Lady Orosenn snapped her hand down and Cartheron made a fist.
All four siege weapons fired.
The four cussors arced upwards, disappearing into the driving snow. Almost immediately spouts of smashed ice shot upwards, without any accompanying sound. Jute was appalled. The best they had. Like a child throwing a rock at a landslide. Cartheron signed to fire again. The four now simply kept firing and reloading, pounding that one same spot. Jute imagined that that must be where the cussors had been jammed down into cracks and crevices in the bedrock – if they hadn’t yet been plucked out.
The eruptions came almost continuously now, in a constant shooting spray of pulverized ice that arced high into the blowing snow. Jute thought the pushing lip of the ice-tongue was climbing the hump of bedrock. Soon, he imagined, it would sweep them off like dust from a tabletop.
All four crews kept pounding, and it did seem to Jute that larger chunks of broken ice now flew with each eruption. He gripped the topmost stone of the wall before him, itself many hundreds of pounds of rock, and felt the immense power of the grinding advance transmitted to his bones through the juddering of the stone. Break, damn you! he exhorted the ice. Break!
He’d seen towers brought down by one or two well-placed cussors. Entire harbour defences reduced to rubble with just a few casts. And now this man, Cartheron Crust, was pouring half the imperial arsenal of Moranth munitions into this unstoppable mountain of ice in a colossal contest of wills that would grind all else into dust.
The blocks of the wall jerked towards him then, knocking his hand aside as if it were alive and flinching. Ahead, through the curls and scarves of snow, a great fountain of white was burgeoning upwards like a dome swelling over a surfacing swimmer. Enormous shards of emerald and white ice now arced skywards. They blossomed outwards in all directions. A roar washed over Mantle that overcame even the valley-wide growling of the ice.
Smaller chunks fell all about him. They burst to shards against the wall. Some punched through the timbers of the catwalk. Nearby, a man fell as if mattocked, his head a shattered ruin. Jute ducked, arms over his head, and staggered down the ramp to take cover under the catwalk. Here, beneath his hand and his rump, the bedrock shook as if drummed. A deep wounded-animal sort of groan mounted into a high-pitched cracking. In his mind’s eye, he imagined the stupendous weight of the ice pulling it downslope to the east and to the west, naturally tugging in opposite directions. And so it would split – not of intent, but because the great ice-river merely wished to find the lowest level. He rose and clambered out to look. The ramp had been shaken to nothing more than a heap of dirt, and this he climbed to pull himself one-handed up on to the catwalk. The huge blocks of the wall were now misaligned and uneven in their course, and it seemed wondrous to Jute that the snow still fell as if nothing had happened. To the right and left coursed the dirty snow-blown river of ice, down to where the two arms came together again before sweeping out over the obliterated shore of the Sea of Gold.
They sat atop a scoured-clean island of naked rock.
He went to find Cartheron and spotted him collapsed against the wall, watched over by two of his crew. He was pale, squeezing his chest, his face clenched against pain. Jute knelt next to him. The roar of the creaking and groaning ice was still like a thunderstorm, and he had to yell to make himself heard. ‘Are you all right?’
The old man laughed weakly. ‘When Lady Orosenn sewed me up she told me to avoid any stress.’
‘Good thing you’re taking it easy, then.’
There was a tremor in the Malazan’s hands that he didn’t seem to notice. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘it’s the retired life for me.’
Jute stood. ‘I’ll get Orosenn.’
The old commander was too exhausted even to respond. Jute ran, searching for the sorceress. He found her at the extreme southern end of the catwalk close to the wall’s edge overlooking the cliff. She was watching the great tongue of ice where it crept out over the Sea of Gold.
Gaining her attention, he put a hand to his mouth to shout, ‘Cartheron is in a bad way.’
She nodded. ‘I’ve done what I can for him. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.’
He gestured out towards the sea. ‘What can we do?’
‘We wait.’
‘Will it be like this for ever?’
She bestowed the familiar affectionate smile upon him once more. ‘No, Jute of Delanss. This was a ferociously rapid invocation. It will fade faster than most. Perhaps a mere hundred years.’
Oh. A mere hundred years. ‘So it is over,’ he breathed, immensely relieved.
But the sorceress shook her head, her long black hair blowing like a banner and her wide mouth hardening. ‘No. This was only the opening salvo. The true confrontation is taking place high above. I wish I could be there to add my voice.’
‘Add your voice?’
‘Against the rekindling of an ancient war. And I do not mean the animosity of the T’lan Imass for the Jaghut. There have been far older wars, Jute of Delanss. And there are some who never forget, nor forgive.’
He did not know what the sorceress meant. He did not have her deeper vision of events. He only knew that a friend was in pain, so he gestured once more that they should help Cartheron, and Orosenn nodded, squeezing his arm.
CHAPTER XV
They were only a short distance up the wide sinuous serpent of ice when Kyle halted. Blustering snow obscured the distance. He could just make out tall spine-like ridges of iron-grey rock that rose as barriers far to the east and west.
Fisher came to his side. ‘What is it?’
‘I can’t walk away.’
‘I told you – they’re safe. The farther from here the better.’
But Kyle couldn’t shake the feeling that he was betraying the Losts. It felt wrong, just turning his back. Even if they didn’t want him to follow. ‘No. I have to go back.’
Cal-Brinn joined them. ‘They’re closing. We must keep moving.’
Kyle shook his refusal. ‘We should go back.’
Cal-Brinn’s already wrinkled and burnished features creased further in a frown of consideration. After a moment, he dipped his head in assent. ‘It is early yet, but I was going to have to tell you that we of the Guard cannot continue in any case. There is something pushing against us. So I must send my people back to find Stalker and Badlands while I remain. Will you accept this?’
Kyle clasped the amber stone at his neck. It was warm in his chilled hand. ‘I should go. They are my friends.’
‘Your loyalty is to be commended. But it is you our pursuers want, not us. And the Losts are our friends as well.’
He released the stone – the numbness from the bitter cold had gone from his hand. ‘Very well. I just feel … that I have let them down.’
Cal-Brinn inclined his head once more. ‘They would be angry if you showed up. Now go.’ He motioned for Fisher to hurry him along, then turned to his company. ‘Jup, Leena, attend me!’
The bard took Kyle’s arm and urged him onward. ‘You and I must speak for the Myrni and the Losts above,’ he said, his breath steaming.
Kyle tried to bring his brows down to show his confusion, but his face was too numb. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that any survivors will have been driven to the highlands, just like us. There will be a meeting of the families such as has never taken place.’ He waved to Jethiss, who waited ahead.
Kyle glanced back, still reluctant to go. Cal-Brinn now walked with them, his hands clasped behind his back. His long coat of armour kicked up snow as he pushed through the drifts. ‘A meeting? What for?’
‘To decide what to do.’
They caught up with Jethiss, who was carefully prodding the hidden ice with a broken branch he’d picked up when they had run across the dry stream bed. Kyle was grateful for this, as the great serpent of jagged ice heaved and groaned as if in constant pain. Explosions of cracking ice would shudder beneath them, sounding up and down its length. The snowstorm a
nd dark clouds obscured the way ahead, but it appeared to be steepening.
* * *
Night gathered as they walked, yet shifting curtains of lights provided some illumination. They seemed to wreathe the heights, and they reminded Kyle of similar veils he’d seen in Korel, above the Stormriders. He thought they were some sort of manifestation of the manipulations of energy, whatever the source. They tramped on. Jethiss showed no need or inclination to pause. Kyle glanced back often down the sweep of the great serpent behind. Once or twice, through the gusting snows, he thought he glimpsed slim dark figures arrayed across the ice, tatters of cloth whipping from their shoulders.
They reached a plain of ice that lay like a plateau beneath a low bank of black clouds. Through gaps in the clouds he glimpsed a series of slim pinnacles, all bare ash-grey sheet-like rock. The peaks of this easterly range of the Salt Mountains. Then Fisher gestured ahead to where a group of dark dots marred the pristine silver expanse of blowing snow.
As they neared, the group resolved into four individuals, one sitting cross-legged in the snow, the other three lined up before him. They were a martial group, tall, in leather armour. Closer now, Kyle noted how young the three were, and that the sitting one, an older fellow, was impaled upon a wicked-looking spear.
Jethiss halted and Fisher stepped up to the fore. He raised his hand, calling: ‘Greetings! My name is Fisher and I speak for the Myrni. This is Jethiss, of the Tiste Andii. Kyle, who speaks for the Losts. And Cal-Brinn, of the mercenary company the Crimson Guard.’
The middle lad raised his hand. Kyle saw fresh scarring where a thrust had taken his right eye. A thick bearskin cloak clasped by a large bronze brooch humped his shoulders. ‘Welcome. I am Orman. This is Keth and Kasson. We speak for the Sayers.’ The lad half turned to the silver-haired elder. ‘This is … was … Buri.’
Fisher’s gaze, snapping to Kyle, was wide with wonder. ‘Buri in truth?’ he breathed, awed.
‘Indeed. It was he who summoned the ice-barrier anew.’
‘And who did this to him?’
The lad’s jaws writhed with suppressed emotions. ‘I did,’ he finally ground out, his voice ragged.
‘And why?’ Fisher asked very softly, and gently.
‘Because he asked that I do so – to seal the invocation.’
Fisher was nodding. ‘I see. That must have been a … difficult … thing to do.’
With his one good eye, Orman was studying Fisher. ‘You give the name Fisher – not the Fisher, the bard?’
‘Yes.’
The Sayer was obviously quite impressed. He took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘My father spoke of you. We are honoured.’
Fisher inclined his head in recognition of the compliment. ‘Any others? The Heels? No Bains survived?’
Orman shook his head, saying in a bitter tone, ‘The Bains are gone.’
‘Then we must decide upon our course of action.’
The Sayer glanced back to exchange a look with his two fellows. ‘How so? It is over. We can reclaim our Holdings.’
‘The Holdings are beneath rods of ice. But more to the point, we are pursued.’
‘Pursued? The outlanders?’
‘That would be a simple matter. No, I speak of another enemy.’
The lad started in recognition. He exhaled a steaming breath in wonder. ‘The old enemy?’
Fisher nodded. ‘Aye. Our Army of Dust and Bone – the T’lan Imass.’
‘I know them only as the Undying Army.’
‘Close enough.’
‘But,’ Orman gestured back to the corpse of Buri, ‘the invocation was completed – this was his purpose…’
Fisher pressed a hand to the lad’s shoulder. ‘I know. And it has been successful. But some it seems are resisting enough to advance. Or a Bonecaster, one of their shamans, has come. In any case, we must flee.’
The Sayer lad appeared almost shattered by the suspicion that he had done what he did for nothing. Kyle could not help but step up as well, saying, ‘It is working – few are coming. We will escape, I’m sure.’
‘Someone is coming now,’ Jethiss announced, staring south. Kyle spun, his hand going to the grip of the white blade tucked in his belt.
Two tall figures emerged from the blowing snow, a young man and woman. Everyone readied their weapons. Kyle took a few hesitant steps as he realized he knew the one with the great bunch of wild curly hair. He raised his hand. ‘It is the Heels.’ He ran down to meet them. ‘Baran, welcome!’ He took his hand. The lad smiled behind the rime hardened round his beard. ‘Cull or Yullveig?’
The smile faded and Baran shook his head. He turned, pointing, ‘We aren’t alone.’
Kyle squinted into the gusts. Thin figures approached. Their tattered leathers and cloaks snapped and lashed in the wind and he shivered – for a moment he thought them Imass. They closed, and to his astonishment he recognized them … Shimmer, Blues and K’azz of the Crimson Guard. And with them a fourth person, a young girl, of obvious Iceblood heritage.
K’azz came forward. He walked bowed, as if struggling beneath a great weight. Kyle was shocked by his condition. The man appeared even more emaciated and haggard, his cheeks hollow as if clawed. He was hardly more than skin and bone. Yet fire flashed in his eyes and he offered up a warm smile. ‘Kyle of Bael lands,’ he said. ‘It is good to see you.’
Kyle took his hands, found them frozen into rigid claws. ‘What by all the gods…’ he wondered aloud. ‘Why are you here?’
Shimmer approached and he embraced her, flinching when he found her skin as cold as the snow. It even held the same silvery paleness. ‘Kyle,’ she said. ‘We hear great stories of the white blade.’ He could only laugh as he gripped Blues’ hand.
Then he remembered, and invited them on. ‘Come. There is someone you must meet.’
He watched while they wearily trudged towards the rest of the gathering. The girl crossed to stop at Erta’s side. He watched as Cal-Brinn took a few faltering steps towards them, then ran, kicking up snow, and they embraced, the four, all together.
He went to join Fisher and Jethiss while the group spoke in low tones. To his eyes it was an oddly subdued reunion. Then he noticed the tears running down Fisher’s cheeks, his lips clamped as against a moan. In a moment the man lurched away, hugging himself.
‘What is it?’ Kyle whispered. ‘Are you sick?’
Fisher jerked his head savagely, his eyes clamped closed. Then he seemed to master himself and raised his head to the ash-grey clouds above, the falling snow, blinking back tears. He offered Kyle a wounded smile. ‘Only now do I see it. Only now.’ He glanced back to the four Crimson Guard. ‘It was before me all this time, yet I failed to see.’ He raised his face to the dark sky once more, drew a rasping breath. He clenched the bag holding the instrument at his side and raised it to press it to his brow as if he would break it. ‘There are no words,’ he groaned. ‘No words for this song.’ He staggered away into the gusting snow and playing lights of the shifting banners above. Kyle moved to follow, but Jethiss caught his arm.
‘Leave him. All he needs is time.’
‘Do you know what he speaks of?’
The Andii shook his head, his narrowed gaze upon the mercenaries. ‘No. But I am beginning to see more and more the higher we venture.’ He raised his chin to the heights above. ‘I see that we are not alone.’
Kyle squinted to where the dark peaks reared naked and jagged high above. Movement pulled his eyes down. A single large figure was closing upon them; it looked to possess the height and narrow build of a full-blooded Jaghut. It wore tanned old leathers, trousers and a long jerkin. As it closed, the Sayer lad, Orman, let out a gasp of recognition. The newcomer was a Jaghut woman who limped with one stiff leg. Laces of stones shone at her neck and hung woven in her wide mane of hair.
‘You!’ the Sayer lad exclaimed.
This newcomer offered him a small puzzled smile, then nodded. ‘Ah, you met one of my daughters. Yes. Greetings, Orman Bregin’s so
n, of the Sayer.’
And the lad actually knelt on one knee before her, saying: ‘Great Mother.’
Mother? Kyle wondered. Then, in turn, the Heels knelt, and then the Myrni girl. If Fisher were here Kyle imagined that he might actually kneel too. Then it struck him – he ought to as well. This creature’s blood flowed through his veins.
‘So few,’ she whispered, an edge of anger hardening her voice. She crossed to Buri’s corpse, still upright, impaled, covered now in a fine layer of snow. She rested a hand upon his bowed head, then walked round to take hold of the spear that pinned him to the ice. She yanked, and the weapon slid free. The slick, wet haft steamed in the chill air. She raised the weapon, studying its length. ‘It has been a long time,’ she murmured.
For a time no one spoke, until Jethiss broke the silence, saying, ‘It is not safe here.’
The Jaghut elder tilted her head as she looked him up and down. ‘You, I did not see.’ She glanced to K’azz. ‘Nor you.’ She limped to Orman and extended the weapon. The lad’s face actually wrinkled in loathing, but none the less he took it from her hands. ‘But you are right,’ she said. ‘We must go higher.’
Kyle squinted to the south. He could just make out small dark shapes pushing through the field of white. A line that seemed to extend all the way across the ice-plain. He began backing up. ‘They are coming,’ he said, though he was sure they all knew.
‘This way,’ the elder said, and she started up the slight incline that led to the peaks.
The three Sayers followed with the Heels and the Myrni girl. Kyle and Jethiss came after, followed by the four Crimson Guard, who spread out as a laughably slim rear guard. They climbed the shallow rise. The snowfall thinned, as did the ground-hugging clouds. Looking back, Kyle was amazed to catch glimpses of the level tops of the packed cloud cover below looking like the calm surface of the ocean itself, extending off as far as he could see.
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 396