Stonewielder (50 page)

The fellow hung his head, kicked at the ground. ‘Sorry. I guess.’

‘Sorry,’ Yana echoed. She crossed her arms. ‘You’re sorry?’

‘Yeah!’ He looked up all sullen; then, eyeing Yana, his expression melted away to a kind of hurt mope. ‘Yeah.’

Shaking her head, Yana stepped up to take his head in her hands and planted a great kiss on his lips. ‘Silly fool! You just had to say so!’

The consternation mixed with delight that played across the man’s unguarded face almost made Suth laugh out loud. Helpless. Utterly helpless in her hands.

They linked arms and Yana scooped up her bedroll as they walked off.

‘Brainless oaf,’ Pyke said. ‘Probably doesn’t even remember what he’s supposed to be sorry for.’

‘It ain’t the
what
of it that matters,’ Wess commented from where he lay on his side, eyes closed, pipe cradled gently in one hand.

Pyke wrinkled his face. ‘What in Hood’s name is that supposed to mean?’

Keri walked up holding a blanket at her shoulders. She was eyeing the retreating couple and stopped before Suth. ‘They make up again?’

Suth nodded. ‘Yeah. Again?’

The woman had a strange sort of half-smile on her lips as she looked down at him. ‘Yeah. They always make up before every standing battle then have a big ol’ fight afterwards and break up.’

Suth snorted. These Malazan soldiers – the oddest lot of misfits all jammed together.

‘Me, I get all tense. Can’t sleep. What about you?’

Shrugging, Suth had almost said no, not really, when he looked up at the woman standing over him in the blanket, her shirt untucked and untied, and the words died in his mouth. He swallowed and stammered, ‘Yeah. Me too. Tense.’

The smile broadened and as she reached down he reached up and they entwined arms. ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘I know a way to work off all that tension. And bring your blanket – I don’t want to freeze my arse off.’

*

A knock on the front pole of his tent woke Ussü. He rose, threw on his thick outer robes over his shirt and trousers, and called out, ‘Yes?’

‘Word from Borun, High Mage. A disturbance in the east.’

He raised the flaps; a Black Moranth trooper bowed. ‘Take me to him.’

Borun occupied a slight rise in the valley slope below the Three Sisters fort along the descent to the Ancy. The vantage offered a view of Three Sisters town, the bridge, and a slice of the far shore where the Roolian forces were dug in. Since it was night all Ussü could see were the dancing shadows and dots of light of torches moving far from the shore. ‘What is it?’ he asked the Moranth Commander.

‘Listen.’

Ussü slowed his breathing, worked on calming his pulse. He reached out to the east with his senses, though careful not to draw upon his Warren. Not yet, in any case. Then over the churning of the river as it charged south he heard it: the definite muted roar of contact. ‘I thought them at least a day away yet,’ he breathed, the air pluming in the chill night.

‘Could be an advance force sent ahead to probe us,’ Borun offered.

‘Why announce their presence before they’re fully assembled?’

The Moranth commander said nothing. It was his way of letting Ussü know that he had no idea.

‘The … ah … packets? They are in place?’

Borun nodded. ‘All set.’

‘Very good. You have sent someone, I assume?’

‘To ascertain the character of the contact, yes. She should be returning soon.’

‘Ah – of course.’

The matt-black helm turned to him. ‘High Mage, the Envoy has committed nearly fifteen thousand troops to the far shore. We cannot abandon them.’

Yet
, Ussü added. ‘Very good, Commander.’ He peered round the position; Borun’s tent stood nearby. ‘You wouldn’t have a stool, would you?’

‘Of course, High Mage.’

Shortly afterwards a Moranth Black trooper came jogging up. He – she, Ussü corrected himself – saluted. ‘It appears to be a small force of no more than a few thousand probing the road defences, Commander. The Roolians are holding them off.’

‘Or are the Malazans not pressing as hard as they might?’ Ussü cut in.

The scout turned her helm to Borun, who gave a small wave, granting permission for the woman to answer. Why the permission, Ussü wondered. Ah, yes! He’d asked for an
opinion
.

‘Hard to say, High Mage,’ she began, slowly, ‘but if I must offer an interpretation, I would say that no, the invaders are not pressing as hard as they might. Though their small number would rule out advancing as they would be overwhelmed,’ she added.

Invaders. How odd to hear that from our mouths when we ourselves are invaders
. Yet he nodded at the Moranth scout’s words. To Borun, he said, ‘Then why attack at all? A waste of men and women when they have no chance for reinforcements.’

The blunt bullet helm cocked slightly as Borun thought. ‘Could be an impetuous officer, or one hungering to make a mark for him or herself. New to combat.’

‘If I were Greymane I’d cashier the fool.’

‘Let us hope this officer’s uncle is far too important for that,’ Borun suggested, with the closest thing to humour Ussü had yet heard from the man.

‘You don’t know Greymane,’ Ussü said darkly.

*

They were given logs to grip for the trip downriver. As it was the winter season the Ancy was low. Great boulders thrust up amid its wide length and intermittent rapids foamed its surface. Suth was told he should be able to touch bottom most of the way down – if he reached for it. Their equipment they stashed in rolls and tied to
the logs. In teams of three they slogged out through the shallows to the deeper, swift-flowing centre channel. The cold mountain water took his breath away and stung as if burning. The river stretched before him like churning night beneath the stars. It humped and hissed where rocks lurked just beneath its surface. It pulled at him as if eager to pin him under them.

One by one they lifted their legs and allowed the current to draw them along. Slowly at first, Suth was pulled around submerged boulders; then more swiftly, as if down a slick chute, he picked up speed. He tried to hold his feet out before him and the trick worked a number of times as hidden rocks merely drove his knees into his chest and barked his shins. He clenched his teeth against the pain and raised his head for a glimpse ahead of the dark span of the bridge: nothing yet. A curl turned him, and as he sped along backwards he used one hand to pull himself back round. As he did so he caught a glimpse of the timber undersides of the bridge almost overhead and the sight nearly made him let go of the log in shock. A small island of boulders lay ahead, the water cresting around them, and he reached down for bottom here to slow himself. The water slammed him into the rocks, crushing the breath from him. He hugged the log, mouth open and head down as water foamed over him. He hoped to all his Dal Hon gods that anyone peering over the side of the bridge would merely see a length of driftwood jammed among the rocks.

Now what?
He was pressed here as tight as if strapped in. He tried to edge himself out but the current kept pushing him back into his hollow. Come sun-up he would be sure to be spotted – if he wasn’t dead from exposure by then!

Something struck him a blow and for an instant he thought he’d been hit by a crossbow bolt from the bridge. But it was a length of rope, pitifully thin, pressed up against him. Struggling, he wrapped the rope round one arm as many times as he could then gripped the log again.

A yank almost dislocated his shoulder.
Ye gods, have a care!
The pressure was steady and agonizing. The rope cut into the flesh and muscle of his arm. He felt a tingling as its circulation was cut off. Slowly, the excruciating pull overcame the water’s pressure and he popped free of the trap like a cork. He could only float limply, hardly able to keep a grip of the log one-handed. Hands drew him out of the water.

‘Who’s this guy?’ a voice whispered.

‘He’s with Goss’ bunch.’

‘Hunh.’ A cuff on his cheek. ‘Well, welcome to the 6th.’

Through numb lips Suth slurred, ‘Have to get to my squad.’

A dark shape over him snorted. ‘No way. You sit tight. We’re on the job now ’cause this bridge is mined to blow.’

*

Ussü jerked awake at a touch on his shoulder; he’d fallen asleep leaning forward against his staff.
Those efforts earlier must have taken more out of me than I suspected. And I’m not getting any younger
. It was nearly dawn; the eastern horizon held that same pink you could find inside a seashell. Ussü felt the chill of the winter night painfully in his hands and feet. He nodded to the Moranth trooper, and crossed to where Borun was in conversation with others of his command.

‘No sortie?’ Borun was asking.

‘None ordered. Just repair of the lines and retrenchment.’

Borun bowed to Ussü. ‘The day’s regards, High Mage.’

‘The engagement is over?’

‘Yes, some time ago. A slow withdrawal of the invaders.’

‘A slow withdrawal? And the Envoy did not press them, maintain contact?’

‘No. Orders forbade it.’

Ussü was astonished. ‘
Why?
’

‘Perhaps he fears an ambush or a counterattack.’

‘And so he hides behind his lines.’ The foolishness of it was dismaying. ‘We’ve abandoned all initiative.
Given
it to them.’

‘True,’ Borun granted. ‘But they do have to come to us. Perhaps you could say time is on our side.’

It was dawning upon Ussü that the Black commander had the annoying capacity of being able to see all sides of any tactical situation. ‘Let us hope so,’ he eventually replied. Then he cleared his throat; he was fading without his morning herbal infusion and hot spiced tea. ‘In the meantime, I will be in my tent. Send word of any development.’

Borun inclined his helmed head. ‘Very good, High Mage.’

*    *    *

Devaleth knew she was no veteran of land campaigns, but it appeared to her that Greymane, in his dash to reach the Roolian border and the advance element under Rillish, was making excellent time.

They had a lot of ground to make up. The High Fist had lingered for over a week to sort out the new Malazan military rulership and accept the surrender of Skolati elements that came trickling in. Then he waited, jaws bunched impatiently, while the remaining Skolati commanders scattered throughout the countryside bickered and undermined each other until finally, disheartened and demoralized, the army failed to field an organized resistance.

Once it became clear that no pending threat remained, Greymane assembled ten thousand soldiers from the Fourth and Eighth and immediately set out for the Roolian border. Fist Khemet Shul remained behind with orders to consolidate, assign garrisons, and follow as soon as prudent.

And at what a pace! As horses were rare everyone walked – and walked – and walked. Greymane rose with the dawn and did not stop walking until after nightfall. Meals – a crust of stale bread scavenged from an abandoned village, or a scrap of dried meat – were taken on the stride. The man was utterly relentless; those who could not keep up were left behind. Soon for the soldiers it became a matter of pride to see to it that that would not happen to them. More than one trooper limped past Devaleth leaving a trail of bloody prints.

Devaleth was one of the handful mounted – albeit on a donkey. Some no doubt thought her lucky, but she knew the truth: it was a kind of torture. The animal’s spine was like a knife and the beast would deliberately stop suddenly and dip its head in an effort to tumble her upside down. Whenever this happened soldiers nearby suggested a knife to the hindquarters, or a sharp stick to one ear, but for some reason she could not bring herself to beat the animal and so it had its way. She became resigned to it, thinking herself still far better off than the poor footslogging regulars.

In deference to her position as mage she also had one of the two tents; the other served the mobile infirmary, which followed along the route of march drawn by a team of oxen. All other logistical support and followers – the blacksmiths, armourers and cooks – Greymane had left behind in his utter determination to catch up. For the rankers, it was scavenge on the march or starve. Devaleth saw abandoned overgrown garden plots pillaged, roaming livestock claimed, and even a wild ubek doe brought down by javelins and butchered on the spot, haunches carried off over shoulders for the cook fires.

Each night she had to track down Greymane. She’d eventually find him wrapped in his muddied travelling cloak, lying among the
troopers next to some fire or other. His long ash-grey hair would be almost luminous in the night, and likewise the beard he was growing. Devaleth would ease herself down near the fire and from the edge of her gaze usually spend the evening studying the puzzle that was this man.

It seemed to her that he was in his element. Here, in the field, sharing the company of the regulars. Clearly, this was where he was most comfortable. No wonder he’d been so eager to get away. Yet what of the men and women of his command? She knew some officers liked to fancy themselves as being of the common people, with a common touch and able to rub shoulders with the average rankers, when they clearly actually lacked all such gifts. From the glances and bearing of all those the High Fist talked to or sat among Devaleth saw that he had their hearts. In this manner he fit the mould of the old Malazan commanders she’d heard of: the legendary Dujek, the gruff Urko, or the revered Whiskeyjack.