‘Then we just have to last the season,’ Quint growled.
Young Shool was quite shocked by this blunt admission. Hiam clenched his teeth — Quint never watched his tongue and he wished he would. This time, however, he could not bring himself to dismiss the grim forecast. Yes, Quint. We just have to last.
The Army of Reform finally reached the muddy snow-wreathed fields on the outskirts of the walled city of Ring. It gathered up its long trailing tail of camp followers, wagons, and petty merchants, into its own informal crowded township. The circumstances reminded Ivanr forcibly of Blight. Except that Ring city was some hundred times the size of Blight and they dared not enter it for fear of drowning in its sea of citizenry. In any case, smoke plumed over its red and black tiled rooftops and towers as Reformist factions battled Loyalists for control of precincts. One tall bell tower and chapel of the Lady burned even as Ivanr watched from the hillside overlooking the walls.
Inland, to the north, just on this side of the Lesser White River, lay the encampment of the Jourilan Imperial Army. Or rather, a tent city of thousands including the Emperor’s eldest son, rumoured to have been blessed by the Lady herself. He would lead the charge of the Jourilan aristocracy, which would sweep these rag-tag upstart peasants from the field — or so he no doubt imagined. And Ivanr could not help but half agree. This time he imagined they could not count on rain or some other miracle to deliver them, though it was overcast and cold, damned cold. The depths of the Stormrider-induced winter that tormented this region so.
He ducked back into his tent. Martal was overseeing the disposition of the troops. He knew she would forbid it, but he intended to be there in the front line. It would hearten these citizen-soldiers to see him there. So far it looked as if the foreign woman was proceeding as before, arranging pike formations backed by archers. Ivanr pulled his robes tighter about himself and paced his tent, unable to eat. The Imperials had seen this trick already and he’d spotted their response: their own archers and infantry milled in huge numbers in that encampment.
They would answer volley for volley. And who would win? Time, it seemed to him, was not on their side. And somewhere within that sprawling tent city was the Priestess herself. The Imperials threatened to execute her tomorrow, at dawn. What would be the army’s response? They had already lost Beneth. He would have to be there in the front lines to sense their mood, to respond, and, perhaps… to intervene.
A sigh from behind made him spin, shortsword appearing from his robes. Sister Gosh sat cross-legged on a carpet. She arched a brow at the pointed weapon, and Ivanr sheathed it beneath his robes. The old witch looked exhausted. Her thick layered skirts and shawls were dirtier than ever and she was haggard, her hair a rat’s nest of matted dirty knots.
‘Where have you been?’ he growled, though he was relieved to see her.
‘Hiding.’
‘What? Hiding? Why?’
The old woman pulled a silver flask from within her shawls, took a quick sip and sighed her pleasure. ‘Because I’m being hunted, that’s why.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t know. Some betrayer, I’m sure. There’s almost none of us left. If anyone other than I approaches you, don’t trust them, yes?’
‘If you say so.’
She relaxed, letting out a long breath, and eased her shoulders. ‘Good, good.’
‘What’s going on?’
The woman’s gaze took on a measuring cast as she seemed to examine him. ‘The end of everything, Ivanr.’
‘What? The end of the world?’
She grimaced her disgust. ‘No, no! Just change. The end of one order and the possible beginning of another. Though some do choose to see that as the end of everything, yes. In three days it will come. All I can see is that you must remember your vow, Ivanr. That is all that comes to me. Remember that.’
‘Well, if you say so. I will try.’
‘Very good.’ A spasm took the woman and she grimaced, forcing down the pain. ‘I’m sorry that I cannot be of more help, but I will be fighting my own battle — you can be sure of that.’
‘I understand. Will I not… see you?’
Grunting, the woman tried to rise. Ivanr leapt to help her up. ‘Thank you. Who is to say? Perhaps we will see each other again. I do not know. But I don’t think so.’ She crossed to the tent front.
‘What of the battle?’
Sister Gosh paused at the flap. ‘Trust Martal, Ivanr. Trust her. Yes?’ She arched a brow again.
He inclined his head in assent, smiling. ‘If you say so.’
She did not appear convinced by his contriteness, but accepted the gesture all the same. ‘Fare well, Ivanr. May all the gods guide you.’
‘Fare well.’
After she left, he sat for some time, reflecting. Yes, trust Martal. Trust this foreign Malazan. That was the question, wasn’t it?
Through the night he was woken by the noise of construction, of mattocks banging and heavy weights falling. But no alarms sounded and he eased back into sleep — it seemed Martal was constructing her siege weapons. Rather too early, he thought.
In the morning he broke his fast with hot tea and bread. When he pushed open the tent flap he was looking at a blizzard of swirling snow, and beyond that the walls of a fortress. He stared, turned a full circle. Encompassing the entire Army of Reform camp rose plank-and-beam walls extending between the tall carriages that now reared like towers in castle battlements.
By all the gods above and below! A fortress! The damned woman has built a fortress!
He walked through the camp, trying not to gape. How did she do it? Reaching the nearest wall he noticed that the inner sides, backs and fronts of the carriages had been disassembled. They now stood as open-backed, two-floored archers’ platforms. Their bottom floors were almost entirely taken up by vicious-looking ballistae that appeared able to shoot multiple bolts in a fan-shaped pattern. The woman was ready for her own siege. Nodding to the troops nearby, he climbed a ladder to a narrow catwalk that ran behind the wall. Turning left and right, he peered all along the curve of the fortress.
Amazing — but really, she didn’t mean to yield the field to the Imperials, did she? They’d just stand back and starve them out. The soldiers gathered at the wall did not appear pleased by their accomplishment; they were almost all staring silently out over the fields and Ivanr turned. There, halfway between the armies, stood a pyre of heaped wood.
The Imperials had also been busy last night.
While Ivanr watched, a detachment of some fifty horsemen slowly approached from the Imperial side. With them came a cart pulled by an ox and in the cart a slim figure in rags. Behind, the heavy cavalry were already in line, mounted and armed, pennants limp. Bearing witness. More and more men and women of the Army of Reform gathered now on the walls. He saw Martal in her black armour gazing from a nearby carriage.
Gods. What will happen? Will they rush out in a maddened fury? Isn’t that what these Imperials want? Disorder, blind rage?
Yet he sensed no rage around him. Only a quiet watchfulness; a collective breath held.
The detachment gathered to one side of the pyre. The woman — the Priestess, Ivanr could only assume from this distance — was dragged out. A priest of the Lady read charges, all in silence through the blowing snow. A tall figure in banded armour that glittered as if chased in gold led the detachment — the Emperor’s eldest son, Ranur the Third? He sat slumped forward, helm under an arm, apparently bored.
The woman was pulled up the tall heap and tied to a pole. Brands were thrust into the piled bracken, but due to the snow and sleet the pyre was reluctant to start. The Imperial soldiers tried to coax the fire to life, but it only smouldered. The woman stood straight throughout it all, unmoving, not even attempting to speak. Often, Ivanr knew, such victims had their tongues cut out prior to their execution.