I’m slowing. Twice the age of these men around me. Might not last the season. All it takes is one mistake, or the mounting sluggishness of exhaustion. Better this way, though. Better to fall now on the ramparts than perhaps to live to see … No! That is unworthy – Lady forgive me! Now is my trial of weakness.
He pushed down his steaming hands until the heat seared them and he groaned, yanking them away. Tears started from his eyes. How I will miss these men! He felt as if his heart were squeezing to a knot in his chest. That is my regret. That I will share no more time with my brothers. These are the best of men. Our cause is just and our hearts are pure.
Other hands extended over the charcoal embers and Hiam glanced up to see Wall Marshal Quint eyeing him with narrowed gaze.
‘A close one,’ Quint murmured.
Hiam cleared his throat. ‘Shouldn’t have been. I just lost my footing.’
Not even deigning to honour that with a response, Quint watched him from over the embers.
‘You have a report?’ Hiam asked, rather testily.
A slow nod. ‘Trouble in the west. Out near the Wind Tower. Seven fell in one shift – a run of bad luck.’
Hiam straightened, alarmed. ‘And?’
‘Marshal Real was there. He called for the Lady’s grace – and was answered. He held until relief arrived.’
Grunting his understanding, Hiam relaxed. ‘I see. Bless him then. The Lady has gathered him to her. May he sit as one of the Holy Martyrs.’
Quint nodded again. ‘She judged him worthy.’
‘And our champion. How is he doing?’
‘He has roused himself. We should squeeze another season out of him after all.’
‘Excellent. That frees up a lot of men.’
‘Yes. And you – just what did you think you were doing down there?’
Hiam drew his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. ‘Helping out.’
‘Damn foolishness is what that was. Throwing yourself away. Don’t do that. We all need you. The men need to know you’re here watching over them. That alone is worth a thousand spears.’
Hiam was quite impressed by his old friend’s burst of loquaciousness. It was the most he’d heard out of him in years. He smiled chidingly at the scowling Wall Marshal. ‘Why, Quint … if I didn’t know better I’d think you were worried.’
‘Ha! I want you out of the action. Am I going to have to post a guard on you?’
‘You wouldn’t do that.’
‘You know I would and you know it’s within my rights.’
It is at that. The Wall Marshal was meant as a counter-weight to the Lord Protector – and his judge also, if need be.
To change the subject Hiam asked, ‘Any word from Master Stimins?’
Quint snorted his contempt. ‘Came across him on the Rampart of the Stars. Lying prostrate he was, ear to the stones. Says he was listening to the wall. Mad as a barking cat.’
Hiam smiled, imagining the confrontation. Quint’s outrage. Stimins’ complete confusion in the face of it.
Quint turned his head aside, drawing Hiam’s gaze to an approaching runner. The man jogged straight up, extending a folded slip. Hiam thanked him and took the missive.
Emissary from Overlord of Fist. Must talk. Shool.
Hiam nodded to the runner. ‘I will accompany you back.’ To Quint: ‘You have the wall, Marshal.’
Quint’s scarred face twisted even further. ‘It’s about damned time.’
It was after dawn when Hiam and the messenger reached the Great Tower. The Lord Protector was clenching his teeth against the sour bile of exhaustion and he managed the last few trotting leagues on blind will alone. Reaching the door he nodded stiffly to the messenger, dismissing him without daring to risk a word. Within, he leaned back upon the door to suck in great lungfuls of the warmer air and tried to swallow to wet his parched throat. A guard approached and he knelt, adjusting the studded leather wraps and his greaves. Seeing him, the guard, a Chosen veteran, stood to attention. ‘Sir!’
Hiam straightened, nodded to acknowledge the man then edged back the folds of his cloak and drew off his full helm. He pushed a hand through his icy sweat-soaked hair. ‘Hot out there tonight, Chenal.’
‘And me stuck in here.’
‘No matter – more than enough for all of us. Tomorrow, yes?’
‘Aye. Tomorrow.’
‘Guests?’
Chenal raised his gaze to the ceiling. ‘Claims to be Roolian. But he’s one o’ them invaders from way back. Plain as the nose on his face.’
‘Thank you, Chenal. Give them my regards tomorrow.’
‘That I will, doubly.’ He saluted, fist to heart. ‘Lord Protector!’
Hiam answered the salute, headed to the circular stairs. He took his time. He wiped his face on his cloak as he climbed, steadied his breath. Outside the door he paused, then slowly pushed it open. Within, Marshal Shool leapt to his feet, saluting. ‘Lord Protector!’ Another man wheeled, startled from where he stood warming himself at the fireplace. The moment he turned Hiam knew him as Malazan, as his skin ran to a far darker hue than the coffee brown common among many of this region. He was wrapped in furred cloaks and wore thick boots, and a fur hat rested on a chair nearby.
Hiam acknowledged Shool, who extended a hand to the guest: ‘Lord Hurback, emissary of the Overlord of Fist.’
Hiam bowed, placed his helm on the narrow table next to the door, set his shield on a stand, then hung his cloak. ‘Lord Hurback. You are most welcome.’
Hurback bowed also, then his thick black brows wrinkled in confusion. ‘You have seen fighting, Lord Protector?’
Hiam went to a sideboard, poured himself a cup of tea, picked up a slice of black bread. ‘Of course. Every brother – and sister – of the Stormguard fights. During the season none is away from the wall for more than a day.’
‘Of course,’ the emissary echoed weakly. ‘How commendable.’
Hiam invited him to sit before his plain wooden desk and slid in behind. He tried not to show the relief he felt as he eased his weight from his aching legs. Shool bowed and moved to leave; Hiam gestured that he should remain.
‘To what do we owe the honour of your visit, m’lord?’
The man sat, taking care to straighten his fur-trimmed robes. Ermine and wolf, so it appeared to Hiam. His curly black hair was greased to a bright shine and rings set with red stones glittered at his fingers. Hiam reflected that this was perhaps the first of these invader Malazans he’d met who wasn’t in chains at the wall. They sell their own as readily as they sell any other – remember that, Hiam.
‘I bear a personal missive direct from Overlord Yeull. I have been entrusted with its contents and have been instructed to offer any further clarification as needed.’
Full of his intimacy with this self-styled Overlord, isn’t this one … Hiam eyed his cot waiting for him across the room. Why didn’t he just hand over the damned thing? ‘He is well, I hope? Any word from our Mare allies regarding these renewed Malazan aggressions? ’
The emissary goggled at him, clearly startled beyond words. What do they think we are here? Brainless brutes? Our intelligence service is vastly superior to theirs. Across these lands every adherent of the Lady knows where their loyalties ought to lie. With us. Those whose blood defends them.
‘The Lord Protector is eminently well informed,’ the emissary managed. ‘Reports are that they have broken the invading fleet and that only a few stray vessels managed to land on Skolati shores.’
That is not what our sources in Mare are reporting. So, landings are confirmed. A thought struck the Lord Protector and he almost glared at the hapless emissary: Lady forgive them! He hasn’t come to request troops to help defend Rool, surely!
Struggling to keep his voice level, he asked, ‘And what can we in Korel do for the Overlord?’
An expression flitted across Lord Hurback’s broad flat face, one Hiam was unaccustomed to seeing opposite him: a kind of vain smugness. The emissary extended the
sealed vellum missive. ‘You shall see, Lord Protector.’
Vaguely troubled by the man’s manner, Hiam broke the seal, opened the folds, and read. It was some time before he looked up again. ‘Is this true?’ he breathed, stunned and perplexed. ‘The Overlord pledges ten thousand fighting men for the wall? Even now? Facing invasion? This does not make sense …’
In the face of the Lord Protector’s amazement, the emissary’s self-satisfaction returned. He shrugged as if to dismiss the offer as inconsequential between friends. ‘It makes perfect sense, Lord Protector. As you know, we in Rool cleave tightly to the Blessed Lady – more so than many of our erstwhile allies, yes? We know this land’s true enemy. And we are concerned. This pledge is a measure of that concern.’
And what, dear Lady, does Yeull expect in return? Yet … ten thousand! Half again our entire remaining complement. It was as if they knew! Our Lady, as Lord Protector, defender of your lands, this is an offer I simply cannot reject.
Hiam took a slow sip of the now cold tea and regarded the emissary, who answered his look with half-lidded satisfaction. However much I may dislike the messenger or dread the answer, I must ask. He cleared his throat. ‘And what, if anything, does the Overlord request in answer to such extraordinary generosity?’
Knowing he had won, Lord Hurback smiled broadly. He raised his hands, open and palm up. ‘The smallest of requests, Lord Protector. Nothing you could possibly object to given the measure of his offer. Indeed, you should even welcome his proposal …’
Listening, Hiam could not dismiss the suspicion that nothing this man might propose would be welcome. Yet listen he did. His commitment to the defence of the wall gave him no choice – this was perhaps what men like this emissary, or Overlord Yeull, could never understand. They could ask for twenty galleys full of gold, or all the jewels of the mines of Jasston. Such worldly treasure was as nothing to the Stormguard, who were ready to give over everything they possessed – which was in truth only the armour on their backs and the weapons in their hands, and of course their lives – to defend their faith.
Most mornings Ivanr awoke shortly after dawn. As an officer he had the privilege of a private tent, which servants attached to the brigade raised and struck each day. It was framed with poles set into the ground and others laid atop as crosspieces. Felt cloth wrapped it against the cold of the region’s winter. The bedding was of woven blankets over sheep hides. Rising, he straddled the honeypot and eased his taut bladder, then pulled on a long tunic of linen and quilted wool that hung down to the thighs of his buckskin pants. He rewrapped the rags round his feet and strapped on sandals that tied up just beneath his knees.
A cup of tea and a flatbread lay on a board set just inside the flap. Taking them up, he thrust aside the cloth to find a crowd of men and women sitting in a semicircle before his tent. He stared. They stared back. Steam from his tea plumed in the frigid dawn air.
‘Yes? What?’
One old fellow raised a staff to lever himself upright; the others followed his lead. He looked familiar but Ivanr couldn’t quite place him.
‘Hail, Ivanr. I bring the word of the Priestess.’
Now he knew him: the old pilgrim he’d met months ago. He eyed the crowd, uneasy. ‘Yes? What of it?’
The pilgrim inclined his head as if in prayer. ‘I bring her last instructions, given just as she was taken from us.’
‘She’s … dead?’
‘We do not know. She was imprisoned at Abor.’
Ivanr grunted his understanding. ‘I’m sorry. She was … something special.’
‘Yes, she was. Is. And her last words speak of you.’
Now his empty stomach twisted, and to fortify himself he took most of the tea and a bite of the bread. Now what? Just when he’d kicked the brigade into shape. Couldn’t she – they – just leave him alone? He looked over their heads to the stirring camp. Maybe he could just ignore them. They would be marching today, as usual. Keeping their pikes at the ready against the ranging Jourilan Imperial lights who relentlessly dogged them, harrying, darting in, skirmishing.
The old pilgrim drew himself up straight. The wind tossed his thin grey hair and his robes licked about his staff. ‘The Priestess has spoken, Ivanr of Antr. Before she was taken away she named you her disciple, her true heir in the Path.’
At these words the crowd reverently bowed their heads.
Ivanr was struck speechless. Had they gone mad? Him? Heir to the Priestess’s mission? What did he know of this ‘Path’ of hers? He was a ridiculous choice. He shook his head, scowling. ‘No. Not me. Find someone else to follow around – or, better yet, don’t follow anyone. Following people only leads to trouble.’
He dismissed them with a wave of his flatbread and walked off to find Lieutenant Carr.
‘As I warned you before, Ivanr,’ the old pilgrim called after him, ‘it is too late. Already many deny the Lady in your name. With or without you, it has begun. Your life these last few years has been nothing but denial and flight. Are you not tired of fleeing?’
That last comment stopped him; but he did not turn round. After a pause, he continued on. No matter. Let the religion-mad fool rant. Faiths! Name one other thing that has brought more misery and murder into the world!
That day they continued the long march north. Farmlands gave way to rolling pasture, copses of woods, and tracts of land given over to aristocratic estates and managed forests. Their pace had improved as the army now openly followed the roads laid down decades ago by the Imperial engineers. And always, hiding in the edges of copses, or walking the ridges of distant hills, the Jourilan light cavalry, watching, raiding pickets and falling upon smaller foraging parties.
This incessant raiding drove Martal to order the baggage train moved to the interior of the column. The pike brigades marched ahead, behind, and to the sides. Archers ranged within their perimeter, ready to contribute to driving off the cavalry.
Ivanr was sceptical of these bands of roving archers. Short-bows so cheaply made he could break them in his hands. He complained of them to Carr: ‘I could throw rocks farther than these can reach.’
The lieutenant laughed as they walked along. It had rained the previous day, the winter season in Jourilan a time of dark skies and rainstorms, though this season had so far proved remarkably dry. Mud of the churned line of march weighted their feet and spattered their cloaks. ‘This is a peasant army, Ivanr. There are only a handful of professionally trained warriors with us. These farmers and burghers aren’t trained to pull a real bow. You know that takes years. Martal has to work with what she has at hand. And hence these bands of archers with short-bows. All those too young or old or weak to hoist the pikes.’
Ivanr thought of the boy. He’d yet to find him among the regulars. Perhaps he’d been sent to pull a bow. He supposed that would make more sense. ‘And these hulking carriages?’
Carr shrugged his ignorance. ‘That is Martal’s project entirely. I’m not sure what she has planned for them.’
Ivanr didn’t believe a word of that. You know, Carr. You’ve been with Beneth for years. This army’s lousy with spies and you’re just keeping quiet. Very well. No doubt we’ll see sooner than we’d like.
Over the next few days of marching, Ivanr managed to push the old man’s words from his thoughts. Among the men and women of his command he noted nothing more troubling than stares, hushed murmurs, and an unusual alacrity in obeying his orders. What disturbed him far more was the constant presence of Jourilan cavalry on the surrounding hillsides and always ranging ahead, just out of reach. Every passing day seemed to bring more, and as far as he could see Martal was content to do nothing about it. Poor Hegil Lesour ’an ’al, the Jourilan aristocrat commander of the Reform cavalry, was run ragged day and night ranging against the Imperial lights. Making it worse was the lack of winter rain; normally the fields and roads would be almost impassable this time of year.
Eventually, Ivanr was fed up enough to put aside his determination to avoid Martal and any
hint of his participating in the command structure, and fell back to where she rode with her staff at the head of the spine of the army, the long winding column of carriages. He waited until she rode abreast of him, her mount keeping an easy walking pace, then stepped up alongside her.
Her blackened armour was covered by dust and mud kicked up in the march and a light misting spotted it in dark dots. She brushed a hand back through her short hair and nodded to him. ‘Ivanr. To what do we owe the honour?’
‘Honour? What do you mean, honour?’
Martal’s smile was tight and wry. ‘Just the talk of everyone. How the Army of Reform is privileged to have with it the spiritual heir to the Priestess.’
Ivanr was not amused; he eyed the woman thinly. ‘That would be Beneth, I’m sure.’
‘Beneth, I understand, sees himself as a prophet of the movement only. While she was its arrival … but all that is not my area of expertise.’ As she smiled down at him he thought she was deriving far too much amusement from his predicament. ‘Perhaps you should speak to him about it.’
I’d rather stand the wall, Martal. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’
Now the lips crooked up. Her gaze roamed, scanning the ranks, or the surrounding copses and farmland. ‘No? Then what can I do for you?’
Where was this woman from? Closer now, he thought her no native of the region. Her complexion was smooth, the hue of dark honey, her black hair thick and bristly. From some distant land like Genabackis? Or perhaps Quon Tali? Why not the lands south of the Great Ice Wastes? What of them? Ivanr almost asked but thought it too public here, surrounded by her staff and guards. In fact, the idea of a private conversation with this woman was suddenly very desirable. Realizing he was staring, he looked away, cleared his throat. ‘I’m here about horses.’
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 148