‘The Gods forgive nothing,’ came the man's dark answer.
She stared back at the tall lean figure until a twist in the road took him from sight. ‘As I said,’ the Marquis began again, ‘hermits and mad ascetics infest these hills. Here you'll find all kinds of profanation and heterodoxies. Like the babbling of a thousand voices. You might as well yell for the wind to stop.’
‘Still, I wonder what he meant …’
‘Perhaps he meant that what we name as Gods have no concern for us.’
Ghelel and the Marquis turned to face Molk, who rode behind. He shifted in his saddle, shrugging. ‘Perhaps.’
Both turned away. Ghelel did not know what the Marquis made of the pronouncements, but they crawled on her like some sort of contagion. She felt an irresistible urge to wash. Just words, she told herself. Nothing more than words.
After climbing the slope they reached the north plains. Dark clouds bruised the far north-east where the Ergesh mountain range caught the prairie winds. North, the road would bring them past an isolated sedimentary butte, or remains of an ancient plateau. Here, climbing its steep slopes and jumbled atop, rested the crumpled fallen remains of the Great Sanctuary of Burn. Entire wings of its boxy, squat architecture had slid down the cliff on massive landslides and faults while other quarters appeared untouched. From this distance, its canted maze of walls appeared to Ghelel as if a God had tossed down a handful of cards. Traces of grey smoke rose amid the ruins. ‘It must have been enormous.’
‘Yes. Largest on the continent. It housed thousands of monks. Now the cries of prairie lions sound instead of the drone of prayer.’
Ghelel glanced to the heavyset man; his pale eyes, hidden in a thick nest of wrinkles, studied the far-off remains. ‘You sound like a poet, Marquis.’
His thick brows rose. ‘I had hoped to be, but circumstances have made of me a soldier – Prevost.’
‘Yet the sanctuary does not seem entirely abandoned.’
‘Yes. As I said. The devout still gather. They slouch amid the wreckage, forlorn.’ He glanced to her. ‘Perhaps they dream of the glory that once was …’
Ghelel shied her gaze away to the ruins. ‘I see no scaffolding, no efforts at rebuilding.’
‘Perhaps their dreams are too seductive.’
‘Or they are too poor.’
Grinning, the Marquis nodded thoughtfully. After a time he cleared his throat. ‘I am reminded of some lines from Thenys Bule. Are you familiar with him?’
‘I have heard of him. “Sayings of the Fool”?’
‘Yes. It goes something like – “While travelling I met a man dressed in rags, his feet and shoulders bare. Take this coin, I offered him, yet he refused my hand. You see me poor, hungry, and cold, he said – yet I am rich in dreams.”’
Ghelel eyed the man narrowly. ‘I am not sure what to take from that, Marquis …’
‘Yes, well. The man was a fool after all.’
Past noon they reached the crossroads, Here the road south to Kan and Dal Hon met the major east-west trade route. The freshly burned remains of wayside inns, hostels and horse corrals lined the way. Ghelel knew this to be the work of the Seti and she bridled at the destruction wrought in what some might come to construe as her name. Trampled and now neglected garden plots stretched back on all sides. All was not abandoned, however; a tent encampment stood on a north hillside overlooking the crossroads. What looked to Ghelel like several hundred men and horses rested. A contingent was on its way, walking its mounts leisurely down the gentle slope.
‘Urko's men?’
‘Yes.’
‘They are to join us in the south?’
The Marquis fished his pipe from a pouch at his side. ‘That is the question, Prevost. They were to deploy against the South Rounds. But things have changed. Now we must discuss strategy – and much will rest on our decisions. As it always does, I suppose, in matters of war.’
The contingent did little to strengthen Ghelel's confidence. Among their numbers she saw the robes over mail of Seven Cities, the embossed boiled leather of Genabackis and the bronze scaled armour of Falar. No order or effort at regimentation seemed to have been made save for pennants and flags of Falaran green. The soldiers seemed to treat the rendezvous as some sort of outing; they joked and talked amongst themselves while kicking their mounts on to the road in complete disorder. Ghelel glanced sidelong to the Marquis – the man's heavyset face revealed nothing of any anger or disgust at what, after all, could be interpreted as an insult. The foremost one, a ginger-bearded fat fellow in a leather hauberk set with bronze scales, inclined his head in greeting. ‘Captain Tonley, at your service, sir,’ he said in strongly accented Talian.
‘Marquis Jhardin, Commander of the Marchland Sentries. Prevost Alil, and Sergeant Shepherd.’
‘Greetings.’
‘Is Commander Urko with you?’
‘Yes, he is. But he's unavailable just now.’
‘Unavailable?’
‘Yes. He's …’ The man searched for words.
‘Reconnoitring,’ one of his troops suggested.
Captain Tonley brightened, his mouth quirking up. ‘Yes, that's it! Reconnoiting. Come, join us,’ and he reined his mount around.
‘Thank you, Captain,’ the Marquis said. ‘I hope we will see him later.’
‘Oh, yes.’ The captain waved such concerns aside. ‘He will be back tonight. For now, join us. Rest your mounts. Tell us about this attack we are hearing of.’
The Marquis nodded to Sergeant Shepherd who raised his arm in a ‘forward’.
With the gathering of dusk the bivouac came to resemble less and less a military encampment and more a gathering of brigands. From under the awning raised on poles that served as the command tent, Ghelel watched drunken fights break out around campfires, betting and wrestling over what meagre loot had been gathered so far, and a virtual army of camp followers picked up at Ipras and Idryb who circulated among the men and women. Captain Tonley entertained them with stories of the crossing while the Marquis sat calmly on a camp stool and smoked his pipe. Molk, Ghelel noted, had disappeared the moment they entered camp. Gloriously drunk by now, no doubt.
Almost no one noticed when an old man bearing two leather buckets of stones stooped under the awning. He dropped the buckets then pulled off his oversized wool cloak revealing a wrestler's broad shoulders and knotted, savagely scarred arms that reminded Ghelel of oak roots. Captain Tonley sprang from his stool to offer the man a tankard. The fellow drank while eyeing them over its rim. The Marquis stood and bowed. Ghelel followed suit. Finishing the tankard he thrust it at the captain who staggered back.
‘Another. It's dusty work in the hills.’
The man extended a hand to the Marquis who took it. ‘Marquis Jhardin, Commander of the Marchland Sentries.’ He indicated Ghelel. ‘Our new Prevost, Alil.’
The man grunted, turned to her. She extended her hand, which disappeared into his massive paw. Ghelel had an impression of a brutal blunt Napan-blue face with small guarded eyes under a ledge of bone, brush-cut hair white with dust, but what overwhelmed everything was the pain in her hand. It felt as if it had been cracked between stones. ‘So this is our new Prevost,’ he said, eyeing her, and she knew that, somehow, this man also knew. ‘Commander Urko Crust.’
‘Commander,’ she managed, her teeth clenched against the pain.
Sighing his ease, Urko sat on a stool. Captain Tonley set another tankard next to him. ‘Captain Tonley. Just because I'm away for the day doesn't mean that the entire camp has to go to the Abyss.’
The captain flinched. ‘No, sir.’ Saluting, he ducked from the awning.
Urko dragged the buckets close, nodded for the Marquis to sit. Ghelel sat next to him. ‘What word from Choss?’ In the distance, the sharp commands of Captain Tonley filled the dusk.
The Marquis set to repacking his pipe. ‘She's on her way. Is right behind you, in fact.’
Startled, Ghelel stared at Jhardin. She? The Empress? Coming here? G
ods! Then, this could be it. The battle to decide everything.
But Urko merely nodded at the news, as if he'd half-expected it. He selected a stone from a bucket and studied it, turning it this way and that. He spat on it, rubbed it with a thumb. ‘So, deploying to the south is out of the question. Can't have the river between our divisions.’
‘No. Choss requests that you take the north-east flank.’
He grunted, set the stone on a table. ‘And the south?’
‘We'll keep an eye on the south. They haven't the men in Heng for a sortie in any strength.’
Urko selected the next stone, frowned at it, threw it into the darkening night. ‘So. I will hold the north-east, Choss the centre, Heng will block the south flank, and the Seti will harass and skirmish.’ He let out a long growling breath. ‘Probably the best we can arrange for her.’
Gathering herself, Ghelel cleared her throat. ‘With all due respect, she marches to relieve Heng, doesn't she? Shouldn't we stop her before she reaches it?’
Urko's grizzled brows clenched together. He lowered his gaze to retrieve another stone. The Marquis took a mug from the table and filled it from an earthenware carafe of red wine. ‘Ostensibly, she marches to relieve Heng, yes. But she should know enough not to trap herself in it. No, the best way for her to relieve the siege would be to take the field.’
‘Do we have any intelligence on the size of her force?’ Ghelel asked. Urko cocked a thick brow at the question, peered up from his inspection of the stone.
‘Amaron has his sources,’ Jhardin answered. ‘I have been informed that, at best, she can field no more than fifty thousand – and that is assuming she conscripts all down the coast at Carasin, Vor, Marl and Halas.’
‘Then we well outnumber her.’
‘Yes. But numbers count for less than you would think. The emperor was almost always outnumbered. Wasn't that so, Urko?’
The old general grunted his assent while buffing the stone in a cloth. ‘She has other assets … the Claw. The mage cadre. And there is always the possibility that Tayschrenn may choose to dirty his hands.’
Ghelel sat back on her stool. Great Togg forefend! She hadn't considered that. But the High Mage had yet to act in any of this. Why should he now? Clearly everyone was assuming he would not. To think otherwise was to invite paralysis.
‘So,’ Urko said, taking a long draught from the tankard. ‘We'll wait here for the rest of the force to catch up. Then we will deploy to the north-east.’ He handed a stone to Ghelel. ‘Take a look at that.’
One side of the oblong stone was coarse rock but the other revealed a smooth curved surface that glistened multicoloured, reminding her of pearl. After a moment the likeness of a shell resolved itself, spiralled, curving ever inward with extraordinary delicacy. ‘Beautiful …’ she breathed.
One edge of the general's mouth crooked up. ‘You like it?’
‘Yes! It's wonderful.’
‘Good!’ He sat back and watched her turn the stone in her hands. ‘I'm glad you like it.’
* * *
These last few moons strange dreams had dogged Kyle. He slept restlessly, often waking with a start, in a cold sweat, as if having seen or heard something terrifying. And always, the images, the ghost-memories, receded just as he reached for them. This last week on board the Kite had passed more calmly, however. Perhaps it was the monotonous rocking, or the slapping rush of the waves, or the melodies Ereko hummed to himself during his long nights at the tiller, but he'd slept either more easily, or far more deeply.
One night Kyle dreamt, or thought he did; he was not sure. All that he knew was that suddenly he became aware of himself walking through mist, or what seemed like mist, or clouds. And he was not alone.
He walked just one pace behind, and slightly to the right of, a slim pale figure who wore layered thick robes that dragged on the ground behind – a ground, Kyle now saw, of dry baked dirt. He walked slowly and deliberately with long strides, his wide hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed, perhaps deep in thought. Long white hair hung to the middle of his back. The man's similarities to the Magus, the Wind Spirit upon the Spur, made Kyle's eyes well with suppressed emotion, but there were differences as well; this man was not as powerfully built and he seemed taller. Yet even as he watched the man's figure rippled, shifting and wavering before returning once more to the slim snow-pale man. In that moment Kyle swore he glimpsed another shape, a bestial form unfolding.
He should not be there and it terrified him. Had they somehow trespassed or wandered too far in their journey? The man's sandalled feet raised clouds of dust but no sound reached Kyle of their fall. The dull pewter vault of the sky made his eyes ache to look at it; it seemed to blur when he studied it too carefully. Shadows flew across the two of them, cast themselves on the ground around them, all without any seeming source.
Eventually, after Kyle knew not how long, a destination detached itself from the horizon ahead, a low dark hill or structure of some sort. It resolved into a heap of gigantic darkly smoky crystals, as large as a building. Upon reaching it, the man planted his feet firmly, and from what Kyle could see, set his chin in a fist as he made a survey of the formation, carefully, from right to left. Coming to a decision, he took hold of one crystal with both hands. He strained, grunting and hissing his breath, and with a massive grinding crack the huge shard gave way. It stood twice the height of the man who himself stood far taller than Kyle. The man pushed it aside and reached for another.
‘Hold!’
Kyle and the man spun.
A slim figure came walking upon them, dark-skinned in a night-black cloak over sombre clothes, tall with long white hair. Noting the hair, Kyle wondered at a common ancestry between these two.
‘Anomandaris,’ the man greeted the newcomer, straightening, and loosening his arms at his sides.
Anomandaris bowed. ‘Liossercal.’ Closer now, Kyle saw that the man was no Dal Hon or of any other darkly-hued tribe, but non-human: his black skin seemed to absorb the dull light that fell upon it, yet his eyes were bright gold lamps that shone now with a kind of reckless amusement.
‘What business have you here?’
‘I may ask the same.’
Liossercal crossed his arms, rumbling, ‘Research.’
The brow over one gold eye arched. The newcomer kicked at the broken crystal. ‘It would seem that the subject may not survive the investigation.’
The arms fell again, large hands splayed. ‘What of it?’
A shrug. ‘It is young yet, Liossercal. A child. Would you dismember a child?’
Liossercal, whose back was still to Kyle, seemed surprised. ‘A child? This is new, yes, the weakest of these strange invasions into our Realms and thus so very appropriate to my purposes. But a child? Hardly.’
The one named Anomandaris took a step closer. ‘This is my point. It is new and thus unformed. Who is to say what is or is not its character or purpose? You? The universe you inhabit is one of certainties, I have learned. So you can say for certain you know of the future then?’
‘A poor argument. You play to my own point. What I can say of a certainty is that we will never know unless we investigate.’ And Liossercal turned to the formation.
‘I will not allow it.’
Liossercal stilled. He slowly returned to face the newcomer. ‘An ocean of blood birthed the hard-won accord between our Realms, Anomandaris. You would risk that? For this? It is not even of our existence! It is alien – very possibly a threat. I would resolve this mystery.’
Anomandaris's eyes seemed to glow even brighter in the gloom. ‘It is my interpretation that this house is of Emurlahn and Emurlahn exists as proof of the accord between our Realms. Threaten one and you threaten all.’
Liossercal drew himself up straight, head cocked to one side. After a time he nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very well. I will reflect upon this new light you bring to the situation. A reprieve, then, for a time, for this Shadow House.’
Anomandaris inclined his head
in agreement. A smile lifted his thin lips and he gestured an invitation to the empty plains. ‘Tell me of Resuthenal, then? How fares she?’
Liossercal clasped his hands behind his back, accepted Anomandaris's invitation. They walked off side by side. ‘She is in fine health, though the mention of your name still enrages her. Especially when I point out that she lost as a result of her own stupidity.’
Anomandaris laughed. ‘Yes, that would enrage anyone.’
Kyle wished to follow the two; he certainly knew that he ought not remain. The things the two spoke of were complete mysteries to him, but he feared being left behind, becoming lost in this strange dream. If only he could have seen the man from the front – he would know then for certain that he dreamed of the patron of his tribe, the Wind King himself. Now dead, killed by Cowl. He struggled to will himself to follow the two receding figures.
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 49