Orb sceptre throne, p.66
Orb Sceptre Throne, page 66
The Black trooper ran off through the woods.
Up hall after hall they duelled. The heavy flint sword was blur in the hands of the tireless Imass. Palla retreated step by step, yielding, slipping all blows, leaving countless gashes across the fleshless ribs and skull and hacking apart rotting furs. She struck for the joints, hoping to sever ligaments and cripple the creature, not knowing if it was even possible.
But she was tiring. Her reactions were slowing. The weakness of complete exhaustion now stood between what she wanted to do and what she could. She knew she would fall; it was merely a question of when and how.
It came unseen in the form of a closing feint from the creature, a stunning elbow to her temple and a choking grip on her neck. Blinking, Palla found herself staring into two empty eye sockets where only a low glow simmered, like distant campfires.
‘You would have beaten me, Sixth,’ the Imass growled, slamming her into a stone door and releasing her to fall, ‘had I been alive.’
The Imass walked on.
Rallick watched from a window high up in the Great Hall while the two guards hammered bolt after bolt into the Legate. Then he watched them throw down their crossbows and run. Amazingly, the creature still stood. It must have fifteen bolts in it yet it remained upright. It leaned now bracing itself with one arm against a pillar.
Rallick raised the coiled fine silk rope ready to toss it down when out of the shadows came that shuffling servant, the Mouthpiece, and he knelt flat once more. The fellow came edging out the way a mouse might circle a crippled cat.
‘You are done!’ the Mouthpiece yelled, a fist raised. Then he flinched. ‘How can you say that? It is over! It is!’ The fellow was frantic with emotion, weeping uncontrollably. He backed away. ‘Flee? Me? Go? Why? Why would they kill me? I have done nothing! Nothing!’
Then he jumped as if seeing something terrifying. His hands flew to his throat and chest. ‘No!’ he breathed, appalled. ‘No – they wouldn’t. They mustn’t! Dear Soliel succour me … no!’
He fled from the chamber.
After a moment the Legate straightened from the pillar. The mask lowered as he seemed to inspect the many crossbow bolts studding his torso and the thin wisps of smoke arising from each wound. What could only be described as a muted chuckle shook him. The creature gestured to himself as if to say: yet here I am! And he laughed on and on behind the gold mask.
Rallick eased away from the open window ledge and pulled himself up to the roof again. Crouching, he brushed the tips of his fingers over his lips for a time, eyes narrowed, and came to a decision. He stuffed the coil of rope down his shirt and padded off along the roof, heading for the maze of mismatched gables and slopes of the complex.
Down in the Great Hall the main doors opened. The Legate turned to face them then rocked backwards, obviously shocked. An Imass strode within. The Legate backed away, hands raised. The Imass closed with astonishing speed on its oddly shaped legs, clasped hold of the Legate and raised its flint sword.
‘Now I take your head, Jaghut,’ it growled.
Then it stilled, hands falling. What dried muscle and flesh remained on its ravaged visage twisted as it frowned its uncertainty. It lowered its fleshless mien to the gold mask as if inspecting the workmanship. A low rumble shook the sinews and bone of its torso. It’s jaws shifted in something like disgust. ‘Faugh! Human!’ It threw the Legate down and stalked from the chamber.
At the doors it met Palla, staggering towards the throne room, but it passed on ignoring her and Palla paid it no attention as its broad flint weapon was now tucked into the twisted hair rope it wore as a belt. She took in the crossbow-bolt-studded form of the Legate lying supine on the floor, and fled.
After a time the Legate managed to roll on to his side and lever himself upright. He staggered for the doors, one heavy step at a time. All the while his crossbow-bolt lanced chest convulsed in what may have been silent laughter.
The doors to the Great Hall slammed shut. The Legate pulled up short. He turned in a slow weaving and shuffling circle to scan the chamber.
Kruppe stepped out from behind the nearest pillar. He slicked back his oiled hair and adjusted his frilled shirt cuffs and crimson waistcoat. Then he made a great show of waving a handkerchief in a rather too elaborate courtier’s bow. ‘Never did Kruppe imagine he would be called to court!’
The Legate lunged for him.
Kruppe twisted and narrowly avoided one grasping hand. ‘Come, then, Legate. Let us dance again!’ Another catching hand swung, missing a sleeve by a breath. Kruppe dodged aside. ‘Nearly!’ he encouraged. ‘Come. This way.’ He waved the handkerchief. ‘It strikes Kruppe that the problem with masks is one of seeing clearly.’
The Legate snapped out a clawed hand; cloth tore as Kruppe backed away. ‘Oh my!’
‘Pay-dirt!’ Spindle announced, sitting back from where he’d cleared a patch of dirt from the bottom of the pit. Fisher crouched down. It was a mud-smeared flat white surface. Together they cleared as wide a space as possible.
‘Hurry, my friends,’ called one of their protectors from above. Spindle glanced up to see the man’s gold and silver teeth bright against his face in a gleaming smile. ‘We are attracting too much attention.’
‘What? You? Attract attention?’
But the man was gone and the rapid clash of swordplay sounded from all sides of the pit. Spindle caught Fisher’s eye and nodded to the bottles.
Together they uncorked two and upended them. Neither was prepared for the reaction that instantly engulfed them.
Palla met Jan at the main entrance. She groaned inwardly at his blood-spattered condition. Upon catching sight of her he demanded: ‘What has happened? Where is this Imass?’
Palla waved her battered state aside. ‘It is gone. It killed the Legate.’
‘What? He is dead?’
‘Or near it.’
‘Why would it …’ The Second turned away to the grounds; Palla thought he moved awkwardly, as if stiff. ‘Recall everyone. Retreat to the inner halls.’
Palla bowed. ‘As you order.’ She ran for the open doors.
Jan turned a puzzled glance up the wide entrance foyer, and headed for the Great Hall.
Great roiling choking clouds drove the Seguleh from the pit. The smoke gnawed the tissue of the nose and seared the lungs. Coughing and gagging, Madrun, Lazan and Thurule backed away.
‘They have been consumed!’ Madrun announced, hand on chest.
A shadow moved within the clouds and a figure emerged: the taller of the two dragging the shorter. The three quickly rushed in to aid the man, who went to his knees hacking and gasping. The smaller of the two, the Malazan, sat up and made for the pit again. Lazan held him back. ‘You’ll die, man. It’s poison!’
‘The rest have to go!’ the Malazan answered. His eyes were weeping uncontrollably and a stream of blood dripped from his nose.
‘There’s nothing you can do.’
‘Oh yes there is!’ and the fellow raised his arms to inscribe a great circle in the air. If Lazan had had one hair on his head he knew it would be prickling and he edged away. The Malazan ducked back within the dense clouds.
Madrun was thumping the other on the back. Then he raised his head to peer about. ‘Am I mad, or do you hear horses screaming?’
In the Great Hall the Legate lurched away from reaching after Kruppe to face the doors. Something like a muffled snarl of panic sounded from his throat. He made unsteadily for the exit. Halfway there he fell to his knees, swayed, then crashed face down, crossbow belt snapping, the mask clanging against the floor.
Still wary, Kruppe edged slightly forward to peer more closely.
The Legate’s limbs shifted and he fumbled at the polished stone flagging. He began dragging himself onward. Kruppe threw his arms out in vexation. Great Elemental Forces! What more must Kruppe do?
Sliding one arm ahead of the other, the Legate began to chuckle. As he crawled the chuckle swelled into a muffled full laugh.
Kruppe backed away. He tucked the handkerchief into a sleeve and set his hands on his hips. His dimpled cheeks pulled down in an uncertain frown.
Really now. This is quite unreasonable.
Torvald stood immobile, listening as intently as he could. He felt as if his nerves were as taut as those annoying high-pitched Seven Cities stringed instruments. He believed he could discern a lessening in the clash of battle. Did that mean one side or the other was winning? Exactly what was going on? From their vantage they could see only a small portion of the overall extent of the front. Galene still held the baton ready in one hand but he saw her stance shift as if she, too, sensed the change.
‘Something …’ he began, but she raised a hand for silence.
A Black trooper ran to them from the woods. Torvald pushed closer to hear the report.
‘The Seguleh have withdrawn to the interior,’ he announced.
Galene examined the blasted field dotted with fallen. ‘Why would they … Our numbers?’ she snapped.
‘Less than three hundred of the flight remain viable.’
‘Ancestors,’ the Silver breathed, and the baton creaked in her ferocious grip. ‘And they?’
‘Perhaps seventy.’
‘Then why … One last charge …’
‘Perhaps,’ Torvald observed, breaking in, ‘someone could go and ask.’
And Galene turned to look him up and down.
‘It is very quiet,’ Councillor D’Arle whispered from his post next to the stairs up from the lowest of the cellars. ‘Perhaps I should take a look.’
Coll rested a hand on the old man’s arm. ‘I’ll go.’ He turned back to examine all the gathered councillors, aristocrats and court bureaucrats staring from the dark. No one else volunteered. Sighing, he loosed his sword in its sheath and started up.
Halfway up he stopped as he heard footsteps behind him. Redda Orr came up round a corner. ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed.
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘No you’re not. This isn’t some summer jaunt. Stay below!’
‘I’m trained!’ She drew her slim sword in a flash of steel.
Coll shook his head. ‘I’m sure you are, child. But this isn’t the duelling field.’
‘I could take you, old man …’
‘Perhaps.’ Coll motioned to one side. ‘What’s that?’
Redda looked. He snatched the blade from her hand. She gaped, frozen, then fury blazed in her eyes. ‘What a dirty trick!’
‘Yes it was.’ He started up the stairs again carrying both swords. ‘The world’s full of them so you’d better get used to it.’
As he approached the top landing he lay flat to peer over the lip, his blade ready. He met the sandalled feet of two Seguleh. One motioned him back down the stairs.
Damn. We’re prisoners. Goddamned prisoners.
What’s going on? Has the Legate won?
A thought struck him on the way down and he paused, swallowing. Gods! Were they expendable now?
Madrun, Lazan, Thurule and Fisher all crouched as near as possible to the foaming roiling clouds steaming from the pit. The noisome fumes seemed to repel all the birds and bats stooping in upon them, and the dogs charging from the woods – even one mad horse that had stormed past threatening to run them down.
A dull thud sounded from nearby and Madrun observed, disbelieving, ‘Did that owl just crash into a tree?’
The mist churned and out came the Malazan, a cloth pressed to his nose and mouth. He would have fallen had Fisher not lunged to support him. He hung coughing and gagging, and waved an arm weakly to the pit. ‘That’s the lot. But it’s still there – still in one piece!’
‘What is, Malazan?’ Madrun asked.
Lazan had been squinting off into the woods and now he backed away to tap Madrun on the arm. The giant glanced over and visibly started, amazement and panic in his gaze. ‘Holy Ancestors, I cannot believe it,’ he murmured to Lazan. The two began edging away.
‘Come, Thurule,’ Lazan called. ‘We have fulfilled our mistress’s instructions – now is the time to withdraw!’
Spindle watched in stunned astonishment as the three ran off in what could only be described as a panicked flight. He even sensed his ma grow quiescent in what felt almost like respectful deference. He turned to the woods and saw something huge approaching. Clearing his throat, he spat up a mouthful of the awful fumes he’d endured and raised his Warren to its highest pitch.
Fisher, an arm under one of Spindle’s, whispered, awed, ‘Is that …’
The shape emerged from the shadows to resolve into a wide and massive figure that Spindle recognized as Caladan Brood, the Warlord. The man’s narrowed gaze was turned aside, following Madrun and Lazan Door’s hasty retreat. Bizarrely, he held a spitting cat by the scruff of the neck. His heavy gaze swung to Spindle.
‘What are those two fools doing here?’ he demanded.
‘I … I don’t know,’ said Spindle.
The Warlord held out the frenzied cat. ‘That’s quite enough, Malazan,’ he growled.
Spindle blinked. ‘Oh! Sorry.’ He lowered his Warren. Brood handed the cat to him; it ravaged his hand and arm escaping.
‘Fisher,’ Brood said. ‘What are you doing here?’
The bard shrugged. ‘You know how I feel about witnessing things.’
The Warlord grunted his understanding. ‘Careful. One day you might just buy yourself too much trouble.’ He studied the pit just visible through the cloud of fumes. ‘Let’s have a look, then.’ And he walked into the cloud of poisonous steam.
Spindle watched as best he could through the mist. Peering forward, he thought he saw the Warlord down in the pit studying the stones, tapping them. The man sat back as if thinking. Then he raised both arms up over his head, clasped his hands into a great double fist and brought it down in a tremendous blow that shook the ground beneath Spindle’s feet. Once more he raised his fists and swung them down. This time the air was split by an immense crack that felt almost like a knife jabbing Spindle’s ears.
The Warlord pulled himself up from the pit and emerged waving the fumes from his face. He paused to glance down at Spindle. ‘I warned the creature,’ he said, and walked off the way he’d come.
Spindle let out a long slow breath. Fisher echoed the sentiment with a nod. Spindle gestured to the pit. ‘Well – you know, we must’ve weakened it for him …’
‘Oh, of course …’
Jan found the double doors of the Great Hall closed, but they opened easily at his touch. Within lay the Legate, or his body. He lay on his back, hands crossed over his chest. A forest of broken bolts stood from him at all angles. They gleaming gold oval remained fixed to his face. Yet it was marred now; a crack ran from the bottom up one cheek to just below a graven eye. Jan approached. He wanted to kneel; but to do so would possibly reopen the wound at his side. Was the man dead? He could not be sure.
A voice whispered then, within his mind: ‘Servant …’
He flinched away. What was this?
‘Take the mask, servant.’
The mask?
‘Yes. I sense you are wounded. Accept it and you will live for ever.’
Accept it? Wear it?
‘Yes. I have been banished from this flesh – but accept the mask and together we shall live again.’
Jan retreated from the corpse. No.
‘No? No! You have no choice, servant. Do as I command!’
No. Our slavery is long over. We have found our own way. We are our own masters now. I consign you to the past. I turn my face from you. You no longer exist.
‘Slave! Come back! I order you! Obey!’
Jan walked away. Leaving the throne room he met one of the pet mages at the doors; the one who paraded as a dancing girl. She came staggering up, an arm across her stomach, agony on her panicked face. ‘What is going on?’ she gasped. ‘Where are the others? What has happened?’
‘To us he is as dead,’ Jan said, flatly, and walked on, stiffly.
‘No! Impossible!’ She lurched into the room.
Within, alone, Taya edged up to the body. ‘Master!’ She reached out, but at the last instant she yanked back her hand as if stung. She started to her feet, flinching away. ‘No …’ she murmured, wincing. ‘Please … not that. Anything but—’
A sound spun her around. Someone emerged from one of the pillars. He was tall, dressed all in shades of green, and his hair hung silver and black. A long snarled hiss escaped her. ‘You …’
Topper bowed. ‘As they say, all good things, et cetera. And look at you. You are a bonus. One I’ve been hoping to pluck for some time now.’
Taya flicked her hands and short thin blades appeared. ‘I will have your head.’
‘I rather doubt that.’
They charged, meeting in a maelstrom of whirling flashing blades. Competing Warrens rose together, spinning and swirling until both disappeared in a loud burst of displaced air.
Torvald had never felt so exposed in all his life. Unarmed, he walked across the gouged and overturned dirt and broken flags of the once-groomed grounds. Galene limped at his side supported by a single Black. They made for the group of Seguleh guarding the main entrance, the majority of whose masks, he noted, bore very few marks.
As they neared, one Seguleh signalled for them to halt. Another, who carried a single bold line across his brow, signed to a third and these two approached.
‘I am Councillor Nom,’ Torvald said quickly. ‘I am come to propose negotiations.’
‘What is it you wish?’ the smaller Seguleh asked. She carried five hatch lines on her mask.
‘We come to demand your surrender,’ Galene said.
‘Our surrender? I rather think it is you who should surrender.’
