Forge of the high mage, p.36
Forge of the High Mage, page 36
part #4 of Path to Ascendancy Series
‘Water?’ Hessa asked.
Gwynn extended a goatskin flask. This they upended, gulping, until Jacinth snatched it from the mage, snarling, ‘Hey! We’re short too, you know.’
They nodded their thanks. Turnagin wiped his mouth then peered ahead, pointing. ‘We’re close now.’
Thank the gods, Blues silently added.
Hessa now eyed Blues and asked, ‘You didn’t happen to see anyone else on your way, did you?’
He shook his head. ‘No. No one.’ Her wide mouth drew down, twisting. ‘Missing someone?’
She nodded.
‘Well, sorry. We saw no one.’
‘Thanks, anyway.’
Nightchill approached. ‘Show us where you last saw this Jaghut,’ she demanded.
Hessa gestured ahead. ‘This way. Like I said – he’s probably dead by now.’
‘They are rather hard to kill,’ the sorceress answered, one brow raised.
Hessa stepped up but Dassem extended an arm to hold her back. ‘I will lead the way.’
She pointed and the Sword nodded, advancing, blade ready.
They were now edging through some sort of collection of machinery: tall banks of instruments, large metal gears, and hanging, clanging lengths of massive chains. Hessa pointed ahead.
They rounded one tall bank of levers and what looked like large, platter-sized dials, and Dassem halted to sign back to everyone that he’d made contact.
Nightchill simply continued on – followed closely by Bellurdan – though Dassem hissed for them to stop. Blues shrugged and followed.
It was a Jaghut, as the woman claimed. The giant figure – huge, though not as large as Bellurdan – lay prostrate, apparently dead. Just as Hessa had said.
Nightchill knelt by the figure. She laid a hand upon his chest, felt his neck, announced, ‘He lives yet.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, Juage. You poor fool … what has become of you?’
‘Fucking bastard,’ Hessa breathed, her hand going to her blade.
Dassem raised a hand to her and she snarled something under her breath, and released her grip.
The creature coughed then, wetly, and drew in a heavy breath. He blinked up at Nightchill, stared, then laughed – or tried to, but coughed instead, convulsing.
‘So …’ he gasped, ‘you again.’
‘Yes. Seems we’ve danced this dance before. Tell me – what happened? What happened to you?’
He nodded, swallowing. ‘Something broke. Something broke in me.’ He struggled to raise his hand, touched a finger to his temple. ‘I feel it inside. A sliver in my mind. Driving me mad.’
‘We can stop this. Tell us how. Now, before it is too late.’
He shook his head. ‘No. It is too late. Already far too late. I am gone. And so, my parting gift to you …’ and the creature threw back its head and let loose a shockingly loud call that made Blues jump with its piercing, keen ululation.
Nightchill flinched from the sprawled Jaghut, breathed, warily, ‘What was that?’
But the form lay immobile now, somehow diminished, and Blues knew he was dead.
‘What was that shout?’ Tayschrenn demanded of Nightchill.
The sorceress turned to him, her odd almond eyes widening. ‘I do not know for certain, but I fear—’
‘Movement!’ Dassem called, pointing.
Halfway across the chamber lay an opening where a broad ramp led upwards. One wall of the opening appeared to be bulging, stretching. A large shape could be seen moving behind the wall, which was now semi-translucent and seemingly malleable.
A tear in the material and a clawed foot and armoured leg emerged.
Nightchill’s hand went to her throat. ‘By all the Ancients … A Shi’gal Assassin. We must go now – while we can.’
‘There’s eight of us!’ Black complained, unlimbering his shield.
Bellurdan gestured them all away. ‘Not even a Soletaken would dare challenge such a one.’
‘But what of the commands?’ the mage, Turnagin, sputtered. ‘Shutting down the machines?’
‘We will try below, among the engines,’ Nightchill answered, her voice hushed.
The Sword crossed to the woman, eyed her closely. ‘Best to take it now rather than to let it hunt us down.’
Nightchill beckoned him to move. ‘No. Their duty is to guard the Matron. It should ignore us if we keep to the lower levels.’
‘You are certain of this?’
She nodded stiffly. ‘We must go – before it gets our scent too strongly and decides to chase us anyway.’
Blues could almost hear the Champion’s teeth grate as he considered, then gave a grunted, ‘Very well.’ He waved everyone away. The ex-captive, Hessa, grasped a handful of her companion’s robes and dragged him along with them as they fled.
Behind them something large and heavy thumped to the stone floor and a jarring, keen bellow, an answering call to the summoning, echoed among the stone walls.
Blues hurried a touch faster – even as he shook his head: Gods, after climbing all this way, only to have to descend to the very bottom? His poor damned legs!
*
Retreating from the command chamber, Tayschrenn was torn. So many secrets! Such knowledge! Yet it would take years to decipher and understand – if that were possible at all. And they had no such time; he accepted Nightchill’s warning. In his researches he’d come across accounts of these creatures, the Shi’gal.
Guardians of the Matron, many named them. In records of the wars among the Elder races, the so-called Founding Races, these Shi’gal were held in dread. Perhaps such stories were fictions, semi-mythical. Yet all agreed these monsters slew the dragons themselves. Dragons of Starvald Demelain!
He shook his head as he half-limped back down the halls – too much of a risk. Far too much.
And in any case, all this while he’d been preparing himself for a possible confrontation with a Matron – not a physical threat from a bodyguard, one that even Bellurdan, of the Elders himself, dared not pursue.
So he limped along, panting, wiping the sweat from his eyes as he went, teeth clenched against the burning agony of exhausted muscles. He caught Dassem’s – the Sword’s – eye as they half-jogged, asked, ‘Would you have remained?’
A chagrined half-smile. ‘Only if you had.’
‘I thought you came to test yourself.’
‘Our mission is reconnaissance.’
‘Ah. Of course.’
Now the Sword eyed him sidelong. Searching for mockery, no doubt. But he meant no disrespect. In fact he was relieved by such a rational attitude from the Champion.
Perhaps the man was not so glory-driven as he might have supposed.
Thinking of it now, rubbing his slick forehead, he could admit that between the two of them, perhaps it was he who had the more to prove to himself.
* * *
The fortress city of Jick, on the north-west shore of Walk Sea, built into the cliffs of the rugged Walk mountains, rightly considered itself one of the most secure of all the Falaran settlements. It fell in one night, however, when five of the foreign raiders’ ships glided into the narrow harbour under oar, and promptly set alight all other vessels. In the chaos that followed, the raiders secured the fortress main tower and disposed of the prior ruler and family by tossing them off said tower to the paved courtyard below.
Since then, the inhabitants of Jick, the fisherfolk, the petty merchants and shopkeepers, the coopers, carpenters and smiths and other tradesfolk and burghers, had found themselves at the mercy of crews of drunken raiders who took or abused what or who they wished and answered any refusal or complaint with the sword.
Gaddeth, the ranking priest of Mael of the local temple, found himself presiding over far more funerals than ever before. He also found himself thrust – unwillingly – into the role of representative of the local inhabitants, after the erstwhile mayor had likewise been thrown from the tower roof.
Imagine, then, his elation, when during his weekly communion with his fellow priests of Mael via his – rather thin – grasp of Ruse, he learned that the Jhistal had been unleashed upon these invaders and their leader had been obliterated!
He hiked up the rope belt round his wide waist and set out at once for the keep to inform these sea-wolves that their tenure would soon be at an end!
He found them carousing as usual: drinking and mock-duelling in the main reception chamber where tables had been set up and straw lay thick upon the flagged floor. They hailed him, laughing, and one captain, Balethen, rose unsteadily to his feet to salute him.
‘Ho! What complaint now, priest of Mael? Seduction of your favourite sheep?’
Gaddeth raised his hands. ‘Your time has come, invaders! The Faith has unleashed its mighty Fist upon your leader and he has been destroyed. You should all flee now while you are able!’
Balethen lost his mocking smile. ‘Whatever are you blathering on about, you fool? Don’t think those robes protect you.’
The revellers pelted bones and apples at him. ‘Be gone, dog!’
He drew himself up as straight as he could in an effort to maintain his dignity under a barrage of half-eaten food. ‘I am saying your leader has been crushed by the Jhistal!’
Balethen now blinked at him, weaving, half-drunk. ‘What’s that? Our leader?’
‘Yes. Anchored in the strait off Delanss. The Admiral, or Arch-mage, or whatever he was. His ship has been destroyed!’
The barrage stopped. All faces now stared at Gaddeth.
Balethen pointed the eating-knife in his hand. ‘If you lie I will drop you off this tower myself – relations with the town be damned. Do you lie?’
He raised his chin, defiant. ‘This is our god’s own truth from my own Faith. I swear.’
The captain scooped up a metal cup at hand, raising it. All present surged to their feet; Gaddeth flinched, thinking himself about to be torn to a thousand pieces.
Instead, the hall echoed in a roaring cheer as these foreign invaders smashed cups together, slapped one another, guzzled the ale and wine and howled with laughter. Gaddeth gaped, stunned.
‘The Ogre’s dead!’ Balethen yelled to an answering cheer.
Gaddeth backed away from the insanity. Who were these monsters? How could they celebrate? Why were they not fearful?
He ran from the hall where the cheering and merriment only grew louder and more raucous – with calls for more wine and ikkor.
He shook his head. These foreigners were mad!
* * *
A voice that was more of a growl from outside his tent woke Dancer: ‘Outlander …’
‘Yes?’
‘There is a person at the edge of camp. She says she has a message for you.’
Dancer blinked in the dark. Of course – they would find him, wouldn’t they? He rose. ‘I’ll be out.’
Ducking through the flap, he straightened. It was a very dark night, the cloud cover thick. Idly, he wondered how much was natural and how much could be attributed to the mountain-artefact to the east.
The guard, a wolf-warrior, gestured him south. He nodded his thanks and half-jogged off.
Standing a respectful distance outside of the encampment waited a lean woman dressed in functional dark-stained leathers; twinned knives hung sheathed across her chest, at her hips, and on her thighs. As Dancer approached, she knelt to one knee, murmuring, ‘Master.’
Uncomfortable with these observances, Dancer waved her up. ‘Yes?’
When her dark eyes met his he clenched his teeth; she was obviously anxious, fearful even. ‘What is it?’
She swallowed, bowing her head. ‘News, Master of the Rope. Terrible news.’
‘Yes?’
‘He is gone.’
‘Gone? Who is gone?’
‘The … Magister.’
His first reaction was a snort. ‘I’ve heard that before.’
She shook her head, so very slowly. ‘No. Truly. Gone. We none of us can reach him, nor know his whereabouts.’
‘It’s happened before.’
‘True. But never so … abruptly. And it coincides with the news that the priests of Mael sent their curse, this Jhistal, against him.’
Now he growled under his breath: Of course – the moment he leaves the man’s side, they strike. The timing was too perfect. ‘What was it … this thing?’
‘None know. None of ours saw. Some say it was hidden in any case. Hidden within a gigantic wave.’
Or it was a gigantic wave. That would probably be enough. ‘Can you bring me to the ship – the Twisted?’
She shook her head again. Her jaws worked with suppressed emotion. ‘No. It is gone as well. Destroyed utterly.’
The Twisted as well? He didn’t think that possible. It seemed so, well … indestructible.
‘Can you take me to the expeditionary force? Dujek’s command?’
She bowed. ‘Of course.’
‘Very good. Wait here. I will return.’
‘As you command.’
He jogged for the central tent, Ullara’s. The two bear-warrior guards stood aside for him to enter. Within, he found the central hearth burning high, birds fluttering about, and Ullara in her chair. He crossed to her. ‘You are awake.’
‘I find I sleep less and less these days.’
‘I must go now.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Of course you must. You have your responsibilities, as do I.’
‘Your people – these people – have my protection now.’
‘They – we – have managed well enough on our own for some time.’
He smiled, warmly. ‘I know. But they took you in, and for that they have my gratitude.’
‘And mine.’
‘How is the girl?’
‘Her strength returns.’
He nodded. ‘Good, good. She will have nothing to fear any longer.’
‘Thank you.’
He took her aged hand and pressed his lips to it. ‘I hope to see you again … some time.’
‘I hope so too.’
‘Until then – farewell.’
She dipped her head. ‘Yes. Farewell.’
‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat, bowed as well, and turned to the exit.
Outside, he paused and drew a long breath of the chill night air, then let it pass over his teeth, and jogged south.
He found the Talon waiting, a wolf-warrior nearby, keeping an eye on her. ‘Dujek’s camp,’ he told her. ‘Now.’
She bowed. ‘Of course, Master.’
Darkness thickened about them, blotting them out. When it dispersed, the two were gone.
The wolf-warrior crossed to this spot, sniffed the air, then loped off for the main tent. Within, he bowed low on all fours before the Bird Priestess.
‘The outlanders are gone,’ he announced.
She nodded. ‘Yes. I watched them go. Thank you.’
‘What orders?’
‘Send your fastest and most cunning to keep an eye on the mountain and our Malazan guests. I am watching, but I cannot see everything. My pets do not like the mountain.’
He bowed again. ‘Yes, Priestess. It will be done.’ He loped off.
Alone once more, Ullara raised a finger and a tiny yellow songbird alighted upon it. She touched its head, gently, and sighed.
* * *
Temporary camp had broken and Dujek marched as he dealt with messages that runners brought. A shortage of stores – of course. A shortage of potable water – naturally. A shortage of any leather to repair rotting footwear – constant, that. Too many sick from all the cold and damp. How to transport them? Carts were bogged down, and the squad medicers and Denul talents were now reduced to having them carried in litters. Two troopers per litter. That’s three swords out of action!
If he had any hair he’d be pulling it out! Fully a fifth of his force were now the walking sick.
Mulling on this, he trudged along, rubbing his hand over his pate and grumbling to himself. Then a familiar voice spoke next to him:
‘Where are your bodyguards, Fist?’
Despite being a battle-hardened veteran, Dujek couldn’t help but flinch. He glared at Dancer now walking along beside him. ‘Gods, man! Do not do that.’
‘Well?’
A shrug. ‘I’m among my force – safe as home.’
The lean fellow shook his head, still sceptical, then his mouth drew down. ‘I need to see Tayschrenn and Dassem right away.’
Dujek cleared his throat. ‘Ah … well. They and Nightchill entered the artefact. Haven’t heard from them since.’
Dancer eyed him sidelong. ‘You let the Sword and our two best High Mages enter a K’Chain Che’Malle hive all alone?’
Dujek drew his wide paw down his jowls. ‘Well … really couldn’t stop them – could I?’
Dancer blew out a breath. ‘Suppose not.’
Dujek peered round. ‘Is the Old Man with you?’
Now Dancer rubbed his cheeks and was silent for a time. Obviously uncomfortable, he allowed, ‘He’s missing too.’
Dujek gaped, then let out a belly-laugh. ‘Fine pair of commanders we are, hey?’
‘He’ll turn up,’ Dancer growled. ‘He always does. What’s the situation?’
‘The artefact’s actually moving – just like the myths. Imagine that, hunh? We’re following along. Keeping our distance. Hard to miss, though. Thing leaves behind a trail of steaming semi-molten rock leagues wide.’
‘Any encounters?’
‘No. None. We think maybe they’ve withdrawn to guard the thing.’
‘North, then?’ A nod from Dujek. ‘How long do you think till it reaches Falar?’
Dujek rubbed his jowls once more, screwed up his eyes. ‘Well … don’t really know the lands north of us. Our maps are shit. Some say there’s mountains ahead, others say an open plain. Still, it’s moving night and day, continuously. We’re thinking maybe a month, at least. And anything could happen in that time. Could slow up. Could break down. Abyss, could blow itself up! Just hoping on getting some good guidance from Tayschrenn and the others – when they return.’
Dancer nodded his agreement. ‘Mind if I hang around till then?’
‘Not at all. Not at all.’ He eyed the slim fellow sidelong. ‘Just don’t you go in there hunting after ’em, all right?’
Dancer looked to the northern horizon dominated by the dark silhouette, its peak disappearing behind a dense cover of heavy black roiling clouds. He shook his head. ‘No. Enough of us have disappeared into that thing.’
Gwynn extended a goatskin flask. This they upended, gulping, until Jacinth snatched it from the mage, snarling, ‘Hey! We’re short too, you know.’
They nodded their thanks. Turnagin wiped his mouth then peered ahead, pointing. ‘We’re close now.’
Thank the gods, Blues silently added.
Hessa now eyed Blues and asked, ‘You didn’t happen to see anyone else on your way, did you?’
He shook his head. ‘No. No one.’ Her wide mouth drew down, twisting. ‘Missing someone?’
She nodded.
‘Well, sorry. We saw no one.’
‘Thanks, anyway.’
Nightchill approached. ‘Show us where you last saw this Jaghut,’ she demanded.
Hessa gestured ahead. ‘This way. Like I said – he’s probably dead by now.’
‘They are rather hard to kill,’ the sorceress answered, one brow raised.
Hessa stepped up but Dassem extended an arm to hold her back. ‘I will lead the way.’
She pointed and the Sword nodded, advancing, blade ready.
They were now edging through some sort of collection of machinery: tall banks of instruments, large metal gears, and hanging, clanging lengths of massive chains. Hessa pointed ahead.
They rounded one tall bank of levers and what looked like large, platter-sized dials, and Dassem halted to sign back to everyone that he’d made contact.
Nightchill simply continued on – followed closely by Bellurdan – though Dassem hissed for them to stop. Blues shrugged and followed.
It was a Jaghut, as the woman claimed. The giant figure – huge, though not as large as Bellurdan – lay prostrate, apparently dead. Just as Hessa had said.
Nightchill knelt by the figure. She laid a hand upon his chest, felt his neck, announced, ‘He lives yet.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, Juage. You poor fool … what has become of you?’
‘Fucking bastard,’ Hessa breathed, her hand going to her blade.
Dassem raised a hand to her and she snarled something under her breath, and released her grip.
The creature coughed then, wetly, and drew in a heavy breath. He blinked up at Nightchill, stared, then laughed – or tried to, but coughed instead, convulsing.
‘So …’ he gasped, ‘you again.’
‘Yes. Seems we’ve danced this dance before. Tell me – what happened? What happened to you?’
He nodded, swallowing. ‘Something broke. Something broke in me.’ He struggled to raise his hand, touched a finger to his temple. ‘I feel it inside. A sliver in my mind. Driving me mad.’
‘We can stop this. Tell us how. Now, before it is too late.’
He shook his head. ‘No. It is too late. Already far too late. I am gone. And so, my parting gift to you …’ and the creature threw back its head and let loose a shockingly loud call that made Blues jump with its piercing, keen ululation.
Nightchill flinched from the sprawled Jaghut, breathed, warily, ‘What was that?’
But the form lay immobile now, somehow diminished, and Blues knew he was dead.
‘What was that shout?’ Tayschrenn demanded of Nightchill.
The sorceress turned to him, her odd almond eyes widening. ‘I do not know for certain, but I fear—’
‘Movement!’ Dassem called, pointing.
Halfway across the chamber lay an opening where a broad ramp led upwards. One wall of the opening appeared to be bulging, stretching. A large shape could be seen moving behind the wall, which was now semi-translucent and seemingly malleable.
A tear in the material and a clawed foot and armoured leg emerged.
Nightchill’s hand went to her throat. ‘By all the Ancients … A Shi’gal Assassin. We must go now – while we can.’
‘There’s eight of us!’ Black complained, unlimbering his shield.
Bellurdan gestured them all away. ‘Not even a Soletaken would dare challenge such a one.’
‘But what of the commands?’ the mage, Turnagin, sputtered. ‘Shutting down the machines?’
‘We will try below, among the engines,’ Nightchill answered, her voice hushed.
The Sword crossed to the woman, eyed her closely. ‘Best to take it now rather than to let it hunt us down.’
Nightchill beckoned him to move. ‘No. Their duty is to guard the Matron. It should ignore us if we keep to the lower levels.’
‘You are certain of this?’
She nodded stiffly. ‘We must go – before it gets our scent too strongly and decides to chase us anyway.’
Blues could almost hear the Champion’s teeth grate as he considered, then gave a grunted, ‘Very well.’ He waved everyone away. The ex-captive, Hessa, grasped a handful of her companion’s robes and dragged him along with them as they fled.
Behind them something large and heavy thumped to the stone floor and a jarring, keen bellow, an answering call to the summoning, echoed among the stone walls.
Blues hurried a touch faster – even as he shook his head: Gods, after climbing all this way, only to have to descend to the very bottom? His poor damned legs!
*
Retreating from the command chamber, Tayschrenn was torn. So many secrets! Such knowledge! Yet it would take years to decipher and understand – if that were possible at all. And they had no such time; he accepted Nightchill’s warning. In his researches he’d come across accounts of these creatures, the Shi’gal.
Guardians of the Matron, many named them. In records of the wars among the Elder races, the so-called Founding Races, these Shi’gal were held in dread. Perhaps such stories were fictions, semi-mythical. Yet all agreed these monsters slew the dragons themselves. Dragons of Starvald Demelain!
He shook his head as he half-limped back down the halls – too much of a risk. Far too much.
And in any case, all this while he’d been preparing himself for a possible confrontation with a Matron – not a physical threat from a bodyguard, one that even Bellurdan, of the Elders himself, dared not pursue.
So he limped along, panting, wiping the sweat from his eyes as he went, teeth clenched against the burning agony of exhausted muscles. He caught Dassem’s – the Sword’s – eye as they half-jogged, asked, ‘Would you have remained?’
A chagrined half-smile. ‘Only if you had.’
‘I thought you came to test yourself.’
‘Our mission is reconnaissance.’
‘Ah. Of course.’
Now the Sword eyed him sidelong. Searching for mockery, no doubt. But he meant no disrespect. In fact he was relieved by such a rational attitude from the Champion.
Perhaps the man was not so glory-driven as he might have supposed.
Thinking of it now, rubbing his slick forehead, he could admit that between the two of them, perhaps it was he who had the more to prove to himself.
* * *
The fortress city of Jick, on the north-west shore of Walk Sea, built into the cliffs of the rugged Walk mountains, rightly considered itself one of the most secure of all the Falaran settlements. It fell in one night, however, when five of the foreign raiders’ ships glided into the narrow harbour under oar, and promptly set alight all other vessels. In the chaos that followed, the raiders secured the fortress main tower and disposed of the prior ruler and family by tossing them off said tower to the paved courtyard below.
Since then, the inhabitants of Jick, the fisherfolk, the petty merchants and shopkeepers, the coopers, carpenters and smiths and other tradesfolk and burghers, had found themselves at the mercy of crews of drunken raiders who took or abused what or who they wished and answered any refusal or complaint with the sword.
Gaddeth, the ranking priest of Mael of the local temple, found himself presiding over far more funerals than ever before. He also found himself thrust – unwillingly – into the role of representative of the local inhabitants, after the erstwhile mayor had likewise been thrown from the tower roof.
Imagine, then, his elation, when during his weekly communion with his fellow priests of Mael via his – rather thin – grasp of Ruse, he learned that the Jhistal had been unleashed upon these invaders and their leader had been obliterated!
He hiked up the rope belt round his wide waist and set out at once for the keep to inform these sea-wolves that their tenure would soon be at an end!
He found them carousing as usual: drinking and mock-duelling in the main reception chamber where tables had been set up and straw lay thick upon the flagged floor. They hailed him, laughing, and one captain, Balethen, rose unsteadily to his feet to salute him.
‘Ho! What complaint now, priest of Mael? Seduction of your favourite sheep?’
Gaddeth raised his hands. ‘Your time has come, invaders! The Faith has unleashed its mighty Fist upon your leader and he has been destroyed. You should all flee now while you are able!’
Balethen lost his mocking smile. ‘Whatever are you blathering on about, you fool? Don’t think those robes protect you.’
The revellers pelted bones and apples at him. ‘Be gone, dog!’
He drew himself up as straight as he could in an effort to maintain his dignity under a barrage of half-eaten food. ‘I am saying your leader has been crushed by the Jhistal!’
Balethen now blinked at him, weaving, half-drunk. ‘What’s that? Our leader?’
‘Yes. Anchored in the strait off Delanss. The Admiral, or Arch-mage, or whatever he was. His ship has been destroyed!’
The barrage stopped. All faces now stared at Gaddeth.
Balethen pointed the eating-knife in his hand. ‘If you lie I will drop you off this tower myself – relations with the town be damned. Do you lie?’
He raised his chin, defiant. ‘This is our god’s own truth from my own Faith. I swear.’
The captain scooped up a metal cup at hand, raising it. All present surged to their feet; Gaddeth flinched, thinking himself about to be torn to a thousand pieces.
Instead, the hall echoed in a roaring cheer as these foreign invaders smashed cups together, slapped one another, guzzled the ale and wine and howled with laughter. Gaddeth gaped, stunned.
‘The Ogre’s dead!’ Balethen yelled to an answering cheer.
Gaddeth backed away from the insanity. Who were these monsters? How could they celebrate? Why were they not fearful?
He ran from the hall where the cheering and merriment only grew louder and more raucous – with calls for more wine and ikkor.
He shook his head. These foreigners were mad!
* * *
A voice that was more of a growl from outside his tent woke Dancer: ‘Outlander …’
‘Yes?’
‘There is a person at the edge of camp. She says she has a message for you.’
Dancer blinked in the dark. Of course – they would find him, wouldn’t they? He rose. ‘I’ll be out.’
Ducking through the flap, he straightened. It was a very dark night, the cloud cover thick. Idly, he wondered how much was natural and how much could be attributed to the mountain-artefact to the east.
The guard, a wolf-warrior, gestured him south. He nodded his thanks and half-jogged off.
Standing a respectful distance outside of the encampment waited a lean woman dressed in functional dark-stained leathers; twinned knives hung sheathed across her chest, at her hips, and on her thighs. As Dancer approached, she knelt to one knee, murmuring, ‘Master.’
Uncomfortable with these observances, Dancer waved her up. ‘Yes?’
When her dark eyes met his he clenched his teeth; she was obviously anxious, fearful even. ‘What is it?’
She swallowed, bowing her head. ‘News, Master of the Rope. Terrible news.’
‘Yes?’
‘He is gone.’
‘Gone? Who is gone?’
‘The … Magister.’
His first reaction was a snort. ‘I’ve heard that before.’
She shook her head, so very slowly. ‘No. Truly. Gone. We none of us can reach him, nor know his whereabouts.’
‘It’s happened before.’
‘True. But never so … abruptly. And it coincides with the news that the priests of Mael sent their curse, this Jhistal, against him.’
Now he growled under his breath: Of course – the moment he leaves the man’s side, they strike. The timing was too perfect. ‘What was it … this thing?’
‘None know. None of ours saw. Some say it was hidden in any case. Hidden within a gigantic wave.’
Or it was a gigantic wave. That would probably be enough. ‘Can you bring me to the ship – the Twisted?’
She shook her head again. Her jaws worked with suppressed emotion. ‘No. It is gone as well. Destroyed utterly.’
The Twisted as well? He didn’t think that possible. It seemed so, well … indestructible.
‘Can you take me to the expeditionary force? Dujek’s command?’
She bowed. ‘Of course.’
‘Very good. Wait here. I will return.’
‘As you command.’
He jogged for the central tent, Ullara’s. The two bear-warrior guards stood aside for him to enter. Within, he found the central hearth burning high, birds fluttering about, and Ullara in her chair. He crossed to her. ‘You are awake.’
‘I find I sleep less and less these days.’
‘I must go now.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Of course you must. You have your responsibilities, as do I.’
‘Your people – these people – have my protection now.’
‘They – we – have managed well enough on our own for some time.’
He smiled, warmly. ‘I know. But they took you in, and for that they have my gratitude.’
‘And mine.’
‘How is the girl?’
‘Her strength returns.’
He nodded. ‘Good, good. She will have nothing to fear any longer.’
‘Thank you.’
He took her aged hand and pressed his lips to it. ‘I hope to see you again … some time.’
‘I hope so too.’
‘Until then – farewell.’
She dipped her head. ‘Yes. Farewell.’
‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat, bowed as well, and turned to the exit.
Outside, he paused and drew a long breath of the chill night air, then let it pass over his teeth, and jogged south.
He found the Talon waiting, a wolf-warrior nearby, keeping an eye on her. ‘Dujek’s camp,’ he told her. ‘Now.’
She bowed. ‘Of course, Master.’
Darkness thickened about them, blotting them out. When it dispersed, the two were gone.
The wolf-warrior crossed to this spot, sniffed the air, then loped off for the main tent. Within, he bowed low on all fours before the Bird Priestess.
‘The outlanders are gone,’ he announced.
She nodded. ‘Yes. I watched them go. Thank you.’
‘What orders?’
‘Send your fastest and most cunning to keep an eye on the mountain and our Malazan guests. I am watching, but I cannot see everything. My pets do not like the mountain.’
He bowed again. ‘Yes, Priestess. It will be done.’ He loped off.
Alone once more, Ullara raised a finger and a tiny yellow songbird alighted upon it. She touched its head, gently, and sighed.
* * *
Temporary camp had broken and Dujek marched as he dealt with messages that runners brought. A shortage of stores – of course. A shortage of potable water – naturally. A shortage of any leather to repair rotting footwear – constant, that. Too many sick from all the cold and damp. How to transport them? Carts were bogged down, and the squad medicers and Denul talents were now reduced to having them carried in litters. Two troopers per litter. That’s three swords out of action!
If he had any hair he’d be pulling it out! Fully a fifth of his force were now the walking sick.
Mulling on this, he trudged along, rubbing his hand over his pate and grumbling to himself. Then a familiar voice spoke next to him:
‘Where are your bodyguards, Fist?’
Despite being a battle-hardened veteran, Dujek couldn’t help but flinch. He glared at Dancer now walking along beside him. ‘Gods, man! Do not do that.’
‘Well?’
A shrug. ‘I’m among my force – safe as home.’
The lean fellow shook his head, still sceptical, then his mouth drew down. ‘I need to see Tayschrenn and Dassem right away.’
Dujek cleared his throat. ‘Ah … well. They and Nightchill entered the artefact. Haven’t heard from them since.’
Dancer eyed him sidelong. ‘You let the Sword and our two best High Mages enter a K’Chain Che’Malle hive all alone?’
Dujek drew his wide paw down his jowls. ‘Well … really couldn’t stop them – could I?’
Dancer blew out a breath. ‘Suppose not.’
Dujek peered round. ‘Is the Old Man with you?’
Now Dancer rubbed his cheeks and was silent for a time. Obviously uncomfortable, he allowed, ‘He’s missing too.’
Dujek gaped, then let out a belly-laugh. ‘Fine pair of commanders we are, hey?’
‘He’ll turn up,’ Dancer growled. ‘He always does. What’s the situation?’
‘The artefact’s actually moving – just like the myths. Imagine that, hunh? We’re following along. Keeping our distance. Hard to miss, though. Thing leaves behind a trail of steaming semi-molten rock leagues wide.’
‘Any encounters?’
‘No. None. We think maybe they’ve withdrawn to guard the thing.’
‘North, then?’ A nod from Dujek. ‘How long do you think till it reaches Falar?’
Dujek rubbed his jowls once more, screwed up his eyes. ‘Well … don’t really know the lands north of us. Our maps are shit. Some say there’s mountains ahead, others say an open plain. Still, it’s moving night and day, continuously. We’re thinking maybe a month, at least. And anything could happen in that time. Could slow up. Could break down. Abyss, could blow itself up! Just hoping on getting some good guidance from Tayschrenn and the others – when they return.’
Dancer nodded his agreement. ‘Mind if I hang around till then?’
‘Not at all. Not at all.’ He eyed the slim fellow sidelong. ‘Just don’t you go in there hunting after ’em, all right?’
Dancer looked to the northern horizon dominated by the dark silhouette, its peak disappearing behind a dense cover of heavy black roiling clouds. He shook his head. ‘No. Enough of us have disappeared into that thing.’
