Orb sceptre throne, p.27
Orb Sceptre Throne, page 27
An object gleamed in the light streaming down. A stick of some kind. Antsy walked up and crouched over it. A bone. A leg bone. A human tibia. And not clean, either. Tangles of ligaments and dried meat still clung to its ends.
He straightened, swallowed the bile churning sickly in his stomach. A dense glow now shone from the far end of the chamber. Fascinated, unable to turn away, he edged closer until the light was sufficient to reveal a carpet of similar remains choking the far side. The shadows of alien blossoms streamed down upon a mass of human carcasses. Many still wore their helmets. Their feet remained in boots. The meat of calf and thigh was gone, as were the viscera from empty gutted chests and abdomens. Ribcages gaped like open mouths hanging with desiccated strips of flesh and meat. Antsy had seen similar remains after battles where scavengers had picked over the dead, taking the choice bits and leaving the rest.
He choked back a yell of alarm and ran for the stairs.
Not looted. Avoided! Everyone else knows better! And Panar sent us here! To our damned deaths.
He came pelting back to Orchid and Corien who stared, tensing in alarm. ‘What is it?’ Orchid demanded, rising.
‘We have to get out of here – now!’
‘What—’
‘That – thing – everyone was scared of below. I think this is its lair. We have to go.’ He snatched up the lantern, took Corien by the arm. ‘Come on.’
He chivvied them back up the hall to the doors. Here Orchid suddenly let out a cry and froze. Antsy let go of Corien, drew his shortsword. He squinted, seeing nothing. ‘What?’
Hand at mouth, the girl stammered, ‘The door.’
Antsy peered at the doorway anew. What of it? Dark, yes, but … Dark. The light did not penetrate. Something was blocking the entrance, something utterly black like a curtain of night. ‘What is it?’
But Orchid could not speak. She merely jerked her head side to side, appalled, eyes huge.
Shit. Antsy hefted his shortsword. Somehow he didn’t think it would do him much good. And munitions? Probably not them either. He looked to Corien; that finely curled hair now hung down sweat-plastered. The lad met his eye and nodded, hand tightening on his swordgrip.
‘It is a creature of Elder Night,’ said Malakai, stepping out from an alcove next to them. ‘Call it what you will. A daemon, or a fiend. Night animate. No doubt to it we are the invaders, the monsters.’
‘Spare me your sophistry,’ Antsy grated. ‘What can you do against it?’
‘I?’ The man cocked a brow. ‘Nothing. We are trapped. It would seem Panar has the last laugh after all.’
Antsy almost threw his shortsword at the man. ‘Fine,’ he snarled. ‘Everyone back! I’ll try my munitions.’
‘Red …’ Corien warned, touching his arm.
Antsy spun: Orchid had advanced upon the creature.
Shit! ‘Orchid!’
The girl ignored, or couldn’t hear him. One hand was at her throat, the other reaching out as if entreating. She spoke, and Antsy started for now she uttered another language. One completely unfamiliar to him. Sing-song, it was. Not unpleasant to his ears.
She spoke at length, pausing from time to time as if awaiting an answer. Antsy, Corien and Malakai waited, silent, scarcely breathing.
Despite his anticipation Antsy jerked when a reply came at last. Words murmured from the night, deep and resonating, as if enunciated by all the immeasurable dark surrounding them. Orchid shuddered as if burned – Antsy wondered if she was even more surprised to hear an answer than they. Her breath caught and she looked aside, head bowed as if searching for something, grasping after memories.
Come on … Do it, girl. You can do it …
She nodded then, her gaze distant, and returned her attention to the doorway in front of her. Both hands went to her neck, as if she would throttle herself, and she spoke slowly, haltingly, for some time. The speech ended in a gasp, Orchid wrung out, breathless.
Silence followed. The barrier across the doorway seemed to waver in the lantern light like a wall of hanging velvet. The thing spoke again, a brief response, and Orchid launched into some sort of recitation. Antsy squeezed the grip of his shortsword, his hand wet with sweat. A biting cold now filled the hall. His breath plumed before him.
She finished again with a gasp as if barely able to squeeze out the words. In the silence that followed Antsy wiped the ice from his hands then examined his fingers: blue and numb with cold. An answer rolled out of the dark: a speech in slow measured tones, a chant almost. The coal-black curtain wavered, then disappeared or slipped away like a shadow exposed to light.
A hissed exhalation escaped Orchid and she would have toppled but for Antsy rushing forward to steady her. He guided her to a bench. Her skirts rattled ice-stiff and rimed with hoar frost. Her skin was burning cold to the touch. Corien sat beside her, holding the lantern close.
‘Malakai …’ Antsy said, gesturing to the entrance.
After a moment the man answered from beyond, ‘It’s gone.’
A distant shout sounded from the darkened halls beyond: a frenzied cry of frustration and rage, and Antsy barked a laugh. ‘So much for Panar’s vengeance. I’m tempted to slit his throat.’
‘No!’ said Orchid, struggling up. Antsy helped her stand. ‘Let’s just go.’
‘And just which way do we go?’ Malakai asked, appearing from the dark.
‘Any way,’ she answered, annoyed. ‘Right. Left. It doesn’t matter. Just find a way up.’
‘Why?’
‘Because what you seek is in the upper levels.’
Malakai froze, astonished. His eyes widened with new appreciation, and he gave a bow of his head – though shallow and tinged by irony. ‘Very well. I will be back shortly.’
Orchid turned to Corien where he slouched on the bench, a hand pressed to his side. She knelt before him. Gently, she set her own hand over his and he hissed at the touch. She spoke again in that same eerie tongue that raised the hairs on the small of Antsy’s neck. It sounded like an invocation or recitation.
A great sigh escaped from Corien and the man would have fallen forward if Antsy hadn’t steadied him. Antsy let him slide down on the bench, unconscious.
‘What was that!’ he demanded, far more harshly than he’d intended. Fear. I’m hearing fear in my voice.
Orchid held her hands out before her, studying them. She stood, wiped the wet condensation from her face. ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ she said dreamily. ‘To be told stories all your life, to read them, study them, then suddenly discover it’s all true …’
Antsy was looking at a line of empty pedestals. Someone had set a rusted helmet on one. It looked just like a decapitated head. ‘Yeah. Life’s full o’ twists and turns,’ he breathed, uneasy.
She sat, folded her graceful dark hands primly on her lap. Like a priestess, Antsy thought. She looks like some kinda damned ancient priestess with her thick mane of tousled black hair, tattered skirts, and torn lace. Who was she?
He cleared his throat. ‘So … what happened there?’
Her gaze was tired, half-lidded, directed at the entrance. ‘I’m not sure myself. It surprised me, answering like that. Probably was just as amazed as I was to hear the old tongue.’
‘Yeah. The old tongue. Imagine that. And?’
An exhausted lift and fall of the shoulders. ‘I invoked the Rite of Passage as recorded by Hul’ Alanen-Teth, a Jaghut who claimed to have travelled the Paths of Eternal Night. The guardian honoured the formula.’
Beside her Corien stirred groggily. Antsy nodded to her, accepting her words. ‘Well, thanks for saving our lives.’
A wry smile twisted her lips. Head lowered, she peered up at him. ‘I did not save your life, Antsy. You it called … “Honoured Guest”.’
He frowned at her. ‘What … ?’
Corien sat up. He held his head, touched his side. His brows rose. ‘The pain is gone.’
Orchid nodded. ‘Good. That was an Andii invocation of healing. You will be weak for a time, but you should mend.’ She stood. ‘Now, if you will excuse me. I … I want to be alone for a time.’
As she passed Antsy touched the cloth of her sleeve. He tried to catch her gaze but she would not meet his eyes. ‘And what did it call you … ?’
She flinched away. ‘Not now.’
Antsy eased himself down next to Corien. They exchanged wondering glances. Antsy blew out a breath. ‘Well … what d’you know.’
The lad gave a long thoughtful nod.
When Malakai returned he found them still sitting side by side. He cocked a brow. ‘What’s this? Why aren’t we moving?’
‘Orchid’s resting,’ Antsy said, smiling up at him.
‘And what are you so pleased about?’
Antsy tucked his hands up under his arms. ‘Oh, I’m always in a better mood when the squad has its cadre mage.’
The man wrinkled his dark brows, uncertain what to make of that. But Antsy just smiled. It seemed to him that everything had changed. As in battle. Things had reversed themselves as they can in any close engagement. There’d been no announcement, no horns blowing to signal it. Everyone involved just knew it, sensed it. The energy had shifted. Earlier, the party had been Malakai’s. Now, it was Orchid’s. And he and Corien? Well, they were her guards now.
BOOK II
Sceptre
CHAPTER VIII
Madrun and Lazan Door –
From distant lands they hail.
One day Door did announce:
’Tis time my hair to cut.
Yet no shear would tear
No blade would part
No scissor snick nor sever
And so it grew –
this bounteous mane.
Wenches plotted
Knives were sharpened
Yet no helm nor hat could tame
These wilful, prideful curls.
When last Door heard
His hair had fled
Fighting pirates off far Elingarth!
attributed to Fisher
IN THE MORNING BROOD PUSHED ASIDE THE HEAVY CLOTH FLAP OF HIS tent to find the Rhivi warriors in the process of breaking camp. He frowned then, feeling a chill premonition, and crossed to where one of the Elders stood wrapped in a blanket warming himself at a fire. It was one of the more amiable of them, Tserig, called the Toothless. The Warlord inclined his head in greeting. ‘Word from the north?’
Looking unhappy, the old man gave a shallow bow. ‘Yes, Great One. A rider came in the night. The Malazans are in disarray. They have been driven from Pale and are retreating to the south-west. ’ He shrugged, apologetic. ‘The circle of war leaders decided to act.’
Without consulting me. ‘I see. Since when did the Rhivi chase after war?’
The old man seemed to consider one answer but clamped his lips tight against it. He adjusted the folds of the horse blanket, indicated the embers dying before him. ‘War is like a grass fire, Great One, is it not? Once sparked it cannot be controlled. It will burn and burn until it has consumed everything it can reach.’
‘Its fuel is blood, Tserig.’
A gloomy nod of agreement. ‘I know, Ancient One. I was against it. But I am old – and toothless.’
Brood smiled his appreciation. ‘And so your reward is to be the one who has to break the news that my, ah, leadership is no longer required.’
The old man offered another half-bow. ‘I am sorry, Warlord … perhaps they merely did not wish to disturb you in your mourning.’
‘That’s putting about as pretty a face on it as anyone can manage.’ He eyed the embers for a time, rubbed a forefinger along his jaw. Tserig, he noted, was cringing away and Brood realized the old man must think he was scowling his displeasure at him, so he turned to face the west.
‘What will you do now, Great One?’ the old man ventured after a time.
Around them the last of the burdened asses, carts, and travois and herded bhederin made their way north, following the track through the Gadrobi hills. Riders bowed to Brood as they passed, or saluted, raising spears and loosing their war calls. ‘If the Mhybe was still with us, or Silverfox, none of this would be happening …’ he murmured, but distractedly, his thoughts elsewhere.
‘I agree, Warlord. But they are gone from us. The Mhybe was given her great reward. And Silverfox has departed. Gone to another land, some say.’ Like Brood, the old man did not mention the other who was gone from them as well.
The Warlord cleared his throat, profoundly uncomfortable. How to broach this without insulting this man, his people, and all they have sacrificed these last years?
‘Would you share the morning tea with me, Warlord?’ Tserig said suddenly, his gaze oddly gentle, as if he were addressing a youth rather than someone incalculably older than he.
‘Yes. Thank you, Tserig. I would welcome that.’
The old man motioned aside to an attendant who hurried to ready the tall bronze pot and the tiny thimble-sized cups, and the two stood in silence waiting for the leaves to steep. Both watched the ragged columns of the Rhivi snaking their way north through a cut in the hills. Behind them Tserig’s servants struck his tent.
‘You’ll make much better time now with the herds returned to the north,’ Brood observed.
‘Yes. Mostly it is those fearful of the Malazans, or anxious to prove themselves as warriors, who have remained. Is it any wonder then that they should have found their excuse? And Jiwan had at his service a most convincing weapon.’
‘And what is that?’
‘An earnest belief in his cause.’
Brood found himself again appreciating the old man. He allowed himself a grin.
A servant handed each a tiny bronze cup then poured tea in long hissing streams from the slim pot. Tserig raised his cup to the Warlord. ‘To wise council.’
‘Wise council.’
The old man smacked his lips, sucking in the tea. ‘I ask then, again. What will you do?’
Brood grimaced his awkwardness. He looked off to the west. ‘I’ve become convinced that we shouldn’t confront these Malazans any longer. It will be a disaster for the Rhivi, in the long run.’
Distaste wrinkled Tserig’s pursed lips. ‘Yet they hem us in on all sides. Trespass across our lands. Kill all the animals they find. They are like a plague. Are we to abandon our way of life?’
‘Tserig,’ Brood’s voice was low and hoarse with emotion, ‘that will happen anyway. It is inevitable. Question is, then, how best to mitigate the damage of it all? The answer is ugly and brutal, but it is plain … You get better terms in a peace treaty than you get when you’re conquered – which is to say, no terms whatsoever.’
That stung the old man’s pride and he straightened, offended. ‘You question our spirit!’
The Warlord raised a placating hand. ‘No. Never that. I am not talking about the brief season of war … I am talking about the generations that follow.’
Tserig’s gaze sank to the fire. His face was pained as if he were studying such a future within the dying embers. ‘Treaties,’ he finally spat. ‘Never honoured by the powerful. I place no faith in such agreements.’
‘They will be honoured,’ Brood grated, ‘if I witness them.’ Tserig’s greying brows rose as he considered this, then he bowed his head almost in salute. ‘I accept your plan, Warlord, as the best course for my people. How then do we proceed?’
Brood, who had been eyeing the west before, raised his chin to the distant horizon, the brown hills, and Lake Azur beyond. ‘Have you ever been on a boat, Tserig?’
The old man shuddered. ‘Ancient hearth-goddess, no. My feet have never left touch with our Mother.’
The Warlord’s beast-like eyes swung to him, held steady.
Tserig hunched beneath the weight of that gaze, gummed his lips. ‘Please … Great One. Have mercy on an old man.’
In Darujhistan’s guild hall of guards, sentinels, wardens and gatemen, Captain Soen of the Legate’s bodyguard looked these two most recent applicants up and down and didn’t bother hiding his disgust. Clothes no better than rags, dirt-smeared faces, cracked sandals. Not even a scrap of armour or a weapon showing anywhere. Must have pawned the lot to buy booze. And must be alive with fleas. Trake’s tail, I’m here to hire guards – not beggars.
‘Names?’ he demanded, and grimaced as a wafting hint of their stink reached him.
‘Scorch, sir,’ said one.
‘Leff.’
‘You’re in the lists, I assume?’
The two appeared to pale where they stood before him. They exchanged terrified glances. ‘Ah, beggin’ yer pardon,’ said the one who had given his name as Scorch, ‘but did you say list, sir?’
Soen rolled his eyes. ‘Gods, man. Yes. The lists. The record of all certified members in good standing with the guild in the city!’ At their expressions of complete blankness the captain leaned forward to explain, more slowly, ‘Your references.’
The one named Leff made a great show of understanding, nodding vigorously. ‘Oh sure, Cap’n sir. O’ course.’
His friend goggled what resembled complete surprise. Unconvinced, but required to be thorough, Soen walked over to the record keeper where he sat in the rear of the hall. ‘Scorch and Leff,’ he said.
The clerk immediately began scrolling through a long rolled sheet, winding the document down and down. ‘Now there’s a list,’ one of these new applicants murmured to his companion.
After searching for a time the clerk appeared to have found his place, for he stopped and began to read. His brows shot up and he went back to the beginning once again. His brows continued to rise, almost touching his slicked-flat hair. He looked up, amazement plain on his face. ‘Their references are impeccable!’
