The Malazan Empire, page 1033
Kalyth shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Sinn.’
But the girl was smiling. ‘You can’t leave fire behind. Once you’ve found it, you carry it with you – it’s in the swords in your hands. It’s in the armour you wear, and the food you eat, and the warmth of the night and the way to see through the dark. And it never sits still – it’s always moving. It moved away from the Imass when they turned from it. But now they’ll see that the fire they once knew didn’t leave them – it just spread out. But maybe they won’t understand anyway – they’re not even alive, after all. You forget so much when you stop living.’ She waved her arms in her excitement. ‘That’s what was wrong with the lizard camps! No fires!’ She jabbed a finger at the Matron, hissed, ‘You need reminding about fire.’
The words were bitter as ice, and Kalyth found her arms wrapping yet tighter about her chest. And from beside her the flavour of Gunth Mach’s oil suddenly soured – and the Destriant knew it for what it was.
She is afraid. The Matron is afraid.
Sister Reverence stared to the south. At last, the enemy shows its face. Still too far to make out anything more than the solid, dark mass of advancing legions. Those numbers are paltry. They need fifty or sixty thousand to even hope to break the defences. And from the looks of it, these are cavalry – imagine the forage they must have carried with them!
She glanced to the left, but the storm in the bay was unchanged, the cauldron ferocious yet striking her as strangely…impotent. The one hiding there can come no closer. Akhrast Korvalain is too powerful, drinking deep of the Fallen One’s heart. It is too late for all of them – we have grown too strong. We have achieved what we sought.
A Watered was on the stairs below, using both feet and hands to make his way up, his gasps sounding torn and raw. Sister Reverence awaited him with impatience. Even with our blessed blood – their humanness makes them so weak!
‘Beloved Sister!’
‘I am here,’ she replied.
‘Our scouts have returned! The army to the south!’
‘I see it, yes.’
‘They are giant lizards! Thousands of giant lizards!’
Sister Reverence staggered back a step. Then, in a surge of suddenly febrile power, she quested out towards that army – her mind reaching, reaching, there! A presence…a little further, reaching…touch— She cried out. ‘A Matron! But there are no matrons left! The Nah’ruk promised! The K’Chain Che’Malle are destroyed!’ She realized that she was shouting out loud, and looked down into the wide eyes of the man kneeling at the edge of the stairs. ‘Return to the defences – have the onagers loaded. The Che’Malle will waste no time – they never do. Go!’
Alone once more, Reverence closed her eyes, sought to slow the savage twin beats of her hearts that now seemed to clash in discordant panic. Brother Diligence, hear my cry. We are deceived! The foe you face is but a feint – ignore them. I summon you and as much of the army as you can relinquish – we face K’Chain Che’Malle! Releasing her power, she waited, breath held, for her brother’s reply.
And received…nothing.
With hooded eyes, Setoc crouched atop a berm, facing upslope, and watched the descent of Brother Diligence. ‘This is not your place,’ she whispered. ‘Can you feel that yet? The Wolves have claimed this den – this den you so kindly made for us. And here we will wait, until the chosen time.’
She pivoted and scanned the brothers and sisters. She could smell their distress, rising up rank and sour from the maze of trenches, from these dusty holes carved down through stone and dead soil. Many were looking out, across the width of the valley, to where the Bolkando and Letherii armies were even now beginning the descent. She saw how the soldiers reacted in dismay upon seeing no enemy element positioning itself at the centre. Well, not all dismay – she saw quickly hidden expressions of relief, and the scent of that was a looser, thinner emanation.
When the wolf becomes you, you hear and taste and smell so much more, making vision seem like a lesser power, a weakling subject to blindness in the face of truths. No, it is better with the ghosts gathered within me now. So much better.
Down came Brother Diligence, and there was Tanakalian, climbing into view, turning first to study the approaching Forkrul Assail, and then facing Setoc. He made his way closer – but not so close that should she leap, her fangs would find his throat. She noted that, and was not surprised.
‘Destriant Setoc. We are about to be challenged.’
She bared her teeth.
His face knotted in a scowl. ‘Listen to me! It is of no use if you can do little more than lift hackles and growl! He will use Akhrast Korvalain – do you understand me?’
‘And what is it about that to cause fear, Shield Anvil?’
‘The Assail know nothing of the K’Chain Che’Malle – do you see? I have kept that from them.’
‘Why?’
‘It does us no good if the Assail win on this day, does it?’
She cocked her head. ‘It doesn’t?’
‘We remain balanced on the knife’s edge – or have you forgotten? By what we do, by what we say or do not say, it all falls to us. Here. Now.’
‘Shield Anvil’ – she paused to yawn – ‘Shield Anvil, why did you banish the Mortal Sword?’
‘She broke our holy vow, Destriant. I have already told you this.’
‘By swearing fealty to this Adjunct woman.’
‘Yes.’
‘And these Letherii and Bolkando – they are her allies? This Adjunct’s allies?’ She could see the growing frustration in the man, and was unmoved.
‘I told you this!’
‘Do you fear Brother Diligence? I see that you do. Should he…compel us. But, Shield Anvil, I want to know, which do you fear the most? The Adjunct or the Brother? Think of it as a contest if that helps. Which one is it?’
Tanakalian looked back up the slope, to where Diligence was coming ever nearer to their earthen fort, and then back again. ‘The Adjunct is dead.’
‘You do not know that, and besides, that doesn’t matter – it’s not relevant to the question I asked.’
A sneer curled his lips. ‘If it is a question of immediacy, then it must be Brother Diligence.’ His tone dripped venom, and she understood that as well – all the reasons, all the emotions raging back and forth in this man.
Setoc nodded, and then straightened from her crouch. She arched her back, stretched out her limbs. ‘Immediacy, it’s such a lie. One is close, the other is far away. So…fear more the one who is close. But, you see, there are two sides to immediacy. The one you’re seeing is the one now, but there is another one, the one you only find at the end of things.’
Tanakalian’s eyes narrowed on her, and she could see that he was startled, that he was thinking, and thinking hard now.
‘So,’ Setoc continued, ‘let’s forget the now for the moment, and go to the end of things. At the end of things, Shield Anvil, whom will you fear the most? Yon Brother Diligence, or the Adjunct?’ Hearing voices from the trenches – filled with surprise and something like excitement – she smiled and added, ‘Or our Mortal Sword, who even now rides for us?’
Suddenly white, Tanakalian climbed the nearest berm, faced the valley called Blessed Gift. For a dozen heartbeats, he made no move. And then he looked back down at Setoc. ‘Where will you stand in this, Destriant?’
‘I stand with the Wolves.’
Triumph flashed in his eyes.
‘But,’ she continued, ‘that is only half the question, isn’t it?’
He frowned.
‘You must then ask me, where stand the Wolves?’
He half snarled – and all the beasts beneath now awaken! – and said, ‘I know well their position, Destriant.’
‘Well,’ Setoc corrected, ‘you thought you did.’ She leapt down then, crossed the back edge of the fort to come opposite the narrow stepped track down which the Forkrul Assail was descending. Lifting her gaze, she held out her arms and shouted, ‘Brother! Come no closer! You are not welcome here!’
Diligence was still fifty or more steps away, but he halted in obvious surprise.
She felt him awakening the sorcery in his voice.
And in the moment that he released it, Setoc opened her own throat to the howl of ten thousand ghost wolves.
The sound was a detonation, rising up to slam Diligence down on to his back on the earthen steps. In the numbed silence that followed, Setoc shouted again, ‘You are not welcome! Go back to your slaves, Brother!’
There was no sign that the Forkrul Assail had heard. He was lying sprawled on the track, unmoving. Shriven were rushing towards him from both sides and from above. In moments they had closed, and then were lifting him up, carrying him back up the steps.
Satisfied, Setoc turned round.
The entire Perish army was facing her, every soldier. Among those closest to her, she saw blood at their ears, and trickling down from nostrils. She saw faces that looked bruised, and eyes shot with red. When Setoc spread out her arms again, they visibly flinched back. ‘No foreign magic can compel us,’ she said, and then she pointed. ‘The Mortal Sword approaches. We shall welcome her. And in the making of this day, we shall know our fates.’
‘Destriant!’ someone shouted from one of the trenches. ‘Who do we choose? Who do we follow?’
Tanakalian wheeled round at that, but there was no way to find the speaker amidst the press.
‘I am Destriant of the Wolves,’ Setoc replied. ‘I am not a Grey Helm, not a sister to any of you. I am not one of your pack, and in this matter, who is to rule the pack is not for me to say.’
‘Who do we fight? Destriant! Who do we fight?’
Setoc dropped her gaze to Tanakalian, just briefly, and then she answered, ‘Sometimes even wolves know the value of not fighting at all.’
And there, she had given him what he thought he would need, for the challenge to come. Because Setoc could smell that Mortal Sword, and that woman – that woman was a thing of war.
Inside, the ghost wolves huddled close, giving her their immeasurable warmth. The echoes of their howl whispered back and forth – even they had been surprised at its power. But I wasn’t. This is my den and we shall defend it.
Ears ringing at that holy cry, Krughava slowed her mount to a slow canter. Before her, lining the top of the front berm, stood her brothers and sisters – those she had known and loved for years. It was still too far for her to make out their expressions, to see if her arrival was welcome or cause for fury. But even the latter would not dissuade her. She was coming to fight for her people, and for all of Tanakalian’s gleeful mocking of her belief in heroism – and indeed, in heroism lay her one and only true faith – she knew that the next few moments would test her as no battle had ever done.
If I am to be a hero, if I have such capacity within me, let it come now.
They said nothing when she reined in at the foot of the mound. Dismounting, Krughava looped the reins about the saddle’s horn, pulled the horse round until it faced the valley once more, and with a hard slap on his rump sent it on its way. Was the gesture lost on the witnesses? No, it most assuredly was not.
Drawing off her helm, Mortal Sword Krughava swung round and looked up at her estranged brothers and sisters. She raised her voice. ‘I would speak to Shield Anvil Tanakalian.’
An old veteran replied in a toneless voice, ‘He awaits you within. Come forward in peace, Krughava.’
They have not chosen a new Mortal Sword…but neither will they give me my old title. So then, it all remains to be decided. So be it.
A knotted rope slithered down the steep ramp side. She took hold of it, and began climbing.
Precious Thimble drew closer to Faint’s side. They remained on the valley’s ridge, watching the ranks of Letherii marching down into the basin. Far to their right the Evertine Legion and its auxiliaries were doing the same. All that marching, for this. This and only this. I’ll never understand soldiers.
‘Faint?’
‘What is it, Precious? You’re going to tell me that you can use all this power, to carve us out a gate back home?’ She glanced over, studied the pale, round face. ‘No, I thought not.’
‘What can you feel?’
Faint shrugged. ‘My skin is crawling, and I’m no mage.’
‘Exactly! You have no idea how this is feeling! Even Amby Bole is a mass of nerves, though he won’t talk to me any more. I think he’s become unhinged—’
‘He never was hinged in the first place,’ Faint cut in. ‘So, what do you want from me?’
‘That boy.’
‘What boy?’
‘The one half swallowed up by that giant lizard – who did you think I was talking about?’
Faint twisted kinks from her back, wincing. ‘Fine. What about him? I’ll grant you he’s cute enough, but—’
‘You think all this sorcery that’s making us sick is coming from the Assail? You’re wrong.’
‘What?’ Faint stared at Precious. ‘Him?’
‘It’s only making us sick because he doesn’t know what to do with it.’
‘He’s Malazan, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t think he’s anything.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
But the witch’s eyes were wide, staring at seemingly nothing. ‘Can an idea find flesh? Bone? Does it have a face – is that even possible? Can people build a saviour, with handfuls of clay and withered sticks? If their need for a voice is so terrible, so…demanding – can a people build their own god, Faint? Tell me – have you ever heard such a thing? Has anyone ever even thought it?’
Faint reached out, pulled Precious Thimble round to face her. ‘What in Hood’s name are you talking about? What do you see in that boy?’
Precious Thimble’s face twisted. ‘I don’t know!’ she cried, pulling herself away.
Faint turned, scanned the mass of troops – where was he, then? That strange boy? But the dust was rising in walls, slipping across like curtains in the hesitant wind tracking the length of the valley. She looked to the prince’s command position – off to her left – but saw only mounted messengers, signallers and the prince’s staff. Her eyes narrowed on Atri-Ceda Aranict. ‘Precious – come with me.’
She set out.
The ghost of Sweetest Sufferance was suddenly walking at her side. ‘You should listen to the witch, love.’
Faint glared at the ethereal form, and then shot a look back over one shoulder – to see Precious trailing half a dozen paces behind, walking like a drunk. ‘Sweetest,’ Faint whispered, ‘how can I listen to her? She’s talking nonsense!’
‘I’m just saying, her ideas are intriguing. Maybe she’s on the right track – I doubt that boy’s even got a belly button. Have you looked? He’s probably old enough for a roll in the grasses, a little schooling from Mistress Faint – what do you think? Can I watch? Just to see if he’s got one, of course.’
Breath hissed from between Faint’s teeth. ‘Gods below. I can’t even see the runt. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, this whole valley is about to erupt in a bloodbath – and you want me to tickle his damned sack?’
‘Never mind the whole belly thing, then. It was just a thought. I’m sure he’s got one. Everyone does. Precious is panicking, that’s all. When the Forkrul Assail unleash Akhrast Korvalain, when they awaken that deadly voice, well, who’s here to fight against that? Yon Atri-Ceda and Precious herself, and that’s it. Is it any wonder she’s gibbering?’
‘Stop talking, Sweetest.’ Faint was almost upon the Atri-Ceda – the woman was standing on the very edge of the descent into the valley, dragging on a rustleaf stick as if it held the blood of immortality and eternal youth. And for all Faint knew, maybe it did.
‘Atri-Ceda.’
Aranict turned, and almost immediately her eyes shifted past Faint, fixing on Precious Thimble. ‘Greetings, witch. Be so good as to awaken a circle round us – and I would ask that you add your talents to my efforts in the defence to come.’ She pulled hard on the stick. ‘Failing that, we fall that much sooner.’
Precious Thimble made a whimpering sound.
Aranict’s expression darkened. ‘Courage, child. Where is your boyfriend? We will need him here – he possesses a natural disinclination to sorcerous attacks.’
Licking dust-dry lips, Faint cleared her throat. ‘Atri-Ceda, your words do not elicit confidence over the outcome of this battle.’
Lighting another stick, Aranict waved one hand, as if distracted. Sending a blast of smoke into the air she said, ‘I would advise that you run, but then there is nowhere to run to.’ She pointed with a hand visibly trembling. ‘See the prince – down there, on the horse behind the last ranks? That is the man I love, and he is about to die. Precious – listen to me. Defend this position with all that is within you, because all my power will be down there, with him. Once the Pure finds me, he will make every effort to shred me alive.’
Faint took a step back, appalled by the heart-rending rawness of the woman standing before her, so much exposed, so much ripped open for all to see. And yet…and yet…if I could find a love like that. If I could find such a love. ‘Aranict,’ she now said in a soft voice – and something in the tone drew the Atri-Ceda round. ‘If I may, I will stand with you.’
She saw Aranict’s eyes widen, and then flit away – as if she could no longer bear to see what was there in Faint’s own face. The Atri-Ceda stared north. ‘He’s not yet touched on his power. But it’s only a matter of time.’
‘He may not have to,’ Faint said, following Aranict’s gaze. ‘I don’t know much about battles, but I can’t see us winning this one.’
‘We’re not here to win,’ Aranict replied. ‘We’re just here to take a long time to die.’
Precious Thimble moved past Faint then, mumbling chaining words under her breath. And there, three paces to the right, stood Amby Bole, his face a stone mask, his hands clenched into scarred fists.
And the ghost of Sweetest Sufferance spoke. ‘Faint, I hear an echo of…of something.’
