Stoop gave him an encouraging grin, rubbed his hand at a thigh. ‘What is it, lad? You look like your favourite horse just dropped down dead.’
Despite himself, Kyle burst out a short laugh. Great Wind preserve him! Was the man insane? ‘We're trapped, aren't we? There's no escape and the Mocking Twins alone know what's about to swallow us.’
Stoop's brows rose. He pulled off his boiled leather cap of a helmet and scratched his scalp. ‘Damn me for a thick-headed fool. One forgets, you know. Serve with the same men long enough and it gets so you can read their minds.’ ‘He felt at his fringe of brush-cut hair, crushed something between his fingernails. His eyes, meeting Kyle's, were so pale as to be almost colourless. ‘Sorry, lad. I forgot how green you are. And me the one who swore you in too! A fine state of affairs.’ ’ He glanced away, chuckling.
‘And?’ Kyle prompted.
‘Ah! Yes. Well, lad. You see, Shen – the warlock – he's dead now. Greymane finished him. But the thing Cowl and Smoky feared might be up here, is. Shen has been bleeding off its power all this time. Then he woke it when he died. It's powerful, and damned old.’
‘What is it?’
‘Some kind of powerful mage. A magus. Maybe even an Ascendant of some kind. A master of the Warren of Sere’
Ascendant – Kyle had heard the name a few times – a man or woman of great power? He knew his own tribal labels for the Warrens. Some of the elders still insisted upon calling them ‘The Holds’. But he didn't know the Talian names. ‘Sere. What Warren is that?’
‘Sky.’
It was as if the very wind howling around Kyle whisked him away into the air, tumbling head over heels while the roaring all around transformed into thunderous laughter. The booming filled his head, drove out all thought. He remembered his father saying that thunder was Wind laughing at the conceit of humans and all their absurd struggles. His vision seemed to narrow into a tiny tunnel as if he were once again peering up the Spur's hollow circular staircase. Blinking and shaking his head, he felt as if he were still spinning.
Stoop was peering away, distracted. ‘Have to go, lad.’ Without waiting for an answer the old saboteur clapped Kyle on the shoulder and edged his way through the men.
Kyle fell back against a wall, his knees numb. He raised the tulwar to his eyes. Water beaded and ran from the Wind symbol etched into its iron. Could it be? Could this being be one of them? A founder of his people. A blessed Spirit of Wind?
The rain was thinning, and Kyle squinted into the surrounding walls of solid cloud. The Spur seemed to have pierced some other realm – a world of angry slate-dark clouds and remorseless wind. Even as Kyle watched, that wind rose to a gale, scattering the pools of rainwater and driving everyone behind cover. Only Greymane remained standing, legs wide, one scaled arm shielding his face.
The door to the main house burst outward as if propelled by a blast such as those Moranth munitions Kyle had heard described. It exploded into fragments that shot through the air and cracked like crossbow bolts from the pillars and walls. Kyle flinched as a shard clipped his leg. One Guardsman was snatched backwards and fell so stiffly and utterly silent that no one bothered to lower their aim to check his condition.
A man stepped out. Kyle was struck by the immediate impression of solidity, though the fellow was not so wide as Greymane. His hair was thick, bone-white and braided – and lay completely unmoved by the wind. His complexion was as pale as snow. Folded and tasselled wool robes fell in cascading layers from his shoulders to his feet. Not one curl or edge waved. It was as if the man occupied some oasis of stillness within the storm.
His gaze moved with steady deliberation from face to face. When that argent gaze fixed upon Kyle he found that he had to turn away; the eyes seized him like a possession and terrified him by what they seemed to promise. For some reason he felt shame heat his face – as if he were somehow unworthy. The winds eased then, their lashing and howling falling away. The churning dense clouds seemed to withdraw as if gathering strength for one last onslaught.
Into the calm walked Smoky. His sandals slapped the wet stone. The magus – and Kyle held little doubt the being was at least that – watched the little man with apparent amusement. Smoky knelt and did something with his hands over the stone floor. Flames shot out from his hands along the wet rock. The line of fire darted forward very like a snake nosing ever closer to the entity. The magus watched all this with a kind of patient curiosity. His head edged down slightly as his eyes shifted to follow the flame's advance.
Once the line of fire reached close to the magus's sandalled feet, it split into two branches that encircled him. The being's heavy gaze climbed to regard Smoky who flinched beneath its weight. The magus flicked his fingers and the flames burst outwards like shattered glass. Smoky flew backwards as if punched. He slid across the slick stone to lie at Greymane's feet. ‘That's something you don't see every day,’ Kyle heard the little man gasp. The magus was immobile but Greymane didn't take his eyes from him to acknowledge Smoky. ‘We ought to call him the mage said, pushing himself up.
The magus slowly raised his arms straight outwards from its body as if he were a bird about to take flight. Greymane took a breath to speak but stopped, glancing sharply to one side. Three figures, two men and one woman, all wearing wind-whipped dark cloaks, approached up the colonnaded walk. Three whom Kyle knew for certain had not come with the party. Greymane cursed under his breath. Smoky blew on his hands and kneaded them together.
The Guardsmen edged aside for these three. The lead one Kyle knew for Cowl, hatchet-faced, bearing blue curled tattoos at his chin and a thatching of pearly knife-scars at his neck. His seconds Kyle assumed to be Keitil, a dark-faced plainsman like himself though from a place called Wick. And Isha, a wide solid woman with long, coarse dark hair woven in a single braid. All three were Veils, covert killers – mercenary assassins.
Greymane shot a look to Smoky who shrugged, saying, ‘The Brethren must've gone to him.’
‘I see you've made some headway,’ Cowl called to Greymane.
The renegade hunched his shoulders and bit down any response. He finally ground out, ‘I don't want your kind of help.’
Cowl waved a gloved hand. ‘Then by all means – bring it to a close either way. If you can.’
Greymane shifted his gaze to the immobile magus. ‘Your solution's always the same. It requires no thought …’
‘Something's up,’ Smoky warned.
The magus had bent his head back to regard the clouds above. He edged his arms up further, straight, hands open, fingers splayed. The thick wool sleeves of his robes fell away revealing the blue swirling tattoos of spirals and waves encircling both arms – from his hands all the way up to his naked shoulders: the assembled symbols of Wind.
‘No!’ Kyle choked out. A Spirit of Wind! He must be! A Blessed Ancestor – so claim his tribe's teachings. Kyle lurched forward, opened his mouth to call out. A warning? A plea?
But Cowl shouted, ‘Get down’
The magus stretched his arms high, reached up as if grasping the clouds. His hands clenched into fists then the arms snapped down.
A fusillade of lightning lashed the Spur. The barrage seemed to drive the stone down beneath their feet. Men howled all around, true terror cracking their voices. Kyle fell as the rock kicked back at him. The continuous flashing blinded him. He lay with his arms over his head, shouting wordlessly, begging that it end.
The storm passed. Thunder crashed and grumbled off across the leagues of plains surrounding them. Kyle raised his head, blinking. He felt as if he had been beaten all over by lengths of wood. All around Guardsmen dragged themselves upright, groggy and groaning. Incredibly, Greymane still stood. Kyle wondered whether anything could drive him from his feet – though he was wincing and had his face bent to one shoulder to shield his eyes. Smoky lay motionless on the floor. Stoop was cradling the mage's head and examining his eyes.
The magus had not moved at all; he stood now with his arms crossed.
>
Kyle crawled to Stoop. ‘Will he be all right?’
Stoop cuffed the mage's cheek. ‘Think so. He's a tough one.’
Kyle peered around; Cowl and his two followers were gone. ‘Where are the Veils?’
‘They're on the job.’
Kyle straightened up. ‘What do you mean? On the job?’
The old saboteur jerked his head to the magus.
‘No!’ Kyle pushed himself to his feet.
‘Lad?’ Stoop squinted up. ‘What's that, lad?’
‘They can't. They mustn't…’
Stoop took hold of Kyle's arm. ‘The fiend's a menace to everyone. We've had a hand in its rousing so we ought to—’
‘No! He hasn't threatened anyone.’
Stoop just shook his head. ‘Sorry. That's not the way things work. We can't risk it.’
Kyle pulled away and staggered out to the courtyard.
‘Lad!’
As he ran, he could not help flinching with every step. He was certain that at any instant lightning would blast him into charred flesh. But nothing struck. No lightning flashed, nor one crossbow bolt flew – he also feared summary justice from the Guard for his disobedience. There were shouts; the voices garbled through the howling wind. The magus remained as immobile as any one of the other stone statues decorating the court. His heavy-browed head was cocked to one side as if he were listening. Listening for some distant message.
Kyle vaulted benches, crossed mosaics of inlaid white and pink stone. At some point he had drawn his sword – perhaps not the wisest thing to do while charging a magus or possible Ascendant. But he would have to stop to sheathe it, and he couldn't bring himself to throw it away either. Somewhere about lurked Cowl and his two Veils.
‘Ancient One!’ he shouted into the gusting, lashing wind. ‘Look out!’
The being uncrossed his arms. His crooked smile grew. Cowl appeared then at the man's back: he just stepped out from empty air. Something unseen tripped Kyle, sending him tumbling and sliding along the slick rock. Cowl struck with a blurred lashing of both arms.
Kyle yelled his frustrated rage. The world burst into shards of white light. He spun while an explosion boomed out. The noise echoed and re-echoed, transforming into a terrifying world-shaking laughter that roared on and on while he spun falling and tumbling, terrified that it would never end or that he would at any instant smash to pieces upon rocks.
Distantly, beneath the roaring, he heard a woman say in the Guard's native tongue, ‘So, what in Shadow's smile was that?’
A man answered, ‘I'm not sure.’
‘Did you connect?’
‘Yes, surprisingly. Solid. At the end though – strange. Still, he's gone for good. I'm sure.’
The woman spoke again, closer, ‘What of this one?’
‘He's alive. Looks like the sword took most of the blast.’
A hand, cool and wet, held his chin, edged his head back and forth. The woman asked, ‘Can you hear me?’
Kyle couldn't answer. It was as if had lost all contact with his flesh. Slowly, darkness gathered once more: a soft furry dark that smothered his awareness. The woman spoke again but her voice was no more than a murmur. Then silence.
Pain jabbed him awake. A fearsome blazing from his right hand. Blearily, he raised it to his eyes and found it swaddled in rags. He frowned, tried to remember something.
‘With us again, hey?’ a familiar hoarse voice asked.
He edged his head up, hissed at the bursts of starry pain that throbbed within his skull. Stoop was sitting next to him. They were within one of the rooms carved from black basalt. A guardsman sat propped up against a wall beyond Stoop. Rags wrapped his face where one brown eye stared out, watching him like a beacon burning far off on the plains at night.
Kyle looked away, swallowed to wet his throat. ‘What – what happened?’
Stoop shrugged, drew a clay pipe from a pouch at his belt. ‘Cowl knifed the magus, or Ascendant, or whatever by the Cult of Tragedy he was. Lightning like the very end of creation like some religions keep jabbering on about came blasting down right then and there and when it stopped only the Veils were left standing. Not a single sign left of the bugger. Burst into ashes. You're damned lucky to be alive. Left your hand crisp as a flame-cooked partridge though.’
Kyle peered at the dressings. Gone? Killed? ‘How could that be?’
With his thumb, Stoop tamped rustleaf into the pipe bowl. ‘Oh, you don't know Cowl like I do. Ain't nothing alive he can't kill.’ ’ Stoop, leaned close. ‘I told ‘em you was rushing in to do him in yourself. You know – make your name for yourself an’ all that. Something like “The Damned Fool with the Flaming Hand”. Something like that. If you understand me.’
Kyle snorted a laugh then held his throbbing head and groaned. ‘Yeah. I understand. So, now what?’
Stoop clamped the pipe between his teeth. ‘So now we wait. The wind's dying. Soon it will be safe enough to take the basket down. Our contract's finished now.’
‘Did you succeed?’
Stoop's grey bushy brows drew together. ‘Succeed? What're you gettin’ at?’
‘Stealing your thunder.’
The old saboteur sighed, took his pipe from his mouth and shoved it back into his pouch. ‘Now, lad, don't get yourself all in a—’
‘You knew some thing or some one was up here, didn't you? All along?’ He pushed himself up to one elbow, tried to get up on a knee. Stoop took him under the arm and pulled him upright. He leaned against the cool reviving wall. He pressed his left hand to his forehead to stop its spinning. ‘That's why you came here in the first place, isn't it? Why you took this contract – even though it was a strange one for the Guard?’
Stoop hovered at Kyle's side, ready should he faint. ‘Now, no need to get all lathered up. Sure we suspected there was something worth our time up here. Otherwise we would've kept right on going. I'm sorry that you ‘n’ him were both pledged to Wind.’
Kyle laughed. Pledged!
That's just unfortunate. That's all. Why, us soldiers, we're used to that. Half the men I've killed were sworn to Togg, same as myself. Doesn't mean nothing, lad.’
Kyle shook his head. ‘You don't understand.’ How could anyone not of his people see that that being must have been a Wind Spirit itself. And they killed it. Yet how could Cowl, a mere mortal, kill a spirit? Surely that was impossible.
‘Well, maybe we don't understand. We're just passing through Bael lands after all.’ Struth. But I know there is one thing we understand and you don't.’ Stoop pointed to the west. ‘The Guard is locked in a duel to the death with a great power, lad. A force that would lay waste to these entire lands to get to us.’
‘The Malazans.’
‘You've the right of it. Good to see that you've been paying attention. Now, power is power. We knew this warlock, Shen, was no way potent enough to whip up this sort of storm. Why, the entire weather of this subcontinent is affected. Your own plains are dry because of all the rains that are drawn here to run off to the eastern coast. We'd hoped it was something we could use in our war against the damned Malazans. But, as you saw, it was some blasted dreaming magus.’
‘Dreaming?’
‘Yes. Cowl says that all this – the storm – was summoned up and sustained just by his dreaming. Imagine that, hey?’
Kyle almost threw himself upon Stoop. You fools! You've slain a God of my people! But blinding pain hammered within his skull and he rubbed furiously with his one good hand at his forehead.
‘You OK, lad?’
Kyle jerked a nod. ‘Could use some fresh air.’
Stoop took his arm to help him up the corridor. Outside, beyond the colonnaded walk, Guardsmen were lounging on the benches and planters, talking, resting and oiling weapons and armour. Stoop sat Kyle on the top ledge of a broad set of stairs that led down to a sunken patio, now a fetid pool of rotting leaves and branches. Clouds still enshrouded the Spur's top and would remain for some time yet, Kyle imagined. But the edge w
as off the storm. Thunder no longer burst overhead or rumbled out over the plains spread out below. High sheet lightning flickered and raced far above, leaping and flashing soundlessly.
It could not be. How could it? It was impossible. Nothing after this, he decided, could ever touch him again. Yet something had happened. He studied his wrapped hand. It was numb of any feeling but for a constant nagging ache. They must've put some kind of salve on it. His tulwar, he noted, had been sheathed by some considerate soul. Odd-handed, he drew it. The leather of the grip came away like dry bark in his hand. He brushed away the burnt material leaving the scorch-marked tang naked. The blade, however, remained clean and unmarred. The swirls and curls of Wind seemed to dance down its gleaming length. Turning it over, Kyle paused: the design now ran down both sides of the curved blade. He didn't remember Smoky engraving both sides.
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 4