The officers followed. Outside, Yeull shaded his eyes to gaze to the south-west where the coast curved in a bay that gave way to a headland. The tide appeared to have withdrawn significantly when it should be in. Mudflats lay exposed in an ugly brown and grey swath. Yeull ground his teeth. More Ruse trickery from that traitor bitch? What could she have in mind?
Ussü’s warning came to him but he pushed it aside. The man had reached the end of his usefulness. The Lady appeared to have finally dragged him into senility. In any case, they were safe here so far from the shore – he’d made sure of that. Nothing to … He squinted out past the bay, where the strait appeared to be experiencing unusually rough conditions. Something was coming into the bay. A tall bulge of water like a tidal bore, but fast, faster than any wave he’d ever heard of.
Amazed shouts sounded around him; soldiers pointing.
That was a lot of water and the bay was very shallow. Yeull’s gaze traced the long gentle rise up from the shore cliffs to their camp.
Lady, no … It could not be possible. No. I refuse to believe it.
The great rolling bulge was not only impossibly tall, it was also impossibly broad: it stretched all the way across the bay, perhaps even across the strait itself.
It numbed his imagination just to try to conceive of that volume of water, and that amount of destructive potential bearing down upon him.
The damned end of the world, just like these crazy Korelri were always going on about.
The wave did not strike the shore so much as absorb it, continuing on without any hesitation. Soldiers now broke to run in open panic.
Yeull stood his ground. Officers called begging for instructions but he ignored them. No. Impossible. It will not happen.
The churning front of mud, silt, sand, tumbling shore wreckage, even suspended hulks from the shore assault, all crashing and spinning, now came flying up the grade towards them. Its blasting roar was as of an avalanche. Yeull’s shoulders sagged. Gods damn you, Greymane. This is you, isn’t it? This is why these Chosen hated you so. These Korelri fanatics finally met someone as crazy as them. Don’t you know your name will go down as the greatest villain this region has ever known? Malazans won’t be able to enter this region for generations – you’ve lost all these lands for ever …
Inexorable, blasting two stone farmhouses to rubble and splinters as it came, the wavefront ploughed into the camp. It swept over tents, collected supplies, masses of men. Yeull’s last sight was of a maw of crashing tree trunks headed right for him.
*
On board the Malazan flagship, the Star of Unta, Devaleth had waited through the night and the dawn of the next day. At her urging the combined Malazan and Blue fleet had withdrawn to the centre of Crack Strait. Here they’d waited while, as far as she could tell, nothing happened. To their credit, neither Nok nor the Blue Admiral Swirl approached to pester her with questions or demands for explanations. They had accorded her the title High Mage, and seemed also willing to grant her due credibility as well.
All that changed in the early morning when a rumbling as of a thunderstorm rolled over the massed fleet. Devaleth looked to the west. That was a much greater report than she’d been expecting. To have reached them this far, so loudly …
Then far off, through the Warren of Ruse, she felt the sea lurch. Sea-Father forgive them! It was like the undersea tremors they taught about at the Ruse Academy. Immense volumes of water displaced, creating … She backed away from the side of the vessel. Nok stood nearby, concern on his craggy narrow face.
‘What is it, High Mage?’ he asked.
She found her voice, pulled her hand from her neck. ‘A wave, Admiral. Much larger than I had anticipated. A great flood. We must run before it. Order the fleet to spread out, head east – now. I will do all I can smooth our passage.’
Nok bowed, went to give the orders. After he went Devaleth gripped the side to stop her weakened legs from giving way. Smooth our passage! Laugh, great Sea-Father! May as well try to hold back an earth tremor with one’s bare hands. Everyone must be warned of this.
*
Captain Fullen, temporarily in command of the garrison at Banith, had a heart-stopping moment shaving when an apparition flickered into existence in his tent. He almost cut himself fatally when he jerked, surprised, as a hollow distorted voice spoke: ‘Commander …’
He spun, pressing a cloth to his cheek, to see a shimmering image of the Mare mage, the new High Mage. ‘A great wave is approaching,’ the woman continued. ‘You may have until noon. You must take steps to evacuate Banith immediately. Take all steps necessary. Admiral Nok orders this.’
The image wavered then disappeared. Fullen stared where it had appeared, wiped the blood and soap from his face. Togg deliver him … just like the old tales of how things used to get done in the Empire. And he’d thought he’d never see the like!
He ran from the tent, bellowing orders as he went.
A similar apparition appeared in many coastal cities, Balik and Molz in Katakan, Danig and Filk in Theft.
In Stygg, deep within the pleasure palace of Ebon, its ruler gaped at the image, heard its warning, then quickly acted upon its appearance: he gathered together all the twenty self-styled sorcerers, warlocks and witches he paid to protect him from such things and had them executed immediately.
Only in Mare, at Black city and Rivdo, were the warnings given any credence, though they originated from a damned traitor.
*
Devaleth also attempted to reach to the west, to Dour and Wolt in Dourkan, but the shattering disruptions she met in Ruse threw her back and she could not reach.
After sending what few warnings she could, she sat to gather her strength. She reached out to Ruse, extending her summons as far as she ever had – the burgeoning puissance nearing from the west called to her but she kept away, knowing it would consume her in an instant. Instead, she decided upon an old water-witch’s trick from her youth: sea-soothing. Like oil upon water, the localized rounding off of rough water. It was simple, easy to sustain, and this would free her to concentrate upon drawing from the yammering waterfall of power coursing through Ruse – potency that would flick her to ashes in a moment’s slip of concentration.
Horrified cries rose but she did not crack open her eyes. Ropes suddenly drew tight about her, binding her to a cabin wall, but she was far gone from her flesh – she rode the shockwave itself as it coursed through Ruse. Above a swelling roar Nok’s voice sounded, ordering more sail. Devaleth worked to gather a pool of calm: a smooth surface like a slick of oil that would ride above the churning froth bearing down upon them. Accomplishing this, she worked now on spreading it to protect as much of the fleet as she could reach.
The roar intensified beyond bearing; nothing could penetrate its ear-shattering continual thunderclap. The Star of Unta suddenly lurched forward, picking up speed like a child’s toy. It struck an impossible forward attitude. A rope’s explosive snap penetrated the roar; boards groaned. Equipment tumbled down the deck, rolling and crashing for the bow. The ropes constraining Develath held her back. Someone screamed, falling forward, rolling along the decking. She fought at the limits of her strength – not to maintain the workings of the Warren, but to hold back the immense forces striving to break through her grip like an enraged bear striking at the thinnest of cloth. If even the smallest fraction of it should squeeze through it would annihilate her and the vessel together.
The Star of Unta now rode a waterfall slope, its angle pitched almost straight down. The crest! We were upon the crest! Devaleth bore down with all her might to maintain the mental contours of the sea-soothing charm. How grateful she was for its simplicity, its time-honed elegance. And we in Mare sneer at these water-witches! They know what works, and do not mess with it!
With another ominous chorus of groanings the vessel heaved itself flatter, falling at the stern. A mast-top snapped, falling with a deck-shuddering crash. Devaleth maintained her concentration, moving now with the wavefront, eas
ing the passage of every vessel she could reach.
Someone was kneeling with her and a wet cloth was pressed to her brow. The coolness and the gentleness of the gesture revived her immensely. She dared slit open one eye: it was the old Admiral, Nok.
‘How did you know that would help?’ she ground through her clenched teeth.
‘A mage named Tattersail told me – long ago.’
She grunted – of course. This man has seen them all.
‘Well done, High Mage,’ he said. ‘I believe we are through the worst. And that was the worst I’ve ever seen. The end of the world.’
‘No. Not the end of the world, Admiral. The end of their world.’
Nodding, he squeezed her shoulder and rose; instinctively, he understood that he’d distracted her enough, and withdrew.
Once the titanic wavefront had swept on far enough – far outstripping the lumbering progress of the vessels – she relaxed. She tried to rise but fell back, tied down. Utterly exhausted, she cleared her throat to croak, ‘Would someone get these ropes off me!’
Sailors untied her and then the Blue Admiral, Swirl, gently attempted to raise her up but she could not move. Her vision suddenly swirled pink and all sounds disappeared. Agonizing pain seized her joints. No! The depth-sickness! It had her! In the panic she’d neglected her protections!
Yells of alarm rose around her as she suddenly, explosively, vomited up great gouts of bile and water.
* * *
Ivanr had returned to his weeding. It was heavy work; he’d been away for some time. It was demanding and he was out of shape. How it hurt his chest to bend down!
Someone was following him but he ignored her.
‘Ivanr,’ she called. ‘Your work is not yet done.’
Don’t I know it – just look at the mess of this garden!
‘Your garden lies elsewhere …’
He turned on the annoying voice to find himself staring down at the small slim form of the Priestess. You are dead.
‘And you will be as well if you keep retreating from your duty.’
Duty? Have I not done enough?
‘No. A life’s time would not be enough. The fight is unending.’
I know. He gestured around. You see?
‘Exactly. You are needed. Think of it as … stewardship.’
Someone else can manage that. He bent to his weeding, wincing, and holding his chest.
‘No. It has fallen to you – not because you are somehow special or singled out by fate. It is just that your turn has come. As it came to me.’
He straightened, studied his muddy hands. That I can understand, I suppose. None of this stupid special chosen nonsense.
‘Yes. It is your turn – as it is everyone’s at some time. The test is in our response.’
He slowly nodded, looked up at the sky. Yes. The test is how you answer. Yes. He rubbed his hands together. I suppose so …
‘Ivanr?’ another voice called, this one an old woman. ‘Ivanr?’
He blinked his eyes, opened them to the hides of his tent outside the city, on his bed. It was day. The old mage, Sister Gosh, was leaning over him, the long dirty curls of her hair hanging down.
‘Ivanr?’
‘Yes?’
She sagged her relief. ‘Thank the foreign gods. You’re alive.’
‘I thought you said we wouldn’t meet again …’
She waved her hands. ‘Never mind about that. I was wrong. Now listen, order Ring city evacuated. You must! It is vital! You will save countless lives. Now do it!’
‘Order the city evacuated?’
‘Yes. A great flood is approaching. Call it the Lady’s Wrath, whatever. Just order it!’
He frowned. ‘I can’t say that …’
‘Just do it!’ she yelled.
He blinked, surprised, and she was gone. Guards flew into the tent, glared about. Then, seeing him awake, they fell to their knees.
He cleared his throat, croaked hoarsely: ‘Evacuate the city.’
The guards glanced to one another. ‘Deliverer … ?’
‘Evacuate the city!’ He squeezed his chest. ‘It … it is doomed. Empty it now.’
Eyes widening in superstitious fear and awe, the guards backed away. Then they bowed reverently. ‘Yes, Deliverer!’ And fled.
Ivanr eased himself back down into his bed. He massaged his chest. Gods, how giving orders hurt!
*
Sister Gosh straightened from where she’d taken cover from the gusting frigid wind next to Cyclopean stones that anchored an immense length of chain, the links of which were as thick as her thigh. The huge chain extended out across a wide gap of water between the tips of two cliffs, the ends of a ridge of rock that encircled a deep well that was supposedly bottomless. The Ring. Metal mesh netting hung from the chain – a barrier to anything larger than a fish.
She studied the rusted gnawed metal of the chain, pulled a silver flask from her shawls, up-ended it in a series of gulping swallows then shook it, found it empty, and shrugging threw it away. She set both hands upon the final link and bent her head down to it, concentrating. Smoke wafted from the iron and a red glow blossomed beneath her hands.
‘It’s just you and I now, Sister Gosh,’ someone said from behind her.
Sighing, she turned to see Brother Totsin, the wind tossing his peppery hair and the tatters of his frayed vest, shirt and trousers. ‘Thought you’d show up.’
‘The Lady is with me, Gosh. I suggest you join as well.’
Sister Gosh sighed again. ‘The Lady is using you, fool. And in any case, she’s finished.’
‘Not if you fail here.’
‘I won’t.’
Totsin frowned, disappointed, as if he were dealing with a recalcitrant child. ‘You cannot win. The Lady has granted me full access to her powers.’
‘Meaning she owns you.’
His greying goatee writhed as he scowled his irritation. ‘Be the stubborn fool then. I never liked you.’
‘I’m relieved to hear that.’
He launched himself upon her. Their arms met in an eruption of power that shook the stones beneath their feet. Rocks tumbled down some ten fathoms to the blue-black waters of the Hole below. The gargantuan chain rattled and clacked to vibrate in a frothing line across the gap. The flesh of Sister Gosh’s hands wrinkled and cracked as if desiccated. She snarled, bearing down further, her face darkening in effort. A satisfied smile crept up behind Totsin’s goatee.
Like an explosion a crack shot through the chiselled stone beside them anchoring the chain. Snarling, Totsin twisted to heave Sister Gosh out over the Hole. Black tendrils like ribbons snapped out around him, yanking him backwards, and the two released their mutual grip with a great thunderclap of energy.
A new figure now stood upon the narrow stone perch, tall, emaciated, dressed all in black, his black hair a wild mass. ‘I have come back!’ he announced.
Edging round to face both, Totsin nodded to the newcomer: ‘Carfin. I am surprised to see you again.’
‘The truth at last, Totsin. The truth at last.’
A rumbling swelled in the distance as of a thunderstorm, though only high clouds obscured the sky. Sister Gosh and Carfin shared alarmed glances.
Totsin laughed. ‘Too late!’
‘Not yet,’ Sister Gosh snarled, and she threw everything she had at him.
The blast of energies surprised Totsin, throwing him back a step. Carfin levelled his Warren as well. The coursing power revealed far more potency than even Sister Gosh suspected of him – it seemed his sojourn within his Warren had granted him much greater confidence in his abilities. Totsin flailed beneath the cataract streams coursing upon him then, grimacing, leaned forward, edging in upon them. Carfin gestured again and a cowl of black snapped over the man’s face. His hands leapt to the hood, grasping, tearing it into shreds. Sister Gosh yelled as she drew up a great coil of might that she snapped out upon Totsin. He flinched back, crying aloud, and stumbled off the lip. Sister Gosh kept her
punishment centred upon him all the way down, and, though she could not be sure, she believed he struck the water far below.
‘Thank you,’ she gasped to Carfin.
‘It was nothing.’
She turned to the anchor stone and the chain. ‘Quickly now.’
Each pressed hands to the final link, stressing, heating, searching for weaknesses. The water, she noted, now ran far higher on the chain than it had before. Thunder rising in pitch announced the approach of something enormous emerging from Bleeder’s Cut.
‘What was it like?’ she asked while they worked.
‘What was what like?’
‘Your Warren. Darkness. Rashan.’
‘I don’t know,’ Carfin answered, straight-faced. ‘It was dark.’
The metal glowed yellow now beneath Sister Gosh’s hands. Drips of molten metal ran down the sides. ‘You mean like that slimy cave you live in?’
Carfin clapped his hands and the metal of the link suddenly darkened to black beneath a coating of frost. It burst in an explosion of metal shards, Sister Gosh yanking her hands away. Screeching, grinding, the immense length of iron dragged itself down the lip of the cliff to flick from sight. Away across the gap water foamed and settled over its length as it sank.
‘It is not a cave,’ Carfin told Gosh. ‘It is a subterranean domicile.’
The ridge of solid rock they stood upon shook then, rolling and heaving. A titanic bulge of water came coursing over the bay created where Bleeder’s Cut met Flow Strait. The wave, more a wall of water, flowed over the Hole and with it went swift glimmering flashes of mother-of-pearl and brilliant sapphire.
Sister Gosh and Carfin sat on the lip of the stone. These flashes of light sank within the nearly black waters of the Hole. They seemed to descend for a long time. Then eruptions frothed the surface, greenish light flashing, coruscating from the depths. Over the Hole the surface bulged alarmingly, as from the pressures of an immense explosion. Then they hissed, steaming and frothing anew. Fog obscured the pit of the Ring, hanging in thick scarves.
The afternoon faded towards evening. Sister Gosh watched the undersides of the clouds painted in deep mauve and pink. More shapes came flashing through the waters to descend into the Hole. She fancied she saw the shells of their armour opalescent in emerald and gold. Reinforcements?
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