A wind gathered around the two. The High King glanced behind himself where darkness blossomed. He gave Traveller a mocking smile. ‘As you can see, apostate, though you have the better of me this time, I am just as difficult to overcome as you. And my Patron is very strong here. In this place, especially…’ He threw himself backwards, sliding off Traveller’s blade into the darkness of a gap that cracked open that instant. Traveller appeared ready to throw himself in, but Stalker, leaping forward, pushed him aside.
The gateway disappeared with a sharp explosion of air. Traveller stood motionless for a time, staring at where the portal had been. Beside him, it was Stalker who was gasping for breath, his face sweaty. ‘I thought you weren’t going to strike him,’ he said. Traveller sheathed his sword. ‘That was long overdue for another friend.’
Kyle ran to Ereko, threw himself down at his side. The Thel Akai was conscious, panting shallowly. Traveller knelt with Kyle. ‘He is gone,’ he told Ereko.
The giant gave a curt jerk of his head. ‘I go too,’ he said, laboured, ‘to join my people. I have been a long time from them. I have missed them. Thank you, my friend.’ Glancing to Kyle, he offered a weak smile. ‘Do not mourn me. And do not give in to sorrow. I will always be with you, yes? This is necessary, here and now. Necessary…’
Traveller stood. ‘Farewell.’
Kyle remained on his knees, thinking, someone ought to do something. Why wasn’t someone doing something? The Thel Akai’s skin took on a grey pallor, roughening. Before Kyle’s eyes the flesh transformed to gritty grey stone. The stone cracked, crumbled and flaked. Kyle could not help but pull away, unnerved. ‘What’s happening?’
‘He’s returning to the Earth. To his mother,’ Traveller said softly, reverently. ‘As it should be…’ and he scanned the horizons, hand on his sword grip.
Even as Traveller spoke Ereko’s flesh crumbled to a dust that the wind pulled away. In moments nothing remained. Traveller whispered something that sounded to Kyle like a prayer.
Behind them, the brothers spoke with Stalker who then approached. ‘We’d best go,’ he said, his voice low.
Traveller nodded, ‘Yes.’ He moved to take Kyle’s arm but Kyle flinched away.
‘How can you just leave him here!’
‘He’s gone, Kyle. The wind has taken him and he will be of the earth once more. It is what he wished.’
The burning in Kyle’s chest flared at those words. ‘And how could you have let this happen! You could have stopped it!’
The swordsman’s dark-blue eyes widened in shock, then he lowered them and turned away. ‘We should go,’ he said, his voice thick.
Stalker took Kyle’s arm. ‘Don’t be angry with the man,’ he mumured. But Kyle pulled his arm free.
‘He might as well have killed Ereko himself!’
‘Kyle – that’s not…’ but the scout could say no more. He shook his head and walked away, signalling something to his brothers.
Kyle fell to his knees next to where the giant had lain. He reached out to pass his hands over the sands. Gone. He felt as if his heart had been torn from his chest. He’d sworn never to feel this way again, yet somehow this affected him so much more than that day atop the Spur. Someone so kind and wise – how could this have happened? It was not right. Drops of tears wet the sands. His hands found a leather thong and a stone, the necklace he’d seen on Ereko. The stone had a hole through which the thong ran and was smooth and translucent, like amber. He clenched it in his fist and stood.
Feeling oddly as if he were sleepwalking, he headed back, retracing their steps. Distantly, he was aware of Coots and Badlands keeping an eye on him. Reaching the shore and the Kite pulled up on the strand only pained Kyle further. The Lost brothers worked together with Traveller to ready it. Kyle sat and watched them, the ocean and the steady surf. An old man came walking up the beach from the direction of the village. ‘Greetings,’ he called in Talian.
Kyle looked to Traveller who merely returned to his work. Shrugging, Kyle faced the man. ‘Yes? You speak Talian?’
‘Yes. I’m of Gris. Was shipwrecked here years ago.’ His long, straight, greying hair whipped in the off-shore wind. His beard and moustache were a startling white against his lean, sun-darkened features. He wore the ragged, bleached remains of a shirt, leather vest and trousers. His feet were bare and cracked.
‘And?’
The man’s eyes narrowed to slits and he glanced away. ‘Was hoping you’d offer a berth – passage anywhere but here.’
‘I don’t think so. We’re not really—’
‘I know these waters well. I could guide you through them. Been fishing here for years. Where are you headed?’
Kyle was at a loss. Yes, where were they headed? He looked to Traveller; the man’s back was turned as he was stowing the bundles and refilled water casks. ‘Quon Tali,’ the man finally said.
‘Quon! Then please, Lady’s Mercy! You must take me.’
Kyle glanced sharply to the man – Lady’s Mercy? But no, why read anything into that. No doubt it was a common enough Talian oath. ‘It’s not really for me to say…’ he looked again, a little sullenly, to Traveller.
The man was coiling rope. His back to them, he hung his head then raised it as if entreating the sky. ‘It’s your decision, Kyle.’
‘Then I suppose so. What’s your name?’
‘Jan.’
Kyle made the introductions. The Lost brothers greeted the man but Traveller did not turn around. ‘We should catch the night tide,’ was all he said.
Jan gestured to the village. ‘I’ll just get some supplies.’
‘Be quick about it,’ Traveller called after him.
They had the Kite out in the shallows when Jan returned burdened by skins of water, bundles of fruits and pale root tubers. Pushing his way out into the surf he tossed the goods over the side then climbed in. Stalker yielded the tiller. Kyle and the brothers handled the sail. Traveller sat at the bow, arms crossed over his knees. Jan turned them north.
After a time, as the stars came out, Kyle sat against the side and set his chin on the gunwale. He stared back at the dark line on the horizon that was the coast of Jacaruku. His suggestion to come to the Dolmans had been a disaster for them. K’azz dead or gone. Ereko slain. And, Kyle now worried, he may have insulted Traveller beyond forgiveness with his words back at the Dolmans. He saw that now. But he’d been so angry. He’d given no thought to the fact that the man had known Ereko far longer than he. And now Traveller was taking them to Quon – the very destination of the Guard. Perhaps he meant to hand Kyle over to them. It suddenly occurred to him that Traveller might actually blame him for his friend’s death; if he hadn’t suggested this destination of Jacuruku out of all possible headings then Ereko would still be alive. He glanced to the bow. The man was awake, brooding, it seemed to Kyle. His eyes were glittering in the dark, fixed on the seemingly oblivious Jan at the tiller, whose gaze held just as steady to the north-east horizon.
For Toc the assault began with a burgeoning roar that shook the hooves and flesh of his mount before it struck his gut. To the south, what seemed the entire horizon lit up behind the Outer Round curtain wall as incendiaries flew tall arcs in both directions over the Inner Round walls: inward from Talian catapults and outward from Hengan onagers. Remnants of the Talian legion that had participated in the original assault watched from the pickets alongside the gathered camp followers and support staff of armourers, cooks, drovers, washerwomen, prostitutes and trooper’s wives and their children.
Beyond the encampment bands of Seti roved the fitfully lit hillsides, chanting warsongs, waving lances, bellowing their encouragement and cursing the Hengans. Toc longed to be in the thick of things with Choss, though well could he imagine the horror of it: frontal escalades were always high in body counts. Pure naked ferocity versus ferocity.
As the assault dragged on into the night, the constant low roar not abating, up out of the night came the White Jackal shaman, Imotan, and his bodygua
rd to Toc and his staff. The shaman urged his mount to Toc’s side. A simple leather band secured the old man’s grey hair and his leathers were mud-spattered. Instead of a lance he carried a short baton tufted in white fur held tight across his chest. The old man’s eyes blazed bright, either in excitement or alarm, Toc wasn’t sure. ‘What is it?’
‘You must get all your people inside,’ Imotan called.
‘Why? A sortie?’
‘No. Something is coming. For you, something terrible. Yet for us, a prophecy fulfilled.’
Toc stared his confusion. Was the man mad? ‘What do you mean?’
‘Ryllandaras is coming. I feel him. I can almost smell his breath.’
‘Ryllandaras?’ The man must be mad. It was impossible. He’d been imprisoned long ago. ‘No. You must be mistaken.’
Imotan flinched away, glowering. ‘Do not insult me, Malazan.’ He sawed his mount around. ‘Very well. I have done my part. Ignore me and die.’ The White Jackal shaman stormed off into the night surrounded by his bodyguard.
Toc watched him go then straightened up tall in his saddle, peering to the left and right, squinting at the lines. Surely the old man would not have come to him unless he was certain. But still, Ryllandaras, after all this time? And why now?
‘Rider!’ he called.
One of his staff urged his mount alongside. ‘Sir?’
‘Go to Urko’s command. Tell them the Seti warn of a dangerous presence out in the night.’
‘Sir.’ The messenger kicked his mount and rode off.
‘Captain Moss?’
‘Sir?’
‘Take a troop and do a circuit of the perimeter. Warn the pickets to be sharp.’
‘Aye, sir.’ The captain saluted and reined his mount away.
There. But had he done all he could? Should he warn Choss? No, the man had more than enough to handle, electing to direct the assault from the front. He would wait to see if anything came of this – on the face of it – utterly outrageous claim.
It was a full hour later, close to midnight, when a woman in a dress torn and stained dark came walking out of camp. She headed straight to Toc, as silent as a ghost, her eyes empty, hands held out before her dark and wet. His men shouted, pointing. Toc stared. He could not speak; would not believe. He slid from his mount and took her hands sticky with blood. ‘Where!’ he shouted. ‘Tell me where!’ She stared up at him, uncomprehending, her brow clenched in confusion.
‘They are dead,’ she told him. ‘Everyone is dead.’
‘Where, damn you!’
‘By the creek.’
‘Blow to arms,’ he yelled. ‘Form square. Escort all civilians behind the walls!’
Far to the back of camp, screams sounded – not human – the shrill shrieks of terrified dying horses. Toc straightened. Gods preserve all of us. He remembered. He remembered Ryllandaras. He’d been there. Not even Dassem could kill him. They had nothing. Nothing to counter the Curse of Quon, eater of men. The man-jackal, brother of Trake, god of war.
Escorted by a bodyguard of Malazan regulars, Storo climbed the Inner Round wall where Hurl waited. His surcoat was rent, blood smeared his gauntlets and his face glistened with sweat and soot. ‘This had better be good,’ he warned, his voice hoarse from shouting commands. ‘We’re barely hanging on out there. We’d be overrun if it weren’t for those three brothers. They’re a right horror, they are.’
Hurl said nothing, her eyes avoiding his. Storo drew breath to speak but something in the timbre of the noise here stopped him; it was different from the tumult elsewhere: rather than rage, screams sounded alongside shouts of panic. And no escalade persisted here. He drew off his helmet, pulled back his mail hood revealing smeared blood where a blow had struck. ‘What is it?’
Hurl raised her chin to the parapet where, opposite, the north gate of the Outer Round wall stood. ‘It’s begun.’
Storo climbed the parapet. A milling mass of humanity. Torches waved, Talian soldiers shouted and fought to maintain lines facing the half-closed North Plains Gate. Civilians crammed the portal, fought to pass the soldiers, screaming, pale hands grasping at armour. Nearby in the press, one of the few mounted figures gestured, shouting orders, his short grey hair and moustache bright in the gloom. He held a black recurve bow in one hand, emphasizing his orders with it.
‘Gods,’ Storo blurted as if gut-punched. ‘Toc. Toc himself.’ He glanced to Hurl. ‘Have you any bowmen here?’
‘No.’
‘Huh! The man’s luck still holds.’ He stepped down, faced Hurl squarely. ‘Wait ’til they’re clear then do it.’
‘Must we?’
‘Yes, dammit! Otherwise we’re lost.’
‘They’ll be slaughtered. Soldiers and civilians alike.’
Storo pulled up his mail hood. ‘Then they should’ve stayed home. As for the civilians, they were warned. I have to go. May the Lady favour you.’
‘And you.’
Storo tramped back down the stairs. Hurl remained with her sergeant and squads of regulars guarding this section of the curtain wall. While she watched, passage was made for the clamouring civilians. The Talians formed lines of crossbowmen facing the gate as others struggled to close it. The last man staggering through was memorable, his dark surcoat and mail coat hanging in tatters, the remains of a shattered helmet swinging from his neck, twin sabres in his hands. Had he actually survived a mêlée with the man-eater? She’d probably never know. The second wing of the gate was levered shut and iron crossbars frantically lowered into place. Hurl turned to Sergeant Banath. ‘I want you down there.’
He saluted, jogged down the stairs. Along the Outer Wall Talian soldiers climbed to the parapets, scanned down beyond. Hands pointed, alarm was raised, crossbows fired. Hurl waited until the civilians were far clear of the gate then went to the inner lip of the stone walk. She peered down to torches lighting a crew, Sergeant Banath with them, in a trench dug tight against the wall. She looked to her right and left up and down the wall. ‘Brace yourselves!’ she shouted to the men. She raised a hand, thinking, with this hand I doom more men and women than I can imagine. What has happened to me that I could do such a thing? Was it Shaky’s death? The attack of Fat Kepten’s men? What did she care if Heng fell? Not at all, to tell the truth. No, the mean selfish fact of it was that she wanted to live and if the city fell she’d no doubt be executed.
She dropped her hand and threw herself down, covering her head. Below her, she could imagine a sledge being swung to bash a pipe that ran out underground across the entire breadth of the Outer Round to a stash of carefully ordered and bound Moranth munitions snug against the left gate jamb. There its pointed end would crack a sharper nestled within four cussors. The resultant explosion—
A shockwave kicked the breath from her. The thunderous blast of the munitions was lost on her deafened ears. A bloated roaring filled her head. Tiny rocks peppered her back. Blinking, shaking her head, she climbed to her feet. Smoke obscured the gates. Down in the Outer Round, strewn in wreckage, men and women were picking themselves up. Wounded staggered from the smoke carrying appalling wounds and Hurl’s stomach churned. She’d known that not everyone had been far enough away, but most had – or so she told herself. Nearby buildings burned in ruins. And through the smoke something ran. She couldn’t be sure; it had been too fast. Just a glimpse of paleness, but huge, smooth and terrifyingly fluid. Then it was gone.
She slumped down against the parapet. It was done. Now she too shared Quon’s Curse. The blood it would spill from this night forward would now also steep her. She covered her face and great shuddering sobs shook her.
The report of the explosion startled Toc’s mount and it sidestepped into a stall, became tangled in ropes and boxes, tripped and fell. He hit the cobbled road hard, losing his breath. The press around him closed in, hands raised him. Shouts and screams continued, only doubled now by the blast. Everyone was asking what had happened; Toc ignored them. He pushed to where his mount thrashed screaming among the shattere
d slats of the stall, leg broken. He drew his sword – poor animal – one of his favourites, but he couldn’t leave it like this.
The instant the report of the eruption reached him he knew what had happened. They’d blown the outer gate. The fierce calculated cruelty of the plan left him awed. Enfilade. Here they were drawn in and trapped between high walls. Death hunting them. By morning the Outer Round would be one long slaughterhouse as Ryllandaras slaked a near century of blood thirst. He had to get to Choss. He raised his sword high in both hands and swung.
Picking up his bow he straightened, shouted, ‘Get indoors, hide. Defend yourselves.’
Soldiers looked to him and the pleading in their eyes clawed at his conscience. He wanted to offer reassuring words but he had none. The most despairing of the men and women did not even bother searching out his gaze for commands. He gathered himself, set one tip of his horn recurve bow to the cobbles and, leaning all his weight upon it, strung it in one quick motion. ‘Form square here for a fighting retreat. Spears, lances, poleaxes, anything you can find on the outside. Crossbowmen and archers within.’
A civilian woman shrieked at him, ‘What of us!’
‘And get these people off the street!’
A nearby soldier, a lieutenant by his arm-torc, snapped a salute. ‘You heard the commander! Set to. Form up!’
‘Slow retreat, lieutenant,’ Toc repeated. ‘I have to find the commander.’
‘Aye, sir. Oponn with you, sir.’
Toc answered the man’s salute and jogged up the street.
Burning buildings near the Inner Round wall lit the night. Toc met soldiers assembling hasty barricades on the main thoroughfare. He almost ordered them to abandon the effort but decided not to add to the confusion and chaos of the night. Yet it was a forlorn hope: the beast would easily sidestep any such position. Soldiers directed him to the rooftop of a sturdy brick warehouse. Here he found Choss, surrounded by staff.
‘Thank Beru!’ the big man exploded upon spotting him. ‘What in the Chained One’s name is going on out there? I’m getting all kinds of outrageous reports.’
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 84