Farmsteads of modest log and sod huts amid clearings hacked from the forest emerged from the mists. Rounding a bay, they came to a broad low headland, cloaked in fog. Here, a single tall keep of stone reared close to a rising cliff behind. A clutch of huts and cleared fields surrounded it and the shore was crowded by vessels heaved up upon the flats. Jute counted some fifty of them.
East of this lay an inlet choked in ice. Jute could hear the grinding and groaning of the massive sheet. Behind the inlet, further inland, rose what appeared to be a mountain of ice – a great sky-blue dome that gleamed like a sapphire jewel.
‘If only you could see this, dearest,’ he told Ieleen, awed.
‘I see something,’ she murmured, and she did not sound pleased by it.
* * *
The Supplicant anchored clear of the shore, while Jute had the crew drive the Dawn up on to the flats. The Ragstopper anchored next to the sorceress’s vessel. The Resolute drew up next to the Dawn. Jute was troubled to see all the nearby ships were empty of any crew. No guards or watches, and no teams working on repairs even though most were quite badly in need of it.
He ordered a watch, armed himself, and kissed Ieleen on the cheek.
‘Have a care, luv,’ she told him. ‘I’ve a sense our friend isn’t the only power here.’
The mud was thick and chill. It clung to his boots like weights as he made his way up the shore. Tyvar emerged, fully armed and armoured, helm tucked under one arm. His long cape dragged in the mud as he came.
‘Greetings!’ the mercenary called out, grinning behind his beard, as friendly as ever. ‘How fares our pilot?’
‘She is recovered, thank you.’
‘Excellent! And our Malazan friend is also in good care, so I hear.’
‘Yes.’
Tyvar gestured a gauntleted hand to the keep. ‘And what do you make of the settlement?’
Jute peered round. Distant figures worked the many fields where scarves of fog drifted. ‘Quiet.’
Tyvar’s smile hardened and he nodded. ‘Ah! Here comes our, ah, ally.’ He motioned to the flats. A launch had pulled up, oared by crew that Jute couldn’t identify over the distance. The tall unmistakable figure of Lady Orosenn straightened then, and stepped out into the mud. She made for shore. As she neared, Jute saw with some surprise that she had changed her outfit. She now wore tall leather moccasins laced to the knees over buckskin trousers, belted, with a shirt and a long thick felt jacket hanging open at the front. Her hair blew long and midnight-black about her shoulders. Her face, now uncovered, revealed a broad tall brow, deep ridges sheltering the eyes, and a long heavy jaw.
He and Tyvar bowed. ‘Greetings, Lady Orosenn,’ the mercenary rumbled. ‘You are dressed for the weather, I see.’
She laughed, waved a hand deprecatingly, took a deep breath of the chill air. ‘I am dressed for home, friend mercenary.’
‘Home?’ Jute blurted, then regretted opening his mouth. ‘You are from here?’ he finished weakly.
The lady laughed again. ‘No, friend captain. I am not. Yet this is home all the same.’ She waved them onwards. ‘Captain Cartheron sends his regrets – he yet remains too weak to walk. Come. Let us greet our hostess, the Lady Mist. Though, I am certain she will not be so pleased to see us.’ She swept on, and Jute and the mercenary captain hurried to follow.
As they neared the keep they passed more of the locals, though, in point of fact, Jute noted that none were local. Most were men and all were quite obviously from elsewhere. Jute recognized Genabackans and Malazans and glimpsed many other types unfamiliar to him despite his extensive travels. Most wore the ragged remains of sailors’ sturdy canvas trousers or leathers; most carried hoes and other farmers’ implements. None would meet their gaze as they passed. Some even turned away, or shook their heads.
Jute glanced to Tyvar. ‘Solemn lot.’
‘I see fear,’ the mercenary rumbled.
‘They are trapped,’ Lady Orosenn commented.
Tyvar’s gaze narrowed. ‘As we shall be?’
‘I will do my best to extricate us.’
The mercenary captain grunted in answer, but his hand now rested on the grip of his bastardsword.
The iron-bound door to the keep stood open. No guard challenged them as they entered. The way led to a long main hall. All was dim as the only light shone in through high slit windows. No torches or braziers burned. Against the far wall a woman in glowing white robes waited. She was seated upon a tall-backed chair, or throne, of rough-carved wood.
As they neared, Jute realized that the long snowy robes spread out around her in ragged tag-ends actually reached all the way to the sides of the long hall. Disturbingly, as he watched, these banners seemed to twist and writhe as if possessing a life of their own. He hastily pulled his gaze away.
The woman smiled and motioned them onward. Her hair was ash-grey and hung about her in long swathes that also spread out across the stone flags.
Tyvar approached and knelt upon one knee. Lady Orosenn bowed deeply. Jute hastened to follow suit.
‘Lady Mist,’ Tyvar began, ‘we thank you for this audience. I am Commander Gendarian, Tyvar Gendarian, of the Blue Shields. With me are Captain Jute and Lady Orosenn. May we take this opportunity to beg for supplies and timber to repair our vessels, as the passage here has been a most trying one.’
‘Greetings, travellers,’ the sorceress answered. ‘I extend to you the protection and security of residency here in the settlement of Mist.’
Residency? Jute cast an uneasy glance to Lady Orosenn. The tall woman was shaking her head, her expression one of sad displeasure. Even Tyvar glanced back to share a rather stunned look. ‘I’m sorry, m’lady, but I’m not certain I understand…’
Lady Mist opened her arms. ‘I should have thought my meaning was plain. You are now my subjects. You will surrender your weapons and armour and join the rest of the men and women here tilling the soil and building a settlement. You have until tomorrow to comply.’
Tyvar cocked his head, as if confronted by something bizarre. ‘And if we do not?’
The sorceress did not answer. She merely returned her arms to the throne’s thick armrests. The silence dragged on and Jute almost turned to whisper to Lady Orosenn, but something caught his eye down upon the stone flags and he flinched instead. Scarves of mist now coiled about Tyvar’s feet and even as Jute watched they began writhing up his legs like winding sheets.
Tyvar hissed, sensing something, and glanced down to bat at his legs. The ropes cinched tight and he fell to the floor in a clatter of armour. His helm skittered off into the dark.
‘Sorceress!’ Lady Orosenn suddenly called out, commandingly.
The ropes of mist fell away and dispersed like smoke. Tyvar was on his feet in one quick leap. A gauntleted hand went to the long grip of his bastardsword. Lady Orosenn reached out to gently touch the man’s shoulder and he immediately released the weapon.
The sorceress was nodding through all this. ‘A very wise decision. For you see … I am not entirely unprotected.’ And she gestured, waving her hand forward.
Heavy thumping steps sounded from the dark corners behind the throne. Out stepped two giants, or so they appeared to Jute. Hoary shapes out of legend. Jaghut? Trell? Fabled Toblakai? Who was to know? Fully two fathoms tall they must have been. One wore a long heavy coat of bronze scales that hung to the floor in ragged lengths. He was bearded, his hair a thick nest, his jaw massive with pronounced tusk-like upward-jutting canines. He carried an immensely wide two-headed axe. This he thumped to the flags before his sandalled feet in a blow that shook the floor. The other stood nearly identical but girt in armour of overlapping iron scales. Thrust through his belt was a greatsword fully as tall as any man, from its tip to its plain hexagonal pommel of bevelled iron.
Both favoured the party with hungry eager grins.
‘Allow me to introduce my sons,’ Mist continued. She extended a hand to the left. ‘Anger.’ She gestured to her right. ‘Wrath.’
Lady Orosenn lurched one step forward as if she would charge Mist. ‘You have not been kind to your sons,’ she grated.
Mist thrust a finger at her. ‘You I will allow to continue on to the north. All who come to pay tribute to our great ancestors are welcome.’
‘They are not my ancestors,’ Lady Orosenn growled, low and controlled, and Jute was shaken by the uncharacteristic ferocity in her voice. ‘They are more my great-nephews and nieces.’
Mist’s hands convulsed to claws on the armrests and she gaped. Then, recovering, she gave a girlish laugh and waved the words aside. ‘An outrageous claim. In any case, you have no stake in this. Stand aside.’ Her eyes moved to Tyvar, and she pointed to the entrance. ‘Go now, and convince your crews to cooperate. Any resistance or rebellion will be utterly crushed.’
Tyvar recovered his helm and marched from the hall. Jute glanced from the mercenary’s retreating back to Lady Orosenn, who had not moved, and chose to follow Tyvar. Leaving, he heard Lady Orosenn say, in a voice now touched with sadness, ‘It seems that we never learn, Mist.’ Then he heard her steps following in his wake.
* * *
The village, if it could be called that, was deserted. So too the slope down to the ships. Everyone knew to keep indoors. Jute noted with alarm the creeping banners of fog. They were coursing in towards them from all sides, as if they were streams of water sinking into a basin. Tyvar muttered to Lady Orosenn, ‘We cannot counter this sorcery. Togg is no longer with us.’
‘I will do my best. Push off immediately.’
‘I am not used to this crouching behind the cover of another.’
‘Think of me as your priestess, then.’
The big man barked a laugh. ‘Would that were so, m’lady.’
She urged him onwards. ‘Quickly, set the crew to work. No time for talking.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Jute ran for the Silver Dawn. Drawing near, he waved, shouting: ‘Push off! All crew! Now!’
First Mate Buen appeared at the side. He shouted back, ‘What’s that?’
Jute came stumbling and slogging through the mud. ‘I said get the crew out, damn you!’
Buen gestured to the bay, now shrouded in dense mists. ‘It’s too foggy to set out. Can’t see a thing.’
Jute nearly screamed his frustration. He drew the shortsword at his side – the first time he could recall ever doing so – and pointed it at his mate. ‘Get everyone over the side now! We’re leaving or we’re dead!’
Buen raised his hands. ‘All right, all right. What’s the big rush?’
‘Just do it!’
The mate turned away. ‘You heard the cap’n. Over the side.’
‘But it’s muddy out there,’ someone complained. Dulat, perhaps.
Jute leaned an arm against the slick planks and rested his head there in disbelief. He glanced across the flats: Lady Orosenn stood in the muck next to her launch, facing inland. Her oarsmen, stiff figures in rags, hardly stirred a muscle. Something about them made him jerk his gaze away to examine the Resolute. Tyvar was of course making far greater headway than he. His crew had jumped down and even now were crowding around the bows to push.
We’re going to die, he told himself.
Movement up the slope caught his eye. A lone figure, running, arms waving. It was a sailor by the rags he wore. ‘Take me!’ the man bellowed, his voice cracking. ‘By the merciful gods – take me with you!’
Buen appeared in the muck at Jute’s side. He pointed. ‘Who in the green Abyss is that?’
Jute glared, then shoved him to the planks. ‘Push, damn you!’ More of his crew came jumping reluctantly into the clinging mud. ‘Push, all of you! Push!’
‘Please take me wi—’ Something choked off the man’s call and Jute turned to look.
Coils of mist enmeshed the sailor. As Jute watched, those ropes and scarves lifted the man up into the air where he struggled in eerie silence. Then the ribbons of shifting gossamer fog about his middle yanked tight. The man vomited – but not the normal stomach contents. The very organs themselves came bursting from his mouth in a rain of escaping fluids to slap to the ground as a mess of pulped viscera. Jute fought his own gorge. The corpse, nearly cut in half now, blood-red organs dangling from its mouth, jerked as the banners of mist yanked each limb clean off, one after the other, the arms first and then the legs.
One of Jute’s crew gagged and vomited.
The tendrils then lashed like whips and Jute ducked as the dismembered parts of the corpse came flying at the Dawn to bang against the hull. The torso thumped wetly to the deck.
‘Fucking Abyss!’ Buen yelled, ducking.
‘I told you to push,’ Jute observed. He was surprised by how calm he sounded.
The crew dashed themselves against the hull. Feet dug and slid frantically in the muck. Someone was whimpering and Jute couldn’t blame him.
A strange sort of pressure brushed against him then and he turned. Lady Orosenn had her arms out, as if pushing. Jute glanced about – the mist was rolling backwards as though in a stiff wind. Though no true wind ruffled any of them. It lashed and whipped on all sides yet was driven back, if only a short distance.
Two great bellows of rage sounded from the obscuring banks of fog. Jute’s head sank once again. Do these foreign gods never tire of their jokes? Two enormous shadowed silhouettes came lumbering down the slope.
As if this new threat were the key, the bows of the Dawn lurched backwards. The sailors followed, heaving. Water kicked up about them as they pushed into the weak surf. The hull lifted free of the flats. Jute could’ve kissed every one of the damned crew as those few left on board now reached down to help lift them up and in. He clung to the top rail, his feet dangling in the surf, and peered back. Lady Orosenn still had her arms outstretched yet even from this distance Jute could see them shuddering with effort. All about, in a clear semicircle around the ships, whips and tatters of fog lashed and writhed.
We are clear – but what of her? Jute wondered, horrified. How will she …
As he watched, the sorceress took one shaky step backwards into the launch then tumbled the rest of the way as if thrown. The stiff upright oarsmen started rowing and the launch surged out into the surf. The scarves of mist came unravelling down the slope just as the brothers, Anger and Wrath, emerged like two fiends out of myth. The brothers stopped on the shore and shook their fists, bellowing their rage. The mist, however, did not halt. It came on, brushing sinuously over the waves like a horde of sea-snakes, straight for him – or so it seemed.
‘Pull me up, damn you all!’ he roared.
Hands yanked at him, heaved him up. On deck he straightened to peer at everyone gaping at the shore, then turned as something crashed into the waves just short of the bow. It sent up a towering burst of spray that splashed everyone.
On shore, Anger stooped for another boulder.
Jute turned to his astonished crew. ‘Don’t just stand there!’ he roared. ‘Man the sweeps!’
The spell of fascination was broken; the crew scrambled for the oars.
Jute returned to studying the shore. Anger had a boulder raised over his head that wouldn’t shame any siege onager. This he heaved at the Dawn in a mighty throw. The rock came whistling down to splash to the port side. Spray from the impact doused the oarsmen.
A distant crash of timber snatched Jute’s attention to the Resolute. A boulder thrown by Wrath had struck the tall bow-stem, snapping it off. Their oarsmen kept heaving and the vessel kept its headway so Jute surmised the keel remained true.
As for Lady Orosenn, her silent crew pulled her out to the waiting Supplicant with breathtaking speed. They climbed rope ladders up the side.
All along the receding shore, the bank of fog thickened to a near opaque wall. It was as if Mist were sealing off her realm in an impenetrable barrier of cloud. Only the giant brothers remained. They stood as blurred twin shadows, roaring their namesake ire and heaving rocks that now fell short in tall towers of spray and haze.
/> Jute went to the stern. ‘Swing us round,’ he ordered Lurjen.
‘Heading?’ the man enquired, his gaze fixed on the rippling fist-waving shadows.
‘East. There’s a channel there or I’m a Letherii philanthropist.’
‘Hit it off with the locals?’ Ieleen enquired dryly, her hands resting on her walking stick and her chin atop them.
‘The usual miscommunication, dearest.’
‘The channel may be impassable,’ she pointed out.
‘We’ll take our time.’
‘We’re too low on supplies.’
‘Then we’ll send out launches to fish or hunt – there may be seals.’
‘You’re determined, then,’ she sighed.
Jute turned to her. ‘Why, of course. After all this?’
She pensively tapped her stick to the decking. ‘I was just thinking that perhaps we’ve gone about as far as we should. All things considered…’
He squatted next to her. Sensing his nearness, she gave him a smile, but it was a wistful one. ‘I’m worried, luv,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve about pushed our luck as far as we ought.’
‘We’re about,’ Lurjen murmured.
‘Ahead slow,’ he answered without turning from his wife. ‘Find open water.’
‘Aye, aye. Ahead slow, Buen,’ Lurjen called.
‘Aye,’ the first mate answered. ‘Get a man up that mast! Two at the bows! With poles!’
‘We’ve a sorceress with us, lass,’ Jute said. ‘And a mercenary army.’
She shook her head. ‘Leave it to them. Who are we? Just common people. We don’t belong in this land of ogres and powers. It’ll be the end of us. I feel it.’ He pressed a hand to her shoulder and she took it, squeezing tightly. ‘Not much farther, yes?’
‘All right, lass. I swear. If it looks too rough. Not much farther.’
‘Too rough!’ She laughed. ‘Luv – what is it now, pray tell?’
‘We escaped.’
‘You may not the next time.’
‘I’ll be careful, love.’
‘See that you are,’ she snapped, then sighed and gave his hand a squeeze.
‘Ice ahead, captain,’ Buen called from amidships.
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 365