Orb Sceptre Throne, page 51
Hektar seemed to make a great show of smiling even more broadly. ‘Looks like you’re in luck, lad. Gonna have a lesson in butchery from the pros. Them’s Seguleh. And it looks like they’re workin’ with the Rhivi.’
Seguleh? He thought back to Tarat’s claim. Togg damn! In the flesh. But … holy fuck! ‘Is it true that three of them beat the entire Pannion army?’
Hektar gave a farting noise. ‘Chasing off a scared-arsed peasant horde without training or spine is one thing. Facing a solid shield wall of iron veterans is another.’ Raising his voice he called: ‘Ain’t that right, lads and lasses?’
‘Aye!’ came answering shouts.
Hektar leaned his thick forearms on the blackened logs. ‘You just stay down behind your shield and use short quick thrusts and you’ll be right fine, lad. Keep your head low. Let ’em run around and jump up and down all they want.’ And he winked.
Despite the growing dread clawing at his stomach Bendan almost laughed aloud at the advice.
Tserig did not know what the new Warlord Jiwan meant when he’d hinted at promised aid from his ally, this so-called ‘Legate’. And so, even though pointedly no invitation had been extended to him, when the flurry of activity arose in camp he readied himself and strode out to join the reception. He knew his ears and eyes were not what they once had been (though bless the Great Mother not his prang!) but it seemed to him as he made his way through the press that all was not as expected. The young bloods were subdued, not joyous with anticipated victory. Emerging into the Circle of Welcoming he was surprised to find just three individuals facing the Warlord.
He squinted anew then rocked backwards on his staff. Great Mother! Aid? This is the aid the creature parading as the Legate offers? No, not aid. This is the fist unveiled. The ancient curse. The Faceless Warriors. Fear them, Jiwan. Fear them!
There were two Seguleh in their leather armour. One’s mask was a kaleidoscope of colours all swirling in a complicated design; the other’s was all pale white, marred only by two dark smudges, one on each cheek, as if placed there by a swipe of a forefinger. Tserig’s hands grew sweaty upon his staff. Burn look away! The Third. The Third of the Seguleh!
The third figure troubled Tserig even more. He knew what it was, that bent and broken being, twisted under harrowing punishments inflicted by his master. One of the Twelve. The demon slaves of the Tyrant Kings. Which it was made no difference. They were all the same in serving their masters’ will.
Jiwan was on his feet, his bearing far less certain than when he had faced Brood. But then he did not know all the old stories about Caladan. The most ancient tales. And Brood had been an ally of many years, seemingly harmless. Jiwan had grown up knowing him as if he were no more than an uncle. He did not seem to grasp the true danger he represented. Indeed, no one in this age seemed to understand that. Unlike himself, old Tserig, hoarder of the old knowledge.
‘The invaders will be dealt with, yes,’ the demon mage was saying. ‘They will be swept from the field. But first,’ and it raised a gnarled hand to Jiwan, ‘I need to know your answer to our offer.’
The Warlord of the Rhivi cocked his head, puzzled. ‘Offer? What offer is that?’
‘Why, the offer of his protection, of course! My master, the Legate of Darujhistan, has graciously extended to you the guarding hand of his shelter and countenance. You will be as safe as a child in the arms of its parent under his warding, I assure you of that.’
Jiwan drew himself up straighter. He was obviously attempting to keep his face neutral, but it betrayed too much of his distaste. ‘We Rhivi are a free people. This alliance is one of mutual defence. Nothing more. Thank the Legate for his concern. We have no need of his guardianship.’
The mage stroked his long chin as if puzzled. ‘Do you not wish to be safe and secure? To be strong? So many in these days of trouble argue for a strong hand guiding their community, their city, their lands, or province. Within the encircling arms of the Legate you will find that. It is easy. One merely need yield all troubling matters of governance to him. He will take care of you. As a father.’
The Warlord was now nodding. He appeared saddened. ‘Aman, I hear your words and I thank you. I believe you have just handed me a great lesson. For among us Rhivi there was one who could very easily have claimed such a role. But he possessed the wisdom, the true generosity of soul, to stand aside when we chafed under his hand. Sadly, I do not believe we will ever find another to match him. And were he here now I believe I would offer him my apology.’
The demon mage, Aman, dropped his hand from his chin. ‘You are right, Warlord. That is sad. For you have chosen defiance. And for that there can be only one answer.’ He looked to the Seguleh Third. The Third shifted forward, and as he did so something blurred between him and the Warlord and Jiwan’s face became confused, then emptied of all emotion as if drained. Then his head slid off his neck as his body toppled.
Screaming rent the air all around. Warriors lunged, drawing weapons. The Seguleh stood back to back, their swords a blur, as Rhivi warriors, men and women, tumbled aside missing hands, arms, throats and stomachs. Roaring with immense laughter, Aman ignored the many blades that rebounded from his form beneath his rags. He reached out to grasp wrists to snap them, clenched throats to squeeze pulping bursts of blood and flesh.
All this Tserig watched, motionless, horror-struck. Ancient gods known and forgotten deliver us. It has begun anew. The iron fist of the Tyrant reborn. Shall we be once more slave for a thousand years? No!
More warriors closed, meaning to bring down these three murderers, only to fall to the near-invisible blades or the gore-smeared hands of the mage. Tserig threw down his staff to raise his arms high. ‘Sons and daughters of the plains!’ he bellowed. ‘Flee! Now! Ignore this filth! Flee these lands now. An ancient curse has arisen! North! Flee north!’
Aman closed upon him. ‘Shut up old man!’ He brought a fist smashing down, breaking Tserig’s skull and snapping the frail vertebrae of his neck. He fell instantly dead.
From the palisade wall of Fort Step, which for some reason unknown to Fist Steppen it had come to be named, she and Fist K’ess and watched while the meeting of allies that promised to sweep them from the plain all went horribly wrong.
‘Looks like a falling out,’ Steppen said, her propensity for understatement intact.
‘Don’t it though,’ K’ess echoed. Then he gestured aside. ‘Look at that. An encirclement.’
Steppen squinted into the lengthening shadows. There, among the tall grass, individual figures had arisen in a broad ring surrounding the Rhivi camp. One every few tens of paces. While they watched, the figures closed in, tightening the circle.
‘Gods-damned slaughter,’ K’ess murmured. ‘Their first mistake.’
‘They think they don’t need them.’
The Fists met each other’s gaze. K’ess cocked a brow. Steppen gave one quick nod that bulged her double chin. K’ess leaned over the catwalk. ‘Captain Fal-ej!’
‘Aye?’
‘An immediate withdrawal west! Over the wall! Lightest pack. Three days’ water.’
‘Aye, sir!’
Both Fists returned to gauging the fighting. Rhivi riders, alone and in packs, thundered off through the encirclement riding north for the lake. Many fell, but the majority bulled through. Presumably those survivors wouldn’t stop for anything.
‘Four squads should remain on the walls till everyone’s gone,’ K’ess said. ‘I’ll stay with them.’
‘I believe you held the rear-guard last,’ Steppen pointed out. ‘It’s my turn.’
K’ess looked the rather dumpy woman up and down. ‘You sure you’re up to it?’
Steppen merely looked to the sky. ‘These recruits don’t know what a hard march is. Not like the run to Evinor. Time they learned.’
K’ess cast an eye over the fort. ‘A shame, really. Well built.’
‘Have to have a word with the engineers. I was really looking for something roomier.’
The distant scream of a dying horse pierced the din of battle, making Steppen wince. She faced the east. ‘Run, you poor bastards,’ she murmured. ‘Flee. Just mount up and ride.’
K’ess squeezed her shoulder. ‘Oponn’s favour.’ He turned and left her.
‘Toren,’ she called, using his first name, and he paused on his way down.
‘Yes?’
‘Give them something to remember,’ she said, smiling. ‘Show them what they’ve taken on, yes?
Fist K’ess inclined his head in agreement. ‘Somewhere narrow, Shurl. I will see you there.’ He offered a brief salute and bounded down the stairs. Steppen turned to the east again and the screams drifting across with the wind. Gods. So it’s true. All that she’d heard. These Seguleh. A few hundreds against some thirty thousand and it’s a rout.
Facing the gathering twilight she whispered: ‘Yes, Toren. We’ll meet again there.’
Crouched in the tall grass Captain Fal-ej scanned a landscape painted an unnatural sea green. Like the bottom of the sea, she thought to herself. Almost beautiful. To either side sergeants awaited her command to fire. Damn the man. Where was he? This bravado could cost them an experienced commander. Not to mention she hadn’t yet told him all that she wanted to.
Then movement among the grass and the Fist came running up the slope. Fal-ej signed for a stand-down. She rose to meet him. ‘We’re on the move,’ she called rather angrily. ‘Where’s Fist Steppen?’
‘Holding the fort.’
She stared past K’ess to the distant structure. ‘That’s—’
‘Yes,’ K’ess cut in. ‘She’s buying us time. Now let’s go. Double-time. ’
Fal-ej backed away, signing a withdrawal to the sergeants. K’ess kept going. ‘No rear guard or outliers, Captain,’ he called. ‘Just a rear watch.’
‘Aye,’ she answered. She raised her arm in the air to inscribe the circular pull out sign.
When dawn came Fist Steppen found herself looking out at an encirclement of Seguleh. Crows and other scavenging birds wheeled in the brightening eastern sky, or hopped obscenely among the distant trampled grass. The Seguleh facing her showed no wounds, though blood splashed some. One stepped forward insolently close given the fifteen crossbows covering him. His mask was a dizzying swirled design.
‘You are surrounded,’ he called. ‘You do not possess sufficient forces to defend your walls. Throw down your weapons and you will be allowed to live.’
‘Let us discuss terms,’ Steppen answered, a hand tight on the adzed log before her. ‘What assurances can you provide of our fair treatment? I request a third party negotiator.’
The Seguleh gave an odd cutting motion with his hand. ‘We will not allow you to delay. You are not important.’
‘Not important? You mean you would just pass us by?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah. Well. In that case.’ She pointed. ‘Kill that man.’
Fifteen crossbows fired. The Seguleh twisted and ducked. Only two bolts struck him: one high in the leg, the other slashing the flesh of his left arm. The Seguleh charged the walls. Using their hands and feet they climbed the log palisade. Troopers backed away, dropping their crossbows as there was no time to reload. Steppen drew her slim blade. At least we wounded one of them, she told herself as the first appeared atop the walls. She swung again but he dropped below the blade. Another jumped cat-like over the top to land with her sword already drawn. Steppen swung again and the woman seemed to parry and counter all in the same fluid motion. Her blade slid easily through Steppen’s leather armour to slash across her front, eviscerating her. The Fist tried one last attack but was off balance from the severing of so many muscle groups and she could not regain her footing. She fell off the catwalk to land in a wet tangled heap. As she lay in the dirt staring at the bark of the palisade logs her last thought was: Not that much of a damned delay …
Torvald Nom did not spend too long in his cell. Just two meal periods later the door ratcheted and opened to reveal a Silver flanked by two Black. Torvald’s first thought was that this was the same Silver. Then he realized that he really couldn’t tell at all. He wished he’d spent more time memorizing the engraving on his driver’s armour. But he’d been rather busy trying not to throw up at the time. He slowly climbed to his feet and gave a shallow bow. ‘Welcome. If I’d known you were coming I would have saved some of my food.’
‘Torvald Nom of Nom,’ the Silver said, and he recognized her voice, ‘word has come from our Blue cousins affirming your story. Your credentials from the Darujhistan Council have also been deemed adequate. Our apologies.’
Torvald gave another brief bow. He suspected that this was all the contrition he was going to see. ‘I am glad.’ Gods! ‘I am glad.’ How banal! Shouldn’t I say something profound like: ‘Let this meeting usher in a new age of accord between our two peoples.’ Something puffed up and self-important like that?
The Silver motioned him out. ‘This way, please.’
As they walked the stone passages Torvald glanced sideways at his guide. He drew a long breath and straightened his shirts and cloak. ‘So … what is your name? If I may enquire.’
‘Galene.’
‘Galene? Galene. Well, where are we going? What’s happening?’
‘There are disturbing movements of forces in the foothills.’ She paused for a time as if sorting through her words. ‘I have been chosen to act as your guide.’
And you’re thrilled no end. Well, we all have our rows to hoe. ‘Disturbing movements? You mean the Rhivi?’
‘No. I do not mean the northern tribals.’
‘No? Then … the Malazans?’
‘No. Not the Malazans.’
Tor frowned at the maddening woman. ‘Well … then who?’ She ushered him into a stone circular staircase that they climbed single-file, he second. ‘Well?’
‘Your Darujhistani army has been summoned, Nom of Nom.’
‘Army? Darujhistan has never had an army.’
They emerged on to another of the tower roofs. Here rank after rank of quorl awaited, wings setting up a roar of commingled thrumming. The wind buffeted him. Most, he saw, carried two Moranth: a driver and a passenger. As he watched, stunned, waves of the quorl took off in file after file, peeling away in flights. From other towers more arose until the sky was darkened by their fragile silhouettes sweeping overhead like a tide rushing down valley. An army – so swift!
‘Who?’ he shouted to Galene. ‘Who is it?’
‘Our old enemy,’ she answered, icy fury in her voice. ‘The ones who drove us from the plains. Who exiled us to these mountain tops ages ago.’ She thrust a finger at him. ‘Your murdering Seguleh.’
Just inside the unlocked gate of the Eldra Iron Mongers, Barathol cast about for someone, anyone, to greet him. It was illegal to be out this late; the Legate had lowered a curfew that was enforced by the Seguleh. And never had Barathol ever heard of a curfew so scrupulously respected.
The works were silent. For months now no black choking smoke had swirled about this end of the city and the waters of the bay lapped almost clear. He was almost of a mind to turn round – curfew breaking compounded by trespassing – when he spotted the odd little fellow himself, arms clasped behind his back, closely studying a workbench of abandoned tools. He came up behind and was about to speak when Kruppe asked: ‘Was the carriage ride diverting?’
‘Kruppe – I don’t know what you call a carriage, but I don’t call a cart pulled by an ass a carriage. I could have walked faster.’
The little man’s chin pulled in, aghast. ‘What! Why, the lad assured me it was a carriage. Most replete.’
‘Would that be the same lad who was hitting the ass to keep it going?’
‘I wouldn’t know, was it? And you do mean the ass pulling the cart, yes?’
Barathol pulled a hand down his jowls and chin while he studied the bland-faced fellow. He appeared completely forthright. ‘I’m going now.’ He turned to leave.
‘No no no!’ Kruppe dodged around him. ‘It must be you. Please. A simple job. Delicate and … ah, tricky, yes. But perfect for you.’
‘Kruppe – I’m no master craftsman. I’m just an average smith. You don’t want me. And I have to say I’m starting to wonder about this villa of yours.’
‘Why, I am assured it is most exquisite! Airy. Charming. With enormous … character.’
‘Sounds like an old shack missing a wall.’
Kruppe froze, surprised. ‘You’ve seen it?’
Barathol started off again. ‘Like I said. I’m heading home.’ Rattling at the gate stopped him. The tall iron-barred doors had been closed and someone was approaching. It was hard to see in the eerie jade-hued light but the man appeared to be a tramp or a beggar. His clothes hung tattered and blackened. His hair was a wild nest and his face and hands glistened, soot-smeared and sweaty. He was rubbing his hands in a rag that was even dirtier.
The derelict stopped before them. He eyed Barathol up and down, said to Kruppe, ‘Is this your smith?’
‘’Tis he.’
‘I know all the smiths in the city. This one’s new to me.’
‘He’s a smith of foreign extraction.’
A smile shone bright against the man’s grimed face. ‘Just as I am.’ He pointed. ‘This way.’
As they walked Barathol peered about the quiet ghostly yard and open silent sheds. ‘There may be guards …’
‘No guards,’ said the tramp. ‘Just me – the owner.’
Barathol stopped dead. ‘You are Humble Measure?’
‘In the flesh.’
Barathol turned to Kruppe, his gaze narrowing. ‘What’s going on here?’
Humble waved the rag at Kruppe. ‘This man has contracted for some work. Welcome income.’ He opened his arms wide to encompass his yards. ‘There has been a temporary slowdown in production. ’
