Stonewielder (42 page)

Four men stepped out from behind pillars to meet the Adjunct. They wore long priestly robes, were bearded, and carried stout staves. ‘You are a fool to have entered here,’ said one.

‘Surrender, and you can keep your religion,’ the Adjunct answered.

‘Fool! You cannot
take
our faith! The Lady is with us now. All those who dare to invade are doomed.’

The four struck their staves to the polished stone floor. Suth felt something strike him like a hand at his chest, or a gust of wind. Blue marines on either side clutched at their throats and helms, gagging. They fell to their knees. All those near the Adjunct, including Goss’s squad, remained standing. The four priests gaped at them, astonished. It might have been a trick of the uncertain light but
the young Adjunct’s blade seemed to shine more brightly then. The Adjunct stepped up and swung. The priest raised his stave and the sword sliced right through the iron-braced dark wood. The priest staggered back, then his eyes blazed with an inner light and his lips twisted back from his teeth. ‘I see you now,’ he grated, his voice changed, somehow torn from his throat. ‘The Bitch Queen would send her soldier. But it will take more than you. I will drink your heart-blood.’

The Adjunct swung again and the man’s head spun from his neck. At that the spell seemed to shatter and everyone charged, cutting down the priests in a frenzy of loathing. They hacked the corpses long after they’d fallen, then Suth crossed to where the Adjunct was on his haunches, his blunt tribesman features drawn down in a frown. The youth was examining the decapitated corpse. Not one drop of blood could be seen pooled at the severed neck. Suth’s heart lurched in his chest and his gorge rose sour in his mouth. He turned away, staggered outside the temple to suck deep the warm smoke-tinged air. Wess emerged, clapped him on the back. ‘Fucking butcher’s work, hey? Not proper soldiering.’

‘You’ve – seen – things like that before?’

He gave a curt nod. ‘Yeah. There’s nothing you can do. Either it gets you or you get it.’

Suth drew in a deep breath. Distant fighting still rumbled from the waterfront. ‘What now?’

‘What now?’ Wess adjusted his helmet. ‘Now the real fighting starts. We’re headed to one of the gate towers!’ and he laughed, spitting.

Goss came out, followed by the rest of the squad. ‘Form up. We’re for the east gate. Double-time.’

The Adjunct emerged as well. The remaining Blue marines took up positions around him. He signed to Goss, who shouted, ‘
Move out!
’

*

It was long past mid-night when Rillish’s two captured Marese galleys, one rammed and listing, limped down the coast. He was certain they must be the last vessels and would arrive too late for the assault. That they still floated at all was enough, of course, but still, he was disappointed.

A Skolati merchant caravel, fat and slow, crossed ahead of them, bows to the south. The Skolati were not alarmed; for all they knew
they were crippled Marese struggling home. Rillish was willing to let them go. It had been a night of alarms and excursions, flight and chase, and they were all exhausted. A figure walked to the stern of the distant cargo vessel, set a foot on the low rail to peer back at them. He was armoured, and the orange pre-dawn light caught at bright silver filigree adorning his cuirass and headgear, and tracing the longsword sheath.

Rillish’s breath caught in his throat.
Burn deliver them!
He ran back to the sailing master. ‘Take that ship!’

The man blinked sleepily. ‘What?’

‘Come aside of it! Take it! Now!’

The sailing master squinted at the vessel. ‘It isn’t even a warship!’

‘Do it!’ Rillish gripped his sword. ‘Or I’ll force you.’

The man scowled behind his beard. ‘Very well!’ He leaned on the tiller arm and the galley began to heave to. Rillish faced the crowded vessel and shouted: ‘Row! Row now with all your strength! One last charge!’

The troopers groaned, protesting, but the galley picked up speed. The Malazan sailors with them adjusted the sail to cut closer to the weak wind. Rillish watched for a time then turned on the sailing master. ‘We’re barely gaining. Can’t you do more?’

‘Your soldiers row like retards. They are not in time. It takes years of training. Still,’ and he shrugged, ‘we are gaining.’

Rillish shaded his gaze to look behind. The other captured galley was following, but at a great distance. The sailing master saw his gaze. ‘He is cursing you very much right now, I think.’

‘Yes. I expect so.’

He found Captain Peles at the bows. She eyed him, puzzled. ‘A prize of war, Fist?’

‘A hunch. We’re going to board. Do
not
charge ahead. Form a line, shields out. Yes?’

She saluted. ‘As you order, sir.’

‘Very good.’

Their progress was agonizing. A pale pre-dawn glow gathered to the east. Arrow-fire flew from the cargo ship but it was thin and uninspired. As they drew aside, Rillish saw that he’d been right. Three men in dark armour, silver-detailed, awaited them at mid-deck.
Three Korelri Chosen – veterans of the wall
. He was glad to have more than a hundred heavy infantry backing him up.

Eventually, the sailing master was content with their relative positions and the bow of the galley swung over towards the bow
of the cargo vessel, cutting it off. ‘Toss grapnels,’ he called. ‘Ship oars!’

Marines threw the pronged iron grapnels, heaved on the ropes. The vessels swung together. Oars that were slow to be drawn were snapped. Their ends swung, hammering troopers flat.

‘Board!’ Rillish yelled, stepping up on to the railing and leaping. The troopers followed, shields at their backs. Rillish fell, rolling, then jumped up to retreat to the infantry now lining the ship’s side. The sailors of the cargo vessel stood empty-handed, surrendering. The three armoured men calmly faced them alone, weapons undrawn. ‘Ready shields,’ Rillish ordered. The troopers complied, forming line. He drew his duelling swords, pointed to one of the Korelri Stormguard. ‘Surrender and you will be spared.’

‘Do you know who we are?’ the man asked from behind the narrow slit of his chased blue-black helm.

‘Yes. I know.’

‘Then you know our answer.’

‘Yes.’

‘We cannot allow you to boast of our defeat, invader. You will not have our swords or armour to spit upon as spoils of war. It would be an insult to Our Lady. That cannot be permitted. And so—’

Rillish took a breath to shout, lurched forward. ‘NO!’

The three turned and vaulted over the side. Rillish threw himself to the rail, staring down. Three dark shapes sinking from sight, blades drawn, glinting in the slanting light, held upright before their helms.
Gods! It was inconceivable. Such fervour. Such dedication. Such waste
. He found tears starting from his eyes and he turned away.

Captain Peles was there, peering down, troubled. ‘So those were Korelri, yes?’

Rillish cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice thick.

‘And we are to invade their lands?’

Rillish almost laughed at the thought. ‘Yes.’

The woman said nothing; her sceptical look was enough.

‘Captives, sir!’ A trooper ran up, saluted. ‘The cargo – human captives. Hundreds jammed in down there.’

Rillish answered the salute. ‘Thank you, soldier.’

‘Slaves?’ Peles said, surprised. ‘They are slavers?’

‘Of a kind, Captain. Bodies. Hundreds of bodies destined for the wall. Warm bodies to man it and defend it against the Stormriders.’ Rillish could see that the woman was shaken. ‘We’ll sail the vessel
for Aamil. We’ll free them there – if we have the port. Have the master send over what sailors he can spare.’

Captain Peles saluted. ‘Aye, sir.’

*

Just after the sun cleared the horizon Rillish’s captured Skolati vessel bumped up against the stone pier at Aamil in one of the last available berths. Malazan sailors threw down ropes. The mage of Ruse, Devaleth, was there waiting to greet him. After last orders to the ship’s master, he went to the gangway and found Captain Peles there with a detachment of Malazan heavies. ‘No need, Captain.’

‘Every need, sir.’ She saluted. ‘You are an Imperial Fist. You should be treated as such.’

Rillish answered the salute, nodded his exhausted acquiescence. ‘Very well, Captain.’ He climbed the gangway to bow to Devaleth, who gave wry, but pleased, acknowledgement.

‘Good to see you made it,’ he said.

‘And you.’ She gestured up the pier. ‘This way.’

She led him to a tall thick gateway. Peles followed with his guard. The detritus of war was piled high here and teams came and went, still pulling bodies from the heaped wreckage and carting them off to be buried or burned. Rillish was surprised that the broad stone archway was still intact. As they walked beneath it, the stones marred by dark stains, Rillish observed, ‘Why didn’t the Blues just blow the gate?’

Devaleth walked with her hands clasped at her back. She was frowning at the ground, her face drawn, her eyes bruised. ‘Yes, why not? They’ve burned and blown up everything else.’

Rillish cleared his throat. ‘I’m … sorry for your countrymen, Devaleth.’

She nodded absently as they walked. ‘I never thought I’d see it happen. The blockade broken. Do not get me wrong – I am glad, of course. It is necessary. Still …’ she gave him a wintry smile, ‘a shock to one’s pride.’

A squad posted at an intersection straightened, saluting. Rillish answered the salute. Devaleth led him round the corner. ‘I understand,’ she said, ‘the Blues fear a counter-assault from Mare. And so they left the defences as intact as possible.’

‘Ah. I see. How are the Skolati?’

‘Quiet. Just as shocked, perhaps. Staying indoors. No doubt they hope we will just go away.’

‘You were here for the attack?’

‘No. I was with the Admiral. After we broke through the blockade he sent me on with some last messages for the High Fist.’

Rillish felt his chest tighten. ‘Ah. Yes. Of course.’ The stink of smoke that hung over the city now made Rillish sick. He’d known, of course, that he would be reporting to the man, but he’d somehow managed to keep it all out of mind.

Devaleth gestured up the narrow cobbled road to an inn where Malazan troopers stood guard. ‘Here we are.’

As Rillish entered, two squads lounging in the common room straightened to their feet, saluted. Rillish answered, nodding to them. He motioned for Captain Peles to wait here with his guard, then followed Devaleth up the stairs.

Two troopers stood guard at a door on the third floor. Devaleth knocked and it was opened by the young Adjunct, Kyle. His thick black hair was a mess, his wide dark face smudged with soot, and he still wore his armoured hauberk – he’d not even cleaned up from the fight yet. He inclined his head in greeting. ‘Fist Rillish,’ he called out, opening the door wide.

The High Fist was within, facing a man in rich-looking robes, bearded and sweating, flanked by Malazan troopers. Greymane waved the man away. ‘That’s all for now, Patriarch Thurell. I want everything gathered at the main square. Supplies, all mounts, cartage.’

‘Yes, yes. Certainly.’ The man bowed jerkily, hands clasped at his front. He seemed terrified. The troopers marched him past Rillish and out of the door.

Greymane peered down at Rillish. His eyes seemed a brighter blue than usual, glittering from under the wide shelf of his brow. Rillish bowed. ‘Congratulations upon your victory, High Fist.’

Greymane leaned against a table, crossed his arms. ‘Here at last, Fist Rillish Jal Keth. Now that the fighting is over.’

Rillish clamped his teeth against the urge to laugh the comment off, cleared his throat. ‘We saw much action at sea.’

‘No doubt.’

Swallowing, Rillish squeezed a gloved hand until it ached. He felt Devaleth there at his side, her own stiffness, but he dared not look to her. ‘You have orders, sir?’

Perhaps it was the room’s poor lighting, but Rillish thought the man was glowering as if trying to think of what to do with him. His wide mouth drew down and he heaved a heavy breath. ‘It just so happens that a number of squads from the 4th have struck on ahead inland – my very intent, as it happens. You are to lead the rest of the
4th after them. Push, Fist. Push on westward. I will follow with Fist Shul and the main body. Adjunct Kyle here will accompany you. As will the High Mage.’

Rillish jerked an assent. ‘Certainly, High Fist. I understand. You wish to break out before the Skolati can organize a counter-strike.’ He nodded to the Adjunct, who stood watching from the door, his face emotionless, hands at his belt. ‘You are most welcome.’ The young man just nodded, utterly self-contained.
So, my minder. Greymane is to take no chances with his subordinates this time
.

‘You will leave immediately. I understand we can even offer some few mounts.’

‘That would be welcome as well.’

The High Fist grimaced again as if uncomfortable, rubbed his unshaven jaw. Rillish hoped it was because the man was as ill at ease with this interview as he. Then Greymane merely waved to the door. ‘That is all.’

Rillish drew himself up stiffly, saluted. ‘High Fist.’