Hurl found Storo at a stair-tower close by the Inner Round Gate. ‘They're retreating to the Gate of the Dawn,’ she told him. ‘Abandoning the assault.’
He wiped a bundled handful of his surcoat across his face. ‘Looks like. Can't fight him and us at the same time.’
‘What do you think they'll do?’
‘Withdraw. Redeploy to face Laseen. Get off the plains as fast as Oponn will allow.’
Yells and firing at the Inner Round Gate drew Hurl's attention. She peered out to see that the assault continued there. Bowmen behind mantlets and among the ruins of the burnt buildings close by exchanged fire with their crossbowmen. Ladders lay broken like straw on the road amid bodies, some burning. ‘What's going on there?’
‘Keeping up appearances. They're running sappers up against the gates, to no use.’
‘Why? Are they digging?’
‘Yes. But the foundations go down far too deep. You know that.’
Hurl's chest tightened with an inchoate dread. ‘I don't like it, Storo. Clear them off.’
‘Fast as we can.’ He turned to a messenger. ‘Tell them to bring up more stones.’
‘Aye.’
Storo pulled his helmet off, sighed his exhaustion and obvious unshielded relief. ‘I thought they really-’
A blast rocked their footing, throwing them both down. Hurl smashed her head to the stone floor. ‘Hood preserve us!’ Storo gasped. Together they leapt to the east arch. Hurl held her head and fought back a darkness gathering at the edges of her vision. Smoke and dust obscured the gate but from the strength of the eruption Hurl knew it was shattered. Storo's eyes met hers. Her legs buckled and he reached out quickly to support her. He cupped her head then brought his hand away wet with blood. Hurl tried to say what she now knew but there was no need; she saw it in Storo's stricken gaze.
Ryllandaras was now their curse.
Hurl awoke to screams and a guttural snarled bellowing that raised the hair at her neck and shook the stones beneath her back. She lay in a room crowded with many other wounded. Groans and cursing along with the tang of blood and spilt bile assaulted her on all sides. She pushed herself up, dizzy, her head throbbing as if a spike were being hammered into it. Her munitions bag still hung from her side. She made her way to the door, stepping carefully over wounded, some of whom helped steady her. At the door a guard watched the street, crossbow raised. Hengan urban cohorts ran past the opening, weapons abandoned.
It was still night. The fitful light from fires lit the street. Hurl peeked out to see that she occupied a guardhouse hard up by the blown gate. A shuffling, yelling wall of men armed with spears and poleaxes fought something. A thing that when it reared back rose fully three times their height. It was covered in pale creamy-white fur with darker streaks down its back in grey and dirty yellow. A great maw, black-lipped, twisted from enormous canines. Carmine eyes as dark as heart-blood glared hotly and blood stained its entire front. It punched out with unnaturally long cabled arms ending in black talons to claw men and toss them aside like handfuls of straw.
A sound like a whimper brought Hurl's gaze around; the guard met her gaze. Terror and uncomprehending despair filled the man's wide staring eyes. ‘It is be,’ he gasped. The man-eater.’ After a last look of utter hopelessness, the guard threw down his crossbow and ran.
Hurl reached down to gently take up the weapon. Yes, it was he. The creature some named a God, brother to an ascending God. Some even claimed him to be a last remnant of those ancient primordial terrors who hunted humanity's ancestors so long ago out beyond the firelight. Hurl did not know; she knew only that he had sworn to level Heng, and that should he get within he would do so. And the Talians would lay claim to what was left with the sunrise.
She pushed her way out on to the rubble-strewn street, pulled the bolt from the weapon. She slid round the crowd to begin climbing the heaped fallen stones to one side of the blasted opening. At times dizziness took her and she paused on all fours, breathing heavily. She reached a vantage on the piled stones and spread her booted feet for stability. She could now see that one soldier led the defence: he wore a long coat of armour and a visored helm, and wielded twinned longswords. Rell. The monster racked at him but he slipped every swing and the blades flicked inward, slashing so fast only the reflected torchlight marked their movement. The beast's roar of rage and pain shook the stones beneath Hurl's feet. From the bag at her side she took a bolt armed with a sharper, slotted it and punched the air. Warning shouts sounded below. Grunting her effort, she raised the weapon, steadied it. She marked the littered ground just behind the beast, fired. The kick knocked her backwards from her feet. An instant later an explosion spat stones against her entire front. She lay among the broken smoking rocks until roused by renewed roaring that was a constant thunder snarl of rage. Using her elbows and knees she pulled herself up to a sitting position. Men still faced the fiend but it had pulled down or swept aside most. Blood now flecked the pelt on its back. It dodged right and left, blurringly quick, but always the same fighter forestalled it, twin swords raised. Hurl was hardly conscious but even she could sense that something miraculous was occurring – no man ought to be doing what Rell was managing. Through the blown gate she saw Talian troops standing still, watching, mouths open. They held bows and crossbows loose at their sides as if it were inconceivable to interfere in the duel. Ryllandaras's wild swings, ducked or slipped by Rell, knocked the very stone blocks of the wall flying – stones heavier than any man could lift. Spittle flew as the beast threw back its head in such a bellowing eruption of blind incandescent rage that more stones were torn from the fractured walls and Hurl cried, attempting to cover her ears.
Through eyes slitted and blurred, she saw that Rell alone now faced the man-beast. He struck a guard position, one slim blade low, the other high above his head, point down. Ryllandaras’ jaws worked, taloned bloodied hands gestured. Was it speaking to him? The thunder in Hurl's ears deadened them to all sounds. A sudden leap inward made her flinch, so quick was it, yet Rell met it in a flurry of counter-attacks that slashed arms, torso and legs. Now Hurl was amazed by the man-beast: how could any living thing absorb such punishment? Was it truly something of a god itself – akin to Trake? Was Rell doomed to tire, to slow and fail?
Rousing herself, she fought to cock the crossbow, gave it up as futile. She threw it down, drew another bolt from her satchel, pulled the sharper from its mount. With it held high in one fist she struggled to climb down the rubble slope closer to the beast. Now Rell was shouting something, pointing a blade. Hurl looked up to meet the lambent flame-red eyes of the beast watching her. The eyes tracked the munition in her hand. A leg moved as it stepped toward her – Gods, what a stride! An arm stretched out, talons closing – what reach!
Hurl threw at its feet, falling flat.
Some unknown time later she came to as hands pulled her, stones scraped along gouging her back. She tried to cry out, couldn't. Soldiers bent over her; it was still night. The clash of fighting still nearby. Someone took her shoulderbag, another cupped her head on his lap. She looked up into the worried face of Fallow, the squad healer. ‘I'm getting to be a regular,’ she chuckled.
‘You and your commander. Now quiet.’
‘Storo? What…?’
‘Quiet. Relax.’ He closed her eyes with his palm and that was the last she knew.
Toc and Choss remained behind at the Gate of the Dawn with a contingent of seventy spearmen backed up by fifty archers and cross-bowmen. They waited until the last of their elements had withdrawn, then their men pulled the gates shut behind them. Smoke, dust and exhaustion made Toc's eyes gritty and he pressed his fingers into them. As it was after every battle his mouth was as dry as dust and held an iron tinge of – and he could admit it – terror. He spat into the charred remains of a building next to the road burned by the defenders to deny them the wood for siege engines. When he turned from the gate dawn's light struck his gaze and he raised a hand to blot it out. Horsemen were galloping up from the east. Choss and he went to meet them,
‘Felicitations from Commander Urko!’ the leader announced, a fat ginger-haired Falaran in bronze scale armour. ‘I am to report that as per your intelligence Urko has begun excavation of ramparts and is raising a palisade to fortify his position.’
Choss nodded. ‘Thank you, ah…’
‘Captain Tonley.’
‘My thanks, Captain Tonley. Tell him our divisions will redeploy to join him by tonight.’
‘Very good, Commander.’
While they spoke, spare horses had been brought up led by the bloodied Captain Moss. Toc took one, nodding his thanks. Choss mounted as well. Captain Tonley leaned forward on his saddle. ‘Ah, tell me, sirs… what's this I hear of a great giant beastie?’
Toc, Choss and Moss exchanged exhausted glances. ‘It's the truth,’ Choss said flatly.
Captain Tonley shook his head, amazed. ‘You Quon Talians seem fearful of everything. First a band of hireswords and now a beastie. How you ever got the better of us I'll never know.’
Choss stared at the man. A grin pulled at his lips and he chuckled, then laughed outright. ‘It's a mystery, Captain. You may report back.’
A sloppy salute. ‘Very good, Commander. Let's go, boys. No drink to be had here.’ The troop stormed off. Toc turned to Choss.
‘So, now Laseen… And what of the Crimson Guard?’
‘We'll make them an offer. They want the Empire broken, don't they?’
‘And Heng?’
‘Heng and Ryllandaras can bugger each other. What of your Seti?’
Toc scanned the empty hillsides. ‘I don't know. I'll have to speak with them. Imotan's spent all his life praying for his patron God and now that he's come he's probably terrified.’
Choss grunted his scepticism. ‘Well, go. We still need them.’
‘Aye.’
They rode back to camp, silent for a time. ‘That soldier,’ Toc finally said, ‘who faced Ryllandaras. Have you ever seen the like?’
‘Dassem drove him off as well,’ Choss said. ‘But he was favoured by Hood.’
‘I've seen it,’ Moss said.
Toc and Choss glanced to the captain. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, touched the raw livid tear across his face. ‘Well, not seen exactly. Had it described to me by someone who had seen it in Genabackis. That style of fighting. That fellow, he's Seguleh.’
‘Seguleh?’ Choss repeated in wonder. ‘I've heard the name. What's he doing here?’
‘Storo's company was stationed in Genabackis,’ Moss said.
Toc studied his captain sidelong. ‘You know a lot about this Storo
Moss rubbed his gouged nose, wincing. ‘Ah, yes, sir. Gathering intelligence. Know your enemy, and such.’
‘In which case, captain,’ Toc said. ‘Would you like to go on a mission to the Crimson Guard? We have a proposal for them.’
The man smiled. The talon slash across his face cracked and fresh blood welled up. ‘Yes, sir. It would be a privilege.’
Though exhausted, his joints aflame with pain, Toc mounted a fresh horse that morning and set out alone to track down the Seti. He found their camp deserted, but here he also found unusual tracks. Something had visited the camp before him. Like wolf tracks, they were, except far larger, more the size of the largest bear track. And of an enormous breadth of gait. He knew this man-beast Ryllandaras could cover ground faster even than a horse. Though it was common lore that the creature hunted only at night, Toc suddenly felt very exposed out all alone on the plains. A part of him wondered if that was just a detail of atmosphere the jongleurs had tossed into the songs they recited of him. He could just hear Kellanved snarl: never mind what you imagine to be the case, what do you know? Not one to let reputations or legends stand in his way, was he. After all, he trapped the fiend, didn't he? And how did he manage that? A piece of information perhaps relegated to some archive somewhere is suddenly now not so trivial any longer. Knowing how wild Kellanved had been back then, he'd probably used himself as bait.
Towards noon, as he crossed a shallow valley, horsemen appeared in small bands all around him and moved in. He stopped to await them, crossed his arms on the high cantle of his saddle. They circled him from a distance until one broke through and closed. He was a burly fellow, wearing only deerskin trousers, a thick leather vest and wide leather vambraces. His curly hair was shot with grey, as was his matted chest hair. He looked Toc up and down in open evaluation. ‘You are Toc the Elder,’ he said in Talian.
‘And you are the Wildman of the Plains.’
A nod. ‘You ride to speak with Imotan. I think you shouldn't go.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘He has his white-haired God now. What need does he have for you?’
‘There's a lot of history between us. We've exchanged many vows.’
‘Between you and the Seti, yes. Not him.’
Toc flexed his back to ease its nagging pain. He studied the man before him: sword- and knife-scarred, speaks Talian fluently. An Imperial veteran, perhaps a noncommissioned officer. ‘What of you?’ he asked. ‘You might not accept Imotan's authority but we could use you and your warriors to throw off the Empire just the same.’
The man bared his sharp yellow teeth. ‘Do not insult me. Empire, League. It's all the same.’
‘Not at all… You and others would be nearly independent.’
‘Empty promises at best. Lies at worst. We've heard all that before.’
‘You should consider my offer carefully, veteran. We are set to defeat Laseen. She is so short of proper troops she's desperate. I've heard she's even dragooned all the old veterans on Malaz to bolster her numbers.’
The old Seti veteran grew still. His tight disapproving frown vanished. ‘What was that?’
Toc shrugged, puzzled. ‘I just said that she'd sent out the call to gather up everyone she can, even from Malaz.’
The Wildman tightened his reins. ‘I'm going now. I will tell you one more time, Toc – do not pursue this allegiance.’ He clucked his mount into motion and signed his warriors to follow. They thundered away.
Toc sat still for a time, watching them while they rode from sight. Something. Something had just happened there, but exactly what it could have been, he had no idea. Shaking his head, he urged his horse on.
He rode through most of the rest of the day before catching any sign beyond empty horse tracks. Dust rose to the north-east. He kicked his mount to pick up his pace a touch. He was just becoming worried about being caught out in the dark when he topped a gentle grassed rise to see below a horde of mounted warriors circling in a slow churning gyre, calling war chants in crowded rings around tents of the shamans. The clouds of yellow dust they raised plumed into the now darkening sky. He approached and waited but the young bloods ignored him. Most of the youths carried white hair fetishes on their lances, around their arms or in their hair. Eventually, perhaps at a command from within, grudging space was allowed for Toc's mount to push through.
In past the flank-to-flank pressing rings of hundreds of horsemen the atamans were sitting before the central tent, that of Imotan, the White Jackal shaman. Toc bowed and Imotan gestured him forward, patting the ground next to him. He sat and greeted the atamans while Imotan eyed him with a steady, weighing gaze. Toc met it, waiting. ‘I am sorry for your dead, Toc,’ the shaman finally said.
‘My thanks. It is him, then? The very one named Ryllandaras?’
Imotan used a short eating knife to cut meat from a haunch. ‘Yes, it is he. We've hoped and prayed for generations and now he is returned to us.’
‘Hoped? You hoped? If it is him, who do you think he'll turn to once we're gone?’
‘That is our concern, Malazan. We lived with him long before you ever came.’
‘We rid you of a predator.’
‘You interfered.’
‘We freed you!’
The old man stabbed the knife into the ground between them. ‘Freed us! Can you free a man from himself? A people from themselves?’ Taking a long hard breath to master himself he turned to the platter of food and gathered a handful of grapes. He laughed and shook his head at some thought that struck him. ‘Liss's curse! We are a lost people, wandering lost. Lost from ourselves. But now our way has returned to us.’
‘I see no true path.’
‘You are not Seti.’ The shaman was silent for a time. He appeared troubled while he pulled and studied the blade of his knife. Toc the Elder,’ he began carefully, ‘we honour you for what we have accomplished together in the past, but you should not have come.’
‘The old agreements still stand, Imotan.’
‘Do they?’ The shaman glanced aside to Hipal, the ferret shaman, who grinned, evilly, Toc thought, then he scanned a circuit of the men and women sitting in a circle before him. Many glanced away when his gaze reached them. Toc was struck by how much had changed in one night. Before, at the councils, Toc spoke with the atamans, the warrior society warchiefs and tribal Assembly chiefs, while Imotan and Hipal sat relegated to the rear. Now, though, Imotan occupied the seat of honour while the atamans sat at his feet, looking like no more than supplicants.
Having reviewed his council, Imotan sighed, thrust his knife into his sash. ‘What is it you ask, Toc?’
‘This coming battle will be the final arbiter of all. After it, you may consider all agreements fulfilled, all obligations met. It is the last and final request I shall make of you.’
The White Jackal shaman had nodded through Toc's statement. He held his thickly-veined hands up open. ‘So be it. We will be there. Now, for obvious reasons I suggest you spend the night here in our encampment. You will be safe with us. Tomorrow you may join your command.’
Toc bowed. ‘I thank you, Imotan of the White Jackal.’
Nait threw another handful of dried dung on to the fire and sat back in disgust. ‘I'm tellin’ you guys, if he says “clozup” one more time I'm gonna knife the old fart.’
Least let out his own loud fart while Honey pointed into the night. ‘You're welcome to it – he's over that ways.’
‘That's offensive,’ Hands commented to Least who looked abashed. Lim Tal, the Kanese ex-bodyguard, undid a clasp in her hair allowing its full black shimmering length to fall down past her shoulder to her shirt front. Nait, who looked about to say something, appeared to have forgotten what that was and stared along with everyone except Heuk, the company mage, who lay snoring wrapped around a brown earthenware jug. Hands watched as well, sighing. ‘I wish mine would do that.’
Brushing her hair, Lim smiled, flexed her bare bicep. ‘I wish I had your arms.’
‘Listen,’ Nait called across the fire, ‘you two wanna compare any more body parts I got me a nice big ol’ blanket over here…’
‘Should we bring him naked to the line tomorrow?’ Lim asked of Hands. ‘Push him out front?’
Hands snorted – either at the image or at the idea of Nait at the front of anything. ‘They might die laughing…’
‘Tomorrow?’ Nait asked, leaning forward. ‘You think maybe it's tomorrow? You heard that?’
Lim shrugged. ‘Tomorrow or the next.’
‘I hear there's a demon out there who will eat us all,’ Least said.
Beside him, Honey stared. ‘Where'd you hear that?’
Least pointed to the fetishes of wood and bone tied in his hair.
‘No – really?’
A sombre nod.
‘G' wan! No! I heard it from a guy in line.’
Least's eyes widened. ‘They speak to other people?’
A youth in an oversized studded leather hauberk came out of the night and squatted at the fire, warming his hands. He carried large canvas bags at each side hung from leather straps crossed over his neck. A crossbow hung ungainly on his back and a wooden-handled dirk was thrust through his belt. ‘You got any food?’ he asked them.
‘Who in the Abyss are you?’ Nait demanded. The youth looked confused. ‘Listen, kid. This fire's for sergeants only, right? Bugger off.’
The boy straightened, sneering, pointed to Nait. ‘You're no sergeant.’
All except Nait laughed. Honey handed over a cut of hardbread. ‘You tell him, kid.’ The youth snatched the bread and ran into the night.
‘Too full of themselves, they are,’ Nait grumbled, and he took a stick from the fire to examine the blackened, shrivelled thing at its end. He pinched it in his fingers, frowning.
‘I'd say it's done,’ Least offered.
‘I'd say we're all done,’ Nait said without looking up. At the long silence following that he raised his eyes. ‘C'mon – you all got ears, eyes. I heard what they were sayin’ in Cawn.’ He pointed to the darkness. ‘They got ten thousand Moranth Gold! They got twenty thousand Falaran infantry – plus the Talians! Plus the Seti!’ He threw down the stick. ‘An’ what have we got? A horde of civilians is all, maybe ten thousand real soldiers?’
‘That horde beat the Guard,’ Hands said, her voice low and controlled. ‘I heard seven Avowed died. Those Gold come marching against us and they'll find themselves so full of quarrels they won't be able to fall over.’
‘The Seti will sweep those amateurs from the field.’
‘They're so hungry out there they'll be happy to see all those Seti horses.’
‘They'll-’
‘Enough!’ Honey bawled. ‘Hooded One take you both! Quit bickering like you're already married. We already got us two High Fists.’
Snorting, Hands dismissed Nait with a wave; Nait chuckled at Honey's comment. ‘Two,’ he mocked. He picked up the stick and dusted off the burnt wrinkled thing at its end.
‘Where'd you get that anyway?’ Least asked.
‘Found it dead.’
‘You ever been outside a town?’
Nait took a test nibble at the thing, looked to Least, puzzled. ‘No, why?’
Heuk suddenly jerked upright, making everyone flinch. His rheumy bloodshot eyes rolled, scanning the dark. ‘Something's happening,’ he croaked.
Nait threw a handful of dung at the man. ‘Not again! All the time, old man. Things happen all the time.’
‘He's here. I can taste his lust and hunger. All our blood couldn't slake it.’
Everyone stared. Leaning over, Nait cuffed the man. ‘Will you cut it out! You're giving everyone the willies.’
Heuk raised the earthenware jug, gulped down a mouthful of its dark contents. He spilled much over his beard and dirty robes. Honey waved a hand in front of his nose. ‘Faugh, old man. What's in there?’
‘Blood and bravery.’
Shouts suddenly sounded from the dark. Everyone stilled. The shouts took on a panicked note, followed shortly after by the beginnings of a scream suddenly cut short. Hands jumped to her feet. ‘What in the Abyss was that?’ She scanned the surrounding fields, dotted in campfires. ‘North, I think.’ She picked up her sword and belt. ‘C'mon!’
Everyone, even Heuk, climbed to their feet. ‘Anyone have a torch or a lamp or anything?’ Lim asked. Shrugs all around. ‘Great. Just great.’ She picked up her longsword and helmet and jogged after Hands who had not waited.
Least picked up a piece of burning bhederin dung. ‘I got this…’ he called after Lim.
It was chaos out on the dark shadowed slopes of tall, wind-lashed grasses. Men and women shouted, ran together, split up. Crossbow bolts flew, snapping overhead, making Nait duck. Another scream shattered the night in the distance. Nait ran into Honey, who was shaking a crossbowman by the shirt. ‘No shooting, Hood take it!’ He threw the man aide. ‘Almost skewered me…’
‘What is it? An attack?’
‘Don't know. Hope not, ‘cause we're beat already.’
Torches brightened the night to the north. A bellowing voice sounded across the hillside, ‘Assemble! Asssemmbblle! Form up! Close! Close up!’
Nait's shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, Gods Below. I don't believe it.’
Honey slapped his back. ‘C'mon – he's got the right idea.’ He jogged off. After peering about at the dark, Nait followed.
The formation was a broad swelling rectangle swallowing all it met; swordsmen held torches at its edges, crossbowmen behind. The master sergeant was there, and commander Braven Tooth, whom Nait had heard called a walking enraged hairball, a description with which he was inclined to agree. Also keeping order were Hands, Lim and the other sergeants.
After marching for a time, being chivvied into ranks with cuffs and kicks, orders sounded from the front to halt and to hold ranks. Nait pushed his way to the front. Here the stink of spilled bowels, vomit and blood almost choked off his breath – all that plus another reek like that of some kind of sick animal. It reminded him of the village butcher's, only this time instead of goat and pig guts and portions, it was human torsos, limbs and smears of viscera. Master Sergeant Temp and Braven Tooth were huddled over one corpse, torches held high. Both either slept in mail coats or had had the time or wherewithal to pull them on.
‘Looks like Soletaken, don't it?’ Braven Tooth said, his guttural voice kept low.
‘He could be. Not all are known.’ The master sergeant raised his head, calling, ‘Any cadre mages?’
Shortly later Heuk either pushed his way or was pushed to the front. The old man took one look at the splayed corpses and strewn entrails and fell to his knees and hands vomiting up great gouts of dark fluids.
‘I feel so much safer now,’ Honey commented to no one in particular.
‘That thing's a demon!’ Nait blurted out.
Both the master sergeant and Braven Tooth winced, glaring. ‘Will you stop your gob, soldier,’ Braven Tooth grated.
‘He's no demon,’ Master Sergeant Temp announced loudly to the crowd.
‘How in the Abyss would you know?’ Nait demanded.
The master sergeant crossed to Nait, peered up at him – he was a very squat, but very wide, man. ‘’Cause demons don't smell like that.’ He walked off to study the trail of slaughter. Braven Tooth clenched a hand on Nait's shoulder, grinned behind his bushy black beard. ‘You can trust the master sergeant on that one, soldier. Knows his demons, Temp does.’ Squeezing the shoulder painfully, he pulled Nait close to growl, ‘You keep your yap shut or I'll give you your real name, soldier.’
‘What d'you mean, my real name?’
His mouth tight in distaste, the commander looked him up and down. ‘Like Jumpy, soldier. You are definitely Jumpy.’ He pushed Nait aside, raised his head to the column. ‘All right! That's far enough! I want all the veterans, guards and Malazan regulars front and centre, now!’
Nait followed Hands to the master sergeant, who had returned from the trail. She asked, ‘What's going on?’
‘We're splitting up. Most of you guards and regulars are gonna escort the skirmishers back to camp-’
‘What?’ Nait blurted. ‘That's stupid, splitting up.’
Master Sergeant Temp just watched Nait for a time, saying nothing. He turned to Hands. ‘The recruits are too green to see what's ahead. It might break them. We need to get them back.’
‘Aye.’
While Braven Tooth was ordering the column, a troop of Imperial cavalry came riding out of the dark, torches sputtering. It was led by none other than Korbolo Dom, High Fist and Sword of the Empire, in full regalia of layered iron-banded armour and iron-scaled sleeves and hose. A black jupon displayed the silver Imperial sceptre while his mount supported long black and silver trappings that brushed the trampled grass. Master Sergeant Temp and Commander Braven Tooth saluted.
The High Fist pulled off his helmet. ‘You are wasting time here, Commander. You should give pursuit!’
Braven Tooth frowned thoughtfully as if considering the proposition. ‘We were thinking that if we did that he might just swing around and take a bite outta our arses.’
The Sword's bluish Napan features darkened even further. ‘You have been long from the front, Commander. You have perhaps lost the proper fighting spirit. Very well, stay hidden among your men. I go to hunt him down!’
‘I wouldn't go out there if I were you,’ Master Sergeant Temp said. ‘He'll just string you along then turn on you.’
The Sword sawed his mount over to look down at the man. ‘And who are you?’
‘Master Sergeant Temp,’ and he saluted.
‘Then that, Master Sergeant,’ Korbolo explained loftily, ‘is why I am the Sword and you are not.’ And he kicked his mount to lunge away into the night, followed by his troop. Commander Braven Tooth and the master sergeant exchanged glances of arched brows.
‘Think we'll ever see him again?’ Braven Tooth asked.
‘With his luck and ours? Yes.’
After more cajoling and cuffing the commander led the main column of skirmishers, escorted by regulars, back to camp. Master Sergeant Temp led the smaller column of ex-guards and Malazan regulars, including the cadre mage Heuk, onward, tracking the way the beast had come. As they walked through the night Nait complained, ‘Jumpy? I ain't jumpy. Who in the Abyss does he think he is? It ain't even a name. Might as well call someone Stone, or Stick.’ He cuffed the fellow marching ahead of him who, from his size, must be a heavy. ‘Hey, what's your name?’
The fellow turned, blinking slowly. ‘Fish.’
‘Fish? Your name is Fish? What in the Abyss kind of name is that?’
A shrug. ‘I dunno. The commander gave it to me.’
‘Hey, Jumpy,’ someone shouted, ‘Shut the Abyss up.’
They backtracked the beast until they lost the trail along the rocky bed of a dry creek that wended across the plain. Straightening, Master Sergeant Temp waved Heuk forward. The old man came puffing up, looking as if he was about to pass out. His curly brown mop of hair hung stringy and sweaty. He hugged his earthenware jug as if it held his deliverance – which, Nait presumed, wasn't too far from the truth. ‘Well?’ the master sergeant demanded. ‘Try your Warren – track him down!’
The old man raised the jug and took a long pull then wiped his mouth with a greasy sleeve. He squinted blearily at the trail, shook his head in a long drawn out negative. ‘No, Temp- that is, Master Sergeant. I'm not a Warren-mage. Blood and the Elders is my path. And you don't want me opening it. Not yet.’
The master sergeant looked like he was about to savage the man with a few good curses, but then he stopped. He scratched his stubbled cheeks while studying the old mage and actually appeared unnerved. He tilted his head, accepting the explanation. ‘Yeah. Let's hope it don't come to that.’ He raised a hand to sign a return. It was dawn before they sighted camp and when they returned they found everyone packing for another day's march.
Ho came and kicked Grief – that is, Blues – awake where he dozed in the shade under canvas hung at the bow of the Forlorn. ‘Yath's drowning another of us.’
The man cracked open one eye. ‘Why're you telling me? I'm not his keeper. You lot can rule yourselves – like you were so proud of.’
‘We're on board your ship! If you can call this rotting wreck a ship. You have authority.’
Blues groaned, fumbled to his feet. Ho still could not get used to calling the man by his real name. Real? More like his earlier alias. Who knew what his real name was? To him, he'd always be Grief. Ho chuckled aloud – he liked that. Blues gave him a puzzled glance. ‘The stern.’
‘Right. The stern.’ He motioned to two of his companions. ‘Get Fingers.’ Grumbling, the two headed below.
The Seven Cities cargo ship Forlorn boasted two decks, the main and a raised second stern deck. The gap between was tall enough for most save the tallest of the men. At the very stern, where the keel rose up tall and curving, Yath and Sessin were overseeing a party of his most enthusiastic supporters teamed on a rope. Seeing so many of the inmates all crowded together almost made Ho laugh aloud again; what a ragged, seedy and just plain scrofulous spectacle they all presented! Most had hacked their hair to brush-cut length to rid themselves of the clinging dust; most wore no more than blankets or rags taken from the ship's stores. All the pale-skinned ones were sun-burnt red with cracked, bleeding skin. Ho ran a hand over his own shaved head and winced as he was sun-burnt just as badly. And to make it worse, they were already nearly out of water.
‘That's enough,’ Blues called.
The men looked to Blues then glanced at Yath. After a moment the Seven Cities priest allowed an indifferent shrug. The men hauled on the rope. It was amazing, Ho reflected, how the revelations that followed the arrival of the Forlorn with the rest of Blues’ squad, or blade, had instilled a spirit of cooperation among the fractious band of inmate mages. The truth that Blues and Treat and his squad were not just secessionists working against the Empress, but in fact were Crimson Guardsmen, and not only that, all six were of the Avowed: well – it certainly ended the talk of throwing them overboard.
The rope team pulled an old man up over the railing to splay naked and unconscious on to the deck. He had tightly curled greying hair and brown skin, and scars of swirling designs covered him. Ho recognized him as Jain, a Dal Hon warlock. ‘Yath! You idiot!’ Blues snarled. He knelt over Jain, listened at his chest, then tilted his head back and blew into his mouth. The man coughed, spluttered, inhaled a great gasping breath.
‘Wasted effort,’ sneered a voice from behind Ho and he turned to see the skinny, almost skeletal shape of Fingers, the mage, with Treat and Dim. While of the Avowed, the mage had the appearance of a gangly apprentice.
‘He must be cleansed of the taint,’ Yath said. ‘All of us must be.’
‘Have you gone under?’ Blues snapped.
‘I have.’
Blues waved curtly to the grinning Sessin. ‘Has he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you're finished. Everyone's gone.’
Yath stepped closer. He appeared even more hungry and wiry now that he'd shaved his beard. He leant forward on his staff – a new staff he'd found on board – to tower over Blues. ‘Not everyone…’
‘Now wait a minute. Why should we-’
‘You were in the Pit.’ Yath raised a brow to Fingers. ‘Your friends nearby were exposed to the dust. Your continuing contamination spreads dust anew. All of you must wash. Cut your hair. Scour your skin with stones. Just as we have. And wash again. Your people and the women inmates as well – all, Su, Inese and that Korelan sea-witch.’
Blues eyed the man as if he was insane. ‘Why in the Abyss would we do that right now, right away? I mean, I plan on getting cleaned up – eventually. What's your rush?’
The Seven Cities priest's dark wrinkled face broke into a self-satisfied grin. He caught Ho's gaze and Ho realized that the man knew – that somehow he'd sensed what was going on – or had been informed by one of those he'd browbeaten into following him. ‘Tell him, Ho,’ Yath invited.
Blues turned to him. Ho rubbed his scalp and winced again. He pulled his hand away. ‘Something's going on at Heng. A lot of us can sense it – bits and pieces – glimpses, now that we're far from the islands. Something important. And Laseen is there.’
‘This insurrection you're talking about?’
‘… Yes… and more.’
‘More?’
‘Your mercenary company is involved,’ Yath said.
Blues’ gaze narrowed on Ho. ‘Is that true?’
Ho was unable to meet the man's eyes. He lowered his head. ‘Yes. They've come back. They are in the field near Heng.’
Blues was silent for some time. Jain continued coughing. Waves washed the sides of the Forlorn. Cordage creaked and rubbed overhead. ‘Why didn't you say anything?’
Ho raised his eyes, tried to plead for understanding. ‘I said nothing because I do not agree with Yath's proposal. What he is talking of is too dangerous. Far too risky for all of us. We will most likely all be killed.’
Blues’ mouth twisted in his clenched anger. He took his hands from the twin blades he now carried at his sides – his own swords had been left behind when he came to the Pit. Without moving his gaze he said, ‘Talk, old man.’
The Seven Cities priest made no effort to conceal his triumph. He bared his sharp yellow teeth. ‘A ritual, mercenary. We have among us more than thirty mages of considerable power. We will enact a ritual of movement through warren by ship. It is more common than you might imagine. Ask our Korelan friend – with her aid we are assured of success.’
‘Provided we can cleanse ourselves of the Otataral.’
‘Yes. Provided.’
Blues’ gaze slid past Ho to question Fingers. ‘Interesting…’ the mage said.
‘Now I'm definitely nervous,’ Blues muttered. But he waved a hand. ‘All right, Yath. We'll get cleaned up. In the meantime, set your people to scrubbing the deck.’
The Seven Cities mage actually bowed. ‘Excellent – Captain.’
Blues ignored the man, pointed to Treat. ‘Take down the sails, wash ‘em.’
Treat just rolled his eyes.