Orb Sceptre Throne, page 68
‘What?’ Palla gasped. ‘No. You will live! There is no need.’
The Seventh jerked upright. ‘Do not offer this thing to me.’
‘You must,’ the Second barely mouthed. ‘You will take us … home.’ His eyes, behind their blood-spattered mask, closed.
‘Jan!’ Palla grated, her lips clenched against a ferocious scream. ‘Jan!’
‘He is dead,’ Oru said. The Eleventh straightened and turned to face the gathered Seguleh. He studied the mask he held in both hands.
After a moment he raised his head to be seen by all present, turning a full circle. ‘All of you know me,’ he began, his voice low. ‘You know that years ago a vision came to me – a vision that I could find our lost legacy, our birthright. You also know that by tradition the mark of the First cannot be taken … it can only be offered. I came fully intending to offer it to our Second. But he refused. His last request was that it be offered to the Seventh …’
‘But,’ he continued, after a hard breath, ‘we are Seguleh. We must not forget who we are. And with us rank is paramount. Therefore … I am bound by tradition. By duty. By our ancient code. To offer this mask of the Unmarred, the First, to the Third.’
He turned to where Gall crouched rocking himself in mute anguish. ‘Third – do you accept?’
His face still covered, the man gave one savage negative jerk of his head.
Oru turned to Palla next. ‘Sixth. Do you accept?’
Throughout, Palla had not taken her eyes from the dead Second. Without looking up, she shook her head.
Oru turned to the Seventh. ‘It has come to you, Seventh. Do you accept?’
The man raised a hand. ‘A moment – there is one here who may choose to dispute this.’
Oru cocked his head, thinking, then turned to the entrance. ‘Eighth,’ he called. ‘Will you approach?’
Lo started forward. Sall moved to follow then stopped to point a finger at Yusek. ‘You, stay here.’
‘No fucking kidding,’ she answered under her breath.
Lo came to Oru’s side. The Seventh faced him. ‘Tell me, Eighth. If this mask came to you what would you do?’
The lean man gave an indifferent shrug. Behind his mask his eyes were half lidded, almost lazy. ‘Challenge has been issued. It must be met.’
Aside, Sall started forward, drawing breath, but a sign from Lo checked him.
The Seventh let out a ragged breath. ‘Gods – they say never gamble with the Seguleh and now I know why.’ He glared at the Eighth. His deep blue eyes shaded dark as his hands worked at his sides. ‘Damn you, Lo. You’re determined not to leave me any room …’ Lowering his voice even more he growled, ‘I’m of half a mind to call your bluff.’
‘But you won’t.’ The Eighth motioned Oru closer. The Eleventh held out the mask.
Wordless, the Seventh snatched the sword from his back and shook the rags from it. Hissed breaths escaped from a hundred throats as the blackwood sheath was revealed, the hilt all blued to night black, and the sable stone orb that was its pommel. The Seventh tied it to his belt then raised his face to the gathering. ‘I do not claim to be unmarred myself,’ he began, and emotion cracked his voice, stopping him. After a moment he continued: ‘Far from it. However, I accept this honour in the promise that perhaps one day I will prove worthy of it.’
He took the translucent white stone mask from Oru’s hands and raised it to his face.
‘Damned quiet in there,’ Torvald murmured aloud just to hear someone speak – the Moranth were utterly silent. Pink and gold bands now brightened the undersides of clouds to the east. Dawn was coming. The Moranth remained battle-ready. They appeared to fully expect the Seguleh to come charging out at any moment. And if that did happen, from what he’d seen he personally didn’t think anything would stop them.
A Black messenger came jogging up to Galene and saluted. ‘Non-combatants captured on the grounds, Elect.’
‘Who?’
‘A citizen, Malazans, and other foreigners.’
‘Malazans and foreigners? What are they doing here?’
‘They looked to have come to help fight.’
‘Well, release them and warn them off.’
The Black saluted. ‘Very good.’ He moved to leave.
‘Where are the councillors?’ Torvald asked.
The messenger looked to his commander. Galene waved to allow an answer. ‘They have been escorted off the hill.’
‘Thank you.’
Galene faced Torvald. She crossed her arms, the red baton still in one hand. ‘I’m sorry, Councillor. I can’t delay much longer. We will withdraw and then I will be forced to signal.’
‘I’m damned sorry as well. This will destroy our relations for ages to come.’
Galene nodded her understanding. ‘You are sounding more and more like a councillor, Nom of Nom.’ She turned to an aide and signed. He ran off, signalling to others as he went. The Moranth Black troops stirred, readying to withdraw. ‘We will be last,’ she told him.
Together, they watched the troops back away, making for stairs and twisting roadways down Majesty Hill. Torvald’s gaze kept returning to the blasted main entrance. What are you bastards doing in there? Do you mean to hide it out?
Then movement caught his eye and he shouted, near panicked, ‘Galene! Someone’s coming!’
She spun to the entrance, a hand going to her sword.
A small party of Seguleh approached – not the all-out charge they’d been fearing. From their masks these men and women represented the top leadership of the people. One fellow, however, carried a far heavier build and was far darker of skin, as dark as many Malazans, in fact. And the mask he wore blazed white in the dawn’s light as if glowing. Torvald squinted even more closely at it: was it …
He turned to Galene. ‘That mask! It’s—’
‘Yes. I see,’ she answered, her voice tight. She crossed her arms, awaiting the party.
The four Seguleh, three men and one woman, stopped short of Galene. The lead one, not even of their stock it seemed to Torvald, matched Galene’s crossed arms. ‘You are the Elect in charge of this assault group?’ he asked, speaking barbarously accented Daru.
‘I am Galene.’ Then she bowed to the man. ‘Greetings, First. This is an unlooked-for honour.’
First, Torvald wondered? Then was this the man, then? But which First? And still Torvald did not know him, as the mask obscured his face.
‘I propose to lead the Seguleh south, to Cant. You have my word that we shall never return. What say you?’ His gaze slid aside to another of the Seguleh, one bearing ten hatch marks on his mask, and he continued: ‘Shall there be any challenge between us, Elect?’
Galene uncrossed her arms. Her armour gleamed mirror-like in the gathering light. ‘There can be no challenge between us, First.’
He gave the slightest dip of his head in salute. ‘Very good. We will leave by the Worry Town gate. Notify your forces.’
Galene saluted. ‘Done. First …’ she called as he turned away.
‘Yes?’
‘I am … relieved.’
The man bowed briefly again. ‘As am I.’
Torvald watched them go. Wondrous gods! Was that it then? Done? Finished? Wordless, suddenly exhausted, he watched Galene exchange the red baton for one of gold. This she held skyward and twisted. Some sort of munition shot from it, launched into the still deep-blue sky where it burst into a sizzling amber flame. Torvald watched it drift like a burning flower, smoking and popping.
To the west of Darujhistan Captain Fal-ej nudged Fist K’ess who looked then nudged Ambassador Aragan who jerked, blinking, and squinted to the city. He then turned to Attaché Torn.
‘What is it?’
‘A signal.’
Aragan bit back a sharp reply; instead he examined the quorls filling the fields around them. Hours ago they’d swooped down and landed in order to conserve their strength and wait out the night. None stirred now. No orders were shouted to mount.
‘Which?’ he asked, dread choking in his throat.
Torn turned his helmed head to Aragan. ‘It is the call to stand down. It seems, Ambassador, that the Elect has met with some sort of victory.’
Victory? Against nearly a hundred Seguleh? He didn’t think that possible. But then, they would hardly have surrendered, would they? ‘Now what?’
‘Now?’ Torn indicated the quorls, now readying, rising to flight, all unburdened, carrying only single riders. ‘The assault group will be extracted. And then we shall have a report.’
Aragan watched the quorls lifting off and flitting away, making for the glow and drifting smoke over Darujhistan. Twin wakes followed some passing low over flooded fields nearby. And what a report that will be …
Not far off Sergeant Little nudged her squad awake to motion to the disappearing quorls. ‘Looks like a pick-up,’ she said. ‘Must be what those officer types call ‘a cessation of hostilities’.’
‘Sounds so pretty when you say it, Little,’ one trooper called out.
‘Music to my ears,’ Bendan murmured, half awake. ‘We gonna move out?’
Little shifted where she lay on one elbow. ‘Don’t know.’
‘We’ll pull back to Pale,’ Bone opined while he picked at his teeth. ‘Re-garrison. Won’t they be happy to see us.’
‘Pale! That pit,’ someone grumbled. ‘Nothing there.’
‘Don’t matter,’ Bendan sighed. ‘All the same to us.’
Little eyed him where he lay with an arm over his face. ‘That’s right, trooper. All the same to us.’
CHAPTER XXI
And did we not know the sweetest lassitude there
bathed in such silken glow?
How sad we must part, for the stars command
and none can forestall their turning upon the great
immutable orbs
Love Songs of the Cinnamon Wastes
SINCE SHE HAD THE DAWN WATCH BLEND MADE AN EARLY BREAKFAST of fried rashers, eggs, the butt-end of a loaf of heavy black bread and a pot of herb tea, and sat down near the front to eat.
The smell of cooking roused Picker, who was asleep on a bench. She sat up and rolled her neck to get the kinks out. ‘Save me some tea.’
‘Course.’
Picker groaned, rubbing her face where she sat. ‘You know – I really expected something last night under cover of all that mayhem.’
‘Me too. Haven’t heard from Spin or Fisher neither.’
‘True. Can’t believe those Moranth dropped in to take on the Seguleh.’
‘Must’ve had munitions up the you-know-what.’
Blend washed down a mouthful of bread then set down her cup. ‘You hear somethin’?’
‘What?’
‘Out front …’ She pushed back her chair.
The barrier at the door exploded inward with an eruption of flung splinters and boards. The heavy oak table upended to hold up heaped benches slid backwards, grating on the stone floor. Blend tripped on her chair. Picker threw aside the table before her and made for the bar.
A giant fought to force his way through the shattered timbers of the door.
Blend drew her long-knives and closed in a leap, arms drawn back to thrust. Both weapons hit home in the armoured giant’s chest. One rebounded while the other shattered into fragments. A sweep of one thick arm knocked her flying backwards.
Picker fired a crossbow from the bar but the bolt glanced off the creature’s inlaid armour. It stepped forward, pushing back the heaped benches and broken timbers. Blend ran for the kitchen. Picker reloaded. Duiker appeared from the hall then ducked away.
Picker fired again but the second bolt rebounded from the creature’s closed full helm. She threw down the crossbow and headed out from behind the bar.
The giant batted aside benches and took another step. Blend came in from the kitchen; she carried their massive log-splitting axe. This she raised over her head in both hands and ran across the room loosing a blood-searing war howl. The axe crashed home against the creature’s chest and flew free of Blend’s hands. A great shower of stone chips clattered to the floor and the thing lumbered a heavy single step backwards. A crack now showed in its broad chest armour.
‘It ain’t human!’ Blend yelled.
From the hall Duiker appeared carrying a great two-handed broadsword. He shook it free of the sheath and advanced. Blend searched for the axe. Picker lifted one of the benches and swung it at the thing in an attempt to beat it back. It groped clumsily for the bench.
The broadsword hacked stone chips from arms and torso, yet still it advanced. It appeared to be making straight for the stairs down to the cellars. Picker hammered at it using the bench as a battering ram while Blend and Duiker chopped at the limbs. Nearing the top of the stairs it managed to get hold of the haft of the axe to wrench it from Blend’s hands. It snapped the thick haft in two and tossed the pieces aside.
‘Spindle’s munition!’ Picker suddenly yelled.
‘Right!’ Blend dodged one awkward grab to run for the bar.
Both Duiker and Picker gripped the bench and fended the thing off by butting it in the chest. Blend reappeared behind it, cut off. ‘Now what?’
‘Dive!’ Picker yelled.
She hugged the munition, hunched, then threw herself forward, sliding between the thing’s wide braced legs and almost tumbled down the stairs. Duiker stopped her. The thing took its first step on to the cellar steps. The three looked at each other, their close quarters. ‘Now what?’ Picker asked again.
‘I don’t—’ Duiker began, and then a skeletal hand grasped his shoulder and shoved him aside. A file of undead Seguleh came climbing the stairs, unsheathing their swords. Duiker, Picker, and Blend slid down along the walls, dodging the swinging weapons.
The guardians, or whatever they were, held the giant off for a time. Their weapons hacked great gouges out of its armour, which appeared to be layered plates of solid stone or fired clay. Its finish of inlaid multicoloured stones had long been scraped and bashed away. Yet it was destroying them; the clumsy stone hands grasped arms to wrench them from sockets; closed over heads to crush skulls like blood-fruit. The guardians were falling one by one. Their torn limbs and mangled bodies cluttered the stairs.
Down in the darkness of the first cellar level the three eyed one another. Duiker motioned to the cusser in Blood’s hands. She nodded.
They waited until the last of the pickled Seguleh fell. Duiker took a torch, then he and Picker lay down on the much narrower rough stone staircase leading down to the lowest cellar – the one they never used. From the top of this staircase Blend watched for the giant to make its appearance.
Its heavy leaden steps announced it. Each shook the stone beneath them. It turned the corner of the landing. Blend yelled, ‘Munitions!’ and threw, then jumped for the stairs.
They heard the cusser crack like a dropped pot. Then the giant took another step.
Duiker cursed under his breath.
‘How do you like that!’ Blend snarled. ‘It really was a dud!’
Another step sounded and the rock beneath them creaked as if under immense pressure.
‘Now what?’ Picker whispered, fierce.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Duiker said.
Picker climbed to her feet. ‘Damn right.’
They scrambled up into the upper cellar only to find that the giant had reached the narrow aisle that led through barrels stacked ceiling tall. They were cut off.
‘Shit!’ Picker exploded, and she reached for her sheaths only to find them empty. ‘Now what?’
Exhausted, Duiker wiped his hot slick face. ‘We back up. It might widen out down below.’
‘That’s a plan,’ Blend growled and she motioned them back.
The stairs were uneven, roughly hewn and overgrown with mould – even something that felt like a kind of moss or thick lichen. Duiker hoped the thing might lose its footing and come tumbling down in a heap of wreckage. Then he thought – lichen? Growing on these cut stone stairs? Then that would mean … Burn preserve them … thousands of years!
The stairs lost definition until Duiker found himself sliding backwards down nothing more than a stone chute. Roots hung, clawing their hair. It had become hotter and far more humid.
‘We ain’t never come this low,’ Picker whispered, hushed. ‘I don’t know if I can go down any more!’
Duiker, leading the backwards descent, came up against a hard flat surface. In the dimming light of the torch he could just make out a rough-hewn granite slab. ‘End of the way,’ he called. ‘Looks like the entrance to a tomb.’
In the gloom Picker punched a dirt wall. ‘Fener take it! I can’t fucking believe it. What a goddamned place to die. Break it down!’
‘No! I think that’s what it’s here to do,’ Duiker said. ‘If we all charged it and hit it high we might trip it up. One of us might get by.’ He glimpsed movement up the narrow tunnel. ‘Here it comes.’ He jabbed the end of the torch high into a wall. ‘Let’s go.’
‘I’ll lead,’ Picker growled, and turned sideways, hunching a shoulder.
They ran back up the sloped tunnel. Picker and Blend let out bellowing war howls as they went. They jumped up at the last instant to smash into the creature’s battered chest only to tumble together at its stone feet. It rocked backwards but did not fall.
Lying in a heap before it they peered up, bruised and puzzled. It remained immobile, like the statue it perhaps had been in truth. A sudden sharp crack split the air like the eruption of a flawed pot in a kiln and an arm fell off it to thump on to them then roll down the tunnel floor, bursting into shards. The other arm split and fell too, bursting like a pot.
They all scrambled up and backed away. A great crack shot in a jagged diagonal across its torso and the halves slid in opposite directions to crash into countless shards. Its lower torso and legs fell forward, shattering as well.
The flickering torch revealed standing behind the wreckage a man with long straight greying hair wearing a dirty threadbare shirt and trousers. A young woman hovered close behind him, all in dark clothes and carrying a stave. Blend took one look at the man, gaped, then went for her empty sheaths once more. ‘Fucking Tayschrenn!’
