Grimacing, Icarium turned to Mappo. 'I shall defend the Azath—tell me, can I fight without… without that burning rage?'
'You possess a threshold,' the Trell conceded. But oh so near.
'Hold yourself back,' Fiddler said, checking his crossbow. 'Until the rest of us have done all we can do.'
'Iskaral Pust,' Crokus snapped. 'That includes not just you, but your god—'
'Hah! You would command us? We have brought the players together—no more can be asked—'
The Daru closed on the High Priest, a knife-point flashing to rest lightly against Fust's neck. 'Not good enough,' he said. 'Call your god, damn you. We need more help!'
'The risks—'
'Are greater if you just stand back, dammit! What if Icarium kills the Azath?'
Mappo held his breath, astonished at how deeply Crokus understood the situation.
There was silence.
Icarium stepped back, shaken.
Oh yes, friend, you possess such power.
Iskaral Pust blinked, gaped, then shut his mouth with a snap. 'Unforeseen,' he finally whimpered. 'All that would be freed… oh, my! Release me now.'
Crokus stepped back, sheathing his knife.
'Shadowthrone… uh… my worthy Lord of Shadow… is thinking. Yes! Thinking furiously! Such is the vastness of his genius that he can outwit even himself!' The High Priest's eyes widened and he spun to face the forest behind them.
A distant howl sounded from the wood.
Iskaral Pust smiled.
'I'll be damned,' Apsalar muttered. 'I didn't think he had it in him.'
Five Hounds of Shadow emerged from the wood like a loping pack of wolves, though each was as tall as a pony. To mock all things natural, the pale, sightless Hound named Blind led the way. Her mate Baran ran behind and to her right. Gear and Shan followed in rough flanking positions. The pack's leader, Rood, sauntered in their wake.
Mappo shivered. 'I thought there were seven.'
'Anomander Rake killed two on the Rhivi Plain,' Apsalar said, 'when he demanded Cotillion cease possession of my body.'
Crokus spun in surprise. 'Rake? I didn't know that.'
Mappo raised an eyebrow at the Daru. 'You know Anomander Rake, Lord of Moon's Spawn?'
'We met but once," Crokus said.
'I would hear that tale some day.'
The lad nodded, tight-lipped.
Mappo, you are the only fool here who believes we will survive this. He fixed his gaze once more on the approaching Hounds.
In all his travels with Icarium, they had never before crossed paths with the legendary creatures of Shadow, yet the Trell well knew their names and descriptions, and the Hound he feared most was Shan. She moved like fluid darkness, her eyes crimson slits. Where the others showed, in the scars tracked across their muscled bulk, the savage ferocity of brawlers, Shan's sleek approach was a true killer's, an assassin's. The Trell felt the hair rise on the back of his neck as those deadly eyes found and held him for the briefest of moments.
'They are not displeased,' Iskaral Pust crooned.
Mappo pulled his eyes away from the beasts and saw Fiddler staring at him. The knowledge that passed between them was instant and certain. The sapper's head tilted a fraction. The Trell sighed, slowly blinked, then turned to Icarium. 'My friend—'
'I welcome them,' the Jhag rumbled. 'We shall speak no more of it, Mappo.'
In silence the Hounds arrived, fanning out to encircle the company.
'Into the maze we go,' Iskaral Pust said, then cackled as a distant, uncanny scream reached them. The Hounds raised their heads at the sound, testing the motionless air, but seemed otherwise unexcited. There was around each beast an aura of dreadful competence, wrought with vast antiquity like threads of iron.
The High Priest of Shadow broke into another dance, brought to an abrupt halt by Baran's head and shoulder as the animal, with blurring speed, batted Iskaral Pust to the ground.
Fiddler grunted as he reached down to help the priest up. 'You've managed to irritate your god, Pust.'
'Nonsense,' the man gasped. 'Affection. The puppy was so pleased to see me it became overexcited.'
They set off towards the maze, beneath a sky the colour of polished iron.
Gesler strode to where Duiker, Bult and Captain Lull sat drinking weak herbal tea. The corporal's face was red and swollen around the fractured nose, his voice a rough whine. 'We can't pack no more aboard, so we're pulling out to catch the last of the tide.'
'How quickly can those undead oarsmen take you to Aren?' Lull asked.
'Won't be long. Three days at the most. Don't worry, we won't lose any of the wounded on the way, sir—'
'What makes you so certain of that, Corporal?'
Things are kind of timeless on the Silanda, sir. All those heads still drip blood, only they ain't been attached to their bodies for months, years, maybe even decades. Nothing rots. Fener's tusk, we can't even grow beards when we're aboard, sir.'
Lull grunted.
It was an hour before dawn. The sounds of frenzied activity rising from Korbolo Dom's encampment had not ceased. Sorcerous wards prevented the Wickan warlocks from discovering the nature of that activity. The lack of knowing had stretched everyone's nerves taut.
'Fener guard you all,' Gesler said.
Duiker looked up to meet the man's eyes. 'Deliver our wounded, Corporal.'
'Aye, Historian, we'll do just that. And maybe we can even pry Nok's fleet out of the harbour, or shame Pormqual into marching. The captain of the City Garrison's a good man—Blistig—if he wasn't responsible for the protection of Aren, he'd be here by now. Anyway, maybe the two of us can put some iron into the High Fist's spine.'
'As you say,' Lull muttered. 'Get on with you now, Corporal, you're almost as ugly as me and it's turning my stomach.'
'Got more than a few spare Tiste Andü eyes if you'd like to try one out for a fitting, sir. Last chance.'
'I'll pass, Corporal, but thanks for the offer.'
'Don't mention it. Fare you well, Historian. Sorry we couldn't have done better with Kulp and Heboric.'
'You did better than anyone could have hoped for, Gesler.'
With a shrug, the man turned towards the waiting dory. Then he paused. 'Oh, Commander Bult.'
'Aye?'
'My apologies to the Fist for breaking his hand.'
'Sormo's managed to force-heal that, Corporal, but I'll pass your thoughts on.'
'You know, Commander,' Gesler said a moment before stepping into the boat, 'I just noticed—between you and the captain you got three eyes and three ears and almost a whole head of hair.'
Bult swung around to glare at the corporal. 'Your point?'
'Nothing. Just noticing, sir. See you all in Aren.'
Duiker watched the man row his way across the yellow sludge of the river. See you all in Aren. That was feeble, Corporal Gesler, but well enough meant.
'For the rest of my days,' Lull sighed, 'I'll know Gesler as the man who broke his nose to spite his face.'
Bult grinned, tossed the dregs of his tea onto the muddy ground and rose with a crackling of joints. 'Nephew will like that one, Captain.'
'Was it just a matter of mistrust, Uncle?' Duiker asked, looking up.
Bult stared down for a moment, then shrugged. 'Coltaine would tell you it was so, Historian.'
'But what do you think?'
'I'm too tired to think. If you are determined to know the Fist's thoughts on Korbolo Dom's offer, you might try asking him yourself.'
They watched the commander walk away.
Lull grunted. 'Can't wait to read your account of the Chain of Dogs, old man. Too bad I didn't see you send a trunk full of scrolls with Gesler.'
Duiker climbed to his feet. 'It seems nobody wants to hold hands this night.'
'Might have better luck tomorrow night.'
'Might.'
'Thought you'd found a woman. A marine—what was her name?'
'I don't know. We shared one night�
�'
'Ah, sword too small for the sheath, eh?'
Duiker smiled. 'We decided it would not do to repeat that night. We each have enough losses to deal with…'
'You are both fools, then.'
'I imagine we are."
Duiker set off through the restless, sleepless encampment. He heard few conversations, yet a bleak awareness roared around him, a sound only his bones could feel.
He found Coltaine outside his command tent, conferring with Sormo, Nil and Nether. The Fist's right hand was still swollen and mottled, and his pale, sweat-beaded face revealed the trauma of forced healing.
Sormo addressed the historian. 'Where is your Corporal List?'
Duiker blinked. 'I am not sure. Why?'
'He is possessed of visions.'
'Aye, he is.'
The warlock's gaunt face twisted in a grimace. 'We sense nothing of what lies ahead. A land so emptied is unnatural, Historian. It has been scoured, its soul destroyed. How?"
'List says there was a war once, out on the plain beyond the forest. So long ago that all memory of it has vanished. Yet an echo remains, sealed in the very bedrock.'
'Who fought this war, Historian?'
'Yet to be revealed, I'm afraid. A ghost guides List in his dreams, but it will be no certain unveiling.' Duiker hesitated, then sighed. 'The ghost is Jaghut.'
Coltaine glanced east, seemed to study the paling skyline.
'Fist,' Duiker said after a moment, 'Korbolo Dom—'
There was a commotion nearby. They turned to see a nobleman rushing towards them. The historian frowned, then recognition came. 'Tumlit—'
The old man, squinting fiercely as he scanned each face, finally came to a halt before Coltaine. 'A most dreadful occurrence, Fist,' he gasped in his tremulous voice.
Duiker only now heard a restlessness rising from the refugee encampment stretched up the trader track. 'Tumlit, what has happened?'
'Another emissary, I'm afraid. Brought through in secret. Met with the Council—I sought to dissuade them but failed, alas. Pullyk and Nethpara have swayed the others. Fist, the refugees shall cross the river, under the benign protection of Korbolo Dom—'
Coltaine spun to his warlocks. 'To your clans. Send Bult and the captains to me.'
Shouts now sounded from the Wickans in the clearing as the mass of refugees surged forward, pushing through, down to the ford. The Fist found a nearby soldier. 'Have the clan war chiefs withdraw their warriors from their path—we cannot contest this.'
He's right—we won't be able to stop the fools.
Bult and the captains arrived in a rush and Coltaine snapped out his commands. Those orders made it clear to Duiker that the Fist was preparing for the worst. As the officers raced off, Coltaine faced the historian.
'Go to the sappers. By my command they are to join the refugee train, insignia and uniforms exchanged for mundane garb—'
'That won't be necessary, Fist—they all wear assorted rags and looted gear anyway. But I'll have them tie their helms to their belts.'
'Go.'
Duiker set off. The sky was lightening, and with that burgeoning glow the butterflies stirred on all sides, a silent shimmering that sent shivers through the historian for no obvious reason. He worked his way up the seething train, skirting one edge and pushing through the ranks of infantry who were standing back and watching the refugees without expression.
He spied a ragtag knot of soldiers seated well back from the trail, almost at the edge of the flanking picket line. The company ignored the refugees and seemed busy with the task of coiling ropes. A few glanced up as Duiker arrived.
'Coltaine commands you join the refugees,' the historian said. 'No arguments—take off your helms, now—'
'Who's arguing?' one squat, wide soldier muttered.
'What are you planning with the ropes?' Duiker demanded.
The sapper looked up, his eyes narrow slashes in his wide, battered face. 'We did some reconnoitring of our own, old man. Now if you'd shut up we can get ready, right?'
Three soldiers appeared from the forest side, approaching at a jog. One carried a severed head by its braid, trailing threads of blood. 'This one's done his last nod at post,' the man commented, dropping his prize to thud and roll on the ground. No-one else took notice, nor did the three sappers report to anyone.
The entire company seemed to complete their preparations all at once, ropes around one shoulder, helms strapped to belts, crossbows readied, then hidden beneath loose raincapes and telaban. In silence they rose and began making their way towards the mass of refugees.
Duiker hesitated. He turned to look down at the crossing. The head of the refugee column had pushed out into the ford, which was proving waist-deep, at least forty paces wide, its bottom thick, cloying mud. Butterflies swarmed above the mass of humanity in sunlit explosions of pallid yellow. A dozen Wickan horsewarriors had been sent ahead to guide the column. Behind them came the wagons of the noble blood—the only refugees staying dry and above the chaotic tumult. The historian glanced over at the surging train where the sappers had gone but they were nowhere to be seen, swallowed up in the crowds. From somewhere farther up the trader track came the terrible lowing of cattle being slaughtered.
The flanking infantry were readying weapons—Coltaine was clearly anticipating a rearguard defence of the landing.
Still the historian hesitated. If he joined the refugees and the worst came to pass, the ensuing panic would be as deadly as any slaughter visited upon them by Korbolo Dom's forces. Hood's breath! We are now truly at that bastard's mercy.
A hand closed on his arm and he spun around to see his nameless marine at his side.
'Come on,' she said. 'Into the mob—we're to support the sappers.'
'In what? Nothing has befallen the refugees yet—and they're near to halfway across—'
'Aye, and look at the heads turning to look downstream. The rebels have made a floating bridge—no, you can't see it from here, but it's there, packed with pikemen—
'Pikemen? Doing what?"
'Watching. Waiting. Come on, lover, the nightmare's about to begin.'
They joined the mass of refugees, entered that human current as it poured down towards the landing. A sudden roar and muted clash of weapons announced that the rearguard had been struck. The tide's momentum increased. Packed within that jostling chaos, Duiker could see little to either side or behind—but the slope ahead was revealed, as was the River
Vathar itself, which they seemed to be sweeping towards with the swiftness of an avalanche. The entire ford was packed with refugees. Along the edges people were being pushed into deeper water—Duiker saw bobbing heads and arms struggling in the sludge, the current dragging them ever closer to the pikemen on the bridge.
A great cry of dismay rose from those on the river, faces now turning upstream to something the historian could not yet see.
The dozen horsewarriors gained the clearing on the opposite bank. He watched them frantically nocking arrows as they turned towards the line of trees farther up the bank. Then the Wickans were reeling, toppling from their mounts, feathered shafts jutting from their bodies. Horses screamed and went down.
The nobles' wagons clacked and clattered ashore, then stopped as the oxen pulling them sank down beneath a swarm of arrows.
The ford was blocked.
Panic now gripped the refugees, descending in a human wave down to the landing. Bellowing, Duiker was helpless as he was carried along into the yellow-smeared water. He caught a glimpse of what approached from upstream—another floating bridge, packed with pikemen and archers. Crews on both banks gripped ropes, guiding the bridge as the current drew it ever closer to the ford.
Arrows ripped through the clouds of whirling butterflies, descended on the mass of refugees. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to go.
The historian found himself within a nightmare. All around him, unarmoured civilians died in that ghastly whisper and clatter. The mob surged in every direction now, caught
in terrified, helpless eddies. Children vanished underfoot, trampled down into the turbid water.
A woman fell back against Duiker. He wrapped his arms around her in an effort to keep her upright, then saw the arrow that had driven through the babe in her arms, then into her chest. He cried out in horror.
The marine appeared at his side, thrusting a reach of rope into his hands. 'Grab this!' she shouted. 'Hold on tight—we're through—don't let go!'
He twisted the rope around his wrists. Ahead of the marine, the strand stretched on, between the heaving bodies and out of sight. He felt it tighten, was pulled forward.
Arrows rained down ceaselessly. One grazed the historian's cheek, another bounced from the leather-sheathed chain protecting his shoulder. He wished to every god that he had donned his helm instead of tying it at his belt—from which it had long since been torn free and lost.
The pressure on the rope was steady, relentless, dragging him through the mob, over people and under them. More than once he was pulled down under the water, only to rise again half a dozen paces later, choking and coughing. At one point, as he went over the top of the seething press, he caught the flash of sorcery from somewhere ahead, a thundering wave, then he was yanked back down, twisting his shoulder to slide roughly between two screaming civilians.
The journey seemed unending, battering him with surreal glimpses until he was numb, feeling like a wraith being pulled through the whole of human history, an endless procession of pain, suffering and ignoble death. Fate's cast of chance was iron-barbed, sky-sent, or the oblivion of all that waited below. There is no escape—another lesson of history. Mortality is a visitor never gone for long—
Then he was being dragged over wet, muddy corpses and blood-slicked clay. The arrows no longer descended from the sky but sped low over the ground, striking wood and flesh on all sides. Duiker rolled through a deep, twisting rut, then came up against the spoked wheel of a wagon.
'Let go the rope!' the marine commanded. 'We're here Duiker—' Here.
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