It was dark at the top, though moving torches and lanterns glowed beyond the outer curtain wall where it arced in a broad semicircle from cliff edge to cliff edge. Tyvar was there, whispering commands to his officers. Cartheron and Lady Orosenn stood aside, scanning the crowded grounds. The old Malazan looked very much worse for having made the climb. He was pale, pressing a hand to his chest, apparently in some measure of pain.
Giana Jalaz gained the top and nodded to Cartheron, awaiting orders. The old captain waved for her to take to the walls. She bowed and jogged off with her command.
A knot of the locals, spears in hand, came marching up. Almost invisible in their midst was the short and wiry shape, all in black, of Malle of Gris.
The company halted before Cartheron and stamped their spear-butts to the ground. Malle stepped forth and indicated one of the party: a youth, and like these locals tall and slim with a great mane of brown curls. He was studying Cartheron and did not appear to be impressed by what he saw.
‘This is Voti,’ Malle began, ‘nephew of King Ronal who now lies upon his bier, cut down by an outlander assassin sent by the besiegers …’ her voice quite hardened at that last part as she eyed Cartheron. She bowed to the lad, Voti. ‘May I present Cartheron Crust – a great veteran commander of the Empire.’
The lad, the king presumptive, Jute assumed, gave the merest nod. ‘Malle tells us you know these outlander ways. You may advise during the coming battle.’
Cartheron was experienced enough not to even blink as he inclined his head. ‘My thanks.’
The lad next turned to the figure of Lady Orosenn, dressed now in her tanned hunting leathers, a long-knife at her side. Tall she was, even in this company, her auburn hair unbound in a great wild mane. Jute was suddenly struck by the resemblance between her and these people in their features and general build.
He remembered then her saying that she was returning home.
‘You look familiar …’ the lad said, addressing her, frowning as if trying to recall just where he’d seen her.
She inclined her head. ‘I do not believe so. My name is Orosenn. I have been a long time away. It is merely the family resemblance.’
The lad grunted at this, satisfied. ‘Very well.’ Then, as if suddenly remembering his duties, he added, gruffly, ‘You are welcome.’ He strode off followed by his bodyguard of spearmen.
Malle, however, remained. Her glare, fixed upon Cartheron, could’ve melted iron. The commander, still pale and haggard from the climb, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I know, I know.’
‘I thought I made it clear,’ she hissed, her lips tight, ‘the old ways of doing things are over.’
‘I’m all old school, Malle.’
She snorted her agreement, but then a new light came into her eyes: something like grudging admiration. She gestured to the nearest section of wall to invite Cartheron, Jute, and Lady Orosenn forward. ‘Well, by now you’ve guessed the Empire saw its chance for a toehold on this continent and we were sent to establish relations. What I didn’t expect was to find myself in the middle of a full-scale invasion.’
‘There is far more at stake here than a mere change in rulership,’ came the deep contralto of Lady Orosenn.
Malle stopped short and turned to peer up at the woman. She did not flinch, and Jute realized just how apposite Cartheron’s warning about not getting in the woman’s way had been. She appeared wrought entirely of iron, from her iron-grey hair to her thin arms of twisted iron bar. ‘I know your heritage, sorceress. I know the name of the cold winds blowing down from these mountains. I know we sit at the feet of a Jaghut refugium.’
‘But do you know that your being here is no accident?’ the sorceress countered, her voice hardening as well. ‘That we should be here at all is entirely your fault?’
Malle was clearly rocked by the accusation. Her mouth drew down into a sour scowl. ‘Explain yourself, sorceress …’ Even Jute heard the cold menace in the old woman’s words.
‘You Malazans,’ Lady Orosenn continued. ‘Your being here is no accident. I knew this the moment I encountered Cartheron here on his way to these lands. And so I enrolled Tyvar and his Blue Shields in helping escort him north.’
Cartheron almost jumped at that. ‘What the …?’ He coughed, utterly shocked. ‘I’m just making a delivery.’
Orosenn nodded. ‘Yes, for this woman to use to back up a Malazan client state here in the north – conveniently near a goldfield.’
Now Malle’s gaze narrowed; her hands disappeared among the long black lace trimmings at her wrists. ‘You are too well informed, sorceress.’
Cartheron raised a hand in warning. ‘Malle … don’t.’
Jute’s hair rose as he realized that this woman fully intended to attack the sorceress. The servant – whatever his name was – tried to push forward but Orosenn held him back.
‘Why this delay!’ boomed a new voice as Tyvar came jogging up, his armour jangling, helmet tucked under an arm, his gauntleted fist on the long leather-wrapped grip of his sword. ‘Those without the walls are clamouring to be allowed in. Our fair ruler refuses. And,’ he added, his tone sharpening, ‘m’lady, of the enemy you mentioned, there is yet no sign at all …’
Jute felt as if he could suddenly breathe once more. Malle’s hands reappeared among the hanging lace at her wrists. She demanded: ‘What army? What state’s? More Lether reinforcements?’
‘We should have until dawn,’ Lady Orosenn answered Tyvar. She turned her attention to Malle. ‘What army, you ask? One might argue that it is the army of the past that comes now to throttle the future.’
Jute felt his face wrinkle up in confusion. What nonsense was this now?
‘The army of the past,’ Malle echoed, wonderingly. Her gaze shot to Cartheron. ‘It cannot be …’
Jute was surprised to see the old general’s face harden and lose all hint of his habitual mocking humour. ‘You’re on dangerous ground hinting as such things, Lady Orosenn.’
‘I? I am on dangerous ground? You Malazans have no idea what you’ve been meddling in. The old war was over until your emperor broke the balance. Now all this blood spilled is your fault and you must make reparation.’
Jute cleared his throat loudly. ‘Please, Lady Orosenn – of what do you speak?’
The sorceress turned to him and her features softened. A smile came to her lips, but it was a wistful one. ‘Jute of Delanss – I am sorry. You are right. We dance around the subject because it is almost too terrifying to name. I speak of course of the T’lan Imass, reawoken by the old emperor.’
Cartheron was shaking his head in hard denial. ‘No. You say we’re culpable. But we brought them Silverfox. Their new living Summoner.’
‘Or she emerged in a desperate effort to right the imbalance,’ the sorceress countered.
‘Word is, Silverfox has nothing against the Jaghut,’ Cartheron growled.
‘Evidently she does not speak for all clans.’
Malle snapped up a hand. ‘Enough. This cannot be settled now. Sorceress – you claim the T’lan Imass are marching here. Yet what is this to us? I gather they seek these Icebloods, who I suspected were Jaghut. They will ignore us and pass on into the heights to track down their old enemies. It is sad and regrettable … but we could not interfere even if we wished.’ Malle made a show of studying the sorceress up and down. ‘Indeed, Lady Orosenn, I understand the fierceness of your advocacy. And considering this, you would be well advised to flee immediately yourself.’
‘Tell them what you told me,’ Tyvar Gendarian rumbled, his voice deep with suppressed emotion.
The sorceress sighed and there was now compassion in her gaze as she studied Cartheron. ‘This is a hard thing to tell you Malazans, but all these locals who live in the north, who occupy this keep, who farmed and lived here originally … they all share some Jaghut blood. The T’lan Imass are marching north and killing all as they come. They will take this keep by storm and slay every living original inhabitant of these lands.’
Jute found that he almost blacked out at the thought of it. His vision darkened and his face and hands became frigid and numb.
All the gods forfend!
How could such things be allowed? Surely the injustice of it must offend all. He’d never considered the idea of evil before, but surely such an act must be condemned as such.
If Jute felt sickened, he could not imagine what Cartheron was feeling now: the man had appeared haggard and tired before, but this news seemed to age him decades as a weight slowly settled upon his shoulders and gouged fresh depth in the already creased and furrowed brackets at his mouth and eyes. He pulled a shaking hand down his face. ‘If that’s so, then there’s nothing we can do.’
‘We have a chance,’ Lady Orosenn offered. ‘Omtose Phellack hampers them. They must march as any other army. They must climb defences. Receive blows. Those that are broken will not arise again. We can defend. Their Bonecasters will attempt to raise Tellann, but I shall work to suppress it. Together, we may have a chance.’
The age-spotted hand that Cartheron had been pulling so hard down his face now brushed the grey bristles of his chin. He turned his head to study Tyvar for a time. ‘And what of you, Mortal Sword? I don’t believe Togg has done you any favours here.’
The swordsman regained his savage grin. ‘I disagree. We have been blessed with the greatest challenge we could hope for. No force has ever repelled the T’lan. The Blue Shields intend to be the first.’
Cartheron gave a curt nod. ‘So be it. To tell the truth, I would like to have a word with these Imass.’
Lady Orosenn bowed to Cartheron. ‘My thanks, commander. We all have our posts, then. I shall be at the entrance to the inner keep.’ Bowing again, she headed off, followed by her servant.
Malle regarded Cartheron with a speculative glint in her dark eyes. ‘The right thing, Crust?’
‘Right enough,’ he answered, roughly.
‘And what of your cargo?’
He shook his head. ‘Not right for this – unless you want to destroy our own walls.’
She pursed her thin lips. ‘A shame. Very well …’ She inclined her head. ‘Commander. I shall be at the wall with my men.’
Jute watched her walk away then turned to Cartheron. ‘Excuse me, captain … but just who is that woman anyway?’
Cartheron was rubbing a hand over his bristled chin once more. ‘Who? Her? Ah – Malle.’ An expression came to his face that was similar to the admiring look the woman herself had given him. ‘The Empire has one academy where its imperial Claws are trained, Jute. For thirty years that gal ran it.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Well, I’m for the walls. Apparently I’m in command of the foreigner contingent here. You can stand with me if you like – as good a view as anywhere of the coming goddamned end of the world, I suppose.’ He headed off.
Jute stood unmoving. He knew where his post should be – back at the
Dawn
with Ieleen. She’d be worried, he knew. Yet … to walk away from witnessing the T’lan Imass confronted? To describe such an opportunity as once in a lifetime would be a laughable understatement. Once every ten thousand years, more like. He simply could not tear himself away. Besides, the
Dawn
was in the best of hands with her. And the crew was loyal.
He hurried to catch up. Beyond the tall stone walls, the glow of torches still bobbed and swept about. Voices clamoured, and, above the bellowed orders and shouts of plain panic, he heard the crash and groan of equipment being moved and the thump of axes on timber.
Climbing a ramp of beaten earth, Jute found Cartheron with Lieutenant Jalaz at his side. He took the commander’s other side. They overlooked Mantle town – or at least its remains. The camp of the besiegers was in turmoil. Glancing far to the east, where the glow of coming dawn painted the sky a brightening purple, he glimpsed a bedraggled line of distant figures in retreat: those who wouldn’t stop even for the presumptive safety of the camp and what portion of the invader army remained. From what he’d heard of the wilds of the Bone Peninsula, he imagined such refugees wouldn’t long survive.
Those elements that had retained their organization were now feverishly assembling a barricade to the rear; they obviously had completely reversed themselves to face the enemy they believed to be coming for them. Jute groaned his helpless frustration and disbelief: ‘But the T’lan don’t want them!’
Cartheron sighed. ‘Malle’s been trying to tell them that.’ He lifted his bone-thin shoulders. ‘They’re terrified. They won’t listen.’
‘Better if they had all fled,’ Jute grumbled.
‘Really?’ Cartheron shot him a quick glance. ‘Bastards might actually get lucky, you know. Take down a few of the Imass.’
The sentiment made Jute shudder. He’d forgotten. Their time together had fooled him into thinking the man at his side was a relatively harmless old codger – but he wasn’t. He was a retired commander of Malazan forces, once a High Fist. And to defend his command he was obviously prepared to sacrifice every one of these poor unfortunates arrayed on the field before him.
Jute wrapped his cloak tighter about himself, turned to study the walls. A small complement, a watch, now stood the walls. He spotted the night-black shape of Malle at the wall, flanked by two figures, an old man and a young girl, who he believed had to be imperial cadre mages. Most of the defenders, locals, the Malazans, and Tyvar’s Genabackans, were lying down across the grounds. Jute shuddered again: the sight of all the prone figures crowding the broad yard made him think of a field of graves.