordered bound and left behind.

His arm aching, Suth slung his shield on his back. He couldn’t tell if they were making any headway at all. Every cave and length of low-ceilinged tunnel looked like every other. It was dim, dusty, and so confined that many of them couldn’t straighten. His leg was almost numb. This was ridiculous; there was nothing here. Pyke was grumbling that very thing to Lard. Yet ahead, the bullet head of the bald priest, Ipshank, ran with sweat and his brow was deeply furrowed. Maybe there was something… but where was it?

Discipline held, however; the complaints were few, and sotto voce. Goss and Twofoot saw to that. They came to one length of tunnel boasting several cut openings. The column stopped — some obstruction ahead. ‘What’s the hold-up?’ Pyke snarled, hunched. ‘These guys don’t know anything!’

‘Stop it up,’ Lard growled, ‘or I’ll do it for you.’

‘You and who-’ Pyke was beginning when an armoured figure stepped out of the nearby opening and thrust a spear completely through Lard, the point bursting from his back. Blood splashed all over Pyke. ‘Hood’s balls!’ Pyke howled, falling backwards.

All up and down the line men in dark armour stepped out of openings to thrust into the column. Suth fumbled, trying to swing his shield forward. The enemy wore cuirasses and full helms enamelled a deep blue, with silver inlay.

‘Korelri Stormguard!’ Gheven yelled, amazed.

Suth abandoned the shield and parried for his life. The wide-bladed razor spear-tips thrust expertly; he couldn’t get past them to engage the wielders. Troopers fell up and down the line, run through like pigs.

‘Clear the deck!’ a woman yelled. Squeaky.

Suth threw himself flat, pulling Gheven with him.

The eruption — in this narrow confine — blasted away his hearing and his breath. He lay stunned in a darkness of swirling dust while earth fell on him. Had the ceiling collapsed? He was blinded and choking on the dirt. Terror threatened to strangle him. Then hands yanked him up. He fought at first but the hands weren’t at his throat so he clambered to his feet, staggering and running into things and people he could not see in the gloom. Roaring filled his hearing; he could just make out a trooper ahead and set a hand on the man’s shoulder. Someone clasped his belt from behind. In this manner, as a troop of blind men and women, they felt their way through a tunnel, seeking clean air.

They collapsed into a cave, coughing and gasping. Two troopers guarded the entrance, shields at the ready. He peered round, wiping at his eyes. He saw Squeaky, Pyke, Faro, the elder Gheven, a few of Twofoot’s troop, and the giant Manask, who was on his knees, the broken haft of a spear sticking from his wide stomach. He was struggling to wrench it free.

Suth went to Squeaky. ‘What happened?’

‘A partial collapse. We’re cut off.’

‘Shit! Now what?’

‘Let’s get outta here!’ Pyke yelled. ‘Those are Korelri!’

‘Shut the Hood up!’

Manask yanked the spear from his layered armour. He raised it up high. ‘I will lead us through this maze!’

‘You can find your way through?’ Suth asked him.

The man looked offended. ‘With my refined senses? Of course!’

Suth grunted his agreement then went to the 6th’s troopers. The clash of fighting from some other tunnel reached them and everyone stilled. Panicked yelling, then a muffled explosion shook everyone again. Dust and dirt sifted down from the rough uneven ceiling. Going to bring this entire complex down on them! He nodded to the three troopers, recognizing Fish. ‘Suth,’ he said.

‘Corbin,’ said the short stocky one.

‘Lane,’ said the other, his arm slashed and dripping blood.

‘Looks like we’re cut off,’ Suth explained.

‘Happens to me every night,’ Fish said morosely.

‘What’s the plan?’ Corbin asked.

‘The big guy, Manask, says he’ll lead us out.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ Lane said.

Suth nodded to this tacit acceptance of his offer. ‘I want the saboteur, Squeaky, in the middle in case things get hot. I’ll back up Manask. You, Fish, back me up.’

‘I can’t even stand up in this friggin’ mouse house,’ Fish grumbled.

‘Lane, take the rear with Pyke.’

‘Oh sure!’ Pyke yelled. ‘Rear! Who put you in charge?’

‘Put a rag in it,’ Squeaky snarled.

Suth went to the Drenn elder. ‘You walk with Squeaky here.’

But the elder’s dark eyes narrowed to slits. ‘No. I am sorry, soldier. But the Korelri are here. This changes everything. I will go for help.’

Suth studied him, uncertain. ‘You mean your Warren? Here?’

The elder wiped the grime and sweat from his face, gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Well… we can hardly pretend to be hiding now, can we?’

‘True. Who — where will you go?’

The old man looked pained. ‘I can only think of one place… but I am sorry, I cannot make any promises.’

‘I understand. May the gods speed you.’

Pyke pushed his way to them. ‘He can take us all with him! We can escape!’

Suth restrained himself from striking the man. ‘We stay with the mission.’

‘I don’t like that Warren anyway,’ Fish said to Lane. ‘Looked dangerous.’

Lane nodded his profound agreement.

Pyke peered round at them. ‘What’s the matter with you all? We’re gonna get killed! You’re all crazy — I could do better on my own!’

‘Do your job or I’ll kill you myself,’ Suth said, matter-of-fact.

Pyke straightened, slowly nodding. ‘Fine. Okay. We’re fucked anyway.’ And he threw up his hands.

Suth turned to Faro, raised his chin. ‘You’re being real quiet.’

The little man raised and lowered his shoulders. ‘Just pretend I’m not here,’ he said, and gave his sharp-toothed smile.

That is bloody easier said than done. He looked to Gheven. ‘What do you need?’

The man peered round the rough cave, carved from the broken sedimentary rock. ‘This will do. I can go from here.’

The troopers backed away to give him room. He crossed to the rear of the cave and pressed his hands to the rock. He bowed his head in concentration, and stepped into the wall, disappearing.

Suth turned to Manask. ‘Looks like you’re up.’

The giant fellow threw everyone a huge grin. ‘Do not fear! I will winkle out the secrets of this maze in no time! Come!’ He lumbered in an ungainly duck-walk out into the tunnel. Suth followed, shield and longsword ready.

It was slow going. Manask’s great bulk completely blocked Suth’s forward vision. At every cave opening the man paused to poke in the broken haft of his spear and wave it around. Then he waved an arm. Finally, he hopped forward with a shout: ‘Ah-ha!’

The third time he did this he reeled backwards accompanied by the thumping of heavy objects striking something. The giant staggered on to Suth. Two spears stood out from his thick armour like proud quills. ‘You see!’ Manask puffed, winded, ‘one merely has to disarm them!’

Suth squeezed past and into the chamber. The Korelri Stormguard had already swung shields round and were prepared. Suth engaged one, Fish another. Suth fought extremely carefully: he probed the man’s defences, kept him busy. Openings came but he recognized them as traps meant to draw him out. Facing the Stormguard he quickly understood everyone’s dread — the man was fully the finest swordsman he’d ever faced: fearless, aggressive, and quick, a full-time professional fighter. But the Malazan infantry were trained for crowded shield and sword work. It was their lifeblood. These Korelri appeared to fight as individuals. Suth thought he and his squadmates might have the advantage in these circumstances.

A spear thrust over Suth’s shoulder. The Korelri blocked, but the point continued on, passing through his shield to impale him in the chest and push him back to the wall, where he hung from the haft like an insect. ‘Two can play with pointed sticks!’ Manask exulted, and he brushed his hands together.

Alone, facing outrageous odds, the second Stormguard gave no hint of asking for quarter. He backed against a dirt wall, shield ready. ‘Drop your weapons!’ Suth ordered. The full helm merely slid side to side. Eyes hot for battle glared out of the narrow vision slit.

Damned fanatic. They didn’t have time for this. He, Fish, Corbin and Pyke spread out in an arc before the man. Useless! To prove what? Suth tightened his grip on his longsword, steadied his breathing.

The Stormguard looked past them all, gaping. ‘No!’

A crossbow fired just behind Suth made him flinch. The bolt took the Stormguard in the throat and the man slid down the wall, gagging. Suth turned to see Faro calmly tuck the slim weapon back under his cloak.

‘Let’s get going, shall we?’ Faro said, raising his brows.

Suth nodded, swallowing. Ye gods! Forget this man is with them? Not damned likely.

Manask led them onward, but their pace did not increase. Distant yells, the clash of fighting, and, occasionally, a report of munitions would reach them. They came upon scenes of battle: fallen Stormguard and dead troopers; caves blasted by munitions; tunnels partially collapsed. Suth was shaken to find Len dead, run through by a spear. Len? You too? Somehow I’d imagined it couldn’t happen to you. I’m so sorry. You were a good friend. Looks like maybe Pyke’s finally got things right.

Squeaky knelt over the body for some time while everyone kept a nervous watch. Her final act was to close his eyes — the man’s shoulder bags had already been scavenged.

Soon after that the earth shook, sending them all to the beaten earth floor huddled for cover. Dirt came tumbling down in a wash of dust that blinded and choked. After the shaking passed Suth gingerly eased himself up, wiping his face and coughing. When they had all straightened, beating at their cloaks and clearing their throats, they glared at Squeaky. She glared back, raising her hands.

‘Hey! Don’t look at me. There’s no way we brought that many munitions.’

They continued through the half-collapsed tunnels. Suth couldn’t tell if they were making any headway, but he didn’t challenge Manask as he didn’t think he’d do any better choosing left from right, or which carved chamber to enter. It was a senseless jumbled warren of tunnels to him. Eventually, it seemed they’d been walking, hunched, on the adrenalin knife-edge of fear for far too long, and he called a halt. They chose the best defensible cave they could find, set a watch, and lay down to try to get some rest.

Suth stood his watch with Lane, then had his turn to lie down. Though he was exhausted beyond care, sleep would not come. He couldn’t shake Pyke’s words. How many left now? What of Goss, Wess and Keri? Still alive? These Stormguard are butchering us! This obviously isn’t what Rillish and that priest had in mind. It seemed to him that he’d just closed his eyes when a bellow wrenched him awake. A sword slammed into the dirt where he’d just been lying. A Stormguard stood over him, pulling back the blade for another thrust, and Suth swept a leg, bringing him down. He leapt upon the man, found a gauche scabbard at his side, drew the weapon offhanded, and thrust it home up into an armpit. The Stormguard shuddered, but threw him off and leapt to his feet. He and Suth faced off, crouched, circling. A shape fell upon the Stormguard, Faro leaping, two long daggers flashing, and they collapsed in a tangle. Suth cast a frenzied glare around the darkened cave. Jammed shoulder to shoulder, troopers grappled with Korelri. A Stormguard duelling Lane retreated towards Suth so he stabbed him low in the back then drew his own blade. He saw Fish go down, dragging a Korelri with him. Manask was holding the corpse of one in front of himself, using it as a shield with which to bash another back until Corbin took the Stormguard from the side.

In that instant of fevered rush it was over — though to Suth it seemed to have happened in a half-lit sort of slow-motion. Dust drifted now in the dead air and he stood still, panting. He, Manask, Faro and Corbin alone stood. Of the Korelri attackers who had seemed everywhere, Suth counted a mere five. Five! Gods below! Still, they were lucky to be alive at all.

Peering around, he saw Squeaky slouched up against a wall. She’d been gut-stabbed. He knelt at her side; she lived still, but had lost a lot of blood. Her breaths came shallow and quick, like a child’s. ‘He took it,’ she told him.

‘Quiet.’

‘No. He took it. That prick, Pyke.’

‘What?’ He straightened, cast a quick glance around the cave: no Pyke, alive or dead. ‘Where is he?’

‘Who?’ Faro asked.

‘Pyke, the bastard. Who was he on watch with?’

‘Was with me,’ Fish said from the floor, breathing through clenched teeth.

Suth knelt next to Corbin, who was staunching the wound in the man’s side. ‘What happened?’

The man gave a weak shrug. ‘He took one side. I took th’ other. Later, I looked over an’ he was gone. Run off. Them Korelri charged in.’

Suth sat back stunned. Deserted! Takes the munitions and runs off. Leaves them unguarded. A blinding white fury made him dizzy. Why didn’t I kill him? All those chances. And now this! He went to his bedroll: he’d been sleeping in his hauberk and now he pulled on the rest of his gear.

‘What’s the plan?’ Corbin asked.

‘I’m gonna find and kill the fucker.’

Corbin spat aside, nodding. ‘Sounds like a plan.’

‘Not the mission,’ Faro warned from where he squatted cleaning his knives.

‘To Hood with the mission! This is personal!’

The scout — Hood take it, a Claw — stood. He brushed dust from a sleeve. ‘Can’t let it get personal. Doesn’t do. I can’t go that way.’

‘Fine. Manask?’

The giant picked up a spear. ‘He can’t have gotten far.’

‘Corbin?’

The trooper squeezed Fish’s shoulder. ‘Let me kit up.’

‘Good.’ He went to Squeaky. ‘Take it easy now. We’ll be back. Just

…’ The woman was staring, head sunk. Suth brushed a hand down her eyes to close them. He stood. ‘Let’s go.’

In the hall, Suth nodded farewell to Faro, who answered the nod — very slightly — then padded off silently to disappear into the gloom. Suth watched him go, thinking that of all of them, that bastard would win through.

There wasn’t much of a spoor to follow. It was night-dark. Corbin carried their lamp. The Korelri had tramped all through the tunnel, but Suth walked ahead to do the tracking — somehow he’d lost faith in the giant’s skills. It seemed to him they’d been doing nothing more than wandering randomly yesterday. Some tunnels bore a distinct slope and he calculated that Pyke would follow the slope downward, hoping to reach a way out. So it was they retraced some of their way, keeping to the tunnels, always downward.

Distantly, the reports of renewed fighting reached them as reverberations and muted roaring echoed down the tunnels and they would freeze, listening. But it was very far off now. Ahead, down a side tunnel, a bright golden glow spilled out of an opening. Suth edged up to take a quick look. He recoiled immediately. What he’d glimpsed inside made his shoulders slump.

‘Come!’ a voice called, inviting. ‘You are looking for someone, yes?’

Suth leaned his head back against the curved tunnel wall, took a fortifying breath, and stepped in. Corbin and Manask followed. It was the largest of the chambers they’d yet seen. Some sort of rough temple complete with pillars of living stone. Candles and lamps lit the room. Across its centre, in two rows, waited ten Korelri Stormguard. The one at centre front was holding Pyke by the scruff of his neck.

‘This is yours perhaps?’

‘He’s not one of ours any more,’ Suth ground out.

‘Oh? Then you would not mind if I did this?’ The man raised a knife to Pyke’s throat. Pyke struggled furiously, but he was gagged and bound.

Suth frowned a negative. ‘Go ahead. Save us the trouble.’

The Stormguard nodded. ‘Yes. I do not blame you. Do you know that when we caught him he offered to sell you out?’

Suth studied the wriggling fellow. So much for your stupid lone wolf chances, fool. Didn’t come to much, did they? Peering beyond, though, Suth glimpsed the clean white light of day shining in from a side opening. Damn! Pyke did come across an exit, but the Korelri had it covered. Haven’t missed one trick yet, these bastards.

Manask, Suth noted, was edging back to the opening. Good idea. ‘Do as you like,’ he told the Korelri.

The man dragged the curved blade across Pyke’s throat, bringing forth a great gush of blood that splashed down his front into the dirt before him. His legs spasmed and the Korelri let him fall like a slaughtered animal carcass.

‘Run, my friends,’ Manask told them, and Suth and Corbin darted from the chamber, the giant following. Suth’s last sight was the Korelri waving forward his fellows.

They ran pell-mell through the dim tunnels. Suth’s poor vision caused him to run headlong into some corners. Picking himself up, he saw that Manask was far behind — the giant could hardly run squatting down as he must.

Bloody Hood! He waved Corbin back, pointed to a narrow cave opening, the cell of an ascetic. ‘Have to do.’ They waited for the giant then backed in. Manask’s great bulk utterly choked the portal.

Suth could not help but laugh, staring as he was at the man’s gigantic padded backside. ‘Manask, this must be your worst nightmare!’

‘Gentlemen,’ he rumbled, ‘I shall be the obstruction which cannot be dislodged!’

‘I’m all choked up,’ Corbin said, laughing.

But Suth lost his smile when he heard the big man grunting and his thick layered armour wrenched from impacts. Brithan Troop take it! There was nothing they could do but wait for the man to die then be hacked to pieces!

‘Manask! Back in!’

‘No, my friends,’ he gasped, struggling. ‘It would appear that I am truly stuck!’

If not back, then forward! Suth gestured to the man’s broad padded back. In the near-absolute gloom Corbin’s gleaming sweaty face showed understanding. The two pressed themselves against the tiny chamber’s far end. ‘One, two-’

An eruption punched the air from his chest and something enormous fell upon him, pinning him to the ground. Cave-in! Buried alive! Dust swirled, blinding him and filling his lungs. Groaning sounded from someone else trapped with him — Corbin perhaps.

The dust slowly thinned, and, blinking, Suth saw that the considerable bulk of Manask was lying on him. He struggled to move his arms to edge himself free. Then someone else was there, a skinny form, coughing in the dust as she heaved on the huge fellow. With her help Suth eventually managed to slide free and he stood, brushing dust from himself. The woman was Keri, her bag of munitions across her chest. ‘What are you guys doing?’ she demanded, glaring at him as if he’d been off on a drunken binge.

‘Sightseeing,’ Suth growled. He peered down at Manask: the man’s unique armour was ruined, shredded, revealing an unnaturally skinny chest. He knelt to press a hand to the throat — alive, at least. Just stunned. And Corbin? He pulled him out by a leg, slapped his face. The man came to, coughing and hacking. Suth helped him up.

‘What do we do with him?’ Corbin asked.

‘Leave him,’ Keri said. ‘No one’s around. C’mon. The Korelri are regrouping.’ She waved them into the tunnel. ‘Come on!’

Suth reluctantly agreed. He picked up a spear, secured his shield on his back, and cuffed Corbin’s shoulder. They followed Keri up the tunnel.

Corlo lay on the straw-covered ledge that was his bed in his cell deep within Ice Tower. The bars facing the walk rattled as someone set down a wooden platter — dinner.

‘Corlo,’ that someone whispered.

He cracked open an eye: it was Jemain. He sprang to the bars. ‘What are you doing here?’ He peered up and down the empty hall. ‘When did you get here?’

But the skinny Genabackan did not look pleased to see him. He gave a sad shrug. ‘Word is out on Ice Tower. No one wants to come here. Then I got a message, and they were happy to get a volunteer. How are you?’

‘I’m fine! What about you — what word? Who have you found?’

The man positively winced: he looked unhealthy. The cold had scoured a ruddy rash of chapped skin and cracked bleeding scars. Glancing up the walk, he took hold of the bars with both hands. ‘Corlo

… when I saw you in the infirmary you looked so bad… I thought you knew, then.’

Something urged Corlo to back away, to shut the man up. A clawing fear choked his throat. ‘What are you saying?’ he managed.

‘Then, when I found out you didn’t know… well, I’m sorry. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you.’

‘Tell me what? Tell me, damn you! Out with it!’

Jemain backed away, as if frightened. He held his hands to his chest, hugging himself. ‘I’m sorry, Corlo. But… there’s only us. Us two. We are the only ones left.’

‘No! You’re lying! There are others. There must be! I saw Halfpeck!’

Jemain was nodding. ‘Yes, he lasted for a time. But he too died on the wall.’

He too? All the gods damn these Stormguard! Damn them! Then what he’d promised Bars struck him and he almost fainted. Queen forgive him, he’d told Bars there were others!

‘I’m sorry,’ Jemain said. ‘I couldn’t bring myself to tell you.’

Corlo fell to his knees. He clasped the bars as if they were the only things keeping him alive. Then he laughed. Gods, have your laugh! Justice is served, Corlo. How does it taste? It tastes… just. Yes. It tastes just. He raised his head to regard Jemain, who was watching him with tears on his cheeks. ‘Thank you, Jemain. For telling me. It seems we have come to the end of our lies. We can go no further with them.’

‘You will see Bars?’

‘Yes. He’s on the wall now. I’ll see him later.’

‘What…’ The man wet his lips. ‘What will you tell him?’

‘The truth. What he deserved long ago. The truth.’

‘And then…?’

Corlo shrugged, unknowing. ‘Then we’ll leave the wall.’ One way, or another.

‘How will he take it?’

Very poorly, I expect. ‘Never mind, Jemain. Stay out of his way until I can speak to him, yes?’

The man nodded, rather relieved.

‘Good. And thank you. It’s good to finally know… anyway.’

‘I’m very sorry.’

Corlo urged him on. ‘Yes, I know. Better go.’

A wave goodbye and the man backed down the hall of cells. Corlo watched him go then rested his forehead against the frigid bars.

‘I say you don’t tell him,’ said someone from across the hall.

Corlo started up, a blistering curse on his lips, but something in the bearded, ragged-haired head at the grate opposite stopped him. And the man spoke Talian. ‘You’re Malazan?’

‘Yeah. Tollen’s the name. Listen, there’s some four or five Avowed here in this tower. Enough to take this entire section of wall. And I want to get my fellow veterans out. We need your boy Bars. So don’t say a damned thing.’

Four other Avowed? So Bars had it right! Shell hadn’t come alone. Corlo was quiet for a time, coming to terms with this proof. Then he snorted. ‘He deserves the truth anyway. And I don’t take directions from some bastard Malazan.’

‘I’m trying to save your damn-fool life, Guardsman!’

Corlo pushed himself from the door. Save a life! That’s just what I told myself every time I spoke to Bars. I was trying to save his life. Well, lying is no way to do that. Better to be thought a betrayer, a traitor, than that.

Atop Ice Tower, a Korelri Stormguard arrived and bowed to Section Marshal Learthol, who was in conversation with Wall Marshal Quint. ‘The captive has been delivered.’

Learthol accepted the message. Quint gave curt wave. ‘Good. Let’s hope we can squeeze the last of the season out of this champion.’

Another Chosen stepped forward from the shadows of the chamber and the Korelri guard stiffened, bowing again. ‘Lord Protector.’

Lord Protector Hiam acknowledged the bow. He addressed Learthol: ‘I understand there are others here just as promising…’

‘Yes. A surprising number of skilled prisoners of late. We must keep a close eye upon them.’

The Lord Protector studied the oil flame of the communication device of this uppermost chamber. ‘Yes, Section Marshal. And we must take care to watch this flame. If calamity strikes we will have to summon aid quickly.’

‘Yes, my lord. I must say, we are honoured by your presence.’

The Lord Protector waved such sentiments aside. ‘Where else would I be, Learthol? You’ll have more support soon. These Roolians will fill the inconsequential gaps. Easing the load for us. Soon you will have the numbers you should have had all along.’

‘My thanks. But we would have held regardless.’

‘Of course.’ The Lord Protector stared into the flame for a time, then gazed at Learthol as if not seeing him. ‘That will be all. Thank you.’

Bowing, the guard and the Section Marshal exited, pulling the door shut behind them.

In the relative quiet the howling wind returned to punish the shutters, which were seized in ice on all four sides. Quint’s scarred face twisted as he studied the Lord Protector. ‘You have news?’

A slow assent from Hiam. ‘Yes. This overlord and his Roolian troops have been pushed back from the coast. The Malazans have struck inland towards the Barrier range.’

Quint slammed the butt of his spear to the flagging. ‘They would take Kor!’

Hiam pressed a hand to one iced shutter. ‘Perhaps…’

‘Perhaps? What else could they intend?’

‘They might…’ Hiam wrenched open the westward-facing shutters. Cutting winds whipped through the chamber, snapping their cloaks and clearing a table of clutter and pages of vellum. The oil flame of the communication beacon was snuffed. Hiam stared down the ice-encrusted wall, where beneath fat hanging clouds and driving snow raging waves were breaking almost even with the wall’s outermost crenellations. All is grey — iron-grey, both sea and stone. ‘They might make a strike for the wall,’ he admitted.

Quint slammed shut the leaf. ‘Good! We will crush them!’

Hiam gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Of course, Quint.’

‘Yes!’ The Wall Marshal relit the fat wick of the oversized lamp. ‘Perhaps the Lady has drawn them here to destroy them.’ He studied his commander through narrowed eyes. ‘Had you not thought of that, Hiam?’

The Lord Protector was startled. No, indeed. I had not considered that… Lady forgive me! My faith is shallower than I suspected. I must pray long tonight. He answered Quint’s steady gaze. Living Spear of the wall. You know no doubt, Quint. The Spear does not reflect — it strikes!

Rubbing his brow, Hiam acknowledged, ‘No, Quint I hadn’t thought of that. My thanks for reminding me that the ways of the Lady are beyond our knowing.’ He squeezed the older man’s shoulder. ‘With you as our pillar, we shall not fail.’ And he passed by to descend the narrow circular staircase, leaving Quint alone in the light of the guttering flame.

That evening Hiam was taking a hot dinner of stew with Section Commander Learthol. There came a knock at the door and a Korelri Chosen bowed. ‘Lord Protector, the adviser to the Overlord has arrived. Shall I admit him?’

Hiam sipped his tea. ‘Yes. Have him brought up.’

The man bowed. ‘Lord Protector.’

‘I have heard stories of this one,’ Learthol said, after the Chosen had left. ‘They say the Lady permits him the practice of his witchery.’

Hiam nodded. ‘Yes. There is precedent in history.’

Learthol stroked his long chin. ‘True. There are stories of a pair of travelling sorcerers. She did not destroy them.’

Hiam waved a hand. ‘I understand they were merely passing through. They were of no consequence.’

A knock came at the door and Hiam called, ‘Enter.’

The guard showed the man in, then, at a sign from Hiam, departed. The man, Ussu, bowed. His robes were travel-stained and wet with rain and snow. His long grey hair was plastered to his skull and he was shivering. Rising, Hiam gestured to a chair. ‘Please sit. You are just arrived? What word from the Overlord?’

Sitting, the old man extended his hands out to the small stove in the middle of the chamber. ‘Thank you for receiving me, Lord Protector.’

‘Not at all.’

‘No doubt you have heard the news from the south.’

‘Yes. These Malazans have gained a foothold.’ The man winced, whether at the bluntness of his phrasing or the use of the word Malazans, Hiam wasn’t sure.

‘Yes, Lord Protector. They have struck inland for the foothills and the Barrier range.’

‘And the Overlord?’

‘Is marshalling his troops in order to pursue, I understand.’

Hiam offered the man some tea. ‘Excellent. If they dare to move north we will have them caught between us, yes?’ And should they dare approach? What could we possibly spare to meet them? Blood and iron, of course. As we deliver to all who would defy the Lady.

Ussu accepted the small cup. ‘Yes, Lord Protector.’

‘And the Overlord sent you to reassure us, perhaps?’

‘In truth, Lord Protector, I am come on another errand. I wish to question your champion. If I may.’

Hiam grunted a laugh. ‘Your timing is impeccable, Adviser. You can have him. Just this afternoon he lost his mind. Went berserk. Tried to murder his cellmate — a companion of many years. Madness is a terrible thing. It can drive us to betray everyone around us. Sometimes for the most insignificant, or imagined, slights. Who is to know the reasons behind the breaking of a mind?’ And he shrugged.

‘That is a shame, m’lord. I’m sorry you lost so able a fighter. Still, he may be of use to me.’

Hiam scooped up more of his stew. ‘What is it you require?’

The Roolian — Malazan, Hiam corrected himself, and a damned mage — blew out his breath. ‘Oh, a private chamber, shackles, strong aides to help me. And chains, sir. Your strongest chains you use for hauling stone blocks.’

Hiam was rather taken aback by these requests. Still, these he could manage. And, who knows? Perhaps something will come of it. He nodded. ‘Very well. I believe we can pull something together.’ He turned to Section Marshal Learthol. ‘Would you see to it?’

Learthol dabbed his mouth, stood. ‘This way, Adviser, if you please.’

Standing, Ussu straightened his heavy sodden robes and bowed to Hiam. ‘My thanks, Lord Protector.’

Hiam watched the man go, Learthol bowing as he closed the door, and he wondered: had he just made an error? Still, the Lady permitted the man his infringements — she should be the final arbiter, not he.

Ussu worked on his preparations long into the night before, exhausted, falling asleep at the work desk of the chambers provided. The next morning he awoke to hands and feet numb with cold, and frost thick in the corners of the stone chamber. The wind battered the one shuttered window. A servant arrived with an iron brazier stoked with charcoal and a modest meal of bread, goat’s cheese and cold tea.

Two Theftian labourers arrived later, with orders to serve him. These he set to work fitting iron pins into joints in the walls, and securing lengths of chain. When all was in readiness, he briefed the two with detailed instructions as to how to proceed, then left to request the Champion be moved to his chamber. He decided not to be in sight until the man was secured: there remained the slight possibility that he might recognize him as a Malazan and become suspicious.

From down the hall he watched while the man was marched, manacled and under guard, up to the room. On first setting eyes on the fellow he was aghast: this emaciated, haggard, tattered wretch was the Champion? Still, anyone else carrying such half-healed wounds, frostbite, and exposure damage would surely be dead. That he was apparently able to ignore all these mutilations spoke well for the coming experiment. He waited to give time for the man to be securely chained, then entered.

The subject was laid out on a thick oaken table at the centre of the chamber, gagged. His legs were together and straight, wrapped in chain lengths secured to pins in either wall. His arms were together as well, stretched up over his head and extending down towards the floor, wrapped in chains, and secured to a pin sunk in the flagging. Ussu leaned over the grimed, stinking fellow to peer into his eyes.

Nothing. No apparent awareness. Merely a dull stare straight up at the ceiling. Catatonic? Just as well. All the easier for his purposes. Yet… lack of a will to live would not do… He began cutting the rags from the man’s chest.

‘You do not know me,’ he told him, ‘but I believe I know you.’

Tearing away the rags, he went to a table where his instruments had been laid out. ‘I must admit that when I heard that the Korelri Champion was a Malazan who denied being a Malazan… and named Bars, well, I became intrigued.’ He glanced back, and there, around the fellow’s eyes — a slight tightening? ‘I, as you can tell, am Malazan. Sixth Army, to be exact. Cadre mage Ussu at your service.’ Knife in hand, he bowed.

He pressed a hand to the arc of the man’s naked ribs, testing, prodding. ‘You, on the other hand, are Bars, Iron Bars, Avowed of the Crimson Guard.’

Ussu stepped back, reconsidering. Perhaps the stomach cavity? Less risk of harming a lung, but still, such bleeding. It drains the life force. The man’s eyes flicked sidelong to catch sight of him; the jaws shifted as if nearly summoned to speech.

‘Yes. Imagine how much the Empire would pay for a living Avowed to study. Quite a lot, no doubt.’ The man’s astounding chest capacity decided things for Ussu. More room than had ever been offered before. It would be the front. He waved to his aides to take hold of legs and arms, then leaned over the man. ‘But that is not why we are here. They say the Avowed cannot be killed.’ He held the keen obsidian-bladed scalpel up before the man’s eyes. ‘This is what we are here to test.’

The chains crashed and rang, almost singing with strain as the subject convulsed.

Ussu flinched back, a hand on the man’s side as one might calm a spooked horse. But the bindings held — so far. He rolled his sleeves up. He traced the line of the cut between ribs, nodded to his aides, and slit the flesh down through the muscle.

Gagged, the subject howled incoherencies, writhing and twisting. Ussu went to his instruments and selected his largest, most sturdy rib-spacer. He returned to the subject. ‘I’m told,’ he said conversationally, ‘that this is a worse agony than even trained torturers can inflict.’ He pushed the sharpened, toothed edges into the cut then struck it home with a heave of his bodyweight. Foam blew out around the edges of the gag and the eyes burned a blazing white-hot fury. Good! Rage will stoke the will to live.

Ussu began turning the spacing screws. ‘Not that I am implying any sort of parallel between myself and some brute torturer. For the analogy breaks down here, you see? The torturer requires something from his victim and is attempting to draw it from him — or her. Yet I require nothing from you.’

Which is a half-lie. I require that you live. ‘I, however, am motivated purely by curiosity and the pursuit of knowledge.’ Ussu paused in the turning. Does that not then make both torturers and I knowledge-seekers? He cocked his head, considering. The knowledge I seek is not held by anyone else… that is a fundamental distinction. Nodding, he continued widening the gap between the ribs.

Something shook him then — not the subject, and not the waves slamming with mind-numbing regularity against the tons of stone beneath, but something new — an earth tremor. Ice outside the walls crackled as the entire structure rolled slightly, as if an immense giant had laid a gentle hand against the tower. The aides shared terrified glances. Ussu merely attempted to measure the extent of the displacement. Interesting… such tremors are common on Fist, but I understand rather rare events here in the Korel Isles.

The movements subsided with a diminishing of the landslide roaring accompanying it. Ussu returned his attention to the subject, dismissing the event. He’d entered high on the torso as he’d decided to come in above and between the lungs. The subject had stopped writhing, as even the slightest motion now induced waves of intense agony — or so he intuited. The gap large enough, he wiped his hand on the side of his robes, then, keeping it flat, like a knife-edge, worked it down into the blood-filled cavity.

The subject convulsed as if axe-struck, bellowing fury and anguish in a storm of mouthings and roaring. Ussu rode out the convulsion, hand up to his second knuckle in the man’s chest. After the waves of twitching passed, Ussu carefully began edging aside organs and pushing down through films of tissue to reach the heart, cradled as it was in its protective pocket of fat and muscle.

Incredibly, the subject was still conscious. Just half an arm’s length away the eyes blazed at him like promises of Hood’s own vengeance. Ussu pulled his gaze away: he’d brushed the heart. It was time to summon his Warren. He reached out, mentally, opening himself to the wash of energies, and was seized by a torrent that nearly threw him off the body. Gods! What lay behind such might? There was something here — some mystery beyond this Crimson Guard. They’d touched something. Something dormant, or hidden, with this vow of theirs.

No matter. There lay future researches. For now, the task at hand. Ha! At hand! In hand, perhaps. Where was Greymane — the Betrayer — Stonewielder?

He reached out, seeking him. The extraordinary might available to him drove Ussu’s consciousness far to the west, and there he found his man. An aura shone about him like a sky-gouging pillar, and the grey stone blade he carried in his hands streamed a molten puissance Ussu’s Warren interpreted as a blinding sun-flare. The earth rolled about the man as if it were a cloth, shaken, and the merest echo of that release cast Ussu away from the body like a blow. He struck the stone wall and slid down, stunned.

His aides shook him awake. Coming to, he flailed, groggy. Then he stood, worked to catch his breath. He grasped one’s shirt. ‘The Lord Protector! Where is he! I must speak to him!’

The aides, Theftian labourers, merely gazed at one another, baffled. Snarling, Ussu thrust them aside to stagger for the stairs. ‘Stay here! Watch him!’

Hiam was with Master Engineer Stimins discussing the potential damage from the tremor when the Overlord’s adviser, Ussu, burst in among them. Blood stained his robes, hands and arms, as if he’d been groping his way through a slaughterhouse. Two nearby Chosen drew blades on him. Hiam took one look at the man’s stricken gaze and waved the guards aside.

‘Lady forefend, man, what is it? What’s happened?’

‘Who named him Stonewielder?’ the Malazan demanded, almost frenzied.

Hiam felt his jaws clenching. ‘We do not discuss that,’ he ground out.

‘Who! Dammit, I must know.’

Master Engineer Stimins caught Hiam’s gaze, cocked a brow. Hiam gave him curt assent. ‘There are locals on these islands. Indigenous tribals who survive here and there, such as in the Screaming range. They first named him Stonewielder. There are long-standing predictions of the wall’s destruction. As old as the wall itself. They claimed he fit them. The stone’s revenge against the wall — that sort of nonsense.’

The Malazan mage had been nodding his agreement, as if in confirmation. ‘Yes. You here in Korel dismiss the Warrens — but they are real. One is named D’riss. The Warren of the Earth. The very ground beneath our feet. This… weapon… many claimed Greymane carries. Just now I found him, and it. It channels D’riss directly, Lord Protector. The might of the earth. And it has just been unsheathed against the wall. I felt it. Far to the west the Stormwall is being shaken to its roots. You felt the tremor, didn’t you? There is worse to come at any moment.’

Hiam met Stimins’ gaze. Poor man. Driven mad by the Lady. Yet… the old predictions. The land throwing off the wall, and the old Lord Protector Ruel’s vision: the wall collapsing in a great shuddering of the earth, the Riders pouring through to cover the land…

‘Calm yourself, Adviser-’ he began.

‘Calm myself?’ the man fairly choked. ‘The end is coming. I go to prepare for it. I suggest you do as well.’ And he lurched away.

The Chosen guards looked to Hiam for orders to pursue him, but he shook his head.

‘I don’t like this mention of the west,’ Stimins breathed, his voice low. ‘I’d have preferred it if he’d claimed it was here — overtopping. But not out there, to the west. Not an undermining… Send a message,’ he suggested. ‘Status report.’

Hiam gave a thoughtful nod. ‘Yes. There’s been a tremor, after all.’ His nod gathered conviction. ‘Yes. I’ll be up top. See to the repairs.’

Stimins snorted. ‘Wouldn’t be anywhere else, would I?’

Esslemont, Ian Cameron

Stonewielder