Itkovian glanced at the bearded man. ‘Do you know more of this unnatural sleep, sir?’
‘I am afraid not.’ He faced Farakalian. ‘Sir, among the survivors, can you include a tall, lean, somewhat elderly man, and a shorter, much older one?’
‘I can. The former, however, hovers at the gates.’
‘We’d not lose him, if at all possible.’
Itkovian spoke, ‘Soldiers of the Grey Swords are skilled in the art of healing, sir. They shall endeavour to the best of their abilities, and no more can be asked of them.’
‘Of course. I am … distraught.’
‘Understood.’ The Shield Anvil addressed Farakalian: ‘Draw on the Destriant’s power if necessary.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He watched the man ride off.
‘Warrior,’ the bearded man said, ‘I am named Bauchelain, and my companion here is Korbal Broach. I must ask, these undead servants of yours – four-footed and otherwise—’
‘Not servants, Bauchelain. Allies. These are T’lan Imass. The wolves, T’lan Ay.’
‘T’lan Imass,’ the one named Korbal Broach whispered in a reedy thin voice, his eyes suddenly bright as he stared at the figures on the ridge. ‘Undead, born of the greatest necromantic ritual there has ever been! I would speak with them!’ He swung to Bauchelain. ‘May I? Please?’
‘As you wish,’ Bauchelain replied with an indifferent shrug.
‘A moment,’ Itkovian said. ‘You both bear wounds that require attending to.’
‘No need, Shield Anvil, though I thank you for your concern. We heal … swiftly. Please, concentrate on our companions. Now, that is odd – our beasts of burden and sundry horses are untouched – do you see? Fortunate indeed, once I complete my repairs to our carriage.’
Itkovian studied the wreckage to which Bauchelain now swung his attention.
Repairs? ‘Sir, we return to Capustan immediately. There will be no time to spare effecting … repairs … to your carriage.’
‘I shall not be long, I assure you.’
A shout from the ridge pulled the Shield Anvil round, in time to see Korbal Broach flying backwards from a backhanded blow – delivered by the Bonecaster Pran Chole. The man struck the slope, rolled down to its base.
Bauchelain sighed. ‘He lacks manners, alas,’ he said, eyes on his companion, who was slowly regaining his feet. ‘The price of a sheltered, nay, isolated childhood. I hope the T’lan Imass are not too offended. Tell me, Shield Anvil, do these undead warriors hold grudges?’
Itkovian allowed himself a private smile. You can ask that of the next Jaghut we happen across. ‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’
* * *
From the ruins of the smaller carriage, three wide travois were cobbled together. The T’lan Imass fashioned leather harnesses for the undead ay chosen to pull them. The caravan’s collection of horses went under the care of Farakalian and the recruit.
Itkovian watched Korbal Broach lead the oxen back to the rebuilt carriage. The Shield Anvil found his gaze avoiding the contraption; the details in the mending made his skin crawl. Bauchelain had elected to use the various bones of the dismembered K’Chain Che’Malle hunters in the reconstruction. Sorcerously melded into the carriage’s frame, the bones formed a bizarre skeleton, which Bauchelain then covered with swathes of grey, pebbled skin. The effect was horrific.
Yet no more so than the carriage’s owners, I suspect …
Pran Chole appeared at the Shield Anvil’s side. ‘Our preparations are complete, soldier.’
Itkovian nodded, then said in a low voice, ‘Bonecaster, what do you make of these two sorcerors?’
‘The unmanned one is insane, yet the other is the greater threat. They are not welcome company, Shield Anvil.’
‘Unmanned?’ Itkovian’s eyes narrowed on Korbal Broach. ‘A eunuch. Yes, of course. They are necromancers?’
‘Yes. The unmanned one plies the chaos on the edge of Hood’s realm. The other has more arcane interests – a summoner, of formidable power.’
‘We cannot abandon them, none the less.’
‘As you wish.’ The Bonecaster hesitated, then said, ‘Shield Anvil, the injured mortals are, one and all, dreaming.’
‘Dreaming?’
‘A familiar flavour,’ the T’lan Imass said. ‘They are being … protected. I look forward to their awakening, in particular the priest. Your soldiers displayed considerable skill in healing.’
‘Our Destriant is High Denul – we are able to draw on his power in times of need, though I imagine his mood is dark at the moment. Exhausted, knowing that healing has occurred, but little else. Karnadas dislikes uncertainty. As does the Mortal Sword, Brukhalian.’ He gathered his reins, straightened in the saddle. ‘The eunuch has completed his task. We may now proceed. We shall ride through the night, sir, greeting the dawn at Capustan’s gates.’
‘And the presence of the T’lan Imass and T’lan Ay?’ Pran Chole enquired.
‘Hidden, if you please. Excepting those ay pulling the travois. They shall lead their charges through the city and into the compound in our barracks.’
‘And you have reason for this, Shield Anvil?’
Itkovian nodded.
The sun low at their backs, the entourage set off.
* * *
Hands folded on his lap, the Destriant looked upon Prince Jelarkan with deep sympathy. No, more than that, given the man’s obvious exhaustion … empathy. Karnadas’s head pounded behind his eyes. His Denul warren felt hollow, coated with ash. Were he to have left his hands on the tabletop, their tremble would have been obvious.
Behind him, the Mortal Sword paced.
Itkovian and two wings rode the plain to the west, and something had happened. Concern echoed in every restless step at the Destriant’s back.
The prince of Capustan’s eyes were squeezed shut, fingers kneading his temples beneath the circlet of cold-hammered copper that was his crown. Twenty-two years old, his lined, drawn face could have belonged to a man of forty. His shaved pate revealed the scatter of moles that marked his royal line, as if he had been sprayed in blood that had since dried and grown dark. After a long sigh, the prince spoke. ‘The Mask Council will not be swayed, Mortal Sword. They insist that their Gidrath occupy the outlying strongpoints.’
‘Those fortifications will become isolated once the siege begins, Prince,’ Brukhalian rumbled.
‘I know. We both know. Isolated, dismantled, every soldier within slaughtered … then raped. The priests fancy themselves master strategists in warfare. A religious war, after all. The temples’ own elite warriors must strike the first blows.’
‘No doubt they will,’ Brukhalian said. ‘And little else.’
‘And little else. Perhaps corridors, a series of sorties to effect a withdrawal—’
‘Costing yet more lives, Prince, and likely to fail. My soldiers will not be party to suicide. And please, do not attempt to impose your will on me in this. We are contracted to hold the city. In our judgement, the best means of doing so are with maintaining the walls. The redoubts have always been a liability – they will serve the enemy better than they will serve us, as headquarters, defensible rallying positions. The Gidrath will be handing them fortifications in the killing ground. Once siege weapons are stationed there, we shall suffer ceaseless bombardment.’
‘The Mask Council does not expect the strongpoints to fall, Mortal Sword. Nailed to that particular belief, all your stated fears are irrelevant, as far as they are concerned.’
There was silence, apart from Brukhalian’s uncharacteristic pacing. The prince looked up finally, brown eyes following the Mortal Sword’s catlike padding. Jelarkan frowned, then sighed and pushed himself to his feet ‘I need leverage, Mortal Sword. Find it for me, and quickly.’ He swung about and strode to the chamber’s doors, where waited his two bodyguards.
As soon as the massive doors closed behind the prince, Brukhalian spun to Karnadas. ‘Do they continue to draw on your powers, sir?’
> The Destriant shook his head.’ ‘Not for some time, now, since shortly after the prince’s unexpected visit. In any case, sir, they have taken all I possess, and it will be days before I fully recover.’
Brukhalian released a long, slow breath. ‘Well, the risk of a skirmish was recognized. From this, we must conclude that the Pannion has sent forces across the river. The question is, how many?’
‘Sufficient to maul two wings, it seems.’
‘Then Itkovian should have avoided engagement.’
Karnadas studied the Mortal Sword. ‘Unworthy, sir. The Shield Anvil understands caution. If avoidance was possible, he would have done so.’
‘Aye,’ Brukhalian growled. ‘I know.’
Voices at the compound’s outer gates reached through to the two men. Hooves clapped on the cobbles.
Sudden tension filled the chamber, yet neither man spoke.
The doors swung open and they turned to see Itkovian’s outrider, Sidlis. The soldier took two steps into the room, then halted and tilted her head. ‘Mortal Sword. Destriant. I bring word from the Shield Anvil.’
‘You have seen battle, sir,’ Brukhalian murmured.
‘We have. A moment, sirs.’ Sidlis swung about and softly shut the doors. She faced the commander and priest. ‘Demonic servants of the Pannion Seer are present on the plain,’ she said. ‘We came upon one and closed with it. The tactics employed should have sufficed, and the damage we delivered was severe and flawlessly executed. The beast, however, was undead – an animated corpse, and this discovery came too late for disengagement. It was virtually impervious to the wounds we delivered. Nevertheless, we succeeded in destroying the demon, though at great cost.’
‘Outrider Sidlis,’ Karnadas said, ‘the battle you describe must have occurred some time past – else you would not be here – yet the demands on my powers of healing have but just ended.’
Sidlis frowned. ‘The survivors of the engagement did not require a drawing of your powers, sir. If I may, I will complete the tale, and perhaps further clarification will become … available.’
Raising an eyebrow at the awkward reply, Brukhalian rumbled, ‘Proceed.’
‘Upon the destruction of the demon, we regrouped, only to find that four additional demons had arrived.’
The Destriant winced. How, then, are any of you left breathing?
‘At that moment, to our fortune,’ Sidlis continued, ‘unexpected allies arrived. The undead demons were one and all swiftly destroyed. The issue of said alliance of course needs formalization. For the moment, it is the recognition of a common enemy that yielded the combined efforts – which I believe continue at this moment, with the Shield Anvil and the troop riding in the company of our propitious companions, their intent to extend the hunt for more of these fell demons.’
‘Given the Destriant’s exhaustion,’ the Mortal Sword said, ‘they found them, it seems.’
Sidlis nodded.
‘There is more, sir?’ Karnadas asked.
‘Sir. Accompanying me are emissaries from these potential allies. The Shield Anvil judged that such negotiation as may follow be solely between the Grey Swords and our guests; and that any decision of revelation, to the prince or to the Mask Council, should only follow considered counsel among yourselves, sirs.’
Brukhalian grunted his agreement. ‘The emissaries await in the compound?’
The answer to his question rose in swirls of dust to the outrider’s left. Three desiccated, fur-clad figures shimmered into being, rising up from the stone floor. Rotted furs and leathers, skin polished deep brown, massive shoulders and long, muscle-twisted arms.
The Destriant staggered back out of his chair, eyes wide.
Brukhalian had not moved. His eyes narrowed on the three apparitions.
The air suddenly smelled of thawed mud.
‘They call themselves the Kron T’lan Imass,’ Sidlis said calmly. ‘The Shield Anvil judged their warriors to number perhaps fourteen thousand.’
‘T’lan Imass,’ Karnadas whispered. ‘This is a most disturbing … convergence.’
‘If I may make introductions,’ Sidlis continued, ‘these are Bonecasters – shamans. The one to the far left, upon whose shoulders is the fur of a snow bear, is Bek Okhan. Next to him, in the white wolf fur, is Bendal Home. The Bonecaster at my side, in the skin of a plains bear, is Okral Lom. I specify the nature of the furs as it relates directly to their … Soletaken forms. Or so they have informed me.’
The one named Bendal Home stepped forward. ‘I bring greeting from Kron of Kron T’lan Imass, mortal,’ he said in a soft, smooth whisper. ‘Further, I have recent news from the clans escorting your Shield Anvil and his soldiers. Additional K’Chain Che’Malle K’ell Hunters were found, engaged in an attack on a cavaran. These hunters have been despatched. Your soldiers have administered to the wounds of the caravan survivors. All are now returning to Capustan. No further engagements are anticipated, and their arrival will coincide with the dawn.’
Trembling, Karnadas once more sat down in his chair. He struggled to speak past a suddenly parched throat. ‘K’Chain Che’Malle? Animated?’
‘Thank you, Sidlis,’ Brukhalian said. ‘You may now depart.’ He faced Bendal Home. ‘Do I understand correctly that Kron seeks an alliance against the Pannion Domin, and these … K’Chain Che’Malle?’
The Bonecaster cocked his head, his long, pale hair dangling loose from beneath the wolf-skull helmet. ‘Such a battle is not our primary task. We have come to this land in answer to a summons. The presence of K’Chain Che’Malle was unexpected – and unacceptable. Further, we are curious as to the identity of the one named Pannion – we suspect he is not the mortal human you believe him to be. Kron has judged that our involvement in your conflict is required for the present. There is a caveat, however. The one who has summoned us approaches. With her arrival, the Second Gathering of the T’lan Imass will commence. At this time, our disposition will be for her to decide. Furthermore, it may well be that we become … of less value to you … upon completion of the Gathering.’
Brukhalian slowly turned to Karnadas. ‘Sir? You have questions for the one named Bendal Home?’
‘So many that I do not know where to begin, Mortal Sword. Bonecaster, what is this “Gathering” that you speak of?’
‘That is a matter for the T’lan Imass, mortal.’
‘I see. Well, that shuts the door on one line of inquiry, and its attendant multitude of questions. Regards the Pannion Seer – he is indeed a mortal human. I have seen him myself, and there is no scent of illusion to his flesh and bone. He is an old man, and nothing more.’
‘And who stands in his shadow?’ the Bonecaster named Bek Okhan rasped.
The Destriant blinked. ‘No-one, as far as I can tell.’
The three T’lan Imass said nothing, yet Karnadas suspected a silent exchange among them, and perhaps with their distant kin as well.
‘Mortal Sword,’ the priest said in a low voice, ‘do we inform the prince of this? What of the Mask Council?’
‘Further counsel is indeed required before that decision can be made, sir,’ Brukhalian replied. ‘At the very least, we shall await the return of the Shield Anvil. Furthermore, there is the issue of additional communications this night, is there not?’
Fener’s blessing, I’d forgotten. ‘Indeed there is.’ Quick Ben … by the cloven hoof, we have allies stepping out of every closet …
Bendal Home spoke. ‘Mortal Sword Brukhalian, your soldier Itkovian has decided that their public arrival into the city – with the company of the caravan’s wounded – will include six of the T’lan Ay that now accompany our kin.’
‘T’lan Ay?’ Karnadas asked. ‘Not a name I’ve heard before.’
‘Wolves from the times of ice, long ago. Like us, undead.’
Brukhalian smiled.
A moment later, Karnadas also smiled. ‘The prince asked for … leverage, did he not, Mortal Sword?’
‘He shall have it, sir.’
‘If you have further need of us this evening,’ Bendal Home said to Brukhalian, ‘simply call upon us.’
‘Thank you, sirs.’
The three T’lan Imass fell into clouds of dust.
‘I take it,’ the Destriant murmured, ‘we need not offer our guests accommodation.’
‘Evidently not. Walk with me, sir, we have much to discuss and scant time.’
Karnadas rose. ‘No sleep this night.’
‘None, alas.’
* * *
Two bells before dawn, Brukhalian stood alone in his private chamber. Exhaustion hung on him like a rain-sodden cloak, yet he would not yield to it The Shield Anvil and his troop were soon to arrive, and the Mortal Sword was determined to await them – a commander could do no less.
A single lantern defied the gloom in the chamber, throwing lurid shadows before it. The centre hearth remained a grey smudge of dead coals and ashes. The air was bitter cold, and it was this alone that kept Brukhalian wakeful.
The sorcerous meeting with Quick Ben and Caladan Brood had proved, beneath its surface courtesies, strained – it was clear to both the Mortal Sword and Karnadas that their distant allies were holding back. The uncertainties plaguing their final intentions, and their guardedness, though understandable in the circumstances, left the two Grey Swords uncomfortable. Relief of Capustan was not, it seemed, their primary goal. An attempt would be made, but the Mortal Sword began to suspect it would be characterized by feints and minor skirmishes – late arriving at best – rather than a direct confrontation. This led Brukhalian to suspect that Caladan Brood’s vaunted army, worn down by years of war with this Malazan Empire, had either lost the will to fight, or was so badly mauled that its combat effectiveness was virtually gone.
None the less, he could still think of ways in which to make these approaching allies useful. Often, the perception of threat was sufficient … if we can hurt the Septarch badly enough to make him lose his nerve upon the imminent arrival of Brood’s relieving army. Or, if the defence crumbled, then an avenue of withdrawal for the Grey Swords was possible. The question then would be, at what point could the Mortal Sword honourably conclude that the contract’s objectives no longer obtained? The death of Prince Jelarkan? Collapse of wall defences? Loss of a section of the city?
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 187