* * *
On the second day of their flight from the fallen Border Fort, Rillish awoke to find five Wickan children staring down at him with the runny noses and direct unfiltered curiosity of youths. Rillish sat up on his elbows and stared back. The children did not blink.
‘Yes? Are you going to help me up, or not?’ The gruelling demands of their escape had worsened Rillish's leg wound. Yesterday soldiers took turns carrying him. His dressings stank and were stained yellow-green.
‘No,’ said the eldest, their guide, a girl who might just be into puberty.
‘No?’ Rillish gave a thoughtful frown. Then you're planning to put me out of my misery they way you do your wounded.’
The girl's disdain was total. ‘A townsman lie. We do no such thing.’
‘No,’ Rillish echoed. It occurred to him that he was now being studied by what passed for the ruling council of the band of youths he'd rescued – the five eldest. ‘May I ask your name?’
‘Mane,’ said the girl. A sheathed, antler-handled long-knife stood tall from the rope of woven horsehair that served as the belt holding the girl's rags together – all of which amounted to nothing more than a frayed blanket pulled over her head. The blade would have been laughable had the girl's face not carried the tempered edge to match it. It also occurred to Rillish that he knew that blade.
Then may I ask the purpose of this council meeting?’
‘This is not one of your townsman council meetings, the girl sneered. This is a command meeting. I command.’
‘You command? No, I think I—’
‘Think as you like. Here on the plains if you wish to live you'll do as I say …’
‘Mane, I command the soldiers who guard you and who rescued you and your—’
‘Rescued us?’ the girl barked. ‘No, Malazan. From where I stand we rescued you …’
It occurred to Rillish that he was arguing with a ten-year-old girl; and that the girl was right. He glanced up to study the shading branches of their copse of trees. ‘Very well. So, I will do you the courtesy of assuming all this is leading somewhere …’
‘Good. He said you would.’
‘Who?’
A grimace of self-castigation. ‘Never mind. The point is that we've decided you will ride in a travois from now on.’
‘A travois. How kind of you.’
‘It's not kindness. You're slowing us down.’
I see. The party already burdened by one – a young boy, no more than a toddler, wrapped in blankets and doted on by the children. ‘I'll get my men—’
‘Your men will not pull it. They are needed to fight. Three of our strongest boys will pull it.’
‘Now wait a minute—’
Mane waved him silent. ‘It has been decided.’ She and the four youths abruptly walked off.
Well. He'd just been dismissed by a gang of brats. ‘Sergeant Chord!’
A touch at his shoulder woke him to a golden afternoon light. Sergeant Chord was there jog-trotting beside the travois. The tall grass shushed as it parted to either side and Rillish had the dislocating impression of being drawn through shallow water. ‘Lieutenant, sir?’
‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘Trouble ahead, sir. Small band of armed settlers. The scouts say we have to take them. Strong chance they'll spot us.’
For some reason Rillish found it difficult to speak. ‘Scouts, Sergeant?’
A blush. ‘Ah, the lads and lasses, sir.’
Their movement slowed, halted. Sergeant Chord crouched low. Rillish squinted at him, trying to focus; there was something wrong with his vision. ‘Very well, Sergeant. Surround the party, a volley, then move in. None must escape.’
‘Yes, sir. That's just what she ordered as well.’
‘She, Sergeant?’
Another blush. ‘Mane, sir.’
‘Isn't that your knife at her belt?’
‘It is, sir.’
‘Doesn't that have some kind of significance here among the Wickans?’
His sergeant was looking away, distracted. ‘Ah, yes, it does, sir. Didn't know at the time. Have to go now, sir.’
‘Very well, Sergeant,’ but the man was already gone. He felt a vague sort of annoyance but already wasn't certain why. Behind him, the other travois sat disguised in the tall grass, its band of carriers kneeling all around it, anxious. Rillish had the distinct impression the older youths, boys and girls, were guarding the travois. While he watched, youths appeared as if by magic from the grass, talked with the toddler on the travois, then sped away. It appeared as if they were relaying information and receiving orders from the child. He chuckled at the image. The hand of one of his youthful carriers rocked his shoulder. ‘Quiet, Malazan,’ the boy said.
Quiet! How dare he! Rillish struggled to sit up; he would show him the proper use of respect. A lance of lightning shot up his leg. The pain blackened his vision to tunnels, roared in his ears like a landslide, and he felt nothing more.
‘Lieutenant, sir? Lieutenant!’
Someone was calling him. He was on board a troop transport north-east of Fist in a rainstorm. Giant swells rocked the awkward tub. He felt like a flea holding on to a rabid dog. The captain was yelling, pointing starboard. Out of the dark sped a long Mare war-galley, black-hulled, riding down upon them like Hood's own wrath. Its ram shot a curl of spray taller than the sleek galley's own freeboard.
‘Hard starboard!’ the captain roared.
Rillish scanned the deck jammed full of standing Malazan regulars – reinforcements on the way to the stranded 6th. He spotted a sergeant bellowing at his men to form ranks. ‘Ready crossbows!’ he shouted down.
‘Aye, sir!’ the sergeant called.
Before he could turn back, the Mare war-galley struck. The stern-castle deck punched up to smack the breath from him. Men screamed, wood tore with a crunching slow grinding. A split mast struck the deck.
Entangled beneath fallen rigging, Rillish simply bellowed, ‘Fire! Fire at will!’
‘Aye, sir!’ came the answering yell. Rillish imagined the punishment of rank after rank of Malazan crossbowmen firing down into the low open galley. He hacked his way free, one eye blinded by blood streaming from a head cut. ‘Where's the cadre mage, damn her!’
‘Dead, sir,’ someone called from the dark.
The deck canted to larboard as a swell lifted the two vessels. With an anguished grinding of wood they parted. The ram emerged, gashed and raining pulverized timbers. The war-galley back-oared. Hood take this Mare blockade! The only allies of the Korelri worth a damn. He wondered if one out of any five Malazan ships made it through. The vessel disappeared into the dark, satisfied it had accomplished its mission; Rillish was inclined to agree. The transport refused to right itself, riding the swells and troughs like a dead thing. He picked his way through the ruins of the stern-castle, found the sergeant. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.
The sergeant grimaced, spat. ‘I'm thinking the water's damned cold.’
‘I agree. Have the men drop their gear. We'll have to swim for shore or hope another of the convoy is nearby.’
A'ye aye, sir.’
‘Lieutenant? Sir?’
Rillish opened his eyes. It was night. The stars were out, but they were behaving oddly, they had tails that swept behind them whenever he looked about. Sergeant Chord was peering down at him. He felt hot, slick with sweat. He tried to speak but couldn't part his lips.
‘You've taken a fever, sir. Infection.’
Rillish tore his lips apart. ‘I was thinking of the day we met, Chord.’
‘That so, sir? A bad day, that one. Lost a lot of good men and women.’
A young Wickan boy appeared alongside Chord. Mane was there as well. ‘This lad,’ Chord said, ‘is a Talent – touched with Denul, so Mane says. He's gonna have a look.’ The boy ducked his head shyly.
Just a child! ‘No.’
‘No, sir?’
‘No. Too young. No training. Dangerous.’
Chord and Mane exchanged looks; Chord gave a told-you-so shrug.
‘It's been ordered,’ Mane said.
‘Who?’
Mane glanced to the other travois, bit her lip. ‘Ordered. That's all. We're going ahead.’
‘No, I—’
Chord took hold of him. Other hands grasped his shoulders, arms and legs. Folded leather was forced into his mouth. Rillish strained, fighting, panted and yelled through the bit. The youth touched his leg and closed his eyes. Darkness took him.
He awoke alone in a grass-bordered clearing under the stars exactly like the one he'd last seen. In fact, so similar was it all that Rillish suspected that perhaps Chord and the others had simply decided it most expedient to abandon him. He found he could raise his head. He saw the youth sitting cross-legged opposite a dead campfire, head bowed. ‘Hello?’
‘Don't bother yourself, outlander,’ growled a low voice from the grasses. ‘He won't answer.’
Rillish scanned the wall of rippling brown blades. ‘Who's there?’
Harsh laughter all around. ‘Not for you, outlander. You shouldn't wander lost, you know. Even here.’
He felt at his sides for a blade, found none. Harsh panted laughter again. ‘What's going on?’
‘We're deciding …’
Shapes swept past the wall of grass – long and lithe. ‘Deciding … what?’
‘How to kill you.’
The shapes froze; all hints of movement stopped. Even the air seemed to still. Something shook the ground of the clearing, huge and rippling slow. Rillish was reminded of the times he'd felt the ground shake. Burn's Pain, some called it.
‘Enough …’
The shapes fled.
A presence entered the clearing – at least that was all Rillish's senses could discern. He could not directly see it; his eyes seemed incapable of processing what they saw. A moving blind spot was all he could make out. The rich scent of fresh-turned earth enveloped him, warm and moist. He was reminded of his youth helping the labourers on his family orchards. The presence went to the boy, seemed to envelop him.
‘Such innocence’ The aching desolation within the voice wrenched Rillish, brought tears to his eyes. ‘Must it be punished?’ The entity turned its attention upon him and Rillish found he had to look away. He could not face this thing; it was too much.
‘Rillish Jal Keth,’ the thing spoke, and the profound weight of a grief behind the voice was heartbreaking. ‘In these young times my ways are named old and harsh, I know. But even yet they hold efficacy. Guidance was requested and guidance shall be given. My children needs must now take a step into that other world from which you come. I ask that you help guide that step.’
‘You … askr
‘Subservience and obedience can be coerced. Understanding and acceptance cannot.’
Rillish struggled to find his voice. ‘I understand – that is, I don't understand. I—’
‘It is not expected that you do so. All that is expected is that you strive to do so.’
‘But how will I know—’
The presence withdrew. ‘Enough …’
Rillish awoke to a slanting late afternoon light. The female soldier who had helped him escape the fort was holding a cool wet cloth to his face as she walked along beside the travois. He gave her a smile that she returned, then she jogged off. Wait, he tried to call, what's your name? Shortly afterwards Sergeant Chord appeared at his side. ‘Sergeant,’ he managed to whisper.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The boy. Where's the boy?’
Chord held a rigid grin of encouragement. ‘Never you mind anything. You just rest now, sir.’
‘Sergeant!’ But he was gone.
The next morning Rillish could sit up. He asked for water and food. The most difficult thing to endure was his own smell; he'd shat himself in the night. He asked for Sergeant Chord and waited. It seemed the sergeant was reluctant to come. Eventually, he appeared. Rillish now saw that the man had a good start on a beard and his surcoat of grey was tattered and dirt-smeared. He appeared to be sporting a few new cuts and gashes as well. Rillish imagined he must look worse, he certainly smelled far worse. ‘I need to get cleaned up. Is there water enough for that?’
The sergeant seemed relieved. ‘Yes, sir.’
Mane came walking up; she now wore settler's gear of soft leather armour over an oversized tunic, trousers and even boots.
‘The boy?’ Rillish demanded. ‘The healer?’
Sergeant Chord lips clenched and he looked away, squinting.
‘Dead,’ Mane said with her habitual glower. ‘He died saving you. Though why I do not know, you being a cursed Malazan. That's a lot of Wickan blood spilled saving you …’
‘That's enough,’ Chord murmured.
Rillish let his gaze fall. She was right, and had a right to her anger. But he had not asked to be healed. He looked up. ‘You said something. Something about orders. What did you mean?‘ Mane bared her teeth in defiance. ‘Not for you, Malazan.’ Her answer chilled Rillish.
He found he could walk part of the next day. The boys with his travois followed along with the other at the centre of their ragged column of some seventy children – a good third of whom were always out ranging far beyond the column at any given time – and the thirty regulars who walked in a van, a rearguard and side-pickets. The more Rillish studied the other travois and the twelve youths who constantly surrounded it, the more he saw it as the true heart of their band. Who was this child to inspire such devotion? The self-styled guards interposed themselves whenever he tried to approach. The youth ignored him, wrapped in horse blankets, his eyes shut most of the time. The scion of some important chieftain's family, Rillish had come to suppose.
Walking just behind the van, he paused to draw off his helmet and wipe his face. Damn this heat! The sun seemed to glare from every blade of grass. Insects hummed around him, flew at his eyes. He was a mass of welts, his lips were cracked and sunburnt and his shit had the consistency of soup. From a satchel he pulled out a balled cloth, unfolded it and eyed the dark matter within. Food, was it? It looked more like dried bhederin shit to him. He tried to tear a bite from an edge and after gnawing for a time managed to pull away a sliver. He waved Sergeant Chord to him.
Sweat stained the flapping remains of the sergeant's grey surcoat. Two crow feathers fluttered at the man's helmet. Studying them, Rillish raised a brow. Chord winced, ducking. ‘In case we get separated from the column, sir. Safe passage ‘n’ all, so I'm told.’
‘I see.’ Rillish lifted his chin to the west where hazy brown hills humped the horizon. ‘Our destination?’
‘Yes, sir. The Golden Hills. Some kind of sacred lands for the Wickans, sir.’
‘So Mane is reasonably confident on finding other refugees there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very good. And … well done, Sergeant.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Chord saluted, went off.
Sighing, Rillish drew his helmet on again, began walking. That being the case, he now had to give thought to what to do once he'd discharged his responsibilities. Return his command to his regional superior in Unta? Face summary court-martial, execution? Would Fist D'Ebbin be satisfied with just his head, or would he imprison the men as mutineers? He could always appeal to High Fist Anand; the man had a reputation for fairness. Perhaps he should disband his command and return alone. Or not at all. Presumed dead would be the official conclusion. He thought of his family estate hard up by the Gris border; the sweetgourds should be ripening now.
The images of his fever-induced hallucinations returned to him and he snorted at the ridiculous self-aggrandizement of it. His command at Korel had been decimated, his command here at the Wickan frontier had been decimated; it would seem to be best for all if he just threw down his helmet. Yet the face of Tajin would not go away. Tajin had been the boy's name. He could not shut his eyes without seeing Tajin.
Later that afternoon outrunners came scrambling in from the south. They threw themselves down next to the boy's travois. Mane ran up and a fierce argument raged over the seated child until Mane ducked her head with a curt bow. Chord had come to Rillish's side. ‘Riders closing from the south,’ he said aside.
‘Not Wickan, I gather.’
‘Lad, no.’
Mane ran up to Rillish, a hand tight on the grip of her long-knife. She stopped before him, but her face was turned away, glaring back to the travois. ‘I have been ordered – that is, we are to place ourselves under your command.’ She would not raise her gaze.
‘Have they spotted us yet?’
‘We don't believe so.’
Rillish cast about, pointed to the nearest hillock. ‘Retreat to that hill. Lie low, maybe they'll miss us.’
‘As you order.’ She passed on low commands.
Chord raised a hand, signing to the men and women regulars. Everyone jogged for the rise.
A dry wash cut the rear of the rise allowing for no approach, but eliminating any retreat as well. The regulars crouched in the grass in a double arc around the base. Rillish knelt with a relief of six near the top next to the travois. The guard of youths surrounded the boy; the rest had spread themselves out. Everyone waited, silent, while the pounding of horses’ hooves closed upon them. Riders stormed past, pell-mell; armed citizenry without uniform or order, a kind of self-authorized militia. Some eighty men. Their route brought them curving past the rise and on, north-west. It pleased Rillish to see a paucity of bows and crossbows at their backs. He gestured a runner to him. ‘Give them time,’ he whispered. The girl scrambled down among the grasses on all fours.
Rillish waited, listening. The dull drone of insects and the hiss of the lazy afternoon breeze through the grass returned. The sun was nearing the uneven western horizon – the reason behind the Golden hills? Then a return of hooves. Two mounted figures, heads lowered, studying the ground as they walked their mounts south. Both Wickan in their torn deer-hide shirts, long matted black hair.
‘Renegade scouts,’ Mane hissed, suddenly at Rillish's side.
The two straightened, galvanized; they'd realized they were being watched. Rillish knew he'd now lost all his options. ‘Fire!’
Crossbow bolts and arrows whipped from the grass like angry insects. One scout fell, thrown backwards by the blows of four missiles. The other had rolled from his mount. Figures rose from the grasses around the man, threw themselves upon him. A quick high yell; silence. One mount, hit by several crossbow bolts reared its pain, squealing, then fell kicking. Damn, The other stood motionless until a youth rose next to it to send it running with a slap at its flank.
The ground thrummed with the return of the main column, but slower, cantering. They rounded the rise bunched up, the van conferring, their words lost in the din. Closing, they spotted the fallen mount. They milled their confusion, peered about at the surrounding hillsides. Men dismounted. Shit. ‘Fire at will!’ Rillish yelled.
A volley of missiles took down mounted and dismounted alike. The rest spurred their horses up the hill, swords flashing from their sheaths.
Rillish's command rose from the grasses to meet them. They slashed mounts, engaged riders. A Wickan girl pulled herself up on to the back of a mount behind one fellow and sank her knife into him then rolled off taking him with her. Most of the invader militia fared better, however, slashing down with their longer weapons, raking the youths from their sides, advancing. Rillish pulled out his twinned Untan duelling swords and raced down the slope.
He engaged the nearest, parrying the down-stroke, thrust the groin, and allowed the man to pass; he'd be faint with shock and blood loss in moments. Another attempted to ride him down but he threw himself aside, rolling. Regaining his feet he turned, expecting to be trampled, but the rider was preoccupied; he was swiping at his face bellowing his frustration. Yells that turned to pain, even terror. The sword flew from his grip, his hands pressed themselves to his face. A dark cloud of insects surrounded the man. Screaming, he fell from the mount that raced off, unnerved. Rillish crossed to the flailing and gurgling figure in the grasses. All about the hillside the men were falling, clutching at themselves, screaming their pain and blood-chilling horror.
The figure at Rillish's feet stilled. A cloud of insects spiralled from it, dispersing. In their wake was revealed the glistening pink and white curve of fresh bone where the man's face had been. Like an explosion, a mass of chiggers, wasps and deer flies as large as roaches vomited up from between the corpse's gaping teeth like an exhalation of pestilence. Rillish flinched away and puked up the thin contents of his own stomach.
Coughing, wiping his mouth, he straightened to see new riders closing upon them. A column of Wickan cavalry. They encircled the base of the rise. Two riders launched themselves from their tall painted mounts to run up the hill. Both wore black crow-feather capes, both also youths themselves. Rillish cleaned his swords on the grasses then slowly made his way up to the travois. His thigh ached as if broken.
Atop the rise he found the two riders had thrown themselves down at the side of the travois and were both kissing the boy, squeezing his hand, holding his chin, studying his face in wonder, babbling in Wickan. Tears streamed down their faces unnoticed.
Chord came to Rillish's side. ‘Trake's Wonder, sir,’ he breathed, awed. ‘Do you know who those two are?’
‘Aye, Sergeant. I know.’
‘There'll be blood and Hood's own butcher's bill to pay on the frontier now, I think.’
‘Yes, Sergeant. I think you're right.’ Rillish sat, pulled off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his face. He took a mouthful of water, swished it around his mouth.
Eventually, as the evening gathered, the two – twins, a young man and a young woman – came to stand before Rillish. He roused himself to stand as well, bowed an acknowledgment that the two waved aside.
‘We owe you more than we can repay, Lieutenant,’ the boy said.
‘Just doing my duty.’
‘In truth?’ the girl said sharply, her eyes dark and glittering like a crow's own. ‘Counter to your duty it would seem.’
‘My duty to the Empire.’
The two shared a glance, an unspoken communication. ‘Our thanks in any case,’ the boy said, and he turned to go. ‘We will escort you to the Golden Hills.’
Rillish almost spoke a reflexive, yes sir. He watched them go while they spoke to Mane and the others who crowded around, touching them reverently and pulling at their leathers. Grown now into gangly long-limbed adolescents but with the weathered faces and distant evaluative gaze of seasoned veterans who have come through Hood's own trials – Nil and Nether. Living legends of the Seven Cities campaign. Possibly the most dangerous mages alive on the continent, and angry, damned angry it seemed to him. And rightfully so, too.