Kyle almost yanked free, but he remembered Ogilvy's words and stopped himself. The mage frowned as he studied the blade. Kyle waited, unsure. Now what was the matter? The rain beat upon his shoulders. The mage's grip was uncomfortably hot. Smoky turned to peer to where Greymane stood with his group. Kyle could see nothing more than a smear of shapes through the slanting curtains of rain. Smoky raised Kyle's sword and arm, his brows rising in an unspoken question. Kyle squinted but could make out nothing of Greymane's face or gestures. The mage grunted, evidently seeing some answer and fished a slim steel needle from his robes. He began scratching at the curved blade. ‘Anything you want? Your name? Oponn's favour? Fire, maybe?’
Thinking of his own totem, Kyle answered, ‘Wind.’
The needle stopped moving. Rain pattered like sling missiles against Kyle's shoulders. Smoky looked up, his eyes slitted, searching Kyle's face, and then he flashed a conspiratorial grin. ‘Saw the histories on the way up too, aye? Good choice.’ He etched the spiral of Wind into the blade. Incredibly, the tempered iron melted like wax under Smoky's firm pressure. The sword's grip heated in Kyle's hand.
Rain hissed, misting from the blade. The mage released him. What had that been all about? What of Wind? What was it his father used to say … ‘All are at the mercy of the wind’?
Kyle looked up to see Smoky, impatient, wave him ahead.
The rooms hollowed out of solid basalt were empty. Kyle kicked aside rotting leaves and the remains of crumbled wood furniture. He felt disappointment but also, ashamedly, relief as well. He felt exposed, helpless. What could he do against this warlock? His stomach was a tight acid knot and his limbs shook with uncoiled tension.
Ahead, the wind moaning and a mist of rain betrayed an opening through to the outside. He entered a three-walled room facing out over the edge of the Spur. The lashing wind yanked at him and he steadied himself in the portal. The room held a large wood and rope cage slung beneath a timber boom that appeared able to be swung out over the gulf. Rope led up from the cage to a recess in the roof then descended again at the room's rear where it circled a fat winch barrel as tall as a man.
Smoky peered in over Kyle's shoulder. He patted his back. Our way down.’
‘Not in this wind,’ grumbled one of the men behind Smoky. ‘We'll be smashed to pieces.’
Scowling, Smoky turned on the Guardsman – perhaps the only one in the company shorter than him. ‘Always with a complaint, hey, Junior?’
A concussion shook the stone beneath their feet, cutting off any further talk. Distant muted reports of rock cracking made Kyle's teeth ache. Smoky recovered his balance, cackled. ‘Ol’ Grey's fished him out!’
A second bone-rattling explosion kicked at the rock. Kyle swore he felt the entire Spur sway. He steadied himself. The hemp and wood cage rocked, creaking and thumping in its housings. Smoky's grin fell and he wiped water from his face. ‘I think.’
‘Let's go back,’ suggested another Guardsman, one Kyle couldn't name. He'd used the company's native tongue, Talian. ‘The Brethren are worried.’
Pulling at his sodden robes, Smoky grunted his assent. Kyle eyed this unknown Guardsman; brethren, the man had said. He'd heard the word used before. Something to do with the elite of the Guard, the originals, the Avowed. Or perhaps another word for them, used only among themselves? Kyle continued to study the fellow sidelong: battered scale hauberk, a large shield at his back, sheathed longsword. He could very well be of the Avowed himself – they wore no torcs or rank insignias. You couldn't tell them from any other Guardsman. Stoop had explained it was deliberate: fear, the old fellow had said. No one knows who they're facing. Makes ‘em think twice, that does.
When they returned to the inner chambers, Guardsmen filled the rooms. It appeared to be a pre-arranged rallying point. Through the arched gaps between stone pillars Kyle watched the mercenaries converging on the complex of rooms. Men slipped, fumbling on the rain-slick polished stone. He turned to the short mercenary beside him. ‘What's going on, Junior?’
Beneath the lip of his sodden cloth-wrapped helmet, the man's eyes flicked to Kyle, wide with outrage. ‘The name's not Junior,’ he forced through clenched teeth.
Kyle cursed his stupidity and these odd foreign names. ‘Sorry. Smoky called you that.’
‘Smoky can call anyone whatever he damned well pleases. You better show more respect…’
‘Sorry, I—’
Someone yanked on Kyle's hauberk; he spun to find Stoop. The old sapper flashed him a wink, said, ‘Let's not bother friend Boll here with our questions. He's not the helpful type.’
Boll's lips stretched even tighter into a straight hound's smile. Inclining his helmet to Stoop, he pushed himself from the wall and edged his way through the crowd of Guardsmen.
‘What's going on?’ Kyle whispered.
‘Not too sure right now,’ the old veteran admitted candidly. ‘Have to wait to find out. In this business that's how it is most of the time, you know.’
And just what business is that? Kyle almost asked, but the men all suddenly stood to attention, weapons ready. Kyle peered about, confused. What was going on? Why was he always the last to know? It seemed to him that they straightened in unison like puppets on one string. It was as if the veteran Guardsmen shared a silent language or instinct that he lacked. Countless times he'd been sitting in a room watching a card game, or dozing in a barracks, only to see the men snap alert as if catching a drum's sounding. At such times he and the other recent recruits were always the last ready, always bringing up the rear.
This time Kyle spotted everyone's centre of attention as the open portal of the main structure on the far side of the roof garden. The men assembled along the colonnade, levelled cocked crossbows at that door. The front rank knelt and the rear rank stood over them. Kyle himself carried no such weapon as the company was running short.
‘Here they come,’ Stoop murmured.
Through the sheets of driving rain, Kyle made out a squad of men exiting the portal. Greymane emerged last. All alone he manhandled shut its stone slab of a door. The men jog-trotted across the abutting levels of gardens and patios. They threw themselves behind benches and stone garden planters that now held nothing more than the beaten down stalks of dead brush. These men and women covered the doorway while their companions jogged and skittered to another section of the courtyard. Stalker was among them, his own crossbow held high. Greymane brought up the rear, walking slowly and heavily as if deep in thought. Not once did he look behind. Oddly, wind-lashed mist plumed from the man like a banner.
The men reached the cover of the colonnade. As Greymane emerged from the curtain of rain Kyle saw that a layer of ice covered the man – icicles hung from the skirts of his hanging scaled armour. The Malazan renegade slapped at the ice, sending shards tinkling to the stone floor. Vapour curled from him like smoke. To Kyle's astonishment, no one commented upon this.
Smoky closed to Greymane's side. ‘Can't take the cage,’ he shouted. ‘The wind's too blasted high.’
Greymane nodded wearily. ‘The stairs are no good. Shen saw to that.’
The solid stone under Kyle's feet jumped as if kicked. A column cracked, splitting like a dry tree trunk, sending men ducking and flinching aside. Rock dust stung Kyle's nose.
‘He's awake,’ Greymane said to some unspoken question from Smoky. ‘Be here any moment.’ He turned to face the main building which was a long and low black bunker without windows or ornamentation. ‘Shen woke it before I could stop him, the filthy Warren-leech.’ At Greymane's side, Sergeant Trench waved to the men to spread out. They shuffled to both sides, crouching for cover, crossbows trained.
Smoky rubbed his rat-thin moustache while chewing on his lower lip. ‘Maybe we ought to get Cowl.’
Greymane's sky-pale eyes flashed, then he rubbed them with a gauntleted hand and sighed. ‘No. Not yet.’ He crossed his arms. ‘Let's see what we've roused.’
Kyle almost spoke then. What was going on? These two seemed to have led everyone into a position without escape. What was wrong with the stairs? Stoop, as if reading his mind, caught his eye and glanced to the back of the rooms. Kyle nodded.
He met Stoop at the last portal offering a view out on the courtyard. Before them, men crouched and leaned behind pillars, crossbows ready. They muttered among themselves in low voices, glanced with tired gauging eyes to Greymane. A few laughs even reached Kyle through the thunder and drumming of rain. He wondered whether half this mercenary business was simply how much indifference you could muster in the face of impending death.
Stoop gave him an encouraging grin, rubbed his hand at a thigh. ‘What is it, lad? You look like your favourite horse just dropped down dead.’
Despite himself, Kyle burst out a short laugh. Great Wind preserve him! Was the man insane? ‘We're trapped, aren't we? There's no escape and the Mocking Twins alone know what's about to swallow us.’
Stoop's brows rose. He pulled off his boiled leather cap of a helmet and scratched his scalp. ‘Damn me for a thick-headed fool. One forgets, you know. Serve with the same men long enough and it gets so you can read their minds.’ ‘He felt at his fringe of brush-cut hair, crushed something between his fingernails. His eyes, meeting Kyle's, were so pale as to be almost colourless. ‘Sorry, lad. I forgot how green you are. And me the one who swore you in too! A fine state of affairs.’ ’ He glanced away, chuckling.
‘And?’ Kyle prompted.
‘Ah! Yes. Well, lad. You see, Shen – the warlock – he's dead now. Greymane finished him. But the thing Cowl and Smoky feared might be up here, is. Shen has been bleeding off its power all this time. Then he woke it when he died. It's powerful, and damned old.’
‘What is it?’
‘Some kind of powerful mage. A magus. Maybe even an Ascendant of some kind. A master of the Warren of Sere’
Ascendant – Kyle had heard the name a few times – a man or woman of great power? He knew his own tribal labels for the Warrens. Some of the elders still insisted upon calling them ‘The Holds’. But he didn't know the Talian names. ‘Sere. What Warren is that?’
‘Sky.’
It was as if the very wind howling around Kyle whisked him away into the air, tumbling head over heels while the roaring all around transformed into thunderous laughter. The booming filled his head, drove out all thought. He remembered his father saying that thunder was Wind laughing at the conceit of humans and all their absurd struggles. His vision seemed to narrow into a tiny tunnel as if he were once again peering up the Spur's hollow circular staircase. Blinking and shaking his head, he felt as if he were still spinning.
Stoop was peering away, distracted. ‘Have to go, lad.’ Without waiting for an answer the old saboteur clapped Kyle on the shoulder and edged his way through the men.
Kyle fell back against a wall, his knees numb. He raised the tulwar to his eyes. Water beaded and ran from the Wind symbol etched into its iron. Could it be? Could this being be one of them? A founder of his people. A blessed Spirit of Wind?
The rain was thinning, and Kyle squinted into the surrounding walls of solid cloud. The Spur seemed to have pierced some other realm – a world of angry slate-dark clouds and remorseless wind. Even as Kyle watched, that wind rose to a gale, scattering the pools of rainwater and driving everyone behind cover. Only Greymane remained standing, legs wide, one scaled arm shielding his face.
The door to the main house burst outward as if propelled by a blast such as those Moranth munitions Kyle had heard described. It exploded into fragments that shot through the air and cracked like crossbow bolts from the pillars and walls. Kyle flinched as a shard clipped his leg. One Guardsman was snatched backwards and fell so stiffly and utterly silent that no one bothered to lower their aim to check his condition.
A man stepped out. Kyle was struck by the immediate impression of solidity, though the fellow was not so wide as Greymane. His hair was thick, bone-white and braided – and lay completely unmoved by the wind. His complexion was as pale as snow. Folded and tasselled wool robes fell in cascading layers from his shoulders to his feet. Not one curl or edge waved. It was as if the man occupied some oasis of stillness within the storm.
His gaze moved with steady deliberation from face to face. When that argent gaze fixed upon Kyle he found that he had to turn away; the eyes seized him like a possession and terrified him by what they seemed to promise. For some reason he felt shame heat his face – as if he were somehow unworthy. The winds eased then, their lashing and howling falling away. The churning dense clouds seemed to withdraw as if gathering strength for one last onslaught.
Into the calm walked Smoky. His sandals slapped the wet stone. The magus – and Kyle held little doubt the being was at least that – watched the little man with apparent amusement. Smoky knelt and did something with his hands over the stone floor. Flames shot out from his hands along the wet rock. The line of fire darted forward very like a snake nosing ever closer to the entity. The magus watched all this with a kind of patient curiosity. His head edged down slightly as his eyes shifted to follow the flame's advance.
Once the line of fire reached close to the magus's sandalled feet, it split into two branches that encircled him. The being's heavy gaze climbed to regard Smoky who flinched beneath its weight. The magus flicked his fingers and the flames burst outwards like shattered glass. Smoky flew backwards as if punched. He slid across the slick stone to lie at Greymane's feet. ‘That's something you don't see every day,’ Kyle heard the little man gasp. The magus was immobile but Greymane didn't take his eyes from him to acknowledge Smoky. ‘We ought to call him the mage said, pushing himself up.
The magus slowly raised his arms straight outwards from its body as if he were a bird about to take flight. Greymane took a breath to speak but stopped, glancing sharply to one side. Three figures, two men and one woman, all wearing wind-whipped dark cloaks, approached up the colonnaded walk. Three whom Kyle knew for certain had not come with the party. Greymane cursed under his breath. Smoky blew on his hands and kneaded them together.
The Guardsmen edged aside for these three. The lead one Kyle knew for Cowl, hatchet-faced, bearing blue curled tattoos at his chin and a thatching of pearly knife-scars at his neck. His seconds Kyle assumed to be Keitil, a dark-faced plainsman like himself though from a place called Wick. And Isha, a wide solid woman with long, coarse dark hair woven in a single braid. All three were Veils, covert killers – mercenary assassins.
Greymane shot a look to Smoky who shrugged, saying, ‘The Brethren must've gone to him.’
‘I see you've made some headway,’ Cowl called to Greymane.
The renegade hunched his shoulders and bit down any response. He finally ground out, ‘I don't want your kind of help.’
Cowl waved a gloved hand. ‘Then by all means – bring it to a close either way. If you can.’
Greymane shifted his gaze to the immobile magus. ‘Your solution's always the same. It requires no thought …’
‘Something's up,’ Smoky warned.
The magus had bent his head back to regard the clouds above. He edged his arms up further, straight, hands open, fingers splayed. The thick wool sleeves of his robes fell away revealing the blue swirling tattoos of spirals and waves encircling both arms – from his hands all the way up to his naked shoulders: the assembled symbols of Wind.
‘No!’ Kyle choked out. A Spirit of Wind! He must be! A Blessed Ancestor – so claim his tribe's teachings. Kyle lurched forward, opened his mouth to call out. A warning? A plea?
But Cowl shouted, ‘Get down’