Cartheron was experienced enough not to even blink as he inclined his head. ‘My thanks.’
The lad next turned to the figure of Lady Orosenn, dressed now in her tanned hunting leathers, a long-knife at her side. Tall she was, even in this company, her auburn hair unbound in a great wild mane. Jute was suddenly struck by the resemblance between her and these people in their features and general build.
He remembered then her saying that she was returning home.
‘You look familiar …’ the lad said, addressing her, frowning as if trying to recall just where he’d seen her.
She inclined her head. ‘I do not believe so. My name is Orosenn. I have been a long time away. It is merely the family resemblance.’
The lad grunted at this, satisfied. ‘Very well.’ Then, as if suddenly remembering his duties, he added, gruffly, ‘You are welcome.’ He strode off followed by his bodyguard of spearmen.
Malle, however, remained. Her glare, fixed upon Cartheron, could’ve melted iron. The commander, still pale and haggard from the climb, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I know, I know.’
‘I thought I made it clear,’ she hissed, her lips tight, ‘the old ways of doing things are over.’
‘I’m all old school, Malle.’
She snorted her agreement, but then a new light came into her eyes: something like grudging admiration. She gestured to the nearest section of wall to invite Cartheron, Jute, and Lady Orosenn forward. ‘Well, by now you’ve guessed the Empire saw its chance for a toehold on this continent and we were sent to establish relations. What I didn’t expect was to find myself in the middle of a full-scale invasion.’
‘There is far more at stake here than a mere change in rulership,’ came the deep contralto of Lady Orosenn.
Malle stopped short and turned to peer up at the woman. She did not flinch, and Jute realized just how apposite Cartheron’s warning about not getting in the woman’s way had been. She appeared wrought entirely of iron, from her iron-grey hair to her thin arms of twisted iron bar. ‘I know your heritage, sorceress. I know the name of the cold winds blowing down from these mountains. I know we sit at the feet of a Jaghut refugium.’
‘But do you know that your being here is no accident?’ the sorceress countered, her voice hardening as well. ‘That we should be here at all is entirely your fault?’
Malle was clearly rocked by the accusation. Her mouth drew down into a sour scowl. ‘Explain yourself, sorceress …’ Even Jute heard the cold menace in the old woman’s words.
‘You Malazans,’ Lady Orosenn continued. ‘Your being here is no accident. I knew this the moment I encountered Cartheron here on his way to these lands. And so I enrolled Tyvar and his Blue Shields in helping escort him north.’
Cartheron almost jumped at that. ‘What the …?’ He coughed, utterly shocked. ‘I’m just making a delivery.’
Orosenn nodded. ‘Yes, for this woman to use to back up a Malazan client state here in the north – conveniently near a goldfield.’
Now Malle’s gaze narrowed; her hands disappeared among the long black lace trimmings at her wrists. ‘You are too well informed, sorceress.’
Cartheron raised a hand in warning. ‘Malle … don’t.’
Jute’s hair rose as he realized that this woman fully intended to attack the sorceress. The servant – whatever his name was – tried to push forward but Orosenn held him back.
‘Why this delay!’ boomed a new voice as Tyvar came jogging up, his armour jangling, helmet tucked under an arm, his gauntleted fist on the long leather-wrapped grip of his sword. ‘Those without the walls are clamouring to be allowed in. Our fair ruler refuses. And,’ he added, his tone sharpening, ‘m’lady, of the enemy you mentioned, there is yet no sign at all …’
Jute felt as if he could suddenly breathe once more. Malle’s hands reappeared among the hanging lace at her wrists. She demanded: ‘What army? What state’s? More Lether reinforcements?’
‘We should have until dawn,’ Lady Orosenn answered Tyvar. She turned her attention to Malle. ‘What army, you ask? One might argue that it is the army of the past that comes now to throttle the future.’
Jute felt his face wrinkle up in confusion. What nonsense was this now?
‘The army of the past,’ Malle echoed, wonderingly. Her gaze shot to Cartheron. ‘It cannot be …’
Jute was surprised to see the old general’s face harden and lose all hint of his habitual mocking humour. ‘You’re on dangerous ground hinting as such things, Lady Orosenn.’
‘I? I am on dangerous ground? You Malazans have no idea what you’ve been meddling in. The old war was over until your emperor broke the balance. Now all this blood spilled is your fault and you must make reparation.’
Jute cleared his throat loudly. ‘Please, Lady Orosenn – of what do you speak?’
The sorceress turned to him and her features softened. A smile came to her lips, but it was a wistful one. ‘Jute of Delanss – I am sorry. You are right. We dance around the subject because it is almost too terrifying to name. I speak of course of the T’lan Imass, reawoken by the old emperor.’
Cartheron was shaking his head in hard denial. ‘No. You say we’re culpable. But we brought them Silverfox. Their new living Summoner.’
‘Or she emerged in a desperate effort to right the imbalance,’ the sorceress countered.
‘Word is, Silverfox has nothing against the Jaghut,’ Cartheron growled.
‘Evidently she does not speak for all clans.’
Malle snapped up a hand. ‘Enough. This cannot be settled now. Sorceress – you claim the T’lan Imass are marching here. Yet what is this to us? I gather they seek these Icebloods, who I suspected were Jaghut. They will ignore us and pass on into the heights to track down their old enemies. It is sad and regrettable … but we could not interfere even if we wished.’ Malle made a show of studying the sorceress up and down. ‘Indeed, Lady Orosenn, I understand the fierceness of your advocacy. And considering this, you would be well advised to flee immediately yourself.’
‘Tell them what you told me,’ Tyvar Gendarian rumbled, his voice deep with suppressed emotion.
The sorceress sighed and there was now compassion in her gaze as she studied Cartheron. ‘This is a hard thing to tell you Malazans, but all these locals who live in the north, who occupy this keep, who farmed and lived here originally … they all share some Jaghut blood. The T’lan Imass are marching north and killing all as they come. They will take this keep by storm and slay every living original inhabitant of these lands.’
Jute found that he almost blacked out at the thought of it. His vision darkened and his face and hands became frigid and numb. All the gods forfend! How could such things be allowed? Surely the injustice of it must offend all. He’d never considered the idea of evil before, but surely such an act must be condemned as such.
If Jute felt sickened, he could not imagine what Cartheron was feeling now: the man had appeared haggard and tired before, but this news seemed to age him decades as a weight slowly settled upon his shoulders and gouged fresh depth in the already creased and furrowed brackets at his mouth and eyes. He pulled a shaking hand down his face. ‘If that’s so, then there’s nothing we can do.’
‘We have a chance,’ Lady Orosenn offered. ‘Omtose Phellack hampers them. They must march as any other army. They must climb defences. Receive blows. Those that are broken will not arise again. We can defend. Their Bonecasters will attempt to raise Tellann, but I shall work to suppress it. Together, we may have a chance.’
The age-spotted hand that Cartheron had been pulling so hard down his face now brushed the grey bristles of his chin. He turned his head to study Tyvar for a time. ‘And what of you, Mortal Sword? I don’t believe Togg has done you any favours here.’
The swordsman regained his savage grin. ‘I disagree. We have been blessed with the greatest challenge we could hope for. No force has ever repelled the T’lan. The Blue Shields intend to be the first.’
&n
bsp; Cartheron gave a curt nod. ‘So be it. To tell the truth, I would like to have a word with these Imass.’
Lady Orosenn bowed to Cartheron. ‘My thanks, commander. We all have our posts, then. I shall be at the entrance to the inner keep.’ Bowing again, she headed off, followed by her servant.
Malle regarded Cartheron with a speculative glint in her dark eyes. ‘The right thing, Crust?’
‘Right enough,’ he answered, roughly.
‘And what of your cargo?’
He shook his head. ‘Not right for this – unless you want to destroy our own walls.’
She pursed her thin lips. ‘A shame. Very well …’ She inclined her head. ‘Commander. I shall be at the wall with my men.’
Jute watched her walk away then turned to Cartheron. ‘Excuse me, captain … but just who is that woman anyway?’
Cartheron was rubbing a hand over his bristled chin once more. ‘Who? Her? Ah – Malle.’ An expression came to his face that was similar to the admiring look the woman herself had given him. ‘The Empire has one academy where its imperial Claws are trained, Jute. For thirty years that gal ran it.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Well, I’m for the walls. Apparently I’m in command of the foreigner contingent here. You can stand with me if you like – as good a view as anywhere of the coming goddamned end of the world, I suppose.’ He headed off.
Jute stood unmoving. He knew where his post should be – back at the Dawn with Ieleen. She’d be worried, he knew. Yet … to walk away from witnessing the T’lan Imass confronted? To describe such an opportunity as once in a lifetime would be a laughable understatement. Once every ten thousand years, more like. He simply could not tear himself away. Besides, the Dawn was in the best of hands with her. And the crew was loyal.
He hurried to catch up. Beyond the tall stone walls, the glow of torches still bobbed and swept about. Voices clamoured, and, above the bellowed orders and shouts of plain panic, he heard the crash and groan of equipment being moved and the thump of axes on timber.
Climbing a ramp of beaten earth, Jute found Cartheron with Lieutenant Jalaz at his side. He took the commander’s other side. They overlooked Mantle town – or at least its remains. The camp of the besiegers was in turmoil. Glancing far to the east, where the glow of coming dawn painted the sky a brightening purple, he glimpsed a bedraggled line of distant figures in retreat: those who wouldn’t stop even for the presumptive safety of the camp and what portion of the invader army remained. From what he’d heard of the wilds of the Bone Peninsula, he imagined such refugees wouldn’t long survive.
Those elements that had retained their organization were now feverishly assembling a barricade to the rear; they obviously had completely reversed themselves to face the enemy they believed to be coming for them. Jute groaned his helpless frustration and disbelief: ‘But the T’lan don’t want them!’
Cartheron sighed. ‘Malle’s been trying to tell them that.’ He lifted his bone-thin shoulders. ‘They’re terrified. They won’t listen.’
‘Better if they had all fled,’ Jute grumbled.
‘Really?’ Cartheron shot him a quick glance. ‘Bastards might actually get lucky, you know. Take down a few of the Imass.’
The sentiment made Jute shudder. He’d forgotten. Their time together had fooled him into thinking the man at his side was a relatively harmless old codger – but he wasn’t. He was a retired commander of Malazan forces, once a High Fist. And to defend his command he was obviously prepared to sacrifice every one of these poor unfortunates arrayed on the field before him.
Jute wrapped his cloak tighter about himself, turned to study the walls. A small complement, a watch, now stood the walls. He spotted the night-black shape of Malle at the wall, flanked by two figures, an old man and a young girl, who he believed had to be imperial cadre mages. Most of the defenders, locals, the Malazans, and Tyvar’s Genabackans, were lying down across the grounds. Jute shuddered again: the sight of all the prone figures crowding the broad yard made him think of a field of graves.
Gods! The T’lan Imass. We won’t see the noon. Yet all I would have to do is drop my weapon and they would pass me by – would they not? Somehow, when the time came, Jute knew he would not yield. He would do his part. And defending walls is spear-work. Thankfully, there were plenty of racks at hand. He collected a spear and leaned upon it.
Out among the demolished houses and huts of Mantle town, along the line of hastily raised barricades, one figure constantly marched back and forth, cajoling, yelling orders. From the voice, Jute knew this officer was a woman. She wore a long coat of mail and a helmet with a faceplate, raised at the moment.
At one point Tyvar came past on an inspection and he paused at Cartheron’s side to motion to the officer. ‘See that one?’
Cartheron nodded tiredly. ‘Yeah. I see.’
‘I’d know that style of armour and helmet anywhere,’ Tyvar continued, sounding almost excited. ‘That’s a shieldmaiden out of northern Genabackis, I’m sure.’
‘They fought us in the north,’ Cartheron observed, a touch irritated – he’d been asleep standing up.
Tyvar gave a serious nod. ‘Aye – as we would’ve if you’d reached the south.’ And he slapped Cartheron on the back and continued his circuit.
Jute blinked heavily then, leaning on his spear, and the next thing he knew there were screams from below and he blinked anew, clutching his spear haft. It was brighter now, fully dawn, though it was hard to tell because of the dense low bank of clouds that hung like a smothering blanket crowded up against the slopes of the Salt range. Men and women among the defenders and civilians below were now pointing west. More among them broke and ran for the east, abandoning their posts and fleeing. The Shieldmaiden sent curses after them.
Jute squinted into the gloom of the west. Figures were approaching just inland from the coast of the Gold Sea. A wide front of shapes. Not a file, or a column, but rather a broad skirmish-line of walkers. The image came to Jute of a net, a line of beaters, driving their prey before them. The image made him almost faint with dread. Imass. So terrifyingly ruthless and unrelenting. They won’t let anyone escape them.
The Shieldmaiden now shouted encouragement to her troops, who readied their spears. She drew her own sword and climbed the barricade.
‘Good for you …’ Cartheron murmured beneath his breath.
The T’lan came on, scarecrow thin, unhurried, yet somehow inexorable – like the tide, Jute thought. Their skirmish-line passed between the burned and scavenged husks of the few houses of Mantle town. They brushed aside the canvas of tents, kicked through smoking campfires. Closer now, Jute saw how their cloaks hung ragged and full of gaping tears. Some few wore animal bones as armour: wide scapulae lashed across the chest, skulls of enormous beasts upon their heads. They came with their slim stone blades gripped negligently in their fists. He put their number at over a hundred.
They met the logs and overturned wagons of the barricade and those blades flashed to hack through the thigh-wide trunks as if they were kindling. The defenders thrust with their spears. They rocked backwards a few of the attackers, but these merely shook off the thrusts and returned to the task of chopping the barrier.
Further panicked yells sounded where individual Imass succeeded in pushing their way through. Defenders closed, spears abandoned and swords drawn. Next to Jute, Cartheron ground out a muttered: ‘Fools …’ yet he sounded admiring all the same.
Jute saw the commander of this desperate – yet needless! – defence charge in to join one fray. A great swipe from her heavy blade chopped down through an Imass at juncture of neck and shoulder: that one fell, evidently crippled. A great cheer arose from the defenders, and Jute noted that Tyvar’s Blue Shields joined in the huzzah.
More Imass came as they pushed and hacked through the heaped wreckage. Defenders fell. However, to his relief, Jute saw now that the Imass were lashing out with their fists and the sides of their blades as they swung to bash the men and women down. Oddly enough, he almost fe
lt grateful to these elders for their restraint – if that was what one might call it.
The Shieldmaiden fell then, taken by a blow to her helmet that laid her flat. A shudder of pain seemed to run through the line of defenders, and it broke. Jute, who had never seen a battle before this journey, sensed it even as it happened. It seemed as if all it took was one defender half stepping back, or flinching, and his fellows shied away as well. Instantly, it seemed, like a contagion, this backpedalling spread up and down the ragged line and men and women were outright fleeing, scrambling, all streaming towards the east.
The T’lan halted their advance to watch them go; hoary ravaged profiles turned to follow the men and women as they fled. Those same cadaver heads then swung up to regard the walls.
Jute felt his mouth turn ash-dry while at the same time his hands were slick upon the spear haft. He wiped them on the thighs of his woollen trousers.
At some silent order, the T’lan resumed their advance. They stepped on dropped shields and abandoned spears as they came.
As they neared the stakes driven into the ground before the ditch beneath the walls, Cartheron leaned forward, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted down: ‘We of Mantle Keep greet you! With what clan do I speak?’
The ranks halted to stand as silent and still as a file of statues. A weak wind brushed at the hanging tattered ends of hides and fur cloaks.
Jute saw the local young king presumptive, Voti, followed by Malle, come next to Cartheron. The lad stood with his arms crossed, the haft of his spear hugged to his chest. Jute heard a steady murmuring among the local defenders gathered at the walls. Their accent was difficult for him, but eventually he made out the repeated litany of wonder: ‘… bone and dust …’
He turned to the nearest of the locals, a woman, perhaps a mother standing the wall to defend her children within. ‘What does this mean,’ he asked, ‘“bone and dust”?’
‘An old legend among us,’ she replied, sounding oddly resigned. ‘An old story that our world will end with an invasion of the dead.’
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