* * *
The journey north had been smooth, though the Kite did not perform nearly so lithely as before without Ereko's steady hand at the tiller. Jan, Stalker and Kyle traded off keeping the sail as taut as possible. The brothers kept to the middle of the open boat, preparing the food and generally getting on each other's nerves. Traveller was a dark brooding presence at the prow that everyone avoided. It was as if Ereko, though not human himself, had been the only thing keeping a human presence within the swordsman. Kyle knew that the Lost brothers believed he blamed Traveller for Ereko's death. And for a time he had. But now he wondered how much choice the man had – the entire confrontation had had the air of an inevitable convergence, the long-delayed closure of a circle. Unavoidable. And Ereko had warned of the melancholy spell of the weapon at the man's side. It was clear now to him that what had happened had been just as hard on Traveller, if not harder. Hadn't he been friends with the Thel Akai for so much longer? It seemed to him unhealthy that the man be allowed to brood for so long and he realized that if anyone was going to do anything, it could only be him. On the fifth day he worked up the resolve to approach and sit near the prow.
‘So, Quon,’ he said after a time.
Through his long black hair hanging down, the man's dark ocean eyes shifted from his hands hanging limply at his legs to
Kyle. Something stirred, flickering within them, a kind of distant recognition, and a hand came up to squeeze them. He raised his head. ‘Yes. Quon.’
‘May I ask why?’
A tired shrug. ‘You have a case to make with the Guard. That is where the Guard is headed.’
‘And you?’
‘I will make my way from there.’
‘Will you help?’
A smile of amusement. ‘No, Kyle. My presence would only … complicate matters.’
‘Cowl will just kill me out of hand.’
‘No. You'll be safe enough with the brothers. And there is the blade you carry. You have no idea what you really have here and that I think is the way things were intended.’
His sword? ‘What do you mean?’
An easy shrug. ‘It is a powerful weapon. Others might have used it to gather riches, power. But nothing like that has even occurred to you, has it?’
Kyle thought about that – the fact was he didn't have the first idea how to go about such things.
‘Then, what about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
The man took a deep breath, scanned the waters. ‘I'm hunting someone, Kyle. Someone determined to avoid me. But eventually I will corner him. Then there will be an accounting long delayed.’
‘Vengeance?’
A sharp glance, softened. ‘Yes. But not just for me, for a great deal. A very great deal.’
An errant wave sent spray across Badlands who howled his shock. Coots laughed uproariously, his mouth full. A smile touched Traveller's features, though it appeared to Kyle to be the wintry, distant smile of an adult watching the amusing antics of children. Or … what was that word he'd overheard the Guardsmen using when discussing the leader of the race they called the Andii? And the Magus? An Ascendant.
‘Well, perhaps we can help?’
Traveller looked to him, his smile holding. ‘Thank you, Kyle. But no. This is something I have sworn to do. I must pursue it in my own way.’
‘Well, if that is as it must be.’ He rose to go.
‘Kyle?’ Traveller called after him.
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you. And … I'm very sorry. I know you were very fond of him.’
‘Yes. I'm sure you were too.’ Kyle turned away and his eyes met those of Jan, watching from the stern, who looked away, back out over the water, as was his habit.
The next morning Kyle awoke to find Stalker at the tiller, standing, peering ahead, and at the bow Traveller standing as well. ‘What is it?’ he asked Coots. The man was tending the small cooking fire in a metal bowl, cutting up the roots they boiled for a starchy stew. He gave an unconcerned shrug.
‘Some kind of storm ahead.’
At the stern he caught the eye of Stalker, who gestured forward. A dark bruising of clouds darkened the sky. ‘Can we go around?’
The scout merely arched one dusty blond brow. ‘This is my third course correction since dawn. Each time – there it is.’ To one side Jan lay curled up in blankets. Kyle considered questioning him but decided against it; if Stalker or Traveller wanted to, they could do it.
‘What does Traveller say?’
‘He said to stop trying to go around. Just head on north-east.’
Kyle went to the bow. Traveller's gaze was fixed ahead. He was wearing his armour coat beneath his leathers and his sword belted at his side. A sizzling anger rode his taut shoulders and stare. ‘What is it?’
‘Someone's interfering. Someone who should know better than to get in my way.’
‘Who?’
The man looked about to answer but stopped himself, shaking his head. ‘Never mind. Just keep your eyes sharp.’
‘What should we do?’
‘Do? Eat, check your weapons.’
Coots prepared a meal of boiled mush with fish and mouldy old bread. The Lost brothers busied themselves testing the edges of the multitude of blades each carried at belts, vests and boots. Jan had no weapon at all that Kyle could see so he fished around to come up with an old long-knife that he never used and offered it to the man. Jan looked up, surprised and pleased. Then his gaze slid aside and Kyle followed it to find Traveller watching, his face held rigid, unreadable. Jan pushed the weapon through his belt.
The edge of the unnatural cloudbank drew close. The sea curving around its front held its normal swell and trough of tall smooth waves touched by the thinnest of spume at their crests. Beneath the clouds, under the gathering dark of thick shadow, the sea appeared calm, the wind diminished. Traveller turned from the prow. ‘Get down. Secure yourselves. Tie the rudder.’ Stalker roped the rudder's long arm. The brothers twined their arms in taut ropes. Kyle found a secured rope and pushed an arm through. Jan sat against the ship's side, his legs out. Eerily silent, the tall looming wall of darkness rose above them like a cliff, severing the light. The Kite was engulfed.
Loss of headway was immediate. Kyle was thrown forward. Equipment and stores shifted, tumbling. The Kite groaned, planks creaking, the sail flapping loose. Waves surged around them, flooding the freeboard. In the disorienting diffuse light everything seemed flat and distant, colourless. Traveller was shouting something from the prow but his words sounded strange, distorted. Kyle was punched forward once more. Stores crashed over the brothers who roared their anger. The grinding of the keel and planking announced the Kite scraping up on a shore where no shore should be. A savage blow stunned Kyle.
After a time his vision cleared – he'd been disoriented for a moment. Blinking, he stood, steadying himself. A dark plain of mud stretched into the distance to an even darker treeline. Behind them, a sullen sheet of water as flat as black glass but for the wake of their passage. Overhead, dull sky the colour of slate. ‘Cheerful place,’ Jan observed, rubbing his shoulder.
Coots erupted from a pile of stores, cursing, a hand pressed to one eye. Badlands laughed uproariously. Stalker rubbed his hip. Traveller was examining the planking at the prow. ‘Damaged?’ Stalker called to him.
‘Can't say. We're stranded in any case.’
‘Travellers! Greetings!’ someone called in Talian from the distance. Kyle peeked over the side. A man was standing in the muck. A great thatch of black hair framed a long pale face. His robes hung down in the mud and he was either very short or sunk in the slime.
Traveller vaulted the gunnel to land before the fellow only to promptly sink past the shins of his boots. Regardless, he managed to grasp hold of the front of the fellow's robes and twist a grip. The man flailed at Traveller's arm, the long loose cloth of his sleeves – long enough to hang in the mud – slapping wetly.
‘Take us to the scheming rat,’ Traveller snarled. ‘He's finally earned a few choice words from me.’
‘Yes!’ the man squawked. ‘That is, no. No screeching bats here. They're in the woods.’
Startled, Traveller released the fellow, who straightened his robes, smearing mud all over his front. ‘I am come to deliver you to my master, Shadowthrone. You are blessed by his condescension.’
‘Who are you?’ Traveller asked.
‘Whorou?’ the man said, squinting. ‘Damned awkward name. Common enough though, isn't it?’ He stuck out a muddy hand. ‘Hethe.’
Traveller did not raise his. After a time the fellow lowered his, wiped it on his smeared robes. ‘Yes, well. We must be off! Come!’ The fellow waddled away, his robes dragging behind, curls of green-brown mud falling from its trailing edges. After a few paces he turned, beckoning. ‘Come, come!’
‘Aw, for the Lady Thief's sake,’ Coots grumbled. He collected a few stores and skins of water, and lowered himself from the side. His sandalled feet sank entirely beneath the quivering gelid surface. He shivered, gasping. ‘Damn, that's cold!’
The rest followed, dropping one by one into the muck then labouring on after Traveller and their guide. Soon Kyle was almost short of breath as each foot became encased in a leaden weight of clinging mud. Stalker and Badlands had drawn knives and were shaving the layers from their feet and flicking it away. The stink was ripe with the fetid reek of decomposing sea creatures. Kyle had to turn his face away when he reached down to shave off the mud.
‘Damned undignified, hey?’ Badlands said to his brother, and Traveller turned sharply at that, his gaze narrowing, only to snort as if at some joke known only to himself, and set off again slowly shaking his head. The brothers exchanged mystified looks.
Ahead, the mudflats yielded to a climbing strand of black gravel. To the left stretched a dark forest of tangled grey underbrush and squat trees. Their guide was leading them to the right where the shore climbed to eroded hillocks thatched in thick tangled grasses. Kyle wondered if he was falling behind. Either that, or their guide was sinking further and further into the mud, or getting shorter. Most of his robes now trailed him in a long train and his sleeves dragged as well. Stalker and Kyle exchanged uncertain looks.
Beneath his hanging robes, the man, or whatever he was, now clearly stood no more than waist-high to Kyle. Taking a few quick steps Traveller lunged ahead to grab the sodden trailing cloth and yank it. It came away revealing a short, hairy, winged, monkey-like creature that spun, hunching and snarling.
Everyone froze, staring.
Surprised, the creature drew itself up and, with an uncanny mimicry of wounded dignity, snatched the robes back from Traveller and marched off. Traveller turned to face everyone, completely astonished. He bent his head back as if entreating some unknown blessing from the sky – patience, perhaps – then rubbed his neck and exhaled loudly. ‘Apologies. It's my fault. An old argument between myself and the one awaiting us. He was always of the opinion that … I took myself too seriously.’
Ahead, the creature had reached the gravel and now struggled to dress itself. The effort degenerated into a battle of life and death between beast and garment. The creature flailed amid the wet folds, hissing and kicking, squalling its rage. Its bullet-head emerged, fangs clenched on a mouthful of the cloth. It mimicked throttling folds in its hairy hands then disappeared again amid the sagging wet mess. Traveller simply walked on past. Everyone followed, stamping the mud from their sandals and boots. Last, Kyle saw the creature pop its head up. Its yellow eyes deep beneath prominent brow ridges blinked their confusion. It scampered ahead dragging its tattered adversary after it.
Cresting the eroded hillock, Kyle saw a plain dotted with abrupt hills, or what resembled hills. Their sides appeared too steep to be natural. Traveller was walking on, heading in the direction of a dark lump in the distance, though just how far away it might be Kyle had no way of judging. Everything seemed strangely distorted here, wherever here was. He jogged up to Stalker. ‘So, where are we?’
The scout was adjusting his studded leather hauberk and kicking mud from his knee-high leather moccasins. He scowled his disgust. ‘Shadow Hold, I'd say.’
‘Shadow Hold? What's that?’
‘That's what we call it where we're from. You could call it the Warren of Shadow, or Meanas, or whatever you like. Take your pick – it don't care a whit.’
Kyle slowed. So, Shadow. The Wanderer, Trickster, Deceiver. A power to avoid, or treat with most carefully, according to the shamans and warlocks of his people. Now they were in its grip. And the swordsman with them claimed to know its master personally – and to have an argument with him. True, so far it did not strike Kyle as particularly menacing. If anything, it struck as, well, disorganized and slightly deranged.
The beast had gained the advantage once again and, throwing the ragged robes over its shoulders, stuck its chest out and marched in a direction slightly askew of their line of advance. Eventually, finding itself off alone, it would squawk and run to gain the front once more, raise its chin and set off resolutely in the wrong direction. All these antics took place under the very nose of Traveller who displayed no outward hint of noticing, though Kyle thought his back increasingly rigid and sword-straight as the journey continued.
The hills proved to be domes constructed of cyclopean stones, ancient, overgrown, some displaying cracks or collapsed sides where the blocks scattered the plain as if having been thrown outwards by some tremendous force.
At one point a sudden cloud of darkness boiled over them as if the unseen sun were obscured even further. Kyle was unnerved to see shadows flickering over the dry dusty ground, even over his arms and legs. It was as if someone were waving tatters of cloth between him and the sun. Just as suddenly the ‘storm’ of shadows swept on. Seeing that no one appeared harmed, he and Jan exchanged uncertain shrugs and continued.
Their goal resolved itself into one of these domes, larger than the rest and with straighter sides. Reaching the open dark portal, the creature scampered in without a backward glance leaving a trail of mud across the threshold. The party halted by mutual unspoken consent. Traveller turned to them, his eyes lingering on that portal. ‘I'll go in. No one else need come. Though I can't forbid anyone from choosing to do so. It's up to you.’
‘I'd rather remain out here. If you don't mind,’ Jan said with something like distaste in his voice. And he sat on a nearby block.
‘Us, too,’ Stalker said. Coots and Badlands gave their curt agreement.
Traveller looked to Kyle.
‘Is it dangerous?’ Kyle asked.
‘Dangerous? Well, if you mean will we be attacked … no, I don't believe so.’
‘All right. I'll come. I mean, we're kind of in already, if I understand things aright.’
Traveller's brows rose, impressed. ‘True enough. I believe so.’ He started to the portal. Kyle followed.
The entrance tunnel was dark, cool and humid. Torchlight flickered ahead. They entered the main chamber, a round domed vault containing shattered stone sarcophagi, the occupants of which lay scattered about the chamber, desiccated limbs askew, clothes dusty dry tatters, teeth gaping in yellow grins. Traveller scanned the chamber and his fists clenched.
‘Enough!’ The eruption of his voice shook the stones and brought down wisps of dust. ‘Was that your wizened monkey face we followed all this way?’
‘Wizened!’
A shadow against the far wall started forward, rising. ‘I'll have you know I am quite well preserved.’
‘No more games – Ammanas.
‘Games? No more games? What, then, to do? All is a game.’
‘Ammanas …’ Traveller ground out.
‘Oh, very well.’ Translucent shadow arms gestured. The chamber blurred, shadows churning, to resolve into a long hall, stone-walled, a roof of sturdy timber crossbeams sunk in gloom, and at the far wall a broad stone fireplace. ‘More to your liking?’
A shrug. ‘Yet another fa?ade, but it will do. And Cotillion?’
‘Here.’ A soft voice spoke from behind Kyle, who spun to see a man in a doorway, unremarkable but for a rope coiled around one shoulder. Traveller bowed shallowly to the man who continued to watch, motionless.
‘And who is this?’ Ammanas asked. Kyle was alarmed to see the figure approach, a walking stick now in one insubstantial hand. Its features resolved into that of an elder, darkly hued, mouth a nest of wrinkles. ‘Kyle,’ he said, his voice faint. Could this be the Deceiver himself? He struck Kyle as dangerous, yes, but also oddly frail, even vulnerable.
‘A companion,’ Traveller said.
‘And why are you here?’
Kyle had no idea how to answer that. Why was he here? Curiosity? Hardly adequate. No – he came simply because Traveller did. Kyle motioned to the swordsman, ‘To accompany Traveller.’
‘Ah yes.’ The figure, no more than a gauzy patchwork of shadows, turned to the man. ‘Such a valuable quality. So … useful it proved.’
Traveller merely snorted his dismissal. ‘Do not speak possessively of that which you never possessed.’
‘That is open to debate.’
‘I did not come here to debate.’
‘Then why did you come?’
‘You brought me here!’
‘I merely invited you – you did not have to come.’
‘Did not—’ Traveller bit the words off, pressing a fist to his lips. He exhaled a great harsh breath, flexing his neck. ‘You have not changed a damned bit. There's still nothing for us to discuss.’ He turned away. ‘Come, Kyle. My apologies. This was a mistake from the beginning.’ He faced the other man, Cotillion, who stood aside, a mocking smile at his thin lips.
‘Come, now,’ Ammanas called out. ‘Let us stop this bickering. You know what I offer.’
Traveller stopped, turned, keeping both Ammanas and Cotillion in view. ‘No, I do not. You haven't made your offer yet.’
The shadow figure's shoulders slumped their exasperation. ‘Really, please! I rather thought my hairy messenger made it all quite plain in his eloquent pantomime … you can never succeed in your goal, my friend. I'm sorry, but there it is.’ The figure shook, giggling. ‘Quite inspired, his display. Emblematic, you might say.’
Kyle had decided that he really ought not be where he was. Traveller, however, blocked the exit. Since he was stuck, then, he decided he ought to be useful and guard the man's flank. He rested his hand on the grip of his tulwar and found the sword surprisingly warm – hot, almost. He yanked his hand away, alarmed.
‘And your offer?’ Traveller ground out.
‘My offer?’ Ammanas fairly squawked. ‘Gods! Need I spell it out?’
‘From you? Yes. Exactly so.’
The god – yes, the god of deceivers, Kyle reminded himself – hissed a string of curses beneath a breath, drew himself up as tall as he could manage – a height yet far below even that of Kyle, who was considered squat – and swished his walking stick back and forth through the air, mimicking swordplay. ‘You strike at shadows. You chase ghosts. Yet always your quarry eludes you … Well, I know something of shadows and eluding. I can help you along, old friend. A nudge here; a hint there. What say you?’
‘And the price?’
The walking stick set down with a tap. Translucent hands rested upon its silver hound's head grip. ‘A mere service. That is all. One small service.’
Traveller was silent for a time, his gaze steady upon the wavering transparent figure. Kyle's sword had become intolerably hot. He pulled it away by stretching his belt. Yet instead of alarm what he felt was embarrassment – how dare he interrupt such talk so far above his ken with a complaint about his weapon?
‘I will agree, Ammanas, provided you agree to a condition.’
The shadow figure hunched, almost wincing. ‘A condition! What's this of conditions? I ask no conditions of you! One does not raise a finger to the one you seek and insist upon conditions!’
‘Hear me out. Don't fly to the winds.’ A harsh laugh sounded from Cotillion at that. The figure turned a dark glare upon the man. ‘What is it?’
‘Two requests.’
‘Two! Two!’
‘Hear him out,’ Cotillion said wearily.
‘I'm handling these negotiations.’
‘Is that what you call this?’
The figure wavered closer to Cotillion. ‘Don't—’ Though appearing to float, Ammanas seemed to suddenly trip, stumbling. ‘What?’ He poked with his walking stick and came up with limp folds of muddy torn robes. ‘What is this mess? Look at it! Mud all over the floor! Who is going to clean this up? Where is he! I'll skin the rat.‘ He shot a finger into the air. ‘Wait!’ The finger lowered to point to Kyle. ‘What are you doing?’
Kyle could not help but back away. ‘Nothing. Nothing! It's just my sword. Something's—’
‘Cotillion! I sense an emergence!’
A hiss accompanied Cotillion's coiled rope seeming to come to life of it own accord. It leapt to twist around the sheathed weapon at Kyle's side. A flick and Kyle's belt snapped, the tulwar flying loose. A coil then snapped around his neck, tightening. Traveller motioned and the rope parted, snipped cleanly in two. Cotillion and Traveller faced one another, Cotillion spinning his foreshortened length of rope, Traveller with his sword held in a two-handed grip above his head, point down. Kyle yanked the now limp coil of rope from his neck and gasped in a breath.
‘Halt!’ Ammanas bellowed. Surprisingly, both men obeyed the Deceiver, edging back into guard positions. He raised a finger it to where the tulwar had fallen. ‘An uninvited guest.’
The sheathed weapon had fallen in a tangle of Kyle's leather belt. Smoke now climbed from the equipment, then flames as the wood and leather burst into fire. Incredibly, molten iron poured out over the stones, bubbling and hissing. It steamed like boiling water. The clouds became biting, forcing Kyle to cover his eyes and nose. Even Traveller, at Kyle's side, was batting an arm through the mixed steam and smoke.
As the smoke dispersed Kyle caught sight of a tall shape hunched where the sword had fallen. The figure slowly straightened, climbing taller and taller, stretched out his long arms. A bunched mane of white hair fell down his back. He was barefoot in loose trousers and a long loose shirt.
When the newcomer turned, Kyle was astounded to see the Archmagus of the Spur. It was he! The Wind King! Closer now, Kyle was certain that he must also be the figure from his dreams.
Ammanas, Cotillion and Traveller all edged together to face the intruder and Kyle almost laughed to see them shrinking from the entity. His second thought was: all that is Holy! Who was this being? Ammanas eventually slid forward, planted his walking stick. ‘Osserc! You are trespassing upon my demesnes!’
So! It was he! Sky father of his people. Alive after all! Known to these – an Ascendant?
The blunt, almost brutal features of the being did not even register recognition that anyone had spoken. His gold eyes scanned the room, avid. A smile of satisfaction tightened his heavy lips. ‘After so long …’ he rumbled in accented Talian.
‘You must go! You are not permitted here!’
Kyle's stomach clenched in dread upon seeing Cotillion and Traveller, flanking Ammanas, exchange narrowed glances. The doorway was now unoccupied but Kyle did not move. He longed to approach yet dared not interrupt. From the distance, muted by the walls of the ruin, or building, or whatever sort of construct it was, came the long and low baying of hounds. Ammanas straightened to rest his hands on the handle of his walking stick. A creamy satisfied smile crept up his lips.
Osserc merely turned his back upon everyone, stretched his hands out, running them over the walls. ‘Yes, yes. I see …’ he breathed, his tone almost reverent.
Ammanas's insubstantial features twisted his frustration. He stamped his walking stick. ‘Do not be so foolish as to provoke me!’
‘And do not be so foolish as to repeat the mistake you made with my compatriot Anomander not so long ago,’ Osserc growled. ‘How many guardians did you lose bickering with him, little shadow crow? Two? Three?’
Flinching away, Ammanas turned to Cotillion. The two appeared to share unspoken communication. The rope in Cotillion's hand twitched as if it were part of the thoughts. Traveller slid forward, sword raised, the light gleaming from the oily magenta blade. His back to the room, Osserc murmured, ‘I know that weapon better than you and we have no business, upstart.’ Traveller carefully edged back, his eyes slitted.
A rumbling snarl shook the stones beneath Kyle's feet. He turned his head aside to see there in the entrance a crouching hound, a monstrous one that appeared as if it could be fully as tall as Kyle himself, mangy brown and scarred. Its snout, longer than Kyle's forearm, rested on its outstretched forepaws. Ammanas crossed to it, set a hand on its head, murmured reassuringly.
Into this tableau came the little monkey-like messenger. He was pushing a mop ahead of himself as he came from further within. All eyes, but for those of Osserc, moved to track the creature as it became increasingly obvious that his path would take him straight into the giant. The mop bumped up against Osserc's bare foot. The giant did not move, though he clasped his hands behind his back in what Kyle thought might have been irritation. The creature repeatedly banged the wet mop-head against Osserc's foot. Its face screwed up in vexation. The giant edged his head down. The monkey-like thing jumped up and down, waved its arms, stamped a foot. Letting out a deep rumbling sigh, Osserc stepped aside to allow the fellow to pass. The creature slathered the mop over the flagging, muttering to itself.
Ammanas straightened, his gauzy face relieved. The House is unconcerned. We need not bother ourselves with this rude intrusion. We may ignore it as one might an irksome fly.’
Osserc snapped a glare to Ammanas that just as quickly eased into indifference and he turned away. His gaze found Kyle and the eyes swirled molten, his lips pulled back in what one might generously call a smile, revealing prominent tusks at his lower jaws. ‘Well done, son of the steppes. I am in your debt.’
‘Father of Winds,’ Kyle began, stammering, ‘I had no idea …’
‘You were not to. And I am not father to winds or to your people. Your ancestors merely adopted the ancestral totems of sun, sky and winds – all of which shine, turn and blow without my intervention. So are traditions invented. It is up to you to keep them – or not. Here,’ and he gestured and a weapon appeared in his hand. ‘I owe you a weapon. Take mine with my thanks and we are even. Goodbye.’ The giant abruptly turned and walked away, disappearing into the gloom further within. Kyle stared after him as one might a phantom.
‘Good riddance!’ Ammanas called loudly. ‘Now, the rest of you, out as well! Out! Is this a grubby tavern? Am I social host?’
The hound had left and so Kyle backed into the doorway. It opened on to a hall that led past an alcove containing a huge and ornate set of bronze armour, then on to another door that opened as Kyle approached. Kyle almost stumbled here as he glanced back to see the same old beehive-like tomb behind him.
Outside, Jan and the Lost brothers sat up, weapons out. ‘Thank the Dark Hunter,’ Stalker called. ‘A hound as large as a horse came running in after you.’
‘Yes. It didn't attack.’
‘And Traveller?’
Kyle looked back, surprised. ‘He should be with me …’
After a moment the swordsman did emerge. He glanced anxiously among them, then relaxed. ‘Good. I was worried that perhaps the hound …’
‘It ignored us,’ Stalker said. ‘So? What happened?’ and he looked between them.
‘An agreement was reached and you are free to go,’ Traveller said.
‘You?’ Kyle and Stalker echoed.
‘Yes. I am not going with you.’
‘I didn't agree to that,’ Kyle said, his voice rising.
‘Don't worry. There's no danger – either for you or for me.’
‘No danger? That man, or god, or whatever he is, is a lunatic’
‘I've had that impression for some time, Kyle.’
‘So, just like that? You'll stay?’ The scout could not have been more sceptical.
‘Yes.’
‘Do we go back to the boat?’ Jan asked.
‘No.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘You no longer need it.’ The swordsman scanned the horizon, inclined his head to indicate a direction. ‘You should go that way.’
‘What do you—’ Stalker began but something flew out of the open portal to land in the dust with a wet slap. A torn muddy robe.
Everyone traded glances. ‘I suppose,’ Coots said, ‘that means we ought to be on our way.’
‘Yes. You should.’
‘Traveller,’ Kyle begged. ‘Don't…’
‘It's best this way. I'm endangering you. Attracting unnecessary attention.’ He walked to stand before Jan. The two locked gazes for a time, neither looking away. Finally, taking a deep breath, the swordsman studied Jan directly for the longest time, his gaze moving up and down; the old man did not move at all, his mouth clenched tight as if he dared not speak. After a moment Traveller sighed, nodded at some unspoken evaluation and turned to Kyle. He set his hands on Kyle's shoulders. ‘Farewell, Kyle. Bring your case to the Guard. I hope they will prove worthy of you.’ He released Kyle's shoulders.
‘Please come with us!’
The swordsman gently reached out to touch the amber stone hanging at Kyle's neck. ‘You were right to pick that up. But I know he will always be with you regardless. I know he will always be with me. Farewell.’ And he turned away, blinking.
Kyle felt the hot tears at his cheeks. ‘Traveller …’
The man's shoulders tightened. ‘It is how it must be, Kyle. I … I am sorry.’ He faced the brothers. ‘Stalker, Coots, Badlands. An honour.’
They tilted their heads in goodbye.
Traveller ducked into the tomb, disappearing into the darkness.
‘Farewell Whorou!’ a voice called from aside. ‘Fare thee well!’ Kyle spun. Their guide, the dirty-robed fellow, had returned. As they all watched, he blew his nose on the arm of his torn garment. Kyle glanced back to the entrance; it was of course gone. ‘Come, come,’ the man beckoned, the loose wet sleeves hanging empty. ‘Come.’
Reluctantly, Kyle last, they started away from the beehive-shaped tomb, striking a direction that to all appearances seemed no different from any other across the flat dusty plain dotted by its ancient sepulchres. Overhead, in the slate sky, things flew, looking like nothing more than folded shadows.
CHAPTER VI
It was an act driven by a profoundly inward – and backward – looking movement. Who are we outsiders to judge? It was, after all, also driven by the honest (if we may claim misdirected) desire to improve the condition and prospects of the Wickan people … In this regard it must be seen as completely earnest and not in the least duplicitous. Especially when bracketed with the act it then allowed.
The First Civil Wars, Vol. II
Histories in Honour of Tallobant
SURROUNDED BY COMMAND STAFF AND BODYGUARD, ULLEN STOOD next to Urko and the Moranth Gold commander atop a modest rise to one side of the marching columns of Talian and Falaran infantry. Toc, together with a troop of some forty, came riding up and reined in. ‘A good day for battle,‘ Urko called and Toc gave his assent. ‘Not too hot.’ Ullen peered at the sky; yes, overcast, though it might rain. He didn't look forward to that. They had left the fort before first light and been marching through dawn. The night had been relatively calm – the beast, Ryllandaras, if indeed it was he, had probed twice but been driven off by the massed ranks of Gold, backed up by a liberal dose of their munitions. Already flights of gulls, crows and kites crowded the skies over the line of march. How many generations of warfare, Ullen wondered, had it taken them to learn what the massing of so many men and women in armour might presage?
‘Commander V'thell,’ Toc greeted the Moranth in his armour hued a deep, rich gold like the very last gleam of sunset. The Moranth inclined his fully enclosed helmed head.
‘Still unmounted, I see,’ Toc said to Urko with something like a nostalgic smile.
Urko shrugged beneath his heavy armour of banded iron. ‘It reassures the soldiers. They don't like their commander being mounted when they ain't. Makes ‘em suspect you're gonna ride off as soon as things get hot.’
Toc's staff, all mounted, shared amused glances. Captain Moss caught Ullen's eye and winked. ‘And the carriage?’ Toc asked, gesturing down the gentle slope to where a huge carriage painted brilliant red and green waited while grooms fought its fractious team of six horses.
Urko rolled his eyes. ‘Bala. She'll be with me at the centre rear. I'll have the reserves. The Falaran cavalry and elements of the Talian and Falaran infantry. Choss is already with the south flank. You'll have the north – and where are those blasted Seti anyway?’
Toc scanned the north horizon. ‘Bands are appearing. They'll be here soon.’
‘Bloody better be.’
‘What of this force in the south? The Kanese?’ Toc asked.
‘Still arrayed around the south side of Pilgrim's Bridge. None too eager to take on the Guard – can't say I blame them. Amaron has some hints that they are to come out for Surl—’ Urko stopped, correcting himself, ‘for the Empress. But he's not sure. They might decide it's worth it, though, at any time.’
‘We'll keep an eye on them.’
‘Aye.’
‘And the Marchland Sentries?’
Urko paused, glanced away, his mouth drawing down even more. ‘Withdrawn to the west. Out of harm's way ‘n’ all. Too bad. Could've used them. But perhaps for the better, all things considered.’
‘Perhaps.’
V'thell bowed to the general. ‘Permission to join my people.’
‘Granted. And V'thell …’ The Moranth Gold turned back. Urko raised a fist. ‘You're the hammer. Break them.’
V'thell bowed again. ‘We shall.’
‘I should track down an ataman,’ Toc said. Urko nodded his assent. The cavalry commander rode off with his troop.
‘And myself?’ Ullen asked.
‘I want you here. If things go to pot I'll have to wade in and I want you to take over.’
Ullen was alarmed but struggled to disguise his unease. Wade in? You're not young any more, Commander. ‘Aye, sir.’
The general waved to the carriage. ‘Now go down and see what Bala has to say.’
Ullen less successfully hid a smile. ‘Yes, sir.’
*
Toc and his troop combed the rolling hills north-west of the assembly point. From high ground the dust of Laseen's forces was clear to the east. Midday, his instincts told him. They'd finish manoeuvring by midday. Where were Brokeleg and Ortal? It was unthinkable they should let him down. After all the years he'd spent among the Seti; after he'd fought with Kellanved for their interests. He'd even raised his own children among them: Ingen, Leese and little Toc the Younger.
A messenger pointed to the north where a broad cloud, more like an approaching dust storm, was darkening the sky. Soon, a van of horsemen could be seen galloping down a far broad slope. Tall pennants of white fur flew prominently, along with white fur capes. Imoten, not the atamans. Has the man usurped them completely?
He waited while the column closed. A standard-bearer led, a tall crosspiece raised above him hung with white pelts and set with what looked like freshly skinned animal skulls. The sight of that grisly standard made Toc profoundly uneasy. Imotan followed directly, together with his bodyguard, which had swelled to some seventy men and women, all sworn to their White Jackal god. Imotan drew his mount up next to Toc's and smiled, inclining his head in what seemed an almost ironic greeting. ‘Well met, Toc the Elder.’
‘Imotan. Where are the atamans? We should discuss the coming engagement.’
‘You will discuss the matter with me. I have direct authority over all warriors.’
I see. What has been the political infighting there in your encampment these last few days, shaman? Clearly, I have been away for too long. ‘Very well. Let us find a vantage point.’
Imotan nodded to the standard-bearer who dipped the pennant forward. Blood, Toc noted to his distaste, dripped liberally from the skulls and pelts of the macabre standard, having soaked the shoulders and hair of the bearer. The massed bodyguard burst into howls of enthusiasm. Moments later, in the distance the calls were echoed and a great thunder of hooves kicked to life, shaking the ground. All along the north horizon of hilltops and crests of mounds horsemen advanced. Toc stared, his heart lurching; it was a massing such as he could not have imagined. Where had Imotan gathered such numbers? Seemed the coming of their old foe and totemic animal Ryllandaras might have given Imotan limitless reach. The bodyguard surged ahead and Toc and his troop kicked their mounts to join their numbers.
Forward Seti scouts – the small bands Toc had seen riding the grounds – directed Imotan's column to a rise that offered a prospect of the assembling forces. Toc rested his new horse, a slim grey youngling, next to the shaman's large bay. A heavily overcast sky frowned down on a wide, very shallow basin. To the south-east, the top of the tall promontory that supported the Great Sanctuary of Burn could just be made out as a smear of yellow and umber. After jockeying and scouting through the night, elements of both forces had settled on this front in a mutual, unspoken accord. Small flags could even be made out marking the marshalling points for various units. Forward elements from both armies were already forming up.
Opposite, the skirmishers of whom Toc had been hearing so much were pouring into the basin from the south like a flood. So many, Where did Laseen get them all? She must have emptied the gutters of Unta and every town in between. And they seemed eager enough, too. Within their formless tide could be made out the ruled straight columns of marching infantry. Malazan heavies. The very forces he'd counted on in the past to anchor his own light cavalry and skirmishers now arrayed against him. It was an intimidating sight. And what was this? A banner at the fore, the sceptre underscored by a sword! The Sword of the Empire! So it was true. That Fist – what was his name? – from the Seven Cities campaigns had claimed the title. Wait until Urko sees that! He'll wrap the man's own sword around his neck.
Seti bands, Imotan's outriders, had stormed down into the basin and were already beginning to exchange arrow and crossbow fire with the skirmishers. Choss's own light infantry and skirmishers, pitifully few in number, were scrambling to catch up. Three separate columns of Moranth Gold then entered from the west, escorted by troops of Talian cavalry. They made for the centre where the standard of the Sword of the Empire had been planted.
‘That horde of skirmishers must be contained and swept aside,’ Toc told Imotan, who nodded, stroking his grey-shot beard. ‘Our intelligence tells us Laseen hasn't the cavalry to oppose you.’
‘So you say. Yet if that is true then why is she here?’
Toc's brows rose at the question. ‘Well, I suppose I would have to say that she has no choice. She has to oppose us – to do otherwise would be to admit defeat. And that is hardly in her nature.’
‘Is she counting on some hidden asset to deliver her? What of the Kanese?’
Toc shook his head. ‘I don't believe they'll cross. A lot to lose and too little to gain.’
‘They could gain much by arriving in time to deliver her …’
‘Imotan,’ Toc said, gesturing to the battle grounds, ‘once it looks as if she will lose they will throw in with us. If she wins, her rule will be absolute. No one will rise to oppose her for a generation.’
The White Jackal shaman flinched at that, glowering. ‘There is more to this continent than just Tali and Unta.’ He turned to his guards. ‘Send word to the warbands.’ The guard bowed and rode off. ‘What of this mercenary army? Why are they not with us? Didn't Urko offer enough?’
Toc almost laughed, mastering himself in time. ‘The Crimson Guard wants the Empire crushed. That's their goal. I suppose they're thinking – why bloody themselves when we'll mangle each other for them, hey?’
‘Then why not get rid of them?’
‘It's Choss's estimate that despite the Avowed they are not a viable threat. He believes they don't have sufficient forces.’
‘Estimates?’ Imotan echoed. ‘You would gamble when so much is at stake?’
Toc edged up his shoulders in a small shrug. ‘Every engagement is a gamble. You make your best choices and hope you made no major mistakes.’
The shaman grunted a reluctant acceptance of the point. ‘And Laseen? Where is she?’
Toc scanned the east. ‘Hasn't arrived yet. She's probably in the rear.’
A coarse laugh from Imotan. ‘So why don't I send my warriors to the rear and rid us of her?’
‘Because she's probably guarded by all the Claw and mage cadre on the continent, that's why.’
‘Ah, yes,’ the shaman sneered. ‘Your vaunted mages. Where are they now? Where is the Tayschrenn, the Hairloc or the Nightchill now? Why are we even here assembling soldiers when in the old days your mages would turn this valley into an inferno?’
Toc eased his seat in his saddle, eyed the man edgeways. What odd directions the man's thoughts were flying in. Pre-battle jitters, perhaps. ‘We formed rank back then too, Imotan. Even with Tayschrenn. Because mages can't hold territory. In the end, it always comes down to leather on the ground – the plain spearman or army regular. They win the wars.’
‘Myself, I would say otherwise.’ Imotan hooked a leg around the pommel of his saddle. ‘I would say that you Malazans foolishly squandered your talent. Burned them up and drove them mad as your reach exceeded your grasp.’ He regarded Toc squarely. ‘And now you have none left worth the name.’
Toc answered the man's steady gaze from under knitted brows. He wasn't certain how to respond to that claim – or provocation. Could it even be denied? What was the man getting at?
Imotan gestured to the field. ‘Ah. Something is happening.’
Toc glanced down. What was happening was complete murderous chaos. Laseen's skirmishers were not waiting for their own heavies to complete their formations. They charged forward in waves, kneeling and firing, then retiring while the next rank took their place. A steady hail of bolts punished the Gold, who displayed astonishing discipline in retaining ranks. The Talian and Falaran flanking phalanxes were forming clean enough. Toc turned to a staffer. ‘Send word to Urko to sign the advance!’ To Imotan, ‘I'm surprised Laseen unleashed her skirmishers so early; but then she may not have had any say in the matter. They seem to think they can win this battle all on their own. Your warbands should retake the open ground – if you would, Imotan.’
The shaman nodded his assent, signed to a guard who rode off.
Below, signal flags waved frantically between the League elements. As one the Gold drew their heavy curved blades and advanced. Urko seemed to have sent the command already – or V'thell had simply lost patience. The flanking phalanxes moved forward as well, covering them. The skirmishers palpably shrank back. Far across the basin tall Imperial banners signalled Surly – Laseen, Toc corrected himself – entering amid a column of Untan cavalry, many bearing noble banners, and flanked by marching Malazan heavy infantry.
A Talian message rider stormed up to Toc, reined savagely. ‘General Urko inquires as to the disposition of the Seti,’ the man panted, his face flushed.
I don't doubt that he does – though not in those words. ‘Sweeping back the irregulars momentarily.’
The rider saluted. ‘Aye, sir.’ He reined around and gouged the iron spikes of his stirrups into his mount's flanks, galloping off in a flurry of thrown dirt.
Imotan caught Toc's gaze, directed it to the ridge line. ‘The Seti are here – just as promised, Toc the Elder.’
Riders climbed the ridges and crests to the north, a curving, undulating skirmish-line of thousands of light cavalry lancers. Below, on the broad open plain a great moan went up among the Untan irregulars. The flights of crossbow bolts – so thick at times it was hard to see through their waves – faltered, thinning to nothing. The exposed men and women swarmed, bunching up like ants around three squares of infantry in their midst, seeking sanctuary within. Toc could well imagine the brutal exigency of those infantry pushing back their own allies – to allow entrance to any would mean compromising the integrity of their own formation. Still, so many! If they should recover, take a stand of any kind …
‘And now, Toc,’ Imotan said, a hand raised, his voice climbing. ‘Because we Seti remain a free people – free to choose! We choose to go!’ And he signalled to the standard-bearer, who circled the tall crosspiece hung with its freshly skinned white pelts and animal skulls. Droplets of blood pattered down on Toc's bare head and he flinched, ducking. Go? Does he mean attack?
All along the crests of the shallow hills, the mounted figures turned and rode off, descending out of sight. Toc gaped, turning left and right. What? What was this? Imotan's white-caped bodyguards pushed their mounts between him and the shaman as the man turned his horse around.
What? ‘Wait! Wait, damn you! You can't do this!’ He reached for his sword. All of the nearest bodyguard, some twenty, went for their weapons and Toc's staff set their hands to their grips. Toc lifted his hand away carefully. ‘Imotan!’ he bellowed to the shaman cantering his mount. ‘This is wrong! You can still salvage your honour! Imotan! Listen to me!’ Listen …
‘We should get word to Urko,’ a staffer said, his voice faint.
‘I'm sure he can see clearly enough,’ Moss suggested.
Still staring after the retreating back of the shaman, his shoulders as rigid as glass, Toc said, ‘Everyone go to Urko. He'll need all the cavalry he can get.’ None moved; all sat regarding their commander. He turned to scan their faces one by one and all glanced away from the complete desolation written there in the man's eyes. ‘Go! All of you! … And tell him … tell him, I'm sorry that in the end, I failed him.’ Toc kicked his mount to ride after the White Jackal shaman.
After glancing amongst themselves for a time, uncertain, the assembled staffers and messengers turned their mounts down on to the plain. All but one, who lingered behind.
For a few leagues the Seti ignored Toc, the lone rider attempting to push his way past the surrounding screen of the escort. The dull roar of battle had fallen away long ago. The guards swung their lances, urging him off, laughing, as if he were no more than an unwanted dog.
Eventually, either in disgust or from a feeling of safety that the battle had been left far enough behind, the group slowed and halted. After they searched him and took his every weapon, including his famous black bow, Toc was allowed to pass through the crowding guards. Still mounted, he was led before Imotan, who waited, glowering his impatience.
‘Do you wish to die, Malazan?’ he snarled.
‘What you have done is wrong, Imotan,’ Toc said, calmly. ‘You have stained the Seti with the name of betrayers. But you—’
‘Wrong!’ the shaman shrieked. ‘You betrayed your promise, Malazan! You promised us Heng! You turned away from that promise and so now we turn away from you.’
Toc knew it was useless but he held out his open hands. ‘Imotan, after this battle we can turn all our resources to Heng—’
‘Too late, Malazan? Spittle flew from the man's lips. His hands knotted themselves within the strips of his reins. ‘Another false promise! More of your empty words. All too late. Now we have our ancient patron returned to us! With him we will level Heng ourselves. Why should we die for you, eh?’ The rheumy, lined eyes slitted as the man eased into a satisfied smile. ‘And now such alliances as this are no longer necessary, Malazan. Have you any last words?’
Toc forced himself to relax. Useless, how useless it all was. ‘Ryllandaras can't destroy Heng, Imotan. Never could, never will.’
‘We shall see,’ and he signed to his guards.
Two lances pierced Toc's sides, physically raising him from his saddle, then withdrew. He gasped at the overwhelming pain of it. His world narrowed to a tunnel of light and roaring agony. He was only dimly aware of the troop heading off leaving him hunched in his saddle.
After a time his mount moved a restless step and he unbalanced, sliding off to fall without even noting the impact. He lay staring at the sky through a handful of dry golden blades of grass until a dark shape obscured his view, sat him up.
A sharp stinging blow upon his face. He blinked, squinted at someone crouched before him, wet his lips. ‘Ah, Captain Moss. Thank you … but I don't think there's much hope …’
The captain was studying him. The scar across his face was a livid, healing red. Sighing, Moss sat, plucked a blade of grass and chewed it. Slow dawning realization brought a rueful grin to Toc's lips. ‘But … you're not going to try.’
‘No, sir.’
Toc laughed, convulsing, and coughed. Wetness warmed his lips. He touched it, examined his bloody fingers. ‘So. She sent you, did she? I thought the Claw was compromised.’
‘I'm freelance. I sometimes tie up loose ends for her.’ Moss looked away, scanned the horizons. After a moment, he said, ‘I've come to admire you – I really have. I want you to know that. I'm sorry.’ He shifted his sitting position, checked the grounds behind him. ‘She wants you to know that she's sorry too. So long as you kept away she was willing to look the other way. But this …’ he shook his head, took out the blade of grass, studied it and flicked it aside.
‘I suggest you try Urko next,’ Toc breathed wetly. ‘Get real close first …’
‘Tell me about these Marchland Sentries. What or who are they guarding?’
His head sinking, Toc tried to edge it side to side – perhaps he succeeded – he wasn't sure. He dragged his fingers through the dirt, raised the handful of black earth mixed with blood to his face. ‘I'm glad to die here,’ he said, slurring. ‘Glad. The sunlight. The wind. Beautiful
The man rose, dusting his leathers. After a moment hoofbeats shook the ground. Then, nothing. The wind knocked the heavy grasses. Insects whirred. The sun warmed the side of Toc's face. Then came movement again. He had no idea how much time had passed; each breath seemed an eternity of pained inhaling followed by wet exhaling. Someone else now stood before him – a Seti in moccasins and leathers. The man examined his wounds, raised his face, but Toc saw only a dark blur. The man said something to him, a question, but Toc only noted how the sunlight now held such a golden glow. The man left accompanied by many horses. The silence of the prairie that was in truth no silence returned. Toc felt himself join it.