Only the dead should be certain of anything. A scholar's ancient warning
Jacuruku
‘SHIPS, UNCLE! A CONVOY OF SHIPS!’ NEVALL OD’ ORR'S nephew called from outside the tent. Nevall Od’ Orr, once Chief Factor of Cawn, gagged on the mouthful of chewed charcoal he used for ink as he sat attempting to bring his books up to date. In a fit of coughing he clutched the edges of his high table.
‘Ships, uncle!’ his nephew shouted again.
The factor took a drink from a cup, rinsed and spat on to the bare dirt floor. ‘What of it?’ He drew his blankets tighter about himself.
‘They fly the Imperial sceptre!’
‘Wonderful. Yet another fleet to sack us. Will they take our hoard of turnips, I wonder?’
‘You have turnips?’
Nevall slammed shut his scorched book. Sighing, he rubbed his blackened hands across the back of his neck. ‘I suppose I should go down and grovel picturesquely. Perhaps she'll toss me a copper moon. I wonder if I am attired appropriately to receive an Empress?’
Nevall listened, arms open. Silence. He hung his head, ‘Lout.’
He stepped down gingerly on to the damp dirt ground, crossed to the front flaps and peeked out. Downhill, over the blackened ribs of burnt Cawn, a rag-tag flotilla of ships of all sizes and ages was filling the harbour. Now she comes. Still, better than if she had come before the mercenaries. They had at least a small chance to recoup their losses. He sniffed the air and wondered if any of the day's catch was left. He should send his other nephew for a fish.
‘Nevall Od’ Orr.’
He stiffened then, slowly turned. A man occupied the rear of the tent, nondescript in a loose dark shirt and trousers. Nevall inclined his chin in greeting, shuffled back to his table. He tore a pinch from a dark loaf and popped it into his mouth. ‘Ranath. It's been a while. The Claw, now, is it? I've lost track of all the changes.’
A shrug. ‘It's all the same shell game.’ Ranath straightened the front fold of his shirt. ‘Listen, Nevall. She's here. She means to wipe this League and the Guard from the face of the continent, but…’ and he opened his hands, ‘… she needs the funds to do it. Lots of funds.’
A burst of cackled laughter. Nevall opened his arms wide to gesture all around. ‘She's welcome to all of it – even the blanket from my back.’
Ranath's lazy gaze did not waver. ‘Come, come, Nevall. The spies you have placed everywhere report to us as well. The Guard took everything not nailed down. Horses, oxen, cattle, goats, wagons, carts, preserves, flour, rice, pots, timber, rope, nails. Everything. Everything, that is, except…’ he raised a hand and turned it over to reveal a gold coin. ‘Except cash.’ He tossed the coin from hand to hand, his eyes on Nevall. ‘They didn't find the vaults of the trading houses, did they?’ He snapped the coin from the air, opened the hand to show its empty palm. ‘You know, I wonder if they even knew to ask for them? Now there's an irony – charitable mercenaries.’
The pointed tip of Nevall's tongue edged out to wet his lips. ‘Now, Ranath. Let's not be hasty here. We back the Empress, of course. The Empire was ever superb for business. But,’ he shrugged his bony shoulders beneath the thin blanket, ‘our hands are tied – it's all spoken for. You know that.’
Ranath sighed. He raised his gaze to the tent ceiling while he searched for words. ‘Nevall… how shall I put this – oh yes.’ He smiled, raising his hands. ‘The gloves are off. And lo and behold, the claws are unsheathed.’
‘Whose?’
The smile hardened. ‘Careful, my friend. The Throne's, let us say. You say you support the Empress. Excellent. Let us collect the entire contents of every trading house's vault to hold as pledge to said backing. You will notify the Ruling Convene of the province that all their writs have been called in immediately. We will expect the complete commitment of all troops from across Cawn province as the honouring of said debt. Understood?’
Nevall sat heavily on his stool, lay a hand on his blackened ledger book, nodded.
‘As you merchants say, Nevall – a pleasure doing business with you.’
The factor hung his head. Tent cloth shifted. He looked up and the Claw was gone. Yanking open his book, Nevall took a bite from a stick of charcoal next to it and chewed furiously. He jammed a feather nib into the corner of his mouth. ‘Damn Laseen and Mallick both.’
‘The place is a dump!’ Nait exclaimed from the crowded rail of the fishing scow that had carried its contingent of seven hundred – limping and wallowing – all the way from Unta to Cawn harbour. Least, in thin torn buckskins only, his fists white on the rail, mumbled abjectly, ‘I just want off. Please Hood, kill me and take me from here.’
Nait eyed the stricken giant halfbreed Barghast. He leaned close to whisper, ‘Want some fish?’
‘Baiting!’ Hands yelled from nearby.
Rolling his eyes, Nait leaned over the side, made a great gagging show of spitting out the wad of chewed rustleaf bulging his cheek. Least paled, swallowing.
Hands dragged Nait from the rail. ‘Staff meeting,’ she smiled gleefully. Nait slumped, groaning.
At mid-deck they met with their old sergeant, now captain, Tinsmith. Many of Tinsmith's old command from the Untan Harbour Guard were gathered around, Hands, Honey Boy, together with many faces from other guard companies within Unta such as Lim Tal, one-time chief bodyguard, and rumoured lover, to Duke Amstar D'Avig. Also sitting with the captain was the old tanned and scarred veteran for whom many had already come to nurture a precious hatred for having drilled them mercilessly day after day since casting off from the capital. A man Tinsmith simply referred to as Master Sergeant Temp, but whom the men called ‘Old Clozup’ after his constant badgering of ‘Close ranks! Close up!’
Tinsmith looked to each of them, cleared his throat. ‘We'll have to wait our turn to off-load. Cawn's as bare as Hood's bones, so we'll shoulder what rations we have left and march right on out. Orders are to make six leagues a day-’
‘Six leagues!’ Nait squawked. ‘After sitting on our backsides for so long?’
‘Put Captain after your whining,’ Hands snarled.
‘And another thing,’ Nait continued, ‘everyone's a sergeant around here. Hands, Least, Lim, Honey Boy-’
‘That's Honey, now.’
‘Yeah, fine, Sergeant Honey. Why ain't I a sergeant too?’
‘’Cause you lead our saboteurs, Corporal,’ growled Master Sergeant Temp. ‘And no saboteur rises to the dizzy heights of a sergeancy.’
‘I heard o’ one or two.’
‘Then show me what you got
Nait looked away from the veteran's icy pale eyes, waggled his head mouthing, ‘show me what you got’
‘We are part of one battalion of the Fourth's heavies,’ Tinsmith continued, stroking his long silver moustache with a thumb and forefinger. ‘The iron core of this army. Now, we got us hardly any cavalry to speak of, some spotty noblemen, a few mounted scouts. What we do got is thousands of skirmishers, light infantry – enough cross-bowmen to depopulate a country. That's the hand we've been dealt. So, what to do? They need a centre, an anchor. That's us. The ferocity of their fire will wither any force stupid enough to show their heads like they did the Guard, and will do to any cavalry. But when we do hit strong resistance, they'll melt through us to the rear and reform. We don't melt. We hold. Understood? So, all the old veterans,’ Tinsmith inclined his head to the Master Sergeant, ‘they sent a contingent to High Fist Anand – and the Sword, Korbolo Dom, too of course-’
Nait blew a farting noise.
‘To hash things out,’ Tinsmith continued blithely, ‘an’ what they came up with is four main battle groups, mutually supporting, each anchored by a battalion of heavies. The Sword has the lead one, o’ course. Braven Tooth will command us on the left. The right flanking battalion is under Fist D'Ebbin, and High Fist Anand co-ordinates from the rear. Now, the lot of you might think that the Master Sergeant here was just to train you up, but I'm sure you'll all be right pleased to know that he'll be the anchoring right corner shieldman on the front line.’
Nait eyed the old veteran; sure, he looked tough, but him march six leagues in a day? The geezer'll drop and he'll be sure to step on him on the way past.
‘You sergeants,’ Tinsmith added, ‘you have your men follow his lead. Stand with him, follow his orders and I guarantee you our ranks will hold. That's all for now. Dismissed.’
‘One last thing, Captain,’ the old-timer threw in, his scarred cheek pulling up in a one-sided smile, ‘while we're out here on this beautiful day waiting for our turn to off-load…’ Nait caught Honey's gaze, rolled his eyes. ‘… I thought I might have the men and women practise some close order drills.’
Tinsmith smoothed his moustache to hide his smile. ‘All yours, Master Sergeant.’
From the rear ranks of the Imperial retinue of court functionaries, it appeared to Possum that the Empress was in a hurry. Marines formed in parade ranks guarded the wharf where a glittering crowd of nobles and functionaries, Possum included, awaited the Imperial presence. All the usual ceremonies and speeches of reception had been waived. Behind the ranks of marines the citizens of Cawn stood waiting, silent and – Possum had to admit – looking rather downtrodden and desultory. But then, the town had just been sacked. She appeared at the top of the gangway without fanfare or announcement – just one more passenger disembarking, yet Possum was surprised by the collective inhalation from the Cawnese that her appearance evoked. How could they have known? She wore no finery, no crown or tiara; no sceptre weighted her arms; nor was she carried by palanquin or raised throne. No, she merely stepped up unannounced, wearing only her plain silk tunic and pantaloons. Her hair was short, mousey-brown and touched by grey; her face, well, plain, and rather sour in its tight thin mouth, lined at the eyes and brow.
Yet everyone knew it was her. Perhaps it was the glance she cast over the waterfront and all assembled. Severe. Utterly assured. And frankly rather disappointed with what it saw. The nobles knelt followed by the citizens. The marines saluted.
She did receive the local factors of the Cawn trading houses: they were allowed to crawl forward on their knees like a gaggle of beggars on the street. She acknowledged their abject loyalty with a brief inclination of her head, then was assisted by a groom in mounting her horse. Everyone else then mounted, and the whole cavalcade set off, the screen of cavalry, the honour-guard, the Empress and her bodyguard accompanied by High Fist Anand and staff, the court retinue following along, Possum among them. The other High Fist, Korbolo Dom, also Sword of the Empire, was where he insisted upon being, leading the van, where everyone seemed content to leave him. For his part Possum was dressed in rich silks, Untan duelling sword at his side. He played the part of a minor noble whose job was to sneer haughtily at anyone gauche enough to ask him what position it was he actually filled.
As he rode along, he spotted operatives standing alongside the road. From signs from them he learned that Cawn had been secured, that spies left behind by Urko had been identified, and that the deal that Ranath, the region's old chief of intelligence, had proposed to Possum had been accepted. The deal was a sweet one and would double Laseen's forces – eventually – but its appearance out of seemingly nowhere troubled him. What had Ranath been up to lately? Where had the intelligence behind the deal come from? And yet, was it not the man's job? Why question him for being competent and resourceful? Was he, Possum, now the sort of leader who dreaded talent among his subordinates? Had he not in fact deliberately cultivated the opposite managerial style? Did he not signal in so many ways to his subordinates that ways and means were of no interest to him so long as the job got done? That they could count on him appearing only when things got botched up? He forced himself to ease back further into his role, flexed his neck and glanced – scornfully – around at the efforts the Cawnese were making in demolishing and rebuilding their city. His gaze fell on the rider next to him and he was startled to see there, dressed in the cream flowing robes and headscarf of a Seven Cities noblewoman, Coil, the most insolent of the five commanders who constituted his second echelon.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.
An arched brow, a regal wave to the surroundings. ‘Is this not delicious? Is it not bracing to be out in the field once again?’
Glancing about, Possum smiled thinly. ‘Indeed it is. I am reminded of the old days, my more active times.’
The woman's painted lips could just be made out curling behind the sheer scarf. ‘It seems to me that you should have been getting out much more often all this time.’
It seems to me that both of us were damned lucky not to have been on Malaz just recently. But he inclined his head in assent to the point. Whatever it is she's getting at – yet more useless taunting, no doubt. ‘But we are not here on a pleasure outing.’
‘No. Sadly not. We have the Guard before us and the insurrectionists and their traitor ringleaders. A tall order for anyone, yes?’
What was the fool getting at? She knew as well as he that Laseen in no way intended to actually fight the Guard if she could avoid it. So, the ringleaders. He glanced away, touched a silk handkerchief to his nose. Yes, a tall order. And what order? Or orders? ‘Our primary concern is the safety of the Empress, of course.’
For a mounted rider, Coil performed an admirable curtsied bow, and reined to fall back. Possum turned away. So – has she just announced herself as the source of all these initiatives and unexplained actions on the part of so many of the Claw? All running through here? Sadly for her I cannot risk not acting. There cannot be a parallel command structure. I should strike now, but I cannot forget what lies ahead. After all that, woman, should you still be alive… I'll kill you myself.
Captain Tazal, career soldier, of no famous family, newly installed, marched up to the Throne room of Unta, helmet under one arm, hand on the grip of his sword, and sweat slick on his brow. Guards opened the doors and entering he bowed just within the threshold. Raising his head he saw the throne empty, draped in a white satin cloth – of course, fool! He glanced about. Aside, rinsing his hands in a washbowl, he saw the current authority in the absence of the Empress, Mallick Rel, spokesperson of the Assembly.
Mallick turned from the bowl, dried his hands in a white cloth. ‘You have news, Captain, of this barbarian stain offending our lands?’
Our lands? But Tazal carefully held all emotion from his bearded face. ‘Fortress Jurda has capitulated. Insufficient garrison to withstand an assault.’
The Assemblyman held out the cloth and a servant took it. He clasped his hands across his wide stomach. He glanced down as if studying them. ‘I see. And whose decision was this to make?’
The captain sought to disguise a frown. What was this? Retribution? ‘The commander, the current Lord Jurda.’
‘Competent?’
‘In my view? Yes.’
‘Unfortunate…’
How so unfortunate? Unfortunate that the fortress has capitulated? Or unfortunate for the commander that he capitulated without permission? Or unfortunate for you that thousands of Wickan were now storming down upon you howling for your blood? Or, to give the Assemblyman some credit, unfortunate that a competent military commander viewed the situation so hopeless he capitulated? The captain wiped a sleeve across his brow, striving to keep his face flat. The man did appear admirably calm given the hole he'd dug for himself. Made of strong stuff, this fat conniver.
Still lowered, the Assemblyman's gaze slanted aside to the unoccupied throne. His pale round face appeared even more bloated. The Sword of the Empire has left for the west, Captain. What advice would you offer us?’
Us? From all accounts the captain had heard of this self-proclaimed Sword it was damned lucky the man was in the west and not with them. Then the captain realized the enormity of what had just been requested. Good Soliel! Here he was, a mere garrison commander just raised to captain, never dreaming of seeing the inside of the throneroom, being asked for advice from the most powerful man in the Empire? Well, at least his wife will be pleased. Yet what on Burn's Earth should he, or could he, say to the man? Perhaps, as his father used to say, if you're going to get drunk, might as well throw in the whole deck. He coughed into a fist to clear his throat. One war at a time, sir. Their timing is exquisite. We can't beat them. We must negotiate. Buy them off. Deal with them later.’
Sallow eyes still on the throne, the Assemblyman's thick lips pursed. His fingers, entwined across his stomach, stirred restlessly, reminding the captain of some sort of pale undersea creature. The urge to lash out is almost overwhelming,‘ the man muttered almost as if he'd forgotten the captain's presence. ‘Exterminating these vermin from the face of the world my most dear wish…’ Tazal wondered if he ought to hear any of this yet he dared not say anything, or even breathe. Mallick announced more loudly: Tactical frankness is like a smooth clean cut in battle, captain – much appreciated. I cannot dispute the straight thrust of your thinking. Ruthless cold pragmatism. Refreshing.’ He nodded to himself as if what he'd heard confirmed his own thoughts. ‘Yes. We will send an envoy to open negotiations.’
Tazal clashed a fist to his newly fitted cuirass. The envoy, Assemblyman?’
The fingers stopped weaving. ‘Why, yourself, of course. Promoted under my authority to the rank of Fist.’
After the captain exited the Throne room and the doors closed Mallick also left, but by a small side door, leaving behind the court functionaries, clerks and servants for a small private audience chamber. After a moment Oryan entered the room by another door. Mallick fixed the dark-skinned, tattooed man with a long hard stare. ‘Why, servant of mine, are you still here?’
The old man remained unperturbed, his long dark face impassive. The Wickans are not important enough.’
Tight-lipped, Mallick grated, ‘I gave you strict orders.’
‘Your problem in the past has been your nurturing of grudges and your predilection for vendetta.’ The slim old man, limbs no more than bone and writhing, faded blue tattoos, made a casting away gesture. ‘You must learn to abandon such urges if you wish to actually succeed.’
Mallick's eyes bulged his outrage, hissed splutterings escaped his lips bringing spittle with them. He brought his pudgy fisted hands to his face. ‘You would dare!’
Again, unperturbed, the Seven Cities shaman's eyes remained bland. ‘Which do you wish? Petty satisfaction or achievement of your ambitions? Choose!’
Mallick sucked in a great shuddering breath, forced his hands down. ‘Past failures would indicate flaws in my choices, yes. Though I dearly wish them utterly destroyed they are currently no dire threat, true. No fearsome Wickan curses winging my way. Yes, Oryan. At this time attention to them would be counter to productive, yes? Very well. Annoying distractions, they are, from the main stage. Like a loud man at the theatre. An irritation to be endured by us – the more cultured.’ Mallick crossed an arm over his chest then propped his other upon it and pressed the tips of his fingers to his forehead. ‘And so further insult is to be endured from these unwashed illiterates, as my advisers suggest.’
An insouciant shrug. ‘As I say. They are of no importance.’
‘Very good. So, the west, then. And speaking of the west – any word from our beautiful murderess?’
‘None since she left with the fleet. I believe she secured a position as an officer's whore.’
‘Careful, Oryan. Your biases are showing. No doubt she has the man enslaved.’
‘As I said – a whore.’
‘Yes, well. You may have a point there.’
A discreet knock at one door. Mallick gestured Oryan out, crossed to it. ‘Yes?’
‘Matter of a property dispute, Assemblyman,’ a voice quavered through the door. Mallick pulled it open. ‘A what?’
A court clerk bowed extremely low. ‘As the authority present in the capital, sir. A property dispute has arisen out of the rebuilding efforts
Mallick stared at the man, his bulging eyes blinked. ‘And this is a matter you bring to me now?’
‘The parties involved are most insistent, and of the highest rank and most prestigious families…’
‘Then perhaps a city magistrate would no doubt be appropriate.’
The clerk bowed again. ‘Sadly, said magistrate's family has been proven to be distantly related to one of the claimants…’
Mallick clasped his hands at his stomach, his eyes narrowed to angry slits. ‘Very well, court clerk. Here is my judgment upon the case that said self-important appellants are so keen to bring before me to the exclusion of all else I may have to attend to. Said plot of land or property is to be divided exactly in half and fifty per cent given to each party – even if said property constitutes a slave. Am I understood?’
The clerk bowed deeply again – perhaps to hide the tight grin that he fought to disguise. ‘Excellent, sir. I shall write up the papers immediately.’
‘That should winnow the line of petitioners, do you not think?’
‘Most drastically, sir.’
For the next few days while they skirted the Jacuruku north coast, Traveller lay at the bow gripped in a fever of sweats and shuddering chills. Ereko guided the Kite while Kyle and the Lost brothers slept in turns. The third night Traveller suddenly cried out, weeping in-consolably, his body wrenched with the violence of his convulsions. Kyle went to the Thel Akai's side. ‘What did they do to him, those mages?’
Ereko was surprised. Under their broad bone ridge, his argent eyes flicked to Kyle, smiled their reassurance, then returned to scanning the shore. ‘They? Nothing. He carries his illness with him. It has been whispering to him all these months. I have seen it growing upon him day by day. Those fools with their interference have weakened him and now he feels its pull keenly.’
‘You cannot cure it?’
A shake of his shaggy head. ‘You have not guessed, Kyle? It is the sword he carries. That is not a blade meant for any human, no matter who. It brings with it the memories of terrible things. Bloodshed, yes. But much worse – acts of cruelty and of soul-corroding anguish. It was forged ages ago by the one known as the Son of Darkness, Anomandaris. Know you of him?’
‘Yes. We have legends of him. Stories of the Moon itself floating overhead and dragons soaring.’ Those fireside tales no longer sounded so incredible to Kyle.
‘It has held many names over the ages. Anger. Rage. Vengeance. Of them all, he chose for himself vengeance. A choice we should perhaps be grateful for. Now that choice eats at him like acid. I pray it will not taint his spirit.’
Kyle watched the man, curled up under a cloak, hands clenched in his sweat-slick hair, his face hidden behind his forearms. ‘Then we should take it from him.’
The giant grasped Kyle's upper arm in his massive grip. ‘No. You mustn't. He would strike without thought. Would you add yet another burden to his conscience?’
‘Then what can we do?’
Without turning his head, Ereko slid his bright gaze to Kyle in a strange sort of sideways regard. He bared his tusk-like teeth in a one-sided grin. ‘You can pray, Kyle.’
Kyle flinched away. Pray? Is there so little hope? He moved off to lie down next to the Lost brothers wrapped in cloaks and blankets. Pray? To who? He thought of the bewildering array of Gods, spirits and heroes he'd heard mentioned since leaving Bael lands. None appealed to him. That left his old guardian and tribal ancestral spirits going back all the way to their legendary progenitor, Father Wind. Perhaps that very entity taken from him by the very company he joined? Yet, as time has passed, it all seemed so unreal to him.
The gentle night waves rocked the Kite, and the susurration of the nearby surf whispered rhythmically. Kyle eventually did slip into an uneasy sleep. He repeated his people's ancient invocation:
Great All Father,
Whose breath cleanses, brings life,
Guide me. Show me my path.
Kyle awoke, spluttering and coughing on a mouthful of smoke. He lay in a tent made of roughly sewn hides. But not a tent like the one he'd recently slept in; this one was cramped and dark, its ceiling low. A hunched figure, a man or a woman, occupied half the sagging quarters. A brazier next to the occupant sent out gouts of smoke that made Kyle's eyes water and his breath catch in his throat. Outside, a strong wind blew, gusting at the sides of the frail construction. The figure waved a hand wrapped in tatters of cloth. Its shape was unnervingly strange and distorted. ‘Apologies for the poor domestic arrangements. Recent setbacks have reduced my circumstances.’
‘Where am I? Where is everyone?’
‘You are not so far away from your ship and your friends, Kyle.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Who am I?’ The shape rocked back and forth, cackling. ‘A friend, of course. One who has, how shall I put it – intervened – to help.’
‘Help?’
‘Yes. Help you. Whereas those you erroneously pray to ignore your pleas, I, however, am always responsive.’
Kyle attempted to wave the choking fumes from his face. ‘How did I get here?’
A great gust of wind kicked the frail tent and the figure hissed indistinct mouthings under its breath. ‘Never mind that, Kyle. Time is pressing. Your friend is ill. It lies within my power to ease his sufferings. What say you? For a small price I will sooth his misery, calm his nightmares. Do you not wish to see him revive?’
‘Yes, of course – but what price?’
‘Oh, nothing awful, I assure you. Nothing like your blood or your spirit or anything absurd like that. No. However, I am interested in that sword you carry. It has unusual characteristics. You could say I have an interest in uncommon weapons.’ The arms opened in a shrug. ‘There you have it. Nothing unreasonable. Surely you do not value this blade above your friend's health and recovery?’
Kyle blinked to clear his blurring vision, coughed into a fist. ‘No, of course not. But why-’
A wind slammed the tent with a thundering boom, completely flattening one side. The figure pressed both hands against the bulging hides, snarling, ‘No! I am master here! Be gone!’
A woman's voice came cutting through the howling wind then. It rose and fell as if calling from a great distance. Kyle cocked his head, straining to listen. ‘You are not the master here. Chained One,’ the voice seemed to scold. ‘Come, Kyle. Come away.’
Unable to stand, Kyle crawled on his hands and knees towards the entry. ‘You!’ the figure roared. ‘How dare you! There will be retribution! I will remember this!’ Kyle reached the flap, scrabbled under it. ‘Wait! I can tell you what you carry – don't you want to know? Aren't you curious? How you've been betrayed? Used?’
‘Speak not of using others, great deceiver,’ the voice answered.
On his elbows, Kyle pulled himself out from under the hide into the night to find himself before the bare feet of a woman. She stood above him, her pale slim body wrapped in loose gossamer scarves the colour of darkest night that whipped sinuous in the wind. The long veil over her face flicked like a banner and her black hair lashed about her face. She turned and walked away.
‘And you! Speak not of deception^ was the last thing Kyle heard spat from within the tent.
Stumbling, crawling, he followed the woman. Broken wood and tatters of cloth littered the beach; it looked as though a shipwreck had crashed ashore. None of it seemed to obstruct the woman yet Kyle had to pick his way carefully. At one point the wind brought a long-drawn-out mournful howling like that of a hound. The woman's head snapped aside, to the north, and she raised a pale languid hand as if waving something away, then continued on. Kyle joined her far down the strand, the surf licking his sandals. ‘Where am I?’ he gasped.
Back to him, scanning the sea's starry horizon, she said, ‘It is a dream, Kyle. Only a dream. Nothing more.’ She turned her oval, achingly beautiful, veiled face to him. ‘And you are haunted.’
‘By you?’
A teasing smile; a cool hand at his brow. ‘Among others,’ and she gestured down the beach. Kyle squinted – there, through the curtains of blowing sand, a figure, shouting, a hand at his mouth. An old man, one-handed…
‘Stoop! Yes, I see you! What? What is it?’
‘He was banished to Hood's most distant Paths,’ the woman explained. ‘Yet not utterly, for the Vow holds him still in bindings that cannot be broken. And so he is caught between Realms. Cast away yet linked to you.’
‘To me?’
‘Yes. He chose you to speak to – as is the custom among the fallen Avowed. Their “Brethren” I believe they are named.’
Brethren. So, that is who they are.
She extended a naked arm, pointed a long finger out to the expanse of water. ‘And there you are.’
Kyle squinted out to the dark sea. Far out, past the phosphor glow of breakers at a reef, was the pale patch of a sail passing east to west. ‘What? Is that me?’
His vision blurred and he fell to his knees. ‘Sleep now, soldier,’ the Goddess whispered, and he pitched forward into the surf. Water splashed his face.
‘Kyle? Kyle!’ He opened his eyes: Ereko's anxious face loomed above him, his long stringy hair hanging down. The giant shook water from his hand. ‘How are you now, lad?’
Kyle wiped his wet cold face, blinking. ‘Fine, fine. What is it? What happened?’
‘What happened?’ Pain clenched Ereko's brow and looked away. ‘What happened was my fault. I am sorry. It was… more perilous… than I imagined. But it turned out well in the end. My Lady won't thank me for it, though.’
‘Who was that thing?’
‘That was the poison corrupting the Warrens, Kyle, and more. The Outsider. Some call him the Chained God, others the Crippled God, for he, or it, is broken, shattered. His presence here has infected this land.’
‘He seemed… sick.’
‘We are no doubt a sickness to him – for he is from elsewhere. He was brought here unwillingly, and now suffers eternally. Myself, I pity his plight.‘ Ereko took Kyle's arm in his huge hand, his eyes searching. ‘I'm sorry, Kyle. I did not expect such a strong reaction from all involved. But it forced her to act and now all is well. It is Traveller. He's awake, and he's asking for you.’ Ereko handed him a skin of water. Kyle gulped it down then crab-walked hunched to the bow. Traveller sat with the Lost brothers, propped up against the bow, a blanket at his shoulders. His long dark hair was plastered across his brow, hung lank about the blanket. He appeared exhausted but his eyes were sharp and clear. Kyle squatted in front of him.
‘How are you?’ the man asked.
‘How am J? Fine. What about you?’
Traveller looked past him to the stern where Ereko watched. ‘I am fine now as well,‘ he said, his eyes on the Thel Akai. ‘They were just dreams. Bad dreams. I see that now.’ He offered Kyle a hand; Kyle took it and he squeezed. ‘My thanks.’
‘Thanks? For what?’
‘For your patience. Your faith.’
Confused, Kyle shrugged. He moved to leave but Traveller held his hand. ‘We are close now. Very close. Whatever happens do not interfere. This is between Ereko and me. Yes?’
Kyle shrugged again. ‘Certainly.’
‘Thank you.’ He released Kyle's hand.
Still confused, Kyle headed back to his blanket. Stalker had moved to lie there, an arm over his face. ‘Maybe we can all get back to sleep now,’ the man grumbled. Kyle looked to Ereko who winked.
The next morning saw a coast of ruins. Sun-bleached pillars of cyclopean stones stood canted amid dunes. Jetties of stone lay submerged just visible beneath the clear cerulean surface, overgrown by coral and seaweed. Inland, the remains of an immense dome of blindingly white stone hung half collapsed at an angle. Next to Ereko, Kyle peeled one of the local fruits. He looked to the giant who nodded. The Dolmans of Tien. We are close. Close to many things.’
After the ruins of the ancient city they came to where a smooth plain of hard wind-scoured sands met the coast. Here all remains of occupation ended and menhirs, or stone pillars, stood, isolated and distinct. Coming around the headland of a bay Kyle saw that the menhirs continued on in even more numbers, like a forest of stone, for as far as he could see inland. The Dolmans,’ Ereko said. He swung the tiller for the shore.
‘And K'azz?’
‘From what you have told me I imagine he must be imprisoned within one of these.’
Kyle stared. Imprisoned within one of these? ‘But there's thousands of them!’
‘Yes.’
‘How will we even know where to begin?’
Ereko tapped Kyle as lightly as he could on the back, rocking him. ‘Do not despair, lad, we'll know.’
A collection of ramshackle huts occupied the beach whose ragged inhabitants stood staring, too beaten down or famished even to run. Jumping ashore, Traveller adjusted his hauberk beneath his salt-stained leathers, drew the mottled magenta blade a hand's breadth from its black wooden sheath and slammed it home. Before the man turned away Kyle glimpsed a clenched ache on his features that made him wince. Having secured the Kite, Ereko tried speaking with a few of the cringing fisher-folk but quickly abandoned the effort.
‘They know nothing,’ he told them. The interior, the Dolmans, are just sources of terror for them. They have turned their backs upon them.’
‘What do we do then?’ Kyle asked, unable to keep an edge of irritation from his voice.
His back to them, Traveller said, ‘We will follow Ereko.’
Stalker, at Kyle's side, nodded silent assent. He signed to the brothers, who checked their blades then jogged off to the right and left. ‘I'll bring up the rear.’
Kyle was surprised. ‘Shouldn't you-’
‘Walk with me, Kyle,’ Traveller invited.
Smiling his reassurance to Kyle, Ereko set off ahead. Traveller handed Kyle a strip of smoked fish taken from the bundles supplied by Jhest. He took a bite and handed it back as they walked.
The pillars were built of stones carved to sit one atop the other, diminishing smoothly on six facets to a blunt tip just taller than Ereko himself. They stood some five paces apart in immensely long rows running east-west and north-south. Looking carefully Kyle could discern a curve to the east-west rows, as if they described a series of nested arcs, or vast circles. ‘What is this?’ he asked of Traveller.
Ereko answered, ‘A cemetery, mainly. However, it served many other functions for those who built it. Ritual centre, timepiece, observatory, calendar, temple and prison.’
‘Did your people build it?’
‘Goddess, no, Kyle. We were not builders. No, this was raised ages ago by a people long gone. Humans, like yourself, of a close lineage.’
‘You have been here before?’
The Thel Akai glanced back, a smile of amusement at his lips. ‘No.’
‘Then where are you leading us?’
A shrug of the massive shoulders. ‘To the centre. I find that the centre is often a good place to start.’
‘Do not worry,’ Traveller said, also smiling at Kyle's discomfort. ‘Ereko knows what he is doing. Can you say the same?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that I gather you intend to try to rescue or release this Prince K'azz D'Avore, commander of the Crimson Guard. Do you think that wise?’
‘Wise?’
The man's dark-blue eyes watched him sideways, gauging. His beard of silver and black bristles gave him a grave, priestly look. ‘Yes.’
‘The Guard's become a band of murderers. Skinner has-’
‘Skinner? Traveller interrupted, then mastered himself with an effort.
‘Yes… He killed one of their own right before my eyes. Only K'azz can restore the Guard to what it should be.’
Traveller's gaze was averted, but in it, and in his tight down-turned mouth, Kyle read sadness coupled with a strange amusement, as if at some grim joke known only to himself. ‘Indeed. To what it should be. And what might that be, I wonder?’
‘I – I don't know, but it would have to be an improvement. Only the Duke can bring Skinner to heel.’
‘Can he? I wonder…’
Ahead, Ereko stopped, raising a hand. Coming abreast of him Kyle saw that they had reached the innermost ring of pillars. Before them lay a flat circular plaza the size of a city centre floored entirely by pale, off-white, wind-scoured gravel. The gathering shadows of the afternoon revealed that the pavement was not smooth, but that the stones were intricately set in lines. Some lines bisected the expanse, some curved, some were straight, each was marked out only in shadow by the arrangement of the stones. Indeed, from where Kyle stood, it appeared as if a forest of lines, some gently curving arcs or tight curls, others straight as sword blades, crawled about the gravelled floor of the plaza like, well, an infinity of paths. But all were marked only in shadow. The stones were all identical, all the same shade of creamy off-white. One could not tell which stone was part of which line. And even as they all stood staring in fascination, Coots and Badlands coming to stand with them, the sun moved a fraction and all the lines writhed with it like shadows jumping to new tracery.
‘Incredible,’ Ereko breathed. ‘Would that I had known its makers. A construct worthy of the great artificer Icarium.’
‘Do we cross?’ Stalker asked.
‘Our goal is across the way.’
‘We go around,’ Traveller said.
Kyle felt unaccountable relief at that pronouncement. But he also felt a deeper unease, for here was a man who surely must have no need to fear anything, yet even he was wary of this place. They slowly traced their way around half the circumference. All the while, Kyle watched the plaza: no bird landed, no leaf blew, no twig or dry weed tumbled across the expanse. All was still. It was as if the space were somehow sealed off from the normal littered, overgrown expanse of sand surrounding it.
Eventually, Ereko stopped at a pillar that, as far as Kyle could see, was no different from any other. He knelt to study its base for a time. ‘This is where we must dig, I believe.’
‘Dig?’ Kyle asked in disbelief.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘But, is he… dead…?’
The giant frowned. ‘From what you have told me of these Avowed, I presume not.’
‘Then…’ Words failed Kyle. Father Wind! To be buried alive for so long, unable to die. His mind must be gone…
The brothers set to without question. They fell to their knees, began dragging armfuls of sand aside. Seeing Kyle watch, Coots commented aside, ‘The sooner we're outta here the better…’ Kyle got to his knees to help. An arm's length down they met harder ground, firm tough dirt, a deeper hue of yellow, damp and cold. Out came boot-knives and short blunt eating blades. The fighting blades stayed sheathed. It came to look to Kyle as if the Thel Akai must have been right in selecting this one particular pillar out of the countless thousands, for the ground was broken, the lower matrix mixed with the sands from above. Someone had dug here before them.
They reached a flat stone barrier, roughly hewn. Feeling about the edges Badlands revealed a paving stone or lid, roughly square, about an arm's length in each direction. He pushed his fingers under one edge and, straining, lifted. The stone grated, rose and fell leaning. Badlands edged aside to reveal a small dark cavity, like a large urn. Within, arms wrapped tightly around knees tucked to its chest, was a desiccated corpse.
Badlands gestured. ‘This the guy?’
‘How should I know? I've never seen him!’
‘He don't look so good,’ Coots said, brushing sand from his beard.
‘Oh, you think so? Ereko?’ But the Thel Akai had turned away and was scanning the grounds. ‘Ereko?’
The giant glanced down, his amber eyes churning with heavy sadness. ‘I'm sorry, Kyle. I'd hoped you'd be successful. It would make… well, I'm sorry.’
Puzzled, Kyle peered about the surrounding dunes, his eyes narrowing. ‘What's going on?’
Traveller had stepped down and crouched over the corpse. He lifted its skull to examine its ravaged face, wrenched its right hand free to examine it, then straightened.
‘Well?’ Kyle asked.
Traveller too was looking aside. ‘It might be him,’ he said, distractedly. ‘Hard to say.’
‘What's going on, Lady take it!’
Stalker's head snapped up and he leapt aside, facing east, a hand at his sword. The brothers crouched behind the cover of the piled sand. Traveller straight-armed Kyle to fall backwards into the pit. ‘Hey!’
Peering up over the lip, Kyle saw that a wind had arisen, a twisting dust-devil that kicked up clouds of sand. Within, darkness gathered, a ragged gap that Kyle recognized as the opening of a Warren. Greyness moiled behind the fissure. Then, with a clap, it was gone and the sands settled. An armoured man now occupied the space between two pillars. He was tall, gaunt, looking exceptionally old. His face was dark and lined, ravaged by age, and his long grey hair hung lank. His mail shirt hung to his ankles, a plain bastard sword was at his side. He approached, scanning everyone briefly. The open scorn of his gaze set Kyle's teeth on edge. The eyes fixed upon Ereko and a hungry smile twisted the old man's mouth. He called something in a language unknown to Kyle.
‘Talian is a common tongue here,’ Ereko answered.
The man paused, inclined his head fractionally. ‘Very well… I had lost hope, Ereko. Yet here you are. Seems we've played the longest waiting game in history, you and I.’
‘I play no games, Kallor.’
‘Coy to the end, then. Come,’ he gestured Ereko forward impatiently, ‘let me complete my last remaining vow.’
‘Let me take him,’ Stalker said, straightening.
Ereko shot out a hand. ‘No! No one must interfere. This is between him and me.’
‘You aren't armed, Ereko,’ Kyle called.
The giant turned a wistful smile to Kyle. ‘It is all right. Don't worry, Kyle. This is what I have chosen.’ He took a long ragged breath. ‘I'll not meet you with a weapon in my hand, Kallor. That would dishonour the memory of why I am here.’
The man shrugged. ‘As you will. It would make no difference, in any case.’
‘Traveller, do something!’ Kyle begged.
The swordsman did not answer. Kyle was shaken to see tears staining the man's face. He gripped and regripped the hilts of his sword. ‘I'm sorry, Kyle,’ he ground out, almost gasping. ‘This was our agreement.’
‘Well, I made no such Hood-damned agreement…’ Kyle climbed from the pit, went for his tulwar. Traveller grabbed his arm, twisted it behind him. Pain flamed in his shoulder. ‘Damn you!’ he gasped.
‘I sometimes think that is so,’ the man answered in a voice almost broken in emotion.
Ereko stepped forward, arms open. ‘Come then yourself, High King. I know no fear.’
Despite facing an unarmed opponent, the one named Kallor retreated. Perhaps he wondered if this were some sort of elaborate trap. Or was incapable of understanding what was unfolding. After a few steps back he scowled anew, drew his sword. ‘Do not think that I will be moved by such a display.’
‘Be assured that in your case I am under no such misapprehension.’
Badlands and Coots jumped atop the piled sands, weapons out. ‘Hold!’ Traveller barked.
‘He's gonna get killed!’ Badlands called.
‘It is his decision.’
‘No,’ Kallor snarled, shifting forward. ‘It is mine!’
For all his apparent age, this ‘High King’ moved with stunning speed. The bastard sword's long blade thrust high then was quickly withdrawn to slash down Ereko's front. The giant clenched his arms around himself and fell to his knees. Kallor thrust a second time. The blade pierced the back of Ereko's shirt then withdrew. Silent, Ereko toppled to his side.
Kyle covered his face, horrified. Yet he knew he should bear witness and so he forced himself to look up again, his eyes searing.
Kallor drew his blade across the fallen giant's clothes to clean it. He looked down for a time, musingly. ‘Too easy by far. Though oddly satisfying all the same. But-’ he leant forward. ‘What's this – breathing still?’ He shifted to stand closer to Ereko's shoulders. ‘I think I will take the head.’
‘No, you will not,’ Traveller announced.
The High King straightened, blade rising. ‘A little late for your friend, don't you think? Pangs of delayed guilt? Then again,’ and the man struck a ready stance, ‘please do. I came for a fight. Perhaps you can provide me one.’
Traveller edged forward carefully. ‘I speak now because the terms of my agreement with my friend have been observed.’
‘And now you wish revenge. Yes, yes. It's all so drearily predictable.’
Traveller flinched as if stabbed. He raised a hand, pointing. ‘Speak not to me of vengeance, Kallor.’ Kyle was shaken, hearing in Traveller's words echoes of the night before. ‘The one who lies before you made me swear off any vengeance in his name and I respect his wishes. And so I say to you – go now! You have struck mortal blows. Ereko will die of them soon enough.’
Kallor drew himself up tall. His mouth curled his contempt and disbelief. ‘You dare dismiss me! Had you the least idea of who and what I am you would run now and not stop until beneath the waves!’
Traveller eased his blade in its scabbard. ‘There are those who would say the same of me…’
A smile broke through the man's glower and he stepped free of Ereko, sweeping his blade wide in an invitation. ‘Then by all means, come. I will take both your heads.’
‘Flee now, High King, or I will act.’
The man made a show of peering first to the right and then the left. ‘I appear not to have fled.’
Traveller drew his blade. ‘That is good enough for me.’
The two closed, feet shuffling slowly and carefully, blades extended. Kyle was worried, for the High King had just demonstrated amazing speed and his bastard sword was a much heavier blade than Traveller's. Not to mention that the man was more heavily armoured.
The blades touched, scraping. Both held two-handed grips. They clashed once, iron snarling. They clashed again, parrying, then Traveller was somehow before Kallor, his fists at the man's chest, blade thrust completely through to the hilt. Kyle gaped and Kallor stared as well, just as astonished. One of his mailed hands went to Traveller's grip while the other swung his weapon. Traveller snapped up a hand to clasp the man's forearm. They held like that for a time, circling and straining, Kallor's blade held high while Traveller's slim dark blade thrust straight from Kallor's back. Kyle was chilled to see no blood upon that blade.
Fury changed to consternation to disbelief on the High King's lined face as his eyes widened and his lips peeled back from grey teeth. ‘Who… are… you?’ he ground out. Edging his head closer, Traveller spoke, his words lost beneath Kallor's gasped breaths. The High King blanched, flinching away. ‘No! Chained One, aid me!’
A wind gathered around the two. The High King glanced behind himself where darkness blossomed. He gave Traveller a mocking smile. ‘As you can see, apostate, though you have the better of me this time, I am just as difficult to overcome as you. And my Patron is very strong here. In this place, especially…’ He threw himself backwards, sliding off Traveller's blade into the darkness of a gap that cracked open that instant. Traveller appeared ready to throw himself in, but Stalker, leaping forward, pushed him aside.
The gateway disappeared with a sharp explosion of air. Traveller stood motionless for a time, staring at where the portal had been. Beside him, it was Stalker who was gasping for breath, his face sweaty. ‘I thought you weren't going to strike him,’ he said. Traveller sheathed his sword. ‘That was long overdue for another friend.’
Kyle ran to Ereko, threw himself down at his side. The Thel Akai was conscious, panting shallowly. Traveller knelt with Kyle. ‘He is gone,’ he told Ereko.
The giant gave a curt jerk of his head. ‘I go too,‘ he said, laboured, ‘to join my people. I have been a long time from them. I have missed them. Thank you, my friend.’ Glancing to Kyle, he offered a weak smile. ‘Do not mourn me. And do not give in to sorrow. I will always be with you, yes? This is necessary, here and now. Necessary…’
Traveller stood. ‘Farewell.’
Kyle remained on his knees, thinking, someone ought to do something. Why wasn't someone doing something? The Thel Akai's skin took on a grey pallor, roughening. Before Kyle's eyes the flesh transformed to gritty grey stone. The stone cracked, crumbled and flaked. Kyle could not help but pull away, unnerved. ‘What's happening?’
‘He's returning to the Earth. To his mother,’ Traveller said softly, reverently. ‘As it should be…’ and he scanned the horizons, hand on his sword grip.
Even as Traveller spoke Ereko's flesh crumbled to a dust that the wind pulled away. In moments nothing remained. Traveller whispered something that sounded to Kyle like a prayer.
Behind them, the brothers spoke with Stalker who then approached. ‘We'd best go,’ he said, his voice low.
Traveller nodded, ‘Yes.’ He moved to take Kyle's arm but Kyle flinched away.
‘How can you just leave him here!’
‘He's gone, Kyle. The wind has taken him and he will be of the earth once more. It is what he wished.’
The burning in Kyle's chest flared at those words. ‘And how could you have let this happen! You could have stopped it!’
The swordsman's dark-blue eyes widened in shock, then he lowered them and turned away. ‘We should go,’ he said, his voice thick.
Stalker took Kyle's arm. ‘Don't be angry with the man,’ he mumured. But Kyle pulled his arm free.
‘He might as well have killed Ereko himself!’
‘Kyle – that's not…’ but the scout could say no more. He shook his head and walked away, signalling something to his brothers.
Kyle fell to his knees next to where the giant had lain. He reached out to pass his hands over the sands. Gone. He felt as if his heart had been torn from his chest. He'd sworn never to feel this way again, yet somehow this affected him so much more than that day atop the Spur. Someone so kind and wise – how could this have happened? It was not right. Drops of tears wet the sands. His hands found a leather thong and a stone, the necklace he'd seen on Ereko. The stone had a hole through which the thong ran and was smooth and translucent, like amber. He clenched it in his fist and stood.
Feeling oddly as if he were sleepwalking, he headed back, retracing their steps. Distantly, he was aware of Coots and Badlands keeping an eye on him. Reaching the shore and the Kite pulled up on the strand only pained Kyle further. The Lost brothers worked together with Traveller to ready it. Kyle sat and watched them, the ocean and the steady surf. An old man came walking up the beach from the direction of the village. ‘Greetings,’ he called in Talian.
Kyle looked to Traveller who merely returned to his work. Shrugging, Kyle faced the man. ‘Yes? You speak Talian?’
‘Yes. I'm of Gris. Was shipwrecked here years ago.’ His long, straight, greying hair whipped in the off-shore wind. His beard and moustache were a startling white against his lean, sun-darkened features. He wore the ragged, bleached remains of a shirt, leather vest and trousers. His feet were bare and cracked.
‘And?’
The man's eyes narrowed to slits and he glanced away. ‘Was hoping you'd offer a berth – passage anywhere but here.’
‘I don't think so. We're not really-’
‘I know these waters well. I could guide you through them. Been fishing here for years. Where are you headed?’
Kyle was at a loss. Yes, where were they headed? He looked to Traveller; the man's back was turned as he was stowing the bundles and refilled water casks. ‘Quon Tali,’ the man finally said.
‘Quon! Then please, Lady's Mercy! You must take me.’
Kyle glanced sharply to the man – Lady's Mercy? But no, why read anything into that. No doubt it was a common enough Talian oath. ‘It's not really for me to say…’ he looked again, a little sullenly, to Traveller.
The man was coiling rope. His back to them, he hung his head then raised it as if entreating the sky. ‘It's your decision, Kyle.’
‘Then I suppose so. What's your name?’
‘Jan.’
Kyle made the introductions. The Lost brothers greeted the man but Traveller did not turn around. ‘We should catch the night tide,’ was all he said.
Jan gestured to the village. ‘I'll just get some supplies.’
‘Be quick about it,’ Traveller called after him.
They had the Kite out in the shallows when Jan returned burdened by skins of water, bundles of fruits and pale root tubers. Pushing his way out into the surf he tossed the goods over the side then climbed in. Stalker yielded the tiller. Kyle and the brothers handled the sail. Traveller sat at the bow, arms crossed over his knees. Jan turned them north.
After a time, as the stars came out, Kyle sat against the side and set his chin on the gunwale. He stared back at the dark line on the horizon that was the coast of Jacaruku. His suggestion to come to the Dolmans had been a disaster for them. K'azz dead or gone. Ereko slain. And, Kyle now worried, he may have insulted Traveller beyond forgiveness with his words back at the Dolmans. He saw that now. But he'd been so angry. He'd given no thought to the fact that the man had known Ereko far longer than he. And now Traveller was taking them to Quon – the very destination of the Guard. Perhaps he meant to hand Kyle over to them. It suddenly occurred to him that Traveller might actually blame him for his friend's death; if he hadn't suggested this destination of Jacuruku out of all possible headings then Ereko would still be alive. He glanced to the bow. The man was awake, brooding, it seemed to Kyle. His eyes were glittering in the dark, fixed on the seemingly oblivious Jan at the tiller, whose gaze held just as steady to the north-east horizon.
For Toc the assault began with a burgeoning roar that shook the hooves and flesh of his mount before it struck his gut. To the south, what seemed the entire horizon lit up behind the Outer Round curtain wall as incendiaries flew tall arcs in both directions over the Inner Round walls: inward from Talian catapults and outward from Hengan onagers. Remnants of the Talian legion that had participated in the original assault watched from the pickets alongside the gathered camp followers and support staff of armourers, cooks, drovers, washerwomen, prostitutes and trooper's wives and their children.
Beyond the encampment bands of Seti roved the fitfully lit hillsides, chanting warsongs, waving lances, bellowing their encouragement and cursing the Hengans. Toc longed to be in the thick of things with Choss, though well could he imagine the horror of it: frontal escalades were always high in body counts. Pure naked ferocity versus ferocity.
As the assault dragged on into the night, the constant low roar not abating, up out of the night came the White Jackal shaman, Imotan, and his bodyguard to Toc and his staff. The shaman urged his mount to Toc's side. A simple leather band secured the old man's grey hair and his leathers were mud-spattered. Instead of a lance he carried a short baton tufted in white fur held tight across his chest. The old man's eyes blazed bright, either in excitement or alarm, Toc wasn't sure. ‘What is it?’
‘You must get all your people inside,’ Imotan called.
‘Why? A sortie?’
‘No. Something is coming. For you, something terrible. Yet for us, a prophecy fulfilled.’
Toc stared his confusion. Was the man mad? ‘What do you mean?’
‘Ryllandaras is coming. I feel him. I can almost smell his breath.’
‘Ryllandaras?’ The man must be mad. It was impossible. He'd been imprisoned long ago. ‘No. You must be mistaken.’
Imotan flinched away, glowering. ‘Do not insult me, Malazan.’ He sawed his mount around. ‘Very well. I have done my part. Ignore me and die.’ The White Jackal shaman stormed off into the night surrounded by his bodyguard.
Toc watched him go then straightened up tall in his saddle, peering to the left and right, squinting at the lines. Surely the old man would not have come to him unless he was certain. But still, Ryllandaras, after all this time? And why now?
‘Rider!’ he called.
One of his staff urged his mount alongside. ‘Sir?’
‘Go to Urko's command. Tell them the Seti warn of a dangerous presence out in the night.’
‘Sir.’ The messenger kicked his mount and rode off.
‘Captain Moss?’
‘Sir?’
‘Take a troop and do a circuit of the perimeter. Warn the pickets to be sharp.’
‘Aye, sir.’ The captain saluted and reined his mount away.
There. But had he done all he could? Should he warn Choss? No, the man had more than enough to handle, electing to direct the assault from the front. He would wait to see if anything came of this – on the face of it – utterly outrageous claim.
It was a full hour later, close to midnight, when a woman in a dress torn and stained dark came walking out of camp. She headed straight to Toc, as silent as a ghost, her eyes empty, hands held out before her dark and wet. His men shouted, pointing. Toc stared. He could not speak; would not believe. He slid from his mount and took her hands sticky with blood. ‘Where?’ he shouted. ‘Tell me where!’ She stared up at him, uncomprehending, her brow clenched in confusion.
‘They are dead,’ she told him. ‘Everyone is dead.’
‘Where, damn you!
‘By the creek.’
‘Blow to arms,’ he yelled. ‘Form square. Escort all civilians behind the walls!’
Far to the back of camp, screams sounded – not human – the shrill shrieks of terrified dying horses. Toc straightened. Gods preserve all of us. He remembered. He remembered Ryllandaras. He'd been there. Not even Dassem could kill him. They had nothing. Nothing to counter the Curse of Quon, eater of men. The man-jackal, brother of Trake, god of war.
Escorted by a bodyguard of Malazan regulars, Storo climbed the Inner Round wall where Hurl waited. His surcoat was rent, blood smeared his gauntlets and his face glistened with sweat and soot. ‘This had better be good,’ he warned, his voice hoarse from shouting commands. ‘We're barely hanging on out there. We'd be overrun if it weren't for those three brothers. They're a right horror, they are.’
Hurl said nothing, her eyes avoiding his. Storo drew breath to speak but something in the timbre of the noise here stopped him; it was different from the tumult elsewhere: rather than rage, screams sounded alongside shouts of panic. And no escalade persisted here. He drew off his helmet, pulled back his mail hood revealing smeared blood where a blow had struck. ‘What is it?’
Hurl raised her chin to the parapet where, opposite, the north gate of the Outer Round wall stood. ‘It's begun.’
Storo climbed the parapet. A milling mass of humanity. Torches waved, Talian soldiers shouted and fought to maintain lines facing the half-closed North Plains Gate. Civilians crammed the portal, fought to pass the soldiers, screaming, pale hands grasping at armour. Nearby in the press, one of the few mounted figures gestured, shouting orders, his short grey hair and moustache bright in the gloom. He held a black recurve bow in one hand, emphasizing his orders with it.
‘Gods, Storo blurted as if gut-punched. ‘Toc. Toc himself.’ He glanced to Hurl. ‘Have you any bowmen here?’
‘No.’
‘Huh! The man's luck still holds.’ He stepped down, faced Hurl squarely. ‘Wait ‘til they're clear then do it.’
‘Must we?’
‘Yes, dammit! Otherwise we're lost.’
‘They'll be slaughtered. Soldiers and civilians alike.’
Storo pulled up his mail hood. ‘Then they should've stayed home. As for the civilians, they were warned. I have to go. May the Lady favour you.’
‘And you.’
Storo tramped back down the stairs. Hurl remained with her sergeant and squads of regulars guarding this section of the curtain wall. While she watched, passage was made for the clamouring civilians. The Talians formed lines of crossbowmen facing the gate as others struggled to close it. The last man staggering through was memorable, his dark surcoat and mail coat hanging in tatters, the remains of a shattered helmet swinging from his neck, twin sabres in his hands. Had he actually survived a melee with the man-eater? She'd probably never know. The second wing of the gate was levered shut and iron crossbars frantically lowered into place. Hurl turned to Sergeant Banath. ‘I want you down there.’
He saluted, jogged down the stairs. Along the Outer Wall Talian soldiers climbed to the parapets, scanned down beyond. Hands pointed, alarm was raised, crossbows fired. Hurl waited until the civilians were far clear of the gate then went to the inner lip of the stone walk. She peered down to torches lighting a crew, Sergeant Banath with them, in a trench dug tight against the wall. She looked to her right and left up and down the wall. ‘Brace yourselves!’ she shouted to the men. She raised a hand, thinking, with this hand I doom more men and women than I can imagine. What has happened to me that I could do such a thing? Was it Shaky's death? The attack of Fat Kepten's men? What did she care if Heng fell? Not at all, to tell the truth. No, the mean selfish fact of it was that she wanted to live and if the city fell she'd no doubt be executed.
She dropped her hand and threw herself down, covering her head. Below her, she could imagine a sledge being swung to bash a pipe that ran out underground across the entire breadth of the Outer Round to a stash of carefully ordered and bound Moranth munitions snug against the left gate jamb. There its pointed end would crack a sharper nestled within four cussors. The resultant explosion-
A shockwave kicked the breath from her. The thunderous blast of the munitions was lost on her deafened ears. A bloated roaring filled her head. Tiny rocks peppered her back. Blinking, shaking her head, she climbed to her feet. Smoke obscured the gates. Down in the Outer Round, strewn in wreckage, men and women were picking themselves up. Wounded staggered from the smoke carrying appalling wounds and Hurl's stomach churned. She'd known that not everyone had been far enough away, but most had – or so she told herself. Nearby buildings burned in ruins. And through the smoke something ran. She couldn't be sure; it had been too fast. Just a glimpse of paleness, but huge, smooth and terrifyingly fluid. Then it was gone.
She slumped down against the parapet. It was done. Now she too shared Quon's Curse. The blood it would spill from this night forward would now also steep her. She covered her face and great shuddering sobs shook her.
The report of the explosion startled Toc's mount and it sidestepped into a stall, became tangled in ropes and boxes, tripped and fell. He hit the cobbled road hard, losing his breath. The press around him closed in, hands raised him. Shouts and screams continued, only doubled now by the blast. Everyone was asking what had happened; Toc ignored them. He pushed to where his mount thrashed screaming among the shattered slats of the stall, leg broken. He drew his sword – poor animal – one of his favourites, but he couldn't leave it like this.
The instant the report of the eruption reached him he knew what had happened. They'd blown the outer gate. The fierce calculated cruelty of the plan left him awed. Enfilade. Here they were drawn in and trapped between high walls. Death hunting them. By morning the Outer Round would be one long slaughterhouse as Ryllandaras slaked a near century of blood thirst. He had to get to Choss. He raised his sword high in both hands and swung.
Picking up his bow he straightened, shouted, ‘Get indoors, hide. Defend yourselves.’
Soldiers looked to him and the pleading in their eyes clawed at his conscience. He wanted to offer reassuring words but he had none. The most despairing of the men and women did not even bother searching out his gaze for commands. He gathered himself, set one tip of his horn recurve bow to the cobbles and, leaning all his weight upon it, strung it in one quick motion. ‘Form square here for a fighting retreat. Spears, lances, poleaxes, anything you can find on the outside. Crossbowmen and archers within.’
A civilian woman shrieked at him, ‘What of us!’
‘And get these people off the street!’
A nearby soldier, a lieutenant by his arm-tore, snapped a salute. ‘You heard the commander! Set to. Form up!’
‘Slow retreat, lieutenant,’ Toc repeated. ‘I have to find the commander.’
‘Aye, sir. Oponn with you, sir.’
Toc answered the man's salute and jogged up the street.
Burning buildings near the Inner Round wall lit the night. Toc met soldiers assembling hasty barricades on the main thoroughfare. He almost ordered them to abandon the effort but decided not to add to the confusion and chaos of the night. Yet it was a forlorn hope: the beast would easily sidestep any such position. Soldiers directed him to the rooftop of a sturdy brick warehouse. Here he found Choss, surrounded by staff.
‘Thank Beru!’ the big man exploded upon spotting him. ‘What in the Chained One's name is going on out there? I'm getting all kinds of outrageous reports.’
‘It's Ryllandaras returned, beyond a doubt. And we're pressed in here with him.’
Choss's horrified stare was the worst vision yet for Toc that night. A wind, pulled up by all the fires, blew the commander's great mane of hair across his face. He spat to the roof. ‘So they've been saying. Well, you'd know, Toc’ He looked to the sections of curtain wall visible from this position, drew in a deep breath, held it, then released it in a long slow exhalation of regret. ‘We captured a tower, Toc,’ he said, wistful. ‘We were so close. Now I have to turn around and come up with a way to salvage this.’
Screams of utter terror pulled their gazes aside to the maze of streets and lanes. Toc's back crawled at the hopelessness of those cries. Ryllandaras was murdering their soldiers – and he would not stop. Toc studied Choss. The man's regard had returned to the distant battlements where figures could be seen firing down, dropping torches. Toc was silent, thinking of how closely this man had worked with that great general, Dujek, and how it was he who saw the army through the shock of Y'Ghatan where Dassem fell. ‘If I remember rightly,’ Choss said, his gaze narrowed, ‘his feud is with Heng. It's Heng he hates. You could say we're just in the way.’ The hazel eyes shifted to Toc, calculating. ‘Is that not so?’
‘I think you could say that.’
‘All right then. If this Storo wants to play for all the stakes then we'll match his roll.’ He turned to a messenger, ‘Bring up all the munitions! Tell the sappers, every single last secret cache upon pain of death! Double-time.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Toc watched as Choss returned to studying the walls. What did he intend? Toc had spent most of his time with the cavalry and so didn't know the man as well as he would like. But munitions? Would it work? Every trap and trick known had been tried on the man-beast and none had succeeded. The creature's wariness and cunning were legendary. Still, munitions ought to be new to the cursed fiend.