They met no one, though fires burned fitfully beside the road where bands of travellers lay sleeping. Down toward the Idryn dogs rushed out of the dark, snarling at the mounts. Fires burned before the black openings of caves. Ghelel's face was numb with cold, her hands frozen claws around her reins.
Before they reached the bridge their scouts emerged from the dark, barring their way. ‘Armed men at the bridge.’
‘Hood bugger them!’ the Marquis exploded. Then he inclined his head to Ghelel. ‘Pardon me, Prevost.’ To the scouts, ‘Can you identify them?’
‘No, sir. No colours.’
‘It's them,’ Ghelel said, feeling oddly like laughing. Strange how she was the one to deny even the Guard's existence yet now she felt completely certain of their presence ahead. She thought of those stories from her youth; of the romantic yet tragic figure of Duke, then Prince, K'azz. ‘We should go to meet them. Parley.’
‘Parley?’ the Marquis answered, annoyed. ‘Whatever for?’
‘Passage south, of course.’
‘Passage? Why in Fanderay's name should they grant us passage?’
‘Why ever should they not, Marquis?’
He studied her for a time, his head cocked to one side. Then he raised a hand in consent. ‘Very well, Prevost. Let us go down and speak with these mercenaries. I admit to no small curiosity myself.’
They took a guard of four men. With torches held high they advanced slowly on the bridge. Four figures, that they could see, awaited them, blocking the way across. Torches on poles stood to either side where the flagged way met the broad granite blocks of the bridge. The figures themselves stood far back from the light.
‘Far enough!’ a man called in Talian as the Marquis and Ghelel entered the flickering light.
‘Who are you? And how dare you block this way?’ the Marquis called. ‘This is a pilgrim road, open to all.’
‘It's still open to pilgrims,’ the man responded. ‘Well armed for devotions, you are.’
‘Come forward,’ Ghelel invited. ‘Let's discuss passage.’
A tall man and a very short and broad woman came forward into the light. Both wore helmets wrapped in dark cloth that wove around under their chins and surcoats of a thick dark cloth over blackened mail shirts that hung to their knees. Gauntlets covered their hands. The man bore a shield at his back, a longsword at his side, while the hilts of two curved blades jutted forward from the woman's wide sash.
‘Identify yourselves,’ the Marquis demanded again. ‘Are you part of a legitimate army or mere brigands?’
‘Questionable distinction,’ the woman said, a dark brow arching.
‘It's just a matter of scale, really,’ the man said to her.
‘Or success,’ Ghelel added.
Both looked up, surprised. ‘Hello,’ the man said. ‘I am Cole, this is Lean.’
‘Prevost Alil, the Marquis Jhardin of the Marchland Sentries.’ While they had been talking, Ghelel's sight had been adjusting to the light and she could now see that the cloth wrapped around the helmets and the jupons as well was of a very dark, almost black, crimson.
‘Prevost, Marquis, greetings,’ the man said. ‘That you have chosen not to charge down here with your cavalry to overrun us means that you already know who we are. I congratulate you on your intelligence services. We've tried to keep as low a profile as possible.’
‘Obliterating half of Unta?’ the Marquis snapped. ‘Burning Cawn to the ground?’
The man smiled, baring sharp teeth. ‘As I said – a low profile.’
Ghelel leaned forward, crossing her arms on the tall pommel of her saddle. ‘Cole, we formally request passage south for our detachment.’
Waving an invitation, Cole bowed. ‘Granted, Prevost. All, ah, combatants wishing to withdraw south are invited to do so. But none may come north. Spread the word if you would, please.’
The Marquis glared his disgust. ‘Expecting a flow of desertions, are you?’
‘In the near future, to be brief… yes.’
With a curt nod the Marquis sent a man back with word to advance. ‘I suppose we should thank you for our passage.’
Cole and Lean stood aside. ‘Just doing our job.’
Hurl found Storo on the parapet of the Inner Round wall, chin on hands, staring north. Talian soldiers in the cover of a tower in the lower Outer Round wall were taking pot-shots at him and the nearby soldiers manning the wall. ‘Collect those bolts,’ Storo called to the men as Hurl came to his side and ducked behind a merlon.
‘What are you doing up here?’ Hurl demanded.
‘Being useful.’
‘You'll be pincushioned!’
Occupational hazard of straw targets.’
‘You're in a mood.’
Storo lay his chin on his hands once more. ‘How're you feeling now?’
Hurl couldn't help rubbing her side. ‘Better. Thanks.’
‘Thank Liss. Where is she now anyway?’
‘Watching the east. Won't turn from it for an instant.’
Storo frowned, tilting his head. A crossbow bolt ricocheted from the merlon next to him, spraying stone dust. ‘We know she's coming. Just a matter of time.’
‘No, not that. She says something else is out there, a blank spot where there shouldn't be.’
‘A blank spot, hunh? We have bigger worries.’ He swept his arm to encompass the broad arc of the army camp that spilled out beyond the Outer Round. ‘It's now official – they have enough men.’
‘Why don't they attack?’
‘They will. In the next few days. Escalade all around the north curtain wall, I imagine.’
‘Sir?’ A soldier further along the wall pointed. Hurl glanced through a crenel, saw double ranks of crossbowmen standing atop a nearby tower, all aiming in their direction. She yanked Storo down as a fusillade of bolts staccatoed into the parapet around Storo. Mocking shouts sounded from across the way requesting more target practice. Storo set his forearms on his knees, brushed the dust from his stubbled pate. ‘So, how's our leveller coming along?’
Hurl could only shake her head. Was the man mad, or determined not to survive the siege? She decided then that however it went she'd have everyone keep a close eye on him. ‘That's the news. Silk says they're ready.’
He faced her, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken, but still hard. ‘Ready? Well, it's about bloody time. They can go ahead with it.’
‘Says you should be there, you want it done.’
The eyes rolled to the sky. ‘Tell him I'm busy.’
‘Getting yourself killed, I know.’ She tilted her head to the nearest soldier, lowered her voice, ‘Not exactly what you'd call confidence inspiring.’
The Fist stood once again in full view of the besiegers. ‘The men like a commander with endearing eccentricities.’
Hurl grabbed his arm to pull him along while crossbow bolts ricocheted from the parapets with sharp metallic tings.
Silk met them at the central city temple. Rell was with him, as were Sunny and Jalor. Hurl realized that they hadn't all been together like this since the beginning of the siege. She felt a pang of loss for Shaky – unreliable son of a bitch that he'd been.
The city mage looked worse than he had after the attack. His worn silk finery hung from him in lank sweaty folds. His greasy hair gripped his skull like a cap, and his hand, when he gestured for them to follow, shook with a palsy. ‘Follow me,’ he croaked.
Storo fell into step with Silk, Hurl with Rell. She'd spent little time with the Genabackan lately. The man was ever on the move around the city leading a company of some twenty elite. Wherever he went morale soared – the Hengans thought him some kind of champion. As far as Hurl was concerned, they didn't know the half of it. ‘How are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Well.’ His voice was different now, distorted by his burnt lips. He wore a helmet complete with a faceguard of gilded bronze and a long camail that hung to his shoulders. She still wondered if all that was for protection or to cover up the scarring. A cuirass of iron banding, mail sleeves and greaves completed his serious accoutrement. She doubted the man had ever worn that much iron in all his life. But the same twinned, single-edged, slightly curved swords hung at his sides.
She nodded to Sunny who now commanded a party of emergency response sappers pulled together out of city masons, glassblowers and builders. They'd already blocked a number of attempts upon the Inner Round north gates and had countersunk two tunnels dug by Talian sappers. Jalor, for his part, had somehow fallen even further into a sort of worship of Rell and had elected himself chief bodyguard, accompanying him everywhere.
And what of her? Somehow she had fallen into a role as well. For some reason everyone seemed to consider her second in command after Storo.
Silk led them through the city temple, which Hurl noted had been cleared of all the new shrines to the various Quon Talian gods and spirits that the conquering Malazans had forced upon the Hengans: Burn, Osserc, Hood, Oponn, Soliel, Fener, Togg, Fanderay, even the brand new gold incense bowl dedicated to Trake. Hurl came to Silk's side. ‘House cleaning?’
A tired glance aside and weak smile. ‘Re-consecrated, Hurl.’
‘To who?’
‘Not who, what. The city itself.’
‘The city worships itself? Sounds incestuous.’
‘Just old-fashioned.’
‘That's what my uncle said.’
‘What happened to him?’
Hurl cocked her head to study the ceiling as they walked along. ‘Come to think of it, nothing happened to him. He lived a long life in a rule of terror over a huge family of idiots. Choked to death on a bird bone.’
Silk gave a long thoughtful nod to that. ‘There you go.’
‘Yup. There you go.’
He opened the door of the Inner Sanctum that they'd first entered through during the night of the insurrection. ‘This way.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Sunny growled, stopping. ‘This leads to the shit.’
‘Indeed it does – more than you would know.’
‘Well, I'm not going back down there to get all covered in crap again.’
‘Came off, did it?’ Hurl said.
Sunny bared his jagged teeth. Sighing his impatience, Storo waved a forward.
True to Sunny's forebodings they ended up ducking back out by the gigantic stone jackal head. It slowly ground shut behind them, closing with a boom that shook the floor and leaving them in darkness but for the shielded candle Silk carried. It was gloomy, but it looked to Hurl as if someone had cleaned most of the excrement from the chamber leaving only a dry flaking layer of scum on the limestone floor and a quarter of the way up the walls. ‘Now what?’ Sunny asked in what Hurl thought forced bravado.
Silk motioned to a row of lanterns. ‘Light those.’ Hurl and Jalor complied; Silk turned his attention to the jackal head. Standing directly before it he inscribed in the air a complicated twisting pattern with his arms then spoke in a language Hurl did not recognize. The grinding of stone announced the jackal's maw grating open once more.
‘Why didn't you just do that the first time?’ Sunny asked resentfully.
‘Because we're going somewhere different now.’
Indeed, behind the open jaws, where the throat would open up was now a dark stone pit set with iron rungs. Of the tunnel they'd followed out, no sign remained. Silk led the way in and down. Hurl imagined that were Shaky still with them he'd be asking something like ‘How'd he do that?’
They climbed down a long chute that, thankfully, bore the dry dusty air of never once having had shit poured down it. The chute ended at a claustrophobic rectangular chamber of roughly shaped limestone blocks. Intricate drawings of geometric designs covered the blocks of the roof, all four walls and the floor. A layperson to theurgy, even Hurl could recognize multilayered linked wards, or inscribed incantations, or investments of overlapping Warrens. A section of one wall had been deconstructed, and the huge blocks, far larger than Hurl imagined any man could move – except perhaps Ahl – had been tossed aside. Beyond ran a low descending passage that looked to have been carved from the very igneous rock underlying the city. Again, Silk led the way, followed by Rell. Coming along close to the rear, just ahead of Jalor, Hurl's lantern lit the wrenched and torn remains of a series of barriers set across the passage: first a slab of copper as thick as three of her fingers, blasted as if by some physical blow; then a slab of what she recognized as hardened silver, melted; lastly a slab of iron, shattered and bent outward. Surely not Ahl?
The passage debouched into a large chamber that echoed their footfalls and groans as they straightened their backs and stretched. Three ghostly figures emerged from the gloom to meet them: Ahl and his brothers Thai and Lar. Grime and sweat smeared their clothes almost black. Lopsided grins leered at them wetly making Hurl damned uncomfortable.
‘Is this it?’ Storo asked, his voice booming in the immense quiet of the chamber.
Silk nodded.
‘Kellanved didn't build all this, did he?’ Hurl asked, awed by the sheer scale of the construction.
‘No. It was built long ago. All in the hopes of eventual occupation. He merely fulfilled its purpose.’
‘Merely,’ Sunny echoed, sneering.
‘What next?’ Hurl asked.
Silk waved to the darkness. ‘This way.’ An object ahead dimly separated itself from the surrounding shadow. It resolved into a circular ledge, then finally into the raised border of what appeared to be a common well. A chain of black iron descended from the darkness above, and on down into the well. It was constructed of enormous square links each as thick as Hurl's forearm. But of all these wonders what caught Hurl's eye were the two bright objects thrust through the opening of the link level with the top of the mortared stones of the well: two longswords, their blades spanning the diameter of the opening. It seemed to Hurl that to pull the swords would free the chain to continue its descent.
‘The last barrier,’ Silk said into the silence of them all gathered around studying the amazing arrangement. Or last link. Pull these and he is released.’
‘Where?’ Storo asked. ‘Released where? Into this room?’
‘Gods no!’ Silk laughed – more than a touch feverishly, Hurl thought. ‘Far below. He will be released to make his escape to the plains, north.’
‘Who can do it?’ Storo asked.
Silk waved a hand. ‘Oh, anyone strong enough, I imagine. But I wonder if you, Rell, might…’
The engraved visor turned to Storo who waved for him to do so if he wished. Rell stepped forward, studied the arrangement. Hurl looked to Silk – it seemed to her that there was more going on here than the mage was letting on. And Silk was now more animated than he'd been so far the entire evening; watching the Genabackan swordsman the mage's eyes glowed, his hands were fists at his sides. The three brothers, Hurl also noted, appeared uniformly sour, almost uncomfortable. She took a strange sort of reassurance from this.
Rell took firm hold of the grips, set one booted foot against the side of the well, and yanked. The first time nothing happened. Sunny snorted. Rell adjusted his grip, hunched his back. He yanked again. The screeching of iron on stone pierced Hurl's ears; she flinched, covering them. Finger's breadth by finger's breadth, the blades scraped towards Rell. Ominous rattling ran up and down the length of the chain above. Finally, with an explosive shattering of the stone, the tips fell. Rell was yanked forward, disappearing, and only the quick hands of Storo and Jalor at his thighs saved him. He straightened with the swords still in his hands, blades intact. The enormous length of chain, each link as large as a child's head, jangled and knocked, descending. Hurl felt the movement of something distant shuddering the ground beneath her feet. Dust sifted down around them. She brushed it from her hair and shoulders.
‘It is done,’ Silk exhaled into the dark. ‘He will have to dig a long distance but that won't stop him.’
No one spoke. The chamber was quiet but for the distant rumbling. Storo rubbed a hand down his stubbled jowls. ‘Let's go, then. We've been away for damn long enough.’
‘Aye,’ Sunny ground out, and he spat into the well.
Walking away, Rell admired the blades still in his hands. ‘You should use them,’ Silk said. ‘I think you'll find them…’ his voice trailed off into silence.
Hurl turned to the mage. ‘What is it?’
Silk raised a pale hand for silence. Hurl listened, straining.
Something… sounds from behind them, from the well. Words? The hair at her neck and forearms stirred as Hurl recognized the sounds for hoarse, growled Talian, distorted, but understandable, echoing up the pit of the well:
‘Those who free me,
be my enemies.
Those who enslave me,
kneel to me.
When the end of all things comes,
as surely it does,
on which scale stand you?
In the final balance
And the accounting?’
A long low chuckle, more a panting than a laugh, followed. Hurl sought out Silk's gaze but the mage's eyes were resolutely downcast. The three brothers, however, grinned insanely at everyone.
‘Let's get out of here,’ Storo rumbled.