Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  The matt-dark helm inclined a slow acquiescence. ‘Very good, High Mage. She will be sent.’ Borun ducked from the tent.

  Ussü turned to his aides, pointed to the body. ‘Get rid of that. Prepare the table.’

  Yurgen bowed. ‘Yes, High Mage.’

  When the captive was delivered Ussü was disappointed by how tiny she was. Not much room in the chest cavity to reach the heart. He gestured for his apprentices to prepare her. She was gagged, her arms stretched out to either side and strapped, legs bound straight. Ussü found himself studying her face much more closely than he had any prior subject. Hazel eyes bored into his, full of animal fury. Spirit. And tawny. Were you of Tali perhaps? A soldier? But so gracile! A scout, possibly. Yes, probably so. Still, there is hope. This conceit some have of males being stronger than females – not borne out by the evidence. Women always endure longer than men. Through privation, stress, even wounds. And so perhaps my efforts will bear fruit.

  Taking his sharpest instrument, an obsidian-bladed scalpel, he cut open her ragged shirt, exposing her side. Then, feeling his way with his fingers, he slit down vertically between the ridges of two ribs. He held out a hand: ‘Spacer.’

  The wood and brass instrument was set into his palm. Probing with his fingers he found purchase on the ribs. The subject convulsed, gurgling an agonized scream; Ussü flinched away. Damn. Have to start all over again. ‘Stop her from moving!’

  ‘Yes, High Mage.’ Yurgen and Temeth leaned on the slight woman, using their weight to steady her torso.

  ‘Very good. Let’s begin again, shall we …’

  At the first turn of the spacing screws the subject let out a lacerating incoherent howl of anguish then slumped, unconscious. Thank the Lady! Now I can concentrate. He pressed ahead with the procedure while he could. When his questing fingertips brushed the woman’s heart he felt his Warren come to him with a power he hadn’t felt in decades. Head down close to the subject’s naked shoulder, eyes shut, his inner sight pierced the edges of Mockra and flew free.

  And almost immediately the Lady was there to greet him. It was as if a cat had taken him by the nape of his neck. Her voice seemed to stroke as if searching for the perfect place to clench.

  Ussü. My loyal servant. What blasphemy is this you practise in my name? Abandon these false delusions and join me!

  He could not speak; was utterly helpless. And she knew it.

  You trust too much to my affection and forbearance. It is only …

  The voice broke off. He sensed a swirling shift as crushing pressures built around him. He glimpsed something bright amid mist. A blade. A bright blade.

  Another is here … An interloper! She is here. This is intolerable! How dare she!

  Something snapped round his neck like a vice. Blinking, he forced open his eyes to see that the subject had somehow slipped an arm free of the strapping and was now strangling him with an inhuman strength. Yurgen! Temeth! Where are you!

  I will destroy the bitch!

  The subject’s head rolled over to face him, the eyes open but empty of life. Something fell free round the neck, a leather strap and pendant. The simple stone bore an engraved image: an open hand. Emblem of the Queen of Dreams! An image flickered in those staring glassy eyes, a presence. And Ussü felt soul-crushing shame.

  You have betrayed me, Ussü, another voice whispered to him. The sadness and regret borne in those words brought tears to his eyes. He felt himself fading from consciousness but behind the voice came faintly the rush of running water.

  No! This one’s mine!

  A blow and the iron band at his neck was yanked away. Someone supporting him. He clasped his throat, gasping for air. Borun, arm round him, sword bared and bloody. Ussü looked down: the woman’s torso, headless.

  ‘Speak,’ the Moranth commander demanded.

  Ussü was massaging his throat. His apprentices all lay fallen round the table as if slain where they stood. Stiffly, he knelt beside Yurgen, turned the youth’s head to peer into his eyes. Not lifeless. Alive. But blank. The mind wiped clean. Perhaps, as they say, Mockra is a child of High Thyr. Perhaps, as they whisper, the Enchantress knows no boundaries. ‘The bridge, Commander,’ he said, still kneeling. ‘I heard … water.’

  ‘Guards!’ the Moranth bellowed, storming from the tent.

  Ussü could not look away from those empty orbs. What was your last sight, Yurgen? Who did this? Was it truly the Enchantress? Perilous indeed is my … research. Yet I am helpless without it. What am I to do? Betrayer to both sides? In the end, is there to be no sanctuary, no refuge, for me?

  *

  The first Suth knew of any trouble was a change in tone within the general noise of the Roolian forces. Traffic over the bridge grated to a halt. Then a great many footsteps came thumping over the bed. Along the river’s shores a crowd of soldiers pressed down to the silt and gravel bars. He noted with a sick feeling that they all carried bows.

  Then pointing, yells, bows raised, fired. A storm of arrows flew to the tops of the most shoreward piers. ‘We’re spotted, lads and lasses,’ Twofoot called – just to make it official.

  No fucking kidding. Suth felt that his backside was now very exposed and very fat.

  ‘We gonna go for a dive?’ Fish called.

  Twofoot frowned a negative. ‘Naw – we’d all just get shot.’

  Scraping sounded once more high among the timber bracings and a black-armoured figure appeared, sword out, rope snaking up from its shoulders. Everyone stared, amazed. A Black Moranth?

  ‘Get the fucker!’ Twofoot bellowed.

  Suth launched himself up, only to be yanked backwards by the rope at his waist. He flailed like an upturned beetle, almost falling off the timber. Fish and the others of the 6th made for the Moranth while he, or she, scrambled hunched among the crossbeams for the saboteurs.

  Before any of the 6th could close, a crossbow bolt took the Moranth in the chest and it slipped from its perch to fall swinging and spinning from its rope. Lorr raised his crossbow from his shoulder, regarded the emptied weapon, then, with a shrug, dropped it to the milky-blue water below.

  ‘Ain’t you two finished yet?’ one of the 6th yelled.

  ‘Shut your Hood-damned mouth,’ Thumbs answered.

  Suth slit the rope at his waist, readied his weapon. Arrows pecked at the timbers around them. They were hiding amid the under-structure and it was a difficult shot for the archers as they had to aim high to make the distance. ‘Now what?’ he shouted to Twofoot. The 6th’s sergeant ignored him.

  Someone was yanking on the Black Moranth’s rope, attempting to raise it. But the body just kept banging upwards into a horizontal beam. After a few goes whoever was trying must’ve given up as the rope suddenly slithered hissing through the maze of timbers and the body plunged to disappear into the Ancy.

  ‘Boats,’ Fish noted laconically, and he raised his chin upriver.

  Suth shifted his seat. Sure enough, a whole flotilla of boats was being readied upriver on both shores. Archers were pouring into them. All my homeland gods damn them! Now what? They were completely trapped! Couldn’t go up. Couldn’t go down. Couldn’t stay. Whose bloody plan was this anyway?

  Thumbs swung free of the timber he’d been lying prone upon. A fat sack hung from his waist and a big grin was pasted on his broad face. ‘We’d better—’ An arrow appeared at his side, driven all the way up to the fletching. He grunted, peered at it amazed. ‘Just my friggin’ luck.’

  Lorr lunged for him but he let go and fell, looking up at them all, his face a pale oval. He disappeared into the opaque turbulence around the pier’s base.

  ‘Damn!’ Twofoot snarled. ‘Things are gettin’ discomfortable.’

  There’s an understatement. ‘Should we just jump?’ Suth called.

  Twofoot chewed on that. ‘You could jump on to one of the boats an’ sink it like the big sack of shit you are. Now keep your mouth shut!’

  Funny bastard. Wait till we get out of this. I’ll find you. And to think I
didn’t even bring my shield!

  Everyone tried to scramble even higher into the crossbeams to find cover from the bow-fire. Suth was shifting sideways to another bracing when the entire bridge jumped. The blast knocked him from the top of the timber. He clung on, swinging. Through the roaring in his ears he just made out a scream as someone fell. Pieces of shattered equipment and timber splashed into the river below.

  After a brief stunned silence Twofoot bellowed: ‘Up and at ’em!’

  Up! Up? A charge? What about me? Suth managed to hook a foot over the brace. The 6th was climbing to the edges of the under-framing, headed over the top. Wait for me, damn you!

  *

  From the hillside Rillish saw as well as everyone the surge of black figures charging the bridge; the wave of archers darkening the shores on both sides of the Ancy. The flight of bow-fire merely confirmed it. He straightened and beckoned an aide to him. ‘Last report on Greymane?’

  ‘Sometime tonight is the best estimate, Fist,’ the woman answered. Her eyes remained fixed on the distant bright ribbon of river. Then she swung her gaze to him, entreating. I was once so young; so eager. Now it is only the costs I think of. Would it be worth it? The maths is unforgiving: there are only some fifty of them, after all.

  But – as always – there is so much more than mere numbers at stake.

  Turning, he nodded to Captain Peles at his side. Then, to the aide: ‘Order the charge. We strike straight to the shore, cut south to the bridge.’

  The woman was already dashing off.

  ‘We’ll hold,’ Peles said, securing her wolf-visored helm.

  ‘We have no choice now.’

  *

  From his tent Ussü was watching the attack while sipping a restorative glass of hot tea boiled from a rare poppy found on the foothills of the Ebon range. He dropped the glass in shock when a blast shot smoke and debris blossoming over the bridge. Human figures, carts and equipment flew pinwheeling to splash soundlessly into the river.

  Damn the Lady! Was that them or us? Deliberate, or accidental?

  As the smoke cleared he could see that the explosion hadn’t completely severed that length of the bridge: a few thick braces still spanned the section. Accidental perhaps – not where it was meant. That, or we Malazans built damned well. Borun came jogging up. Beyond him, fighting had broken out all over the bridge. The rats driven up from cover. Can’t be too many of them.

  ‘Not us,’ the Moranth commander announced.

  ‘Unintentional.’

  ‘For those holding it – undoubtedly.’

  Hooves shook the ground as one of the Envoy’s entourage came thundering over to them and brought his mount to a savage halt. It was one of the self-styled Roolian noblemen: a Duke Kurran, or Kherran. The man pointed to Borun. ‘What treachery is this? You had your orders!’

  ‘We are not the only ones with munitions,’ Borun pointed out, his hoarse voice bland.

  ‘It is hardly in their interests to demolish the bridge!’

  ‘They would strand the forces on the far shore,’ Ussü observed. ‘With their retreat cut off they may surrender and we will have lost a third of our army.’

  The Duke glared as if Ussü had suggested that very plan to the enemy. Through clenched teeth he ground out: ‘The Overlord will deal with you.’ He yanked the horse’s reins around.

  ‘We shall be blamed no matter what,’ Borun said, his gaze on the retreating noble.

  A Black Moranth runner sped to Borun, spoke to him. The commander turned to Ussü, who was straining another glass of tea. ‘The advance force on the far shore is attacking.’

  This time Ussü managed not to spill his tea.

  *

  Suth pulled himself up and over the bridge railing to roll amid scattered equipment and splayed corpses. Smoke still plumed from the east end where for all he knew the bridge had collapsed. To the west lines had formed amid turned-up wagons. He threw himself into cover next to a cart, shouted to the nearest trooper, a woman binding her own arm: ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re holding this side,’ she answered; then, eyeing him, added, ‘The 17th?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She motioned ahead. ‘You’re further on.’

  He thanked her and crawled forward. Arrow-fire fell thick and indiscriminate. What do these archers think they’re doing? There’s more of them than us! Ahead, an empty length of bridge swept by bow-fire stood between him and the squads defending the barrier of wagons. He spotted Yana, Goss and Wess amid the fighting. Thank the Hearth-Goddess! It hadn’t been Keri … What to do? No shield! Oh well. Nothing for it! He hunched and bolted out across the open length of bridge.

  Arrows peppered the adze-hewn planks as he ran. He didn’t bother dodging; these were all just sent high in the hopes of hitting something. Close to the barrier white fire clamped its teeth into his right thigh and he fell rolling into cover.

  ‘That was foolish,’ someone said, righting him. It was the young Adjunct; he peered at Suth’s leg, frowned beneath his moustache. ‘You’ve broken the shaft.’ Suth couldn’t answer, the pain was so all-consuming. He thought he was going to throw up. ‘Urfa!’ The Adjunct stood. ‘She’ll take care of you.’

  The saboteur lieutenant threw herself down next to him. She pushed him flat none too gently. ‘Why am I doin’ this?’ she grumbled. ‘I’m no Hood-damned nurse!’ Suth was on his stomach with her lying on him, her elbow on his neck; he could hardly breathe let alone speak. A cold blade slashed the back of his trousers. ‘I see it!’ she announced. ‘Just because I’ve done a few amputations!’ She added, lower: ‘I bet our Adjunct boy can sew too! This’ll hurt.’ A blade stabbed the back of his leg. He screamed, adding his voice to the roar of battle surrounding them. She was digging in the meat at the rear of his thigh. Stars appeared in his sight. The clash of fighting receded to a mute hollow murmur. His vision darkened.

  *

  They fought their way down the riverside. They trampled the camp, kicked over tents and cook fires, kept their backs to the muddy shore. Rillish fought with both swords; Captain Peles and other guards covered his flanks. It seemed to him that this force didn’t particularly want to dispute their route to the bridge.

  He didn’t blame them now that it was useless. The blast had surprised everyone. Stones and litter had rained down all around. It seemed to him that the Roolian forces hadn’t really recovered from that explosion. Their officers urged them on but he could imagine the average foot soldier wondering why he should die for a useless piece of wood and stone.

  Especially now that they were utterly cut off.

  Still, they were more than willing to allow Rillish’s force to rush in to be encircled; that suited their officers. Once their archers began taking shots at him Rillish retreated to the Fourth’s shield wall and ordered everyone to hold ground defending this end of the bridge.

  He just hoped Greymane wouldn’t judge him too harshly for delivering damaged goods.

  Then a man appeared, escorted by Peles. He was scorched, sleeves burned away, skin blistered and black. Rillish recognized him as Cresh, sergeant of the 11th, one of the teams sent to secure the bridge. The man saluted.

  Rillish answered the salute. ‘Good to see you, Sergeant. I’m glad you survived. Too bad they got to it anyway.’

  ‘No, sir, they didn’t.’

  Rillish studied the man; didn’t he have a full beard last he’d seen him? ‘What was that?’

  ‘Was an accident. Us. Lit off above the bed. We’ve beat down the fires an’ taken a squint. My boy Slowburn says there’s enough of the frame left. Give us time and we’ll have it patched up.’

  Rillish stared at the sergeant, then turned to the Roolian lines. Damn. How soon before they see that?

  *

  Ussü judged it half an hour’s glass and so he turned to Borun while the commander fielded messages and enquired mildly, ‘Why is there still fighting on the bridge?’

  The Moranth commander did not even look up. ‘You I w
ill tell the truth – I have been husbanding my own people. This is one battle and we have a war to fight.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Also, there are reports of one among them anchoring their lines. He carries a weapon … witnesses call it white or yellow, like ivory. None is willing to face him.’

  Ussü’s gaze snapped to the distant bridge where a horde of soldiers pressed, pikes and spears waving like a small forest. White or yellow … bright … the weapon he saw? No doubt. Did this one deserve his attention? But he was exhausted from being caught like a fly in the confrontation between the Lady and the Enchantress. He simply was not up to it.

  A grunt from Borun pulled his attention to the slope. There a band of black-clad priests descended, staves striking the ground as they paced. Soldiers flinched from their advance. Ah! Abbot Nerra and his three assistants. This fellow on the bridge had also drawn the Lady’s attention. She would now take a hand. He should get closer; this could prove quite instructive.

  ‘I would witness this,’ he told Borun.

  The Black Moranth commander grunted his disinterest. ‘If you must. I will remain.’ He waved one of his aides to accompany him.

  Ussü descended. Or rather, he attempted to; the soldiers did not cooperatively part for him as they had for the priests. And it was a terrible press as thousands jammed in towards the bridge to reach the enemy. In the end he settled for following in the wake of the Moranth as he – or she? – forced a way through.

  *

  Suth could stand; if he gritted his teeth hard enough and concentrated. Urfa’s binding was as tight as a winding-sheet and she’d wrapped with it a poultice that stank of fat and urine and other things he didn’t want to think about. But it was supposed to be proof against the wound’s suppurating.

  He was reserve now, of course. Rear rank. Bending over stiffly, he picked up a spear. The front lines had all scavenged shields and now fought a stubborn defence. All except the Adjunct, who watched from behind, ever ready to push in where needed. No archer could reach them now, unless he dared step out from the enemy’s front lines. In which case they still had their crossbows.