Yet he knew that to fall unconscious now would mean death, and so he shook Kellanved, yelling, ‘We have to keep going!’ Or something like that, as his lips were completely numb.
The mage’s walking stick emerged to point, shaking, up the slope. Dancer squinted and just made out a darker shadow ahead – a cave mouth in the rising cliff face?
He took hold of a squelching Kellanved once more and half dragged, half pushed him upward. They fell into the cave and Dancer blinked, frowning, as he felt something smothering him. It took a moment for him to recognize warmth; with that realization he could fight off unconsciousness no longer and he allowed himself to slip down into oblivion.
He awoke with a start and peered about; it was still the pewter grey of a snowstorm without, and he couldn’t tell if it was night or day. Kellanved still lay asleep amid a litter of dry branches and leaves. Dancer flexed his fingers – he was warm. The heat seemed to be coming from the very rock of the walls and the floor beneath them. He threw off his hide wrap and was amused to see actual steam rise from his sodden sleeves.
He shook Kellanved. ‘Well, at least we won’t freeze to death.’
The seeming ancient peered up blearily, grumbled, ‘Cold comfort, that.’
Dancer ran a hand through his short hair, then rose and began searching the cave. ‘It leads to a tunnel,’ he announced. ‘Damned dark.’
The mage appeared, a dry torch in hand. ‘Try this.’
Dancer gaped at the thing. ‘You weren’t carrying that, were you?’
‘No. I was lying on it.’
‘Oh.’ He crouched down, gathered together a bunch of the dry twigs and leaves, pulled out the tiny flint and steel he always carried, and set to work.
In a short time he had the torch lit and he rose, adjusted his weapon-baldrics and belts, and offered Kellanved a nod. The mage tapped his walking stick to his shoulder and pursed his lips, answering the nod; then they started down the tunnel.
The passage was very rough; they clambered over uneven jutting rocks and ducked through narrow throats of stone. Along the way Dancer noticed that the natural walls had been widened here and there to allow easy passage, but the gouging and scraping was not smooth. It was as if a harder stone had been used rather than a metal tool.
After quite a long time Dancer saw a weak flickering glow ahead: more torch-light, in fact. Wary, he drew his best throwing blade and switched the torch he carried to his off hand. He went first, crouched, blade held behind his back.
The tunnel opened on to a wider natural chamber, or cavern. Multiple torches lit it, their sooty smoke rising to a distant ceiling hidden in darkness. Kellanved slipped in beside him and the dark-skinned mage’s breath caught.
For there, across the cavern, against a wall of natural stone, sat an object that could only be the throne of the Army of Bone. It was assembled from gigantic antlers and tusks of bygone beasts; leather straps wove the pieces together, forming a seat of sorts. Natural precious stones glinted upon it, as did shells and beads, and rotting animal furs lay heaped about, some obviously taken from huge animals of legend, such as the cave bear, or the great-toothed cat.
But what probably drew the gasped breath from Kellanved was the Witch Jadeen sitting upon it.
The hungry smile on the woman’s lips drew them even further from her teeth, and she raised a hand, beckoning them closer. ‘I knew you’d turn up quite soon,’ she said. ‘And so I prepared the place. Come here.’ She pointed to her other arm, the sleeve of her robes torn and blood dried black upon her hand. Her eyes narrowed upon Kellanved. ‘I have a bone to pick with you, little Shadow-mage.’
Dancer looked to his partner and their eyes met, and for the first time it seemed to him that Kellanved had been caught at a complete loss as to what to do.
Chapter 14
Baron Ranel of Nita pushed open a side door to the stables of Castle Gris and peered round the darkened hall. Horses snorted in their stalls, while a single lantern set on a stool provided the only light. He shut the door behind him and called, ‘Stabler! Where are you, man? Stablemaster!’
A great-bellied older fellow came stumbling out from the rear, pulling on his jacket. ‘Yes, m’lord? You called?’
‘Yes, dammit. That horse-dealer out of Unta – is she still here?’
The stablemaster blinked, still somewhat bleary, then nodded. ‘Oh, yes, sir. I believe so.’
Ranel glared, expectantly. ‘Well? Go get her, dammit!’
The stablemaster flinched, ducking. ‘Of course, m’lord. I’ll send one of the lads right away.’ He rushed to the rear.
Alone, Ranel tapped his hands nervously on his thighs and peered about the stables. He lifted a tankard and sniffed, only to make a disgusted face and set it aside. He then approached the nearest stall; the horse within reared, nickering, and he flinched away.
A short time later there came a knock from the rear and the stablemaster emerged accompanied by a slim woman, her long dark hair slightly dishevelled, who was adjusting a long quilted wrap about herself. She bowed to Ranel. ‘You called, m’lord?’
‘Yes. I’ve been thinking about that offer you made – the roan mare. I must say I am most interested now.’
The woman bowed again. ‘Excellent. M’lord is wise to consider the offer.’ Her gaze shifted edgewise to the stablemaster next to her, and Ranel started as if realizing something. He dug at a pocket to pull out a few coins, which he extended to the stabler.
‘Here you are, my man – for your trouble.’
The stablemaster touched his brow, bowing. ‘Many thanks, m’lord.’ He withdrew, bowing again as he did so.
‘The offer—’ Ranel began, but stopped speaking as the woman raised a hand for silence, her gaze fixed on the rear where the stabler had disappeared. A door shut there and she lowered the hand.
‘The offer remains as stated,’ she said.
Ranel waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes. I just want assurances.’
The woman had yet to withdraw her hard gaze from the rear. ‘There are no assurances in our business,’ she said, adding, ‘Horse trading, of course.’
Ranel laughed, a touch nervously. ‘Of course, yes. Horse trading.’
‘You are leaving for Jurda?’ the woman asked.
Ranel sighed his frustration. ‘Yes. All forces. On the morrow.’
She nodded. ‘We will finalize the deal there, then.’
The nobleman eyed her, frowning. ‘How will I—’
‘We will be in touch,’ the woman said.
‘Ah. Of course. Yes. Until then.’
The horse-dealer bowed once more, backing away. ‘Until then. May you profit greatly from this wise choice.’
Ranel waved her off. ‘Yes, yes.’ He returned to tapping his thighs nervously, and once the woman had disappeared he ran to the side door, yanked it open and fled.
The stable remained quiet for a time until straw came filtering down from the loft above and a youth straightened to brush the husks from his shoulders and hair. After a large yawn, he descended rather recklessly from the loft, using slim handholds, and plopped down to the dirt. Here, hands on hips, he regarded the closed double stable doors. Turning his back to them, he straightened, took a deep breath, then quickly knelt to pull a blade from a boot, and in that same swift motion threw it over his shoulder at the doors.
The slim throwing dagger struck home in the wood with a solid blow; the youth turned and nodded his satisfaction. He crossed to pull it free, muttering, ‘Well, that’s something, anyway.’ He pushed the blade home in his boot, then peeped out of the side door and slid out into the darkness of the Gris bailey.
In a slow circuitous walk, the lad avoided posted torches and lanterns to approach a train of wagons being loaded with supplies and materiel. Here he studied them, one after another, until coming to one bearing great bags and straw baskets of arrows and crossbow bolts.
A sly smile crept up his lips and he reached in to take one particular crossbow bolt which he then tucked into his
shirt. Stooping, he slipped away towards the main keep.
Taking servants’ halls and entries the lad made his way higher and higher. With each floor the passageways became more narrow, the traffic less, until guards he met at barred doors waved him onwards.
The last door, guarded by two youths quite similar to him, opened to allow him entry to a lit bedchamber. Here, Malle of Gris sat in her bed, reading. Peering up, she waved the youth to her. He clambered up on to the piled furs and blankets at the foot of the bed.
‘Well?’ Malle asked.
He nodded. ‘It will be at Jurda.’
She tapped the book in the palm of her hand, her gaze becoming distant. ‘Yes. It would have to be, wouldn’t it?’ Her gaze sharpened, turned upon the youth. ‘You will follow. Finish things there.’
He nodded, and then a mischievous grin twitched his lips.
She eyed him sidelong. ‘What is it?’
From his shirt he withdrew the crossbow quarrel, extended it to her. She took it and ran her fingers through its fletching – the blue and yellow of Nita – and a similar smile crept across her lips. Handing back the quarrel, she ruffled the youth’s hair. ‘You were always my favourite, Possom.’
Grinning contentedly, the youth snuggled down amid the heaped blankets and closed his eyes while Malle returned to her book.
* * *
Recruitment and training was now Nedurian’s preoccupation. Cadre mages had to be assigned and integrated into squads. The marine army style of engagement had to be differentiated from the traditional ship’s crew free-for-all fighting they all knew. Dassem was at the fore of this, transforming Mock’s Hold from a pirate admiral’s personal manor into a military training facility, and Nedurian was grateful; things got done when the Dal Hon swordsman spoke, and everything proceeded so much more smoothly than if he were out there trying to convince everyone himself.
This day he was surprised to glance over to find Tayschrenn with him at the crenellated wall overlooking the Hold’s main yard cum training ground. Their ‘High Mage’ stood with crossed arms, his long face registering a sort of peevish confusion as he watched the swordwork routines.
Nedurian cast him a questioning look. ‘You are troubled, High Mage?’
The man’s brows wrinkled in distaste. ‘Not that title, please.’ He pointed to the ranks of trainees, recruits and veterans all mixed together at Nedurian’s suggestion. ‘The cadre mages training in their units, I understand. But sword- and shieldwork for mages? Really? Isn’t that a waste of their time?’
Nedurian gave a curt nod in appreciation of the question. ‘Some will probably always feel that way no matter what. It took some convincing from me’n’Dassem to bring them into line. Nothing heavier than shortsword for them, of course. But the same basic training for everyone. Builds unit cohesion, helps our cadre mages understand what their cohorts have to go through. And they’ll have to defend themselves sometimes.’ The High Mage grunted his acceptance of the point, though his face still registered his distaste for it.
‘Cohesion?’ he asked next, dubious. ‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. Once they’ve seen action together and fought side by side, it’ll happen. I’ve seen it again and again.’
The Kartoolian mage eyed him sidelong. ‘The old Talian formation.’
Nedurian nodded once more. Then, since he had the man here, he asked, ‘Any word?’
There was no need to say more; both knew he was asking after their erstwhile leaders. The High Mage let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Still missing, but alive, I hope. At least, Jadeen hasn’t reappeared either.’
‘They are hiding from her, you think?’
A wintry smile came and went from the severe Kartoolian. ‘Yes, I imagine that is what most people are thinking, hmm?’
‘But no?’
The High Mage waved a negative. ‘No. They came upon a clue to an ancient legend, and they are now chasing that.’
Nedurian raised a brow at that. Really? ‘What legend, may I ask?’
Tayschrenn glanced about, perhaps checking that they were alone. Visibly reluctant to say anything, and hesitating for a time, he finally murmured, apparently against his better judgement, ‘The Army of Dust and Bone.’
At first Nedurian could say nothing – he must’ve gaped, stunned. ‘The Army—’ he began, almost shouting, then choked himself off. ‘You’re joking. That’s impossible.’
‘I do not joke,’ the High Mage huffed, offended.
Nedurian reflected that yes, this was true. So far the Kartoolian struck him as one of the most humourless, stiff, and even obtuse people he’d ever met. Some used much stronger language than that, such as arrogant, haughty, and pompous, but he did not see the preoccupation with hierarchy or the lust for prestige or status those terms suggested – rather, it seemed to him as if the fellow simply did not know how to get along with people, or couldn’t be bothered to try.
So, the Army of Dust and Bone … Nedurian shook his head, awed. Outrageous. Who in their right mind would dare meddle in that terrifying mystery? Everything he’d ever heard or read about those ancient legends warned everyone to stay away. The Elders were powerful and dreadful – it was a blessing their days were over. Only a fool, or an insane, power-craving …
He shook his head once again, this time in exasperation. Ah …
After a moment he cleared his throat, and leaned his forearms on the crenellations before them. ‘Well, from all I’ve heard about that I’m guessing we won’t be hearing from either of them ever again.’
Tayschrenn nodded his assent. ‘That is the most likely outcome.’
Footsteps announced the approach of a guard, who bowed. ‘Mages, your presence is requested by the commander.’
Commander – Nedurian understood that here on Malaz that could only mean a naval commander, so, Choss, not Dassem. The Dal Hon swordsman was usually referred to as the Sword, in any case.
As he and Tayschrenn, following the guard, reached the second floor of the keep, Nedurian immediately sensed that something was amiss: the tension and heightened awareness of the guards virtually screamed the fact. ‘What happened?’ he demanded of their guide, who gestured them ahead to a meeting chamber.
Within, they found Choss seated, his shirt hanging in tatters, a guard dressing his torso in fresh cloth. Blood gleamed wet down the old sailor’s trousers. A thrown rug covered what could only be a body on the floor.
Choss raised his chin to the corpse. ‘What do you two make of her?’
Nedurian pulled away the rug. It was a woman, probably in her twenties, muscular – hard-trained. Black-haired, her skin was paling now, but carried a swarthy olive hue such as characterized the inhabitants of the west coast. ‘I don’t recognize her,’ he said.
‘An outsider, then?’ Choss asked.
‘Possibly,’ Tayschrenn answered. ‘I do not recognize her either.’ The High Mage crouched to examine the body more closely. He ran his hands down her back, her arms, squeezed her hands. ‘City bred,’ he announced. ‘No typical development associated with rural farm work. Hands soft except for weapon-calluses.’
Choss grunted, then winced, his wide shoulders bunching in pain. ‘The mainland, then.’
‘Most likely.’
‘Where?’
Nedurian and Tayschrenn shared a weighing glance. ‘Not Dal Hon,’ Nedurian supplied.
Tayschrenn gave his curt agreement. ‘They wouldn’t trust an outsider. And Bloor and Gris are too preoccupied,’ he added.
‘As are the far west city states.’
‘Yes.’
‘Itko Kan,’ Nedurian judged.
Tayschrenn seconded that with a nod. ‘Someone is already attempting to break up our alliance.’
Choss frowned, uncertain. He lifted a decanter of wine, but Nedurian stepped up and pushed it back down to the table. ‘No. Thins the blood.’ He glanced to one of the guards. ‘Bring boiling soup to the commander.’
The burly Napan pulled a face. ‘Soup? Am I a child to be fe
d hot soup? What’s next? Milk?’
‘Listen to the veteran,’ Tayschrenn said. ‘I’m sure he’s cared for more wounded than he wishes to remember.’
A touch surprised by the support, Nedurian offered the High Mage a nod of gratitude, which the Kartoolian missed entirely, his gaze unfocused as he pursued his own thoughts and speculations.
Choss, meanwhile, was considering what had caused him to pick up the wine. ‘Break up the alliance?’ He looked to Nedurian, who sat back, thinking.
‘Our High Mage has leapt to the end conclusion. Consider it.’ He gestured to Choss. ‘The one Napan commander here on Malaz. Perhaps the calculation was that Surly would retaliate, or one of the Malazan captains would take the opportunity to wrest control of the island from her – that is, from Kellanved. A new admiral, and back to the old rivalry.’
Choss pulled a hand down his beard, grunted a sort of grudging understanding. ‘Maybe.’
A guard set a bowl of broth before the commander, who wrinkled up his mouth.
‘Eat it,’ Nedurian told him. ‘Denul training supports my opinion here.’
The muscular Napan grimaced, but hunched forward, and raised the bowl to his lips.
‘I have contacted Calot in Dariyal,’ Tayschrenn announced. ‘He will inform Surly.’ He cocked his head, thinking. ‘This also raises a broader issue …’
‘Which is?’ Choss asked.
‘Communication. How to stay in touch across distance.’
‘A problem throughout all history,’ Nedurian answered. ‘We have the mage cadre …’
‘Indeed. However, not all possess the capability.’ He stroked his long chin, thinking. ‘Perhaps we could manufacture items for communication. Certain crystals’ natural resonance would work well for this …’
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