‘Sorry.’
Ahead, a yell of mingled anger and disgust from Sunny echoed through the tunnel. They groped into a broad underground chamber, dome-roofed, lit by the lantern carried by Silk. Sunny stood knee deep in the pool of filth filling its floor. Everyone else kept to the shallows at its edges. ‘Poliel's rotting tits!’ he snarled. ‘I can't believe the mage led us to this!’ He pointed a long-knife to the far side. There, the flow of excrement dribbled from a sculpture twice Hurl's height – that of a closed snouted dog's maw. As Hurl's vision adjusted she could make out more detail: long pointed ears, slanted canine eyes. An entire carved hound's head, down here! In the dark! What could be the reason for that?
But the nose was too long, the head too narrow. All of a sudden she recognized it: a jackal. Ryllandaras. The White Jackal of Winter. Quon's Curse. The man-jackal First Hero who rampaged for centuries across these central plains rendering them all but impassable but for the intercession of the tribes who worshipped him – the Old Seti.
Silk pushed his way forward through the sluggish wash until he touched the gigantic head. He turned to them. ‘Who recognizes this?’
‘Ryllandaras,’ Hurl supplied.
He nodded, pleased. ‘Yes, I thought you might know, Hurl. Though none of you has ever seen him. Gone from these plains for near a century now. Great was the hatred of this city for their ancient enemy, the man-jackal of the grasslands. As you can see.’
‘We all know the stories,’ Sunny sneered. ‘Until the emperor, or Dancer, slew him. Get on with it.’
‘That's one version of things … in any case, this is an entrance. A very old one. One dating back far before the current Empire when Heng was an independent city state, and the third most powerful one on the continent. Back then Ryllandaras and the Seti tribes were the eternal enemy, ever washing up against its walls …’
The mage was silent for a time, regarding the faeces-smeared titanic statue. He shook his head as if reliving old memories. Hurl shot a questioning look to Storo but the Captain frowned a negative. Not now.
Silk edged himself up a forelimb, leaned forward up beside the head and whispered something into one tall stone ear. One word. After a moment the stones groaned, grated, clots of muck and excrement showered down. The pointed teeth scraped as they parted.
The maw reared open.
‘Hood's balls!’ said Shaky. ‘I ain't goin’ in there!’
‘Then wait out here alone in the dark,’ Storo suggested.
Rell had already ducked within. He returned, gesturing them on.
‘There is a raised walk.’
Along the walkway Hurl manoeuvred next to Silk. ‘You've shown too much of your hand,’ she said in an undertone.
‘This night it's all or nothing.’
‘You were a city mage back then, weren't you? When Kellanved came.’ The man was silent for a time. Perhaps he thought it too obvious for comment. Well, if the piece won't give in one place, try another, as her old Da used to say. ‘What is this place?’
‘A final bolt-hole retreat. It leads from the City Temple.’
‘But it wasn't used.’
‘No. She wouldn't flee. We … everyone, should've known she'd never abandon her city.’
The hairs on the back of Hurl's neck and arms prickled. Her. Shalmanat. Protectress of Li Heng for millennia. Some said since its first founding as a caravan crossroads. Slain by Kellanved – or Dancer, to be precise. Her gaze slid sideways to the slim mage with his long blond hair and tattered silks – always an object of mockery and scorn among the troops. Just who was he? And why was he here, in Li Heng, at this moment in time? ‘This is no accident,’ she said as she thought it, then damned the short connection between her thoughts and her mouth. He said nothing. ‘You, finding yourself here for this coup I mean. You knew.’
He flashed his most winning smile, the warm yet teasingly distant, slightly impish expression that captured camp followers and serving girls. It only raised Hurl's ire. ‘Don't try that on me. You knew.’
‘I only knew something was coming, Hurl. That's all. A change in the day's light.’
And that had brought him here? She considered the hidden implications of that claim. Bluster? Bluff? Or what if it was true? What influence could he have had on their, admittedly unusual, posting? Did he actually mean to imply that he …
Hurl stopped walking. Silk carried on. The Captain urged her forward with one big hand at her back. He'd brought her in. That is, she remembered him asking what she thought of Storo and the next thing she knew she was somehow transferred to this squad. He'd even brought in Rell. She remembered him taking the Captain to see this swordsman he'd come across in the Malyntaeas gaol. Shortly after that new recruit Rell was in the squad. By all the Gods above and below – had Silk somehow been recruiting? All with an eye to this evening, this eventuality? No. That was too outrageous. Just who was he?
The stone-flagged walkway ended at a locked iron door that Silk opened, and that in turn led to a hall and a stone circular stairway. He stopped them here then pushed back his hair and tied it with a faded strip of silk. ‘Ready yourselves,’ he whispered. The door above opens on to the City Temple. There's no way of knowing who's within, or how many.’ He looked to Storo, who cleared his throat.
‘Right. So, saboteurs – put away the crossbows.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Shaky. ‘From my dead hands maybe.’
Storo eyed him. ‘Don't tempt me … Crossbows away. Each of you ready a satchel of sharpers and smokers and such – all we've got. This is gonna be room to room. Me ‘n’ Jalor will be up front. OK? OK.’
Shaky and Hurl pillaged Sunny's hoard even as he squirmed and snarled and tried to snatch it all back. Storo unslung his two-handed cutlass while Jalor tightened the strap of his domed helmet then drew his long-knives. Rell unsheathed each of his two odd slim longswords, single-edged, slightly curved, and then threw the sheaths away into the dark. That gesture dried Hurl's mouth.
As they climbed the stairs, Silk leading, Hurl hooked the crossbow on her belt and used her foot to cock it, then left it hanging from its shoulder-strap. They got to the door, or what Silk indicated was the door: it looked like just another length of wall to Hurl. Using battle signs Storo ordered an initial charge followed by a halt during which he and the heavies would defend while the saboteurs cleared the room. Everyone signed their understanding.
Silk did something there at the wall and a door appeared. He stepped through then aside. Storo, Rell and Jalor followed in as silently as they could but for the soft jangling of armour. Hurl came in next. She blinked in the brightness. Squinting, one hand holding a sharper shading her eyes, she saw an empty room.
It struck her that she didn't know what people imagined when someone said Throne room, but what came to her mind were images of large raised thrones occupied by a dried-up man or woman, simpering concubines, monkey-faced ministers eyeing the slave boys, and eunuch clerks eyeing the silverware. In any case, the room was empty, domed and circular. It was also very clean and very white and bright – though no source of light was visible.
So this was it. The Cynosure of Heng. Hurl was disappointed but also strangely impressed. The Inner Focus. The City Temple at last. Where was everyone?
Silk gestured opposite to a set of nearly indistinguishable double doors. The Captain signed the advance and they crossed the chamber.
As they came to the middle they found that in fact the chamber was not empty. Dead centre they reached a small seat. Nothing more than a leather-saddled folding camp stool with wooden armrests. Everyone except Rell stopped to stare down at it. No one spoke a word. Was this the Throne of Li Heng? Hurl didn't know what to think – it was too strange. Yet as he was looking down, Silk's face held that sadness, that mysterious yearning, that so drew the serving wenches. Of them all Rell had kept his eyes on the doors. The Captain signed to move on.
Hurl came alongside Silk. ‘I don't see any lamps or smell smoke. How's this place lit?’
That smile. ‘Just the fading afterglow of the glory that was, Hurl.’
‘Quiet.’ The Captain.
Jalor pulled open the doors revealing the backs of four guards who turned, amazed. Rell lunged, his blades flashing, and the four were down before they could unsheathe their weapons.
Everyone stared, just as stunned. ‘I thought you had some kinda code,’ Shaky said to Rell. ‘Ain't that against your code, them being unarmed ‘n’ all?’
‘They were armed,’ answered Rell without even turning. ‘They were just slow.’
They now faced a long hallway ending at another, much taller, set of double doors. Small portals opened on to the hall down its length. ‘Don't like this,’ grumbled Shaky.
Silk pointed to the doors opposite. ‘That is the only entrance to these temple quarters.’
‘Down the hall, double-time,’ ordered Storo.
They charged. Civilians gaped from archways. One tall bearded fellow bellowed something – they ignored him. Just as they reached the doors they opened at the hands of the old gal herself at the head of a column of some fifteen men, soldiers obviously, though none wore Malazan livery.
‘Get them!’ she managed before Rell's blades pierced the air where she'd been an instant before. The men snarled and drew. Rell almost threw himself upon them but was muscled back by the Captain with a growled ‘Not … yet.’
Silk had already disappeared. Jalor and the Captain crossed blades with the front of the column. Rell moved to cover the rear. Sunny raised a fist, shouting, ‘’Ware!’ The men went ashen-faced and flinched – definitely veterans. Sunny threw and ducked, as did everyone. The sharper cracked just past the threshold in the midst of the column. The detonation threw bodies to the walls in a flash of sprayed gore. Jalor and the Captain finished off the stunned survivors.
‘What is the meaning of this slaughter!’
Hurl turned; it was the bearded old fellow. He wore long dark robes of some rich cloth Hurl knew she'd probably never even touched in her life and came marching up to Rell who stopped him with one glistening wet sword point. The man should thank all the Gods that he was unarmed.
Storo crossed to him. He touched the rim of his helmet. ‘Magistrate Plengyllen. What can I do for you?’
‘Do! Do!’ the man spluttered. ‘These are sacred precincts! Holy grounds! How dare you pollute—’
‘There's been a coup,’ Storo cut in. ‘Fist Rheena has been murdered.’
The magistrate subsided at that. He straightened his robes. ‘Yes. I was informed that assassins …’ His voice trailed away and his eyes bulged. He pointed. ‘You! Burn protect us!’ He backed away, arms raised, then fled through a portal shouting, ‘Guards! Assassins! Murder!’
‘Should I shut him up?’ asked Sunny.
Storo waved him off, sighing, ‘Never mind.’
‘Reinforcements!’ Shaky called from the double doors.
They pushed their way through the halls of the City Temple. Hurl reflected that Fat Kepten had come with a lot more men than the Captain had thought; that or that Storo had underbid, not wanting them to back out right from the start. In any case, Kepten's men – plain hireswords or true-believing soldiers out of uniform – kept coming. Though the garrison did keep out of it, as the Captain had said they would. Whenever crossbowmen massed at a corner or doorway Shaky and Hurl rousted them with munitions. The squad made it plain that whenever Kepten's crew resorted to missile-fire they'd return in kind, and theirs blew up. They took the hint. Hurl wasn't sure why they hadn't come with any alchemicals of their own, but they did have the mages. Ropes of flame would lash out only to be snuffed by Silk. Some kind of shadow thing took a bite out of the Captain only to disappear in a flash of blinding pure white light. Hurl's old friend Runty even appeared in their midst, knifed three including her, and brought down Jalor only to be thrust through the back by Rell. Shaky took a knife in the side and dropped a sharper closer to himself than the enemy. The Captain took the brunt of that. Hurl thought it a shame; the Captain been doing damn fine until then.
After kicking aside the bodies blocking the outer doors, only the Captain, Hurl, Sunny and Rell remained standing. And only Rell was in any shape to fight. All through the night Hurl had wondered why the Captain had constantly shouldered the Genabackan youth to rear guard. Now she saw the light. Canny Captain. Reserves. Rell was by far the best fighter of them all and he was fresh. The poor lad fairly vibrated with the need to slay.
Weaving, the Captain leaned against the stout oak doors and wiped an arm across his glistening face. Hurl sheathed her long-knife and opened her satchel: two left. She looked to Sunny who held up one finger then tried to smile; he could only muster a grimace.
The Captain pushed open the outer doors. In a brightening pink light, past white marble stairs, on stone flags surrounding the broad empty marshalling grounds, stood Fat Kepten and some fifty men. The men, Hurl noted, standing far apart. The sight took the strength from her legs and she nearly sat right then and there.
Storo straightened, his jaws working against the pain, and he pushed his helmet back to point to Kepten. ‘It's nearly dawn, Orlat. The garrison's watching. They know me. They don't know you from a mule's arse. Maybe you should pack it all in and go back to fishing.’
Kepten gave a low laugh. ‘Like I said, Storo. We really could've used you. Too bad. You have no idea who you are up against. As you can see – I brought the whole crew. Tell you what. One last chance. You lay down your weapons right now and you'll have safe passage. Right now. You've done yourself proud, I have to say. But it's over now. Time to walk away – no shame in that.’
Hurl looked to the Captain. Would he accept? Surely they were finished now; how could they beat more than they'd faced so far? They'd had a damned good run. In truth, they got farther than she'd thought possible. Then she blinked away the sweat and salt stinging her eyes. Damn this mind-numbing exhaustion! These pirates would cut them down the minute the weapons left their hands! Surely the Captain must know that.
Storo hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat. ‘No, Orlat. It's you that's got no idea who you're facing.’ The Cap'n nodded to Rell. ‘Your turn. We'll guard your back. Hold the door, lad.’
The swordsman's eyes were practically shining. His voice thick with emotion he barely managed, ‘You have no idea the gift you have given me …’
‘Take it easy, lad. I plan on living through this.’
The youth ducked his head, murmuring, ‘I plan on nothing.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ snarled Sunny. ‘Here they come.’
With a roar, the first of the squads charged.
True to his promise, Rell held the door. Hurl was astonished by his form, speed and, most of all, his ruthless surgical efficiency. He seemed to have been trained exactly how to cut for maximum disabling or plain maiming power. Men fell gushing blood from severed thigh arteries, inner arms slashed, necks slit, disembowelled and eviscerated like fish. Hurl found it terrifying to watch; it was more a slaughter than a fight. Blood painted the bright white marble steps black. She wondered if it would ever be scrubbed away. Sunny merely stepped in now and then when some wounded fool tried to crawl closer for a jab.
All the while she stood behind Rell, a cussor raised in one hand, with a look in her eye that she hoped promised utter annihilation the moment Rell should fall. She liked to think that put a bit of hesitation into their limbs.
In any case, the siege ended with a furious yell from Orlat. The men backed off and Hurl did a quick head-count. Twenty-nine men still standing. Rell had put out of action or outright slain over twenty-one men. Astounding. She glanced back to see the Captain down, slumped along the wall, head sunk to his chest. Damn. Loss of blood. All those holes Shaky's sharper had punched in him. Orlat, she could see now, was far beyond banter. He gestured angrily and the remaining men spread out.
‘This has gone too far, Storo,’ he called. ‘Should've backed down when I gave you the chance.’ He nodded to some unseen presence and his two mages appeared at his sides, the old gal and her near twin, a rail-thin old guy with grey brush-cut hair. They snapped their arms down and both burst into flames.
Hood's grin.
‘Take ‘em!’ Sunny yelled, throwing his last sharper. Both mages thrust their arms forward as if repelling something and Hurl felt the heat wash over her even from that distance – the breath of a kiln glowing yellow. The sharper burst in the air long before reaching the mages.
The cussor even felt warm in Hurl's hands. Togg's shit! She thrust the munition back into the satchel then backed off to slide it far down the hall as gently as she could. She returned to find Sunny and Rell arguing.
‘Leave me,’ Rell was saying.
Sunny had him by the jerkin. ‘No. We gotta retreat. Jump them inside on the sly.’
‘I have my charge. Go if you wish.’
All the while the heat was devastating. The mages advanced side by side, twin pyres, ropes of flame chaining between them. The Warren of Thyr unleashed like Hurl had never seen or heard of. Some kind of ritual battle magery. The metal fittings of her armour made her wince when they touched her flesh. The hairs on her arms were crisping.
‘We have to retreat,’ she shouted to Rell. ‘Don't be a fool! They've won this round.’
But the damned fool would not budge.
‘Fine!’ Sunny snarled and he backed off, shading his face from the heat. Hurl threw one last begging look to Rell who shook his head, then to her shame she too was driven back by the excruciating heat. And where was Silk!
They dragged the Captain with them up the hall. The mages had advanced into view. The blood pooled at the threshold and stairs boiled, steaming, then crisped, flaking into ash that flew driven into Hurl's eyes. The corpses abandoned before the entrance burst into flames. The unfettered power of the Warren drove seared flesh into the air like smoke. Greasy soot coated Hurl's face and arms. She gagged worse than she ever had in the sewer. Through the haze she saw Rell still held the doorway, swords raised. Smoke streamed from his smouldering hair. Somehow, he hadn't even shifted from his ready stance. How was such inhuman discipline possible?
‘No,’ came a voice from Hurl's side. She turned, arm shielding her face, and there was Silk. The man's eyes blazed a rage she had never seen upon him. ‘Not again.’ The searing incandescent heat suddenly diminished to an uncomfortable glow. The mage advanced into the storm. Hurl pulled herself along in his wake.
Silk reached the threshold and took it from Rell whom he eased backwards to Hurl. ‘You have done more than we could have hoped and more,’ he told the swordsman. Rell was like an ember in Hurl's arms as she dragged him back. Crisp skin sloughed from his arms where she held him.
Silk now faced the twin pillars of flame that had halted, perhaps uncertain. ‘You would dare unleash such flames upon this threshold? His outrage pierced the furnace roar. ‘Bastard practitioners of a degenerate Warren! Thyr! Retarded child of incestuous union! You provoke me now to teach you the blind shortcomings of your sad ignorance! Behold now, for the last instant of your consciousness, the true wellspring of power of which yours is but a corrupted rivulet!’
Silk threw his arms wide and Hurl gaped. Of all the Forgotten Gods! Had the man lost his mind?
‘I summon you!’ His words shook the stones beneath Hurl's feet. She winced at their power. ‘Come! You who have been gone so long! Grant us a glimpse of that which has gone out from the World! Show us how it was when Light first cleaved Night! Bless us with a vision of Pure Undiluted Light, Kurald Liosan!’
Nothing happened. Hurl, recovering, almost cursed the man. Orlat, she saw far beyond, had cocked his head as if reaching the same conclusion as her: poor guy, the pressure was just too much.
Then something struck Hurl from behind. Not a fist or a club, but a wall. It was like falling backwards into water only it was the water that was rushing up to hit her. Then nothing. Silence. Whiteness. The physical presence of light like a sea of blinding radiance. Silk in silhouette like a shadow eroding. The two mages and Orlat and his men, black paper cutouts shredding and wisping away like dust in a wind of Light.
Then gone. Dawn coming like darkness, so pale and weak was it. The ceiling dim above her. A face, close. Bearded. Malazan greys. A voice near but sounding so far away. ‘Bring healers.’