Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  ‘Or are the Malazans not pressing as hard as they might?’ Ussü cut in.

  The scout turned her helm to Borun, who gave a small wave, granting permission for the woman to answer. Why the permission, Ussü wondered. Ah, yes! He’d asked for an opinion.

  ‘Hard to say, High Mage,’ she began, slowly, ‘but if I must offer an interpretation, I would say that no, the invaders are not pressing as hard as they might. Though their small number would rule out advancing as they would be overwhelmed,’ she added.

  Invaders. How odd to hear that from our mouths when we ourselves are invaders. Yet he nodded at the Moranth scout’s words. To Borun, he said, ‘Then why attack at all? A waste of men and women when they have no chance for reinforcements.’

  The blunt bullet helm cocked slightly as Borun thought. ‘Could be an impetuous officer, or one hungering to make a mark for him or herself. New to combat.’

  ‘If I were Greymane I’d cashier the fool.’

  ‘Let us hope this officer’s uncle is far too important for that,’ Borun suggested, with the closest thing to humour Ussü had yet heard from the man.

  ‘You don’t know Greymane,’ Ussü said darkly.

  *

  They were given logs to grip for the trip downriver. As it was the winter season the Ancy was low. Great boulders thrust up amid its wide length and intermittent rapids foamed its surface. Suth was told he should be able to touch bottom most of the way down – if he reached for it. Their equipment they stashed in rolls and tied to the logs. In teams of three they slogged out through the shallows to the deeper, swift-flowing centre channel. The cold mountain water took his breath away and stung as if burning. The river stretched before him like churning night beneath the stars. It humped and hissed where rocks lurked just beneath its surface. It pulled at him as if eager to pin him under them.

  One by one they lifted their legs and allowed the current to draw them along. Slowly at first, Suth was pulled around submerged boulders; then more swiftly, as if down a slick chute, he picked up speed. He tried to hold his feet out before him and the trick worked a number of times as hidden rocks merely drove his knees into his chest and barked his shins. He clenched his teeth against the pain and raised his head for a glimpse ahead of the dark span of the bridge: nothing yet. A curl turned him, and as he sped along backwards he used one hand to pull himself back round. As he did so he caught a glimpse of the timber undersides of the bridge almost overhead and the sight nearly made him let go of the log in shock. A small island of boulders lay ahead, the water cresting around them, and he reached down for bottom here to slow himself. The water slammed him into the rocks, crushing the breath from him. He hugged the log, mouth open and head down as water foamed over him. He hoped to all his Dal Hon gods that anyone peering over the side of the bridge would merely see a length of driftwood jammed among the rocks.

  Now what? He was pressed here as tight as if strapped in. He tried to edge himself out but the current kept pushing him back into his hollow. Come sun-up he would be sure to be spotted – if he wasn’t dead from exposure by then!

  Something struck him a blow and for an instant he thought he’d been hit by a crossbow bolt from the bridge. But it was a length of rope, pitifully thin, pressed up against him. Struggling, he wrapped the rope round one arm as many times as he could then gripped the log again.

  A yank almost dislocated his shoulder. Ye gods, have a care! The pressure was steady and agonizing. The rope cut into the flesh and muscle of his arm. He felt a tingling as its circulation was cut off. Slowly, the excruciating pull overcame the water’s pressure and he popped free of the trap like a cork. He could only float limply, hardly able to keep a grip of the log one-handed. Hands drew him out of the water.

  ‘Who’s this guy?’ a voice whispered.

  ‘He’s with Goss’ bunch.’

  ‘Hunh.’ A cuff on his cheek. ‘Well, welcome to the 6th.’

  Through numb lips Suth slurred, ‘Have to get to my squad.’

  A dark shape over him snorted. ‘No way. You sit tight. We’re on the job now ’cause this bridge is mined to blow.’

  *

  Ussü jerked awake at a touch on his shoulder; he’d fallen asleep leaning forward against his staff. Those efforts earlier must have taken more out of me than I suspected. And I’m not getting any younger. It was nearly dawn; the eastern horizon held that same pink you could find inside a seashell. Ussü felt the chill of the winter night painfully in his hands and feet. He nodded to the Moranth trooper, and crossed to where Borun was in conversation with others of his command.

  ‘No sortie?’ Borun was asking.

  ‘None ordered. Just repair of the lines and retrenchment.’

  Borun bowed to Ussü. ‘The day’s regards, High Mage.’

  ‘The engagement is over?’

  ‘Yes, some time ago. A slow withdrawal of the invaders.’

  ‘A slow withdrawal? And the Envoy did not press them, maintain contact?’

  ‘No. Orders forbade it.’

  Ussü was astonished. ‘Why?’

  ‘Perhaps he fears an ambush or a counterattack.’

  ‘And so he hides behind his lines.’ The foolishness of it was dismaying. ‘We’ve abandoned all initiative. Given it to them.’

  ‘True,’ Borun granted. ‘But they do have to come to us. Perhaps you could say time is on our side.’

  It was dawning upon Ussü that the Black commander had the annoying capacity of being able to see all sides of any tactical situation. ‘Let us hope so,’ he eventually replied. Then he cleared his throat; he was fading without his morning herbal infusion and hot spiced tea. ‘In the meantime, I will be in my tent. Send word of any development.’

  Borun inclined his helmed head. ‘Very good, High Mage.’

  * * *

  Devaleth knew she was no veteran of land campaigns, but it appeared to her that Greymane, in his dash to reach the Roolian border and the advance element under Rillish, was making excellent time.

  They had a lot of ground to make up. The High Fist had lingered for over a week to sort out the new Malazan military rulership and accept the surrender of Skolati elements that came trickling in. Then he waited, jaws bunched impatiently, while the remaining Skolati commanders scattered throughout the countryside bickered and undermined each other until finally, disheartened and demoralized, the army failed to field an organized resistance.

  Once it became clear that no pending threat remained, Greymane assembled ten thousand soldiers from the Fourth and Eighth and immediately set out for the Roolian border. Fist Khemet Shul remained behind with orders to consolidate, assign garrisons, and follow as soon as prudent.

  And at what a pace! As horses were rare everyone walked – and walked – and walked. Greymane rose with the dawn and did not stop walking until after nightfall. Meals – a crust of stale bread scavenged from an abandoned village, or a scrap of dried meat – were taken on the stride. The man was utterly relentless; those who could not keep up were left behind. Soon for the soldiers it became a matter of pride to see to it that that would not happen to them. More than one trooper limped past Devaleth leaving a trail of bloody prints.

  Devaleth was one of the handful mounted – albeit on a donkey. Some no doubt thought her lucky, but she knew the truth: it was a kind of torture. The animal’s spine was like a knife and the beast would deliberately stop suddenly and dip its head in an effort to tumble her upside down. Whenever this happened soldiers nearby suggested a knife to the hindquarters, or a sharp stick to one ear, but for some reason she could not bring herself to beat the animal and so it had its way. She became resigned to it, thinking herself still far better off than the poor footslogging regulars.

  In deference to her position as mage she also had one of the two tents; the other served the mobile infirmary, which followed along the route of march drawn by a team of oxen. All other logistical support and followers – the blacksmiths, armourers and cooks – Greymane had left behind in his utter determinatio
n to catch up. For the rankers, it was scavenge on the march or starve. Devaleth saw abandoned overgrown garden plots pillaged, roaming livestock claimed, and even a wild ubek doe brought down by javelins and butchered on the spot, haunches carried off over shoulders for the cook fires.

  Each night she had to track down Greymane. She’d eventually find him wrapped in his muddied travelling cloak, lying among the troopers next to some fire or other. His long ash-grey hair would be almost luminous in the night, and likewise the beard he was growing. Devaleth would ease herself down near the fire and from the edge of her gaze usually spend the evening studying the puzzle that was this man.

  It seemed to her that he was in his element. Here, in the field, sharing the company of the regulars. Clearly, this was where he was most comfortable. No wonder he’d been so eager to get away. Yet what of the men and women of his command? She knew some officers liked to fancy themselves as being of the common people, with a common touch and able to rub shoulders with the average rankers, when they clearly actually lacked all such gifts. From the glances and bearing of all those the High Fist talked to or sat among Devaleth saw that he had their hearts. In this manner he fit the mould of the old Malazan commanders she’d heard of: the legendary Dujek, the gruff Urko, or the revered Whiskeyjack.

  Yet on this subcontinent he was the most reviled criminal in history. Here was the man who, when she was a student at the Mare academy, dared to approach the enemy, the Riders, who would wipe them all from the face of the earth. Was he an utter solipsist? No, he did not strike her as such. Heartless sociopath? Again, no. Or to be pitied as a pathetic gullible fool? No, not that.

  Then … what?

  He was a mystery. A man who went his own way and be damned to the consequences. She didn’t know whether to admire the fellow, or to be profoundly terrified of him.

  That dilemma took a new twist when, on the fifth day of marching, the ground shook. It was a common tremor; Devaleth was used to them. Local folk superstition attributed them to the Lady’s struggle against the Riders. This one appeared to have been centred nearby as the ground opened up beneath the rear elements and many tumbled into a gaping sinkhole. Soon after this the van was crossing a stream when a flash flood stormed down with stunning fury and swept some fifty soldiers away. It was the first of many more disasters: ravines collapsing, rockslides down steep valley sides. It was as if the very ground were revolting against them.

  Yet none of these manifestations struck near where Greymane marched. A region of peace and calm seemed to encircle him. No tremor could be felt. No twisting ridgeback descent was suddenly swept out from beneath his feet. Sensibly, as the days passed, and the tremors intensified, the column came to constrict around wherever Greymane happened to be walking. And since Devaleth accompanied the High Fist, she was always caught up in the crush.

  The ninth night of the march she sat at a fire with the High Fist. She had wrapped her robes and blankets around her, arms tight about her knees; the cold had intensified as they approached the windward side of the island. During a moment of relative privacy she cleared her throat and ventured, low: ‘She reaches for you but she cannot catch hold. Why is that?’

  The man’s ice-cold eyes slid to her and the wide jaws slowly un-bunched. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘We both know what I’m talking about.’

  The lips pulled down, granting acknowledgement. ‘Do you know what the troopers think?’

  ‘What does that have to do with it?’

  He smiled as if having achieved some sort of victory. ‘What have you noticed recently? How have the boys and girls been treating you?’

  Devaleth frowned. What insanity was this? Certainly they were talking to her now, offering advice on how to ride. And she’d noticed she was never alone. A number of them now flanked her all through the day. And they offered bowls of berries and hot strips of meat from whatever animal happened to be on the fire at night.

  He leaned close to lower his voice. ‘They think you’re the one defending them.’

  She stared at the High Fist, appalled. ‘But that’s not true!’

  He raised a hand for silence. ‘That doesn’t matter.’ He eased back; his gaze returned to the fire where it usually rested, studying the flames. ‘I’ve come to understand that the truth isn’t really what’s important.’ He cocked his head, his cold blue gaze edging back to her. ‘What really matters is what people come to agree is the truth.’

  Devaleth found she could not hold his gaze and glanced away. Was that a message for her? For everyone? Was everything, then, a lie? Yet he had not denied that he did approach the Riders.

  ‘Get some sleep now,’ he said, rolling over and wrapping himself in his thick cloak. ‘We’ll reach the Ancy valley tomorrow or the next day. There’ll be no sleep then.’

  * * *

  Suth was freezing on his perch under the bridge. The wind whipped unimpeded through the wooden girders he and members of the 6th squad sat among like miserable monkeys. It had dried him but sucked all the warmth from him in doing so. Constant traffic rattled and groaned overhead across the squared timbers of the bridge bedding. Dust and gravel rained down, threatening to make him cough. He hugged himself, adjusted his numb buttocks, and tried to pull some slack from the rope securing him to his seat. Beneath his feet the blue-grey waters of the Ancy churned past.

  They’d climbed what the saboteurs named ‘piers’: timber frames filled with rocks and rubble. The bridge rested atop five of them. They hid high among the braces and joists of the underframing, safe from the eyes of those up and down the shores. Still, it made Suth twitch to see the enemy collecting water and urinating just a stone’s throw from the most shoreward pier.

  He and the 6th occupied the top of one of the central piers standing in the deepest water. Elsewhere, the second pier eastward, the rest of the 17th had taken up a similar position. He’d tried slithering out to rejoin them but the 6th’s sergeant, Twofoot, had signed an enraged no.

  And so they waited, hidden, while the saboteurs did whatever it was they were supposed to do. Which so far looked to Suth like absolutely nothing. The 6th’s, Thumbs and Lorr, had pulled themselves out to a bundle roped to the bridge’s supports midway between two piers and there they’d remained all morning, pointing to various parts of it and whispering.

  Bored and numb with cold, Suth turned to the nearest trooper and whispered, ‘What’re they up to?’

  This heavy infantryman kept some kind of leaf-and-nut concoction jammed in one cheek. ‘Checkin’ it out,’ came the laconic reply between chews.

  No kidding. They’ve been doing that all morning. ‘Yeah. But what’re they gonna do?’

  A shrug. ‘Gotta check for boobytraps.’

  ‘Then what?’ Suth whispered again.

  ‘I dunno. Disarm ’em, I suppose.’

  Suth sat back, defeated by the soldier’s denseness – or at least his unrelenting pose of it. ‘What’s your name, anyway?’

  The man chewed for a time as if giving the question some thought, then said, ‘Fish.’

  Fish. Suth eyed the fellow, the thick arm slung through a triangular gap between timbers, the wide bovine jaws working. Fish? ‘Why Fish?’

  ‘I dunno. The drill sergeant asked about my family so I said, “We fish.” So he says, okay. You Fish.’

  Suth stared. Remarkable. All without the slightest inflection. He would’ve liked to have pressed the fellow to see how far he could carry it; but perhaps that was enough talk as Twofoot glared murder at him whenever he opened his mouth. He sat back again in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. ‘Right.’

  Something moved over his head and he jerked a flinch that nearly dropped him from his perch to hang over the river like a piece of idiotic fruit. It was a saboteur, a woman, pulling herself along a timber, skinny in muddy leathers. She let herself down next to him to take up a squatting pose, arms over her head gripping the wood. She winked. He nodded back, uncertain. He’d seen her be
fore: damned ugly with snaggled teeth, bulbous eyes that looked able to peer in two directions at once. Long hair pulled back and tied so tight as to make her eyes bulge even more. Urfa. The saboteur lieutenant.

  ‘What’s up?’ he barely mouthed.

  ‘Time to start the show.’ And she bared her yellow uneven teeth.

  ‘You going to drop the munitions into the river?’

  The woman looked absolutely horrified. She eyed him as if he were crazy. ‘Hood no! We’re gonna keep them.’ Then she swung out under the horizontal timber, hand over hand, nothing beneath her but river, shaking her head at his stupidity.

  Well how was I supposed to know? He watched while Urfa joined the short, rotund Thumbs and the equally lanky Lorr on their crowded perch. The three of them began pulling out tools from various pockets all about their trousers, vests and jerkins. Elsewhere, Len and Keri would be starting this very process. The idea of Keri leaning over a munition and being blown to bits made him squirm. Still, the woman had a gentle deft touch – if that counted for anything. And if things went awry with Thumbs here he’d be just as dead as well.

  *

  Ussü was washing his hands at a basin when Borun ducked into his tent. The Moranth commander looked at the sheet-covered body on the central table, then at Ussü. ‘Any news?’

  Ussü frowned his disappointment. ‘No. None. This one died immediately. Shock. Sometimes the heart just gives out. Have you anyone else?’

  ‘We do have a captive …’

  ‘Yes? Bring him. I must see what’s going on.’

  The Moranth Black officer gripped his belt in both gauntleted hands and was quiet for a time, his gaze on the body. Ussü knew his friend well enough to read reluctance and a kind of vague unease. ‘Yes?’

  ‘She is … Malazan.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’ Unease on two fronts. ‘Do not worry, my friend. We are at war. We must do what we must.’