Orb sceptre throne, p.57
Orb Sceptre Throne, page 57
Spindle peered anxiously around, hissing, ‘Quiet.’
‘Do you think it will be safe?’ Duiker demanded, low and urgent.
‘I don’t know. He’s kinda busy elsewhere, ain’t he.’
‘We’ll have to chance it. Now, collect all the pieces you can.’ He stared his insistence and gestured to the ground. ‘Right now, man!’
Spindle led the way through the darkening streets. The sun was setting. A deep burnished bronze light shone over the city, marred only by the glowing arc of jade already visible in the still bright sky. He carried his cloak under his arm in a bundle wrapped around a great load of the Alabaster chips. The historian followed, walking at a much slower pace, his shirt stuffed with the shards.
He led the man to the small wrought-iron gate into the grounds of the tower of the High Alchemist, Baruk. The place looked completely neglected. Brown dry stalks stood in the various planting beds. Dirt had blown across the paving stones. Spindle noted that it revealed no recent tracks.
‘This is his tower?’ Duiker said, dubious.
‘Yeah.’
‘Won’t there be wards? Protections? Guardians?’
Spindle directed the historian’s attention ahead. ‘Look.’
The door stood a little open. ‘Ah,’ Duiker said, straightening. ‘Togg take it. Probably not a thing’s left.’
‘Well,’ Spindle sighed, ‘let’s see.’ He crossed the grounds, climbed the short set of steps and tried to peer in round the door. All he saw was dust, blown leaves and litter. ‘Looks like no one’s home,’ he said over his shoulder. He started pushing open the door then reconsidered; he set down his bundle and reached for his long-knife only to close his hand on empty air. His shoulders fell. Mother of Hood! How do you like that. Should I raise my Warren? Yeah – an’ bring all those fiends down on me in an instant! No thank you.
Instead, he rubbed his chest. What say you, Ma? What should I do? Should I go in? What’s waitin’ in there for your little boy?
No answer. Nothing.
Fair enough. No new is good news.
He pushed open the door and stepped in to give Duiker room. The historian quickly closed the door behind him. It was dark; the day’s fading light barely reached from distant windows. From what Spindle could see from the entrance foyer Duiker’s prediction was correct: the place was mess. Looted and wrecked. He set down the bundle. ‘Well, maybe there’s still—’
A demon jumped out of a doorway, waving its arms and snarling.
Spindle swung the bundle of stones, knocking it flying back up the hall where it lay groaning. He exchanged glances of surprise and disbelief with the historian. ‘Smallest demon I’ve ever seen,’ Duiker murmured.
The little pot-bellied fiend climbed unsteadily to its feet. It held its head and weaved from side to side. It felt at its mouth. ‘My toof! You broke toof!’
Spindle marched up to it. ‘I’ll do more than that, you wretched excuse for a guardian. ‘Now – take us to your master’s workroom.’
The creature stilled, a hand over its jagged teeth. ‘Worroom? You wan’ worroom?’
‘Yes! Workroom! Where he keeps his chemicals and stuff.’
The guardian eyed the bundle. ‘Wha in tere?’
‘Why in Fener’s arse does that matter?’
The little red-skinned fiend touched at its mouth and groaned. ‘Prife. Is prife. Show me.’
‘I think he means “price”,’ Duiker said.
‘Oh, for …’ Spindle threw down the bundle and undid it. He held out one of the chips. The little beast snapped it up and eagerly licked and bit, tasting it. It smiled, revealing needle teeth, then popped the chip in and munched happily.
Spindle and Duiker shared another amazed glance.
The fiend flinched, wincing, and hopped in circles, clawed hands clapped to its mouth. ‘Arrgh! Toof! Oh, foor toof! Foor me!’
‘Well?’ Spindle said.
It waved them forward. ‘Yef, yef. Fis way. Fome!’
As soon as the vessel bumped up against the sagging pier Aragan and Captain Dreshen led their uneasy mounts by short reins across the gangway and up the pier. They saddled the horses then set off westward for the foothills of the Moranth mountains. They rode for two days, angling south. Early on the second night Captain Dreshen woke Aragan and nodded towards a large band of riders approaching under the bright jade light of the Scimitar.
The Rhivi band encircled them, peering down expressionless from their mounts.
‘Yes?’ Aragan challenged, belting on his sword.
One dipped his spear to urge his mount a few steps closer. ‘Come with us, Malazan,’ was all he would say.
Aragan and Dreshen shared a resigned look and set to readying their mounts. Almost immediately after heading further west they encountered more Rhivi outriders. An ever enlarging band of horsemen gathered around them as the night deepened. They were guided to a fresh encampment where elders, horsewives and shouldermen tended wounded laid out in the bloodstained grass. The sight of so many slashed and crippled tore at Aragan’s heart and he had a difficult time finding his voice.
‘So, I’m too late,’ he said to a nearby old woman. ‘I’m your prisoner.’
She rose and came to him. A blood-spattered hand clutched his leg. The horror of what she had seen was still in her gaze and he had to look away. ‘No, Malazan,’ she said. ‘We hope there is still time. See to your people. Even now the Seguleh hunt them.’
‘The Seguleh! They did this?’
‘No one else is so … precise. Few are killed, most are sorely wounded. So they would burden us.’
‘I see … I am sorry.’
‘Save your pity for your own.’
‘Yes. You will ride north, then?’
The woman flinched away as if slapped. ‘No! We will answer this insult. How little they know us. We are not to be brushed aside.’
‘Yet … they are Seguleh.’
‘Irrelevant. We must be who we are. That is what has been thrown down here before us. And we will answer it!’
‘I understand. I should ride, then.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ She raised her blood-wet arms to shout: ‘All who would bring the spear to our enemies ride now! Go! Bring blood and terror! Ride them down!’
Answering ululations and shouts grew to an enraged roar that engulfed Aragan. The ambassador rose tall in his saddle, circling an arm in the air. Kicking, he reared his mount even taller and charged off throwing dirt high behind. Rhivi warriors all around, men and women, old and young, ran for their mounts. He, the captain and their escort rode on, knowing that all who wished to follow would soon catch up.
‘Takin’ their own sweet time about it, ain’t they?’ Bendan complained.
Sergeant Hektar chuckled and motioned to all the soldiers surrounding them in line, some twenty soldiers deep, across the narrow valley mouth. ‘Butcher’s back with us,’ he laughed. ‘Brave as a mouse in his bolthole now, hey?’
‘What d’ya mean?’
‘I mean you was runnin’ just as fast as the rest of us last night!’ and he chortled again.
Bendan rolled his neck to crack the bones stiff from his constant watching. ‘I just mean they ain’t showin’ us the proper respect. They’re actin’ like we don’t matter.’
‘Like they can take their time,’ Corporal Little added.
‘They got that right,’ Bone muttered darkly.
Bendan laughed at the suggestion. ‘C’mon, man. There’s near ten thousand of us!’
‘And a good four hundred of them.’
‘Malazan iron will stop them,’ Hektar said loudly and shouts arose from nearby in the ranks affirming that.
‘Aye, aye, Sarge,’ Bone assented, sighing.
‘Here come our playmates now, anyway,’ Hektar said, pointing one great paw of a hand.
The lines grew quiet as the Seguleh came jogging up out of the morning mist. Ghostly silent, they spread out to right and left in a line. That line, only a single body deep, held a fraction of the Malazan numbers. Seeing this, Bendan nudged Bone. ‘We should encircle them, hey?’
The old saboteur looked astonished. ‘Are you an idiot? We want them to run away.’
Bendan studied those slim figures. He’d thought them blowhards good at milking a reputation. Then he heard veterans tell of the Pannion campaign. Then he saw them rout the entire Rhivi army. He now had the sick feeling that he was facing the top dogs and he was the trespasser. They stood immobile; couldn’t even be seen to be breathing. They could have been statues but for the steaming plumes leaving their masks. None had even drawn a weapon yet.
‘Prepare arms!’ the call went up and down the ranks. The scraping of iron on leather and wood hissed preternaturally loud in the cold morning air. Shields rattled as the ranks tightened. Far down the Seguleh line Bendan spotted one whose mask appeared much plainer than the rest. He recalled the rumours that had been flying around the camp. That’s him. Third best among ’em all. For a moment he fantasized about bringing that one down. What a coup! He’d get some kinda medal for sure. Be famous.
What he’d get is his head cut off.
He noted how many of the warriors seemed to be peering far off into the distance past the Malazan shield wall. Perhaps studying the rising mountain slopes. Or perhaps the sky. What were they damned well lookin’ at? The fucking weather?
Even squat Corporal Little shifted uncomfortably, stamping her feet to warm them. ‘What’re they waiting for?’ she muttered under her breath.
The two lines faced one another, each motionless, watchful. The light brightened, burning off the mist. The sun was behind the Seguleh, more or less, but Fist K’ess had chosen high ground and so the Malazans were slightly above them.
None of this might have factored into the thoughts of the Third as he stood unmoving, masked head slightly tilted, his gaze seeming to search the western sky. Finally, as the morning warmed, he brought his hand up in a cutting motion and all four hundred suddenly charged.
Bendan was almost caught off guard. His attention had wandered to fix on the weight of the shield dragging down his arm. Damned fucking pain it was. Whoever made these monstrosities certainly never had to hump them cross-country. Then he flinched with everyone as the Seguleh seemed to erase the distance between them in just a few quick paces. They closed utterly silent without bellow or howl. Only the whispered hiss of swords unsheathing sounded before the first slashes clashed against shields. And the screams. Immediate shrieks of wounded howling. And sergeants bellowing: ‘Close up! Close up!’
Bendan shuffled over with everyone. The lines shrank towards the short front of the few Seguleh as if it were a maw sucking down all the men before it. Wounded came staggering back, slipping between shields. He glimpsed severed wrists, faces slashed to the bone, hands pressed to throats with blood pulsing between the fingers.
Ye gods! They’re chewin’ us up!
Still the call rose up on all sides: ‘Close up! Tighten ranks!’
Then his turn came. He hunched behind the shield, shortsword blade straight, ready to thrust. To one side Sergeant Hektar grunted as he reached the front line. The ground was soft and wet beneath Bendan’s sandals. The noise was nowhere near what it had been in any of his earlier battles. Just clattering shields, hissed breaths and the fierce outraged screams of the wounded. Something slashed his shield yet wasn’t hard at all. More like a snake slithering across the surface hunting for a gap. He poked his head up for a look and something flashed across his vision and his helmet flew off over the lines. He ducked, thrusting. Wet warmth soaked his neck and front. Cut me – the bastard! And he thrust again, pushing with his shield. Bastard! The bright tongue licked around the lip of his shield, grating against the bone of his arm, and he snarled. His neck and side were now cold and numb.
Hands grasped him, pulling him back. Fuck! No! I’ll have that bastard. I swear!
‘Easy lad,’ someone soothed, urging him backwards. ‘You’re a right mess.’
‘What?’ Bendan glanced to his side. Bright wet blood soaked his armour down to his legs. ‘Damn!’ He touched the side of his head and barked a yell at the pain. His shield arm hung numb, blood dripping from his fingertips. ‘Damn.’
He reached the rear and slumped down in the grass with the other wounded waiting for one of the bonesetters. When the cutter came alongside him she shook her head as if disgusted. ‘Sliced half your scalp right off. Ear’s gone, too. All I can do is stop the bleeding and wrap you up.’
‘Good enough. I want back in there.’
‘If there’s time.’ The young squad healer’s gaze skittered aside as she unwound a rag.
A short while later Bendan felt the reverberation of many hooves through the ground and calls went up: ‘Rhivi! Cav!’
He staggered upright and did his best to see over the heads of the shifting jostling lines. Rhivi cavalry were sweeping across the fields behind the Seguleh. Some lowered lances, others fired their short-bows. The Seguleh responded by doubling up to face both ways. The slaughter was appalling: horses’ necks and stomachs slit, riders spilling right and left.
Bendan spotted Hektar standing to one side and hobbled over. ‘Sarge.’
‘What’s going on?’ the big man asked.
‘You got a better view than I.’
‘No I don’t.’
Bendan looked up: blood and gore crossed the man’s face in a slit where the bridge of his nose and his eyes once lay. His front was smeared in blood as well where it had been roughly wiped. Bendan quickly turned away, his gorge rising. Ye gods!
‘Healers stopped the bleeding,’ Hektar said. ‘Other than this nick I’m fit.’
Bendan swallowed to steady his stomach and to ease a burning that was tightening across his chest. ‘Yeah. Me too.’ Shouting pulled his attention to the lines. The Seguleh had broken contact and were now chasing the Rhivi from the field. ‘They’re after the Rhivi,’ he told Hektar. He saw a mounted lad hardly no more than a boy charge a Seguleh and the warrior sidestep the lance and swing and the lad topple from his saddle, his leg hanging from a few ligaments as he tumbled limp. Bendan flinched and winced his own pain at the sheer cold exactness of it.
Then a bellowed call came: ‘Retreat! Move out! Up valley!’
‘Damn,’ Hektar murmured, stricken. ‘I can’t see nothing.’
Though feeling strangely weak and a touch dizzy Bendan took the man’s elbow with his one good hand. ‘I’ll guide you, Sarge. Don’t you worry. C’mon, this way.’
The quorl carrying Torvald and the Silver Galene had set down just behind a sharp mountain ridge. What Torvald had glimpsed in the next valley over drove him to immediately scramble the last few feet up the slope to peer down. Watching the slaughter below, he felt as if he would vomit. ‘Do something – now!’ he begged Galene, behind him. ‘They’re being torn to pieces … can’t you see?’
‘Not yet,’ she answered. ‘They’re too close together.’
‘Too close together? What do you mean? Well, I’m not waiting.’ He lurched forward to descend. An armoured hand yanked him back.
‘Do not alert them.’
He pointed back to the ranks of landed quorl and the waiting Black and Red among the rocks. ‘Join them! Together you can—’
‘Together we would likewise be cut down by the Seguleh,’ she interrupted, harsh. ‘As we were before. But that was long ago. We are not the people we once were. Now we have much less … patience for all this. Ah – look.’ She raised her helmed head to the valley. ‘Good. Yes.’
Aragan kicked his lathered mount right up to the Malazan shield wall then threw himself from the saddle. He slapped the horse to send it off and pushed his way through the troopers. He realized he had no idea who was in charge, and grabbed a trooper, shouting, ‘Who’s ranking officer here?’
‘You, sir,’ the man drawled.
‘Other than fucking me!’
The regular smiled as he wrapped bloodied rags over a hand that was no more than a fingerless stump. ‘You must be that Aragan fellow. It’s Fist K’ess.’ He inclined his head to indicate further along the lines.
Aragan nodded. ‘Oponn favour you, man.’ He waved Captain Dreshen to follow.
When he found K’ess the Fist stared his disbelief before belatedly saluting. ‘Ambassador – you shouldn’t be here. I suggest you withdraw—’
‘None of us should be here, Fist. What’s the butcher’s bill?’
The Fist exchanged bleak glances with the aides and staff surrounding him. ‘First estimate is fifty per cent incapacitated,’ he reported, his voice hoarse. ‘Wounded or otherwise.’
Aragan’s chest constricted like an iron band. He couldn’t draw breath. Burn deliver them! Fifty per cent! This was … unimaginable. What were these Seguleh? The noise of the nearby fighting faded to a dull roar. He blinked away the darkness that seemed to be clawing at him from the edges of his vision and forced in a deep steadying breath. ‘Fist. The Rhivi have bought us time. We no longer have the troops to hold this line. I suggest we withdraw to the head of the valley, among the rocks.’
Fist K’ess saluted. The man’s face was a lifeless mask, shocked beyond expression, beyond feeling. ‘Yes, Ambassador.’
After the scramble higher up the slope, Bendan found himself and Hektar among the front ranks. Not believing his terrible luck, he glanced to the slashed limping and crippled troopers on his left and right and swallowed his outrage. A gimp and a blind man – best the Empire can muster! What a Twins-cursed joke. ‘Get back, Sarge. You’re no use.’
‘I can still fill a slot. Hold the line.’
‘You can’t see a thing!’
The beaming smile returned. ‘We’re all just hidin’ behind our shields anyways, ain’t we?’
Bendan squinted down the valley to where the Seguleh had assembled. What in the name of the Queen of Mysteries were they waiting for?
‘Still not comin’?’ Hektar asked.
