‘Now we’re in for it,’ Len murmured.
‘You think this is it?’ Suth answered, low.
‘Yeah. The main force must be in striking distance.’
‘So – when?’
The saboteur frowned his uncertainty. ‘Sooner than we’d like, no doubt.’
The Adjunct gestured then, suddenly, catching all their eyes. The young man was pointing off to the dark. Then he crooked a finger. Out from a slim shadow between rocks straightened Faro. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. The three officers spoke briefly then picked their way back. Captain Betteries lingered long enough to give Faro a snarled dressing-down before heading off. Their squad ‘scout’ leaned back against a rock, pulled out his short-stemmed pipe, and began packing it.
Suth cast Len and Yana a questioning look: both shrugged, so he headed over. Faro ignored him while he worked on his pipe. ‘Well?’ Suth asked after a time. The man didn’t answer. ‘What do you want? A damned bag of Imperial suns?’
The man glanced up, bared his bright pointed teeth. ‘A little wet behind the ears to be makin’ demands, don’t you think?’
‘I’d say we’re squadmates now and it would help the squad to know the plan.’
Faro snorted, looked past Suth to Len and Yana, both of whom were now standing, shrugged. He clenched the pipe in his teeth, unlit. ‘Tomorrow night. The main columns are gonna dash in.’
‘And us?’ Len asked, stepping up next to Suth.
Faro smiled again, this time evilly, Suth thought. ‘You boys have to make sure that bridge is still there when it’s time for Greymane to cross it. That or get blown up with it.’
‘Blown up?’
Faro nodded, grinning his pointy grin. ‘Oh yeah. There’ve been rumours of Moranth Black forces among these Roolians and Sixth veterans. Now it’s confirmed. Odds are they got their munitions too.’ He raised his chin in a question to Len. ‘How do you like that? Bein’ on the receivin’ end for a change, hey?’
The old saboteur kept his face carefully blank. ‘Let’s not start a panic,’ he drawled. ‘How’d you get spotted anyway? Thought you were better than that.’
Faro just pulled his lips back even more. ‘That Adjunct. Talk is he was Crimson Guard. They say the ghosts of their own dead watch over them.’
For some reason the idea of that sent a cold shiver down Suth’s back. It seemed to him that that would be the last thing he’d want.
*
Ussü had to bring all his waning influence to bear just to be allowed entrance into the main keep of the Three Sisters. Once within he was kept waiting through half the night while he knew not what was discussed in the Envoy’s hall. How to reconquer Skolati, perhaps. Or such premature nonsense.
Finally, past the mid-night ring on the candles, he was summoned into the Envoy’s presence. Members of the Lady’s militant religious order, these Guardians of the Faith, stood watch at the door to his quarters. Escorted in, Ussü bowed. He blinked in the glare of many more candles and lamps, then found the Envoy warming his hands at a brazier. The man was surrounded by sumptuousness: woven hangings depicted scenes from the Lady’s ages-long war against the enemy, the demon Stormriders. Thick rugs and cushions lay strewn about. Bright icons of the Lady gleamed on tables, on the walls, each with its own cluster of slim white candles representing the purity of faith. The Envoy wore a heavy wrap of dark wool though the room was stifling. Two Guardians of the Faith stood within to either side of the doors. ‘This is my devotional time, High Mage,’ the man said. ‘So please be quick.’
Ussü decided to try compliance first and therefore set aside all complaints or cutting remarks. ‘I have been busy, m’lord …’ for an instant the chilling vision of five pale corpses piled haphazardly near the wall of a tent flashed before his vision but this he also thrust aside and continued, ‘scrying, m’lord. Scrying our surroundings. Attempting to divine what is to come. I have glimpsed the enemy. They are close. I believe an attack is imminent.’ He took a cautious breath, and in the Envoy’s silence, plunged on: ‘M’lord, you must withdraw from the east shore. Any retreat, or rout, will press our forces into the river. Only a handful will make it across the bridge—’
Envoy Enesh-jer had shot up a hand for silence. He faced Ussü, glaring what the mage could only name hatred. ‘You have scried, have you?’ Taking a step closer, he studied Ussü as if he were an object of disgust. ‘Why Our Lady tolerates your perverted dabbling in these demon-arts is beyond my understanding. However, her tolerance and compassion is infinite. And so I must honour it. As to the deployment of our forces, mage … you have far overstepped your authority. You have no say in this at all.’
Ussü almost gaped his amazement. Did the Envoy actually believe what he was saying? He’d thought all these airs mere calculation for advancement. Had the man in truth found faith? It could happen, Ussü supposed. But ‘dabbling in arts’? What nonsense was this? Clenching his teeth to keep his voice low, Ussü grated, ‘Enesh-jer … stop pretending to be a local. You were born in Gris. I knew you as a young lieutenant in the Sixth. What insanity is this you are talking?’
The Envoy flinched away as if struck. He waved to the guards. ‘Leave us!’
As the Guardians closed the door behind them Enesh-jer lurched to a table, poured himself a glass of wine and downed it. This seemed to calm him. ‘Ussü – you are a mystery to me. Where are all our other cadre mages, hm? Where have they gone?’ And he laughed. ‘Oh, yes! I remember. I was there. The Lady’s power, Ussü! She has crushed them all. She is paramount here. No one can touch her. She is real! What are these other so-called gods? Hood? A bony face on the merely inevitable. Burn? Nothing more than lip service to an ancient hearth-spirit. And Shadowthrone?’ He laughed. ‘Well, I need not even comment. Ussü, what are all these other gods but rivals angered by her supremacy?’ He thrust an arm to the east. ‘And them! Out there! They too will fall to her. No one can defeat her in these lands. Over all these ages everyone who has tried has fallen! Even he … even Greymane was thrust aside.’ The Envoy opened his arms as if to say none of this mattered anyway. ‘And even if we should lose Rool to this new invasion force, the Korelri remain. You know what the Stormguard are like. What they can do. They cannot be defeated!’
Ussü could only shake his head. So, not so much faith as a bowing in submission to a greater power. Yet is there any distinction? Is not worship no more than a prettified effort at cringing ingratiation? Perhaps now is not the time for the philosophical question. No matter. These arguments I know and understand. ‘Enesh … the Stormguard only defend the wall. They will not fight your war for you.’
The Envoy now smiled with a kind of animal slyness. He stepped close. Sweat gleamed on his narrow hatchet face. His eyes were wide, the pupils huge. He took Ussü’s hands in his. ‘Poor fool! How you cling to your delusions. Yet you too have adapted to these new truths.’ He raised Ussü’s arms to reveal the blood staining the sleeves of his robes. The stigmata of his latest … efforts. ‘You too are implicated, friend. You too are with us. Up to your bloody elbows.’
And in the man’s glazed eyes, Ussü thought he saw the Lady there, laughing at him.
*
Rillish leaned back against a sun-warmed rock and stretched out his leg to rub the thigh. A cold clear night was before them. He was more exhausted than he could ever remember – day after day of continuous riding back and forth, joking, cajoling, outright browbeating – whatever it took to get the troops moving again. And his leg had never really recovered from that old wound. It was so numb he knew he couldn’t stand even if he wanted to.
How he longed for a fire! A hot meal, something to warm his hands over. But some bastard had forbidden all fires. That bastard being he. But they’d arrived. They’d made it. And though tired, wrung out, he judged his men and women angry and damned irritated enough to still look forward to a fight.
And the entire time young Kyle, the Adjunct, had ridden with him, though usually keeping to the extreme lead elem
ents. He was an awkward rider, clearly not used to horses, but freakishly hardy, able to ride all day then walk the perimeter through the night. In his opinion the youth may not have the tactical experience to command, but what he did have could not be learned: that certain something that made men and women willing to follow his orders. Rillish saw how the troopers regarded him, the deference, the way their eyes tracked that weapon at his hip. It was similar to the way they acted in Greymane’s presence.
It was a regard that were he, Rillish, a lesser man would drive him to a petty and galling resentment. He pulled a boot off and wriggled his toes. Good thing he wasn’t so inclined. He was just a gentleman trooper, here to do his people right, then retire and get contentedly fat. He may not like the Adjunct’s choosing to accompany the squads tasked with preserving the bridge, but he could hardly stop him. Another commander might have taken the action as some sort of personal affront, or dismissed the youth as a glory-chaser. But the truth was that the contingent had a low chance for survival, and the Adjunct’s presence could help greatly. He would have gone himself but for Greymane’s orders placing him in command of the attack meant to draw attention from the bridge teams. He would lead the probe against the extreme easterly lines while the majority of his forces waited in the north for a drive to the bridge. Ahead of everyone, though, five squads would float down the Ancy to the bridge and once there act to preserve it from any possible demolition. Captain Betteries had outlined what he had in mind and he was satisfied with the man’s choices. It would be a small force counting on secrecy, but should something arise signals had been established.
Rillish rummaged in a saddlebag and unwrapped an old bruised pear. Biting into it reverently, he held the sweet flesh of the fruit in his mouth, tried to ease the tension from his shoulders. Nectar. Absolute nectar. He could look forward to four hours or so of sleep before the night attack. And he would sleep; the troops knew their jobs. He was now in that enviable, but difficult, command position of seeming irrelevancy. The challenge for him was to refrain from interfering and to trust the men and women to do the right thing.
Another problem was that on paper he commanded all the Fourth’s elements. But in truth his charging advance had spread his command over several days’ march. Flash floods had cut off sections of the columns, delaying their advance for days. Tremors had sent landslides across paths down steep valley sides, mangling and stranding units. It was as if the very land were battling them – at least here in the north. The result was that he currently had with him at the leading edge of his spear-like dash less than three thousand soldiers of the Fourth. Indeed, had the Skolati mustered the will and coordination for a counter-offensive, they could have found him embarrassingly exposed.
But they hadn’t. That had been Greymane’s throw. He had judged the Skolati shattered and proceeded upon the assumption. And privately Rillish agreed. Not that he had to – it just made his job a little bit easier to bear.
Communiqués from the main body under Greymane put the van of his forces still two days’ march away – a distance the High Fist intended to cross in one day and night of continuous forced march beginning immediately. Thus Rillish’s orders. Hold until the High Fist arrived with the van. If they were to choose to destroy the bridge, they would do so tomorrow. Every hour thereafter strengthened Greymane’s position as more and more of the Fourth and the Eighth dribbled in.
These messengers also talked among the men before returning, and it appeared that Greymane’s reputation among the troops had gained an even greater burnishing. Soldiers, being the inveterate superstitious lot they were, attributed their good luck in avoiding the worst of these strange manifestations of flood and earth tremors to Greymane’s, and his High Mage’s, protection. A comparison Rillish might also choose to resent. But he was of the mind that anything that strengthened the morale of the troops was to be encouraged, even if he personally came out the worse for it.
He finished the pear, said goodnight to his aides, then rolled up in his blanket and promptly fell asleep.
*
At their camp among the rocks Suth sat with the rest of the 17th and thought about what to do before the night wake-up call. They and four other squads had been selected to make for the bridge. Some fifty or so men and women, give or take. He doubted, for example, that Faro would show, though Pyke was still with them – to everyone’s disgust. Should he try to sleep? Why bother when he knew he wouldn’t? He eyed Wess, who was taking his time preparing a long-stemmed pipe. The herbs going into that bowl might help him sleep but he couldn’t face the river half numb. To one side Dim was already asleep, while Lard was steadily working through his remaining stash of food. Sergeant Goss sat in low conversation with Len and Keri; discussing the bridge no doubt.
Then Pyke sent up a low laugh, pointing aside. ‘Look who’s here, Yana. It’s your boyfriend! Dragging his sorry arse back for a grab at yours.’
It was a stoop-shouldered hulking trooper from the 5th, shaggy-headed like the great horned cattle of the Dal Hon savannah. Suth couldn’t remember the fellow’s name. Gipe, something like that. Yana stood, flicked Pyke a gesture, faced the fellow hands on hips.
‘What have you got to say, then?’ she demanded.
The fellow hung his head, kicked at the ground. ‘Sorry. I guess.’
‘Sorry,’ Yana echoed. She crossed her arms. ‘You’re sorry?’
‘Yeah!’ He looked up all sullen; then, eyeing Yana, his expression melted away to a kind of hurt mope. ‘Yeah.’
Shaking her head, Yana stepped up to take his head in her hands and planted a great kiss on his lips. ‘Silly fool! You just had to say so!’
The consternation mixed with delight that played across the man’s unguarded face almost made Suth laugh out loud. Helpless. Utterly helpless in her hands.
They linked arms and Yana scooped up her bedroll as they walked off.
‘Brainless oaf,’ Pyke said. ‘Probably doesn’t even remember what he’s supposed to be sorry for.’
‘It ain’t the what of it that matters,’ Wess commented from where he lay on his side, eyes closed, pipe cradled gently in one hand.
Pyke wrinkled his face. ‘What in Hood’s name is that supposed to mean?’
Keri walked up holding a blanket at her shoulders. She was eyeing the retreating couple and stopped before Suth. ‘They make up again?’
Suth nodded. ‘Yeah. Again?’
The woman had a strange sort of half-smile on her lips as she looked down at him. ‘Yeah. They always make up before every standing battle then have a big ol’ fight afterwards and break up.’
Suth snorted. These Malazan soldiers – the oddest lot of misfits all jammed together.
‘Me, I get all tense. Can’t sleep. What about you?’
Shrugging, Suth had almost said no, not really, when he looked up at the woman standing over him in the blanket, her shirt untucked and untied, and the words died in his mouth. He swallowed and stammered, ‘Yeah. Me too. Tense.’
The smile broadened and as she reached down he reached up and they entwined arms. ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘I know a way to work off all that tension. And bring your blanket – I don’t want to freeze my arse off.’
*
A knock on the front pole of his tent woke Ussü. He rose, threw on his thick outer robes over his shirt and trousers, and called out, ‘Yes?’
‘Word from Borun, High Mage. A disturbance in the east.’
He raised the flaps; a Black Moranth trooper bowed. ‘Take me to him.’
Borun occupied a slight rise in the valley slope below the Three Sisters fort along the descent to the Ancy. The vantage offered a view of Three Sisters town, the bridge, and a slice of the far shore where the Roolian forces were dug in. Since it was night all Ussü could see were the dancing shadows and dots of light of torches moving far from the shore. ‘What is it?’ he asked the Moranth Commander.
‘Listen.’
Ussü slowed his breathing, worked on calming his pulse. H
e reached out to the east with his senses, though careful not to draw upon his Warren. Not yet, in any case. Then over the churning of the river as it charged south he heard it: the definite muted roar of contact. ‘I thought them at least a day away yet,’ he breathed, the air pluming in the chill night.
‘Could be an advance force sent ahead to probe us,’ Borun offered.
‘Why announce their presence before they’re fully assembled?’
The Moranth commander said nothing. It was his way of letting Ussü know that he had no idea.
‘The … ah … packets? They are in place?’
Borun nodded. ‘All set.’
‘Very good. You have sent someone, I assume?’
‘To ascertain the character of the contact, yes. She should be returning soon.’
‘Ah – of course.’
The matt-black helm turned to him. ‘High Mage, the Envoy has committed nearly fifteen thousand troops to the far shore. We cannot abandon them.’
Yet, Ussü added. ‘Very good, Commander.’ He peered round the position; Borun’s tent stood nearby. ‘You wouldn’t have a stool, would you?’
‘Of course, High Mage.’
Shortly afterwards a Moranth Black trooper came jogging up. He – she, Ussü corrected himself – saluted. ‘It appears to be a small force of no more than a few thousand probing the road defences, Commander. The Roolians are holding them off.’
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