Tollen eyed her sidelong. ‘You’ll see.’
Shell followed. She had to walk over four dead Malazans, each bearing ferocious impalement wounds. They’d reached the main guardroom that allowed access to the surface. A lone Korelri Stormguard blocked the way amid the rubble, spear held upright at rest position, arms wrapped under his cloak. It was an older man, his short hair pepper-grey, his face savagely scarred. But what was most strange was the faint blue aura that played like a flame about the man and his spear. Energies raised over him — and so strong as to be visible even without her Warren.
‘Form up to stand the wall, prisoner,’ he told Blues.
‘Shit!’ Tollen murmured behind her. ‘Now I know him. Wall Marshal Quint. The one Chosen we didn’t want to meet.’
Blues advanced into the room. He held his two sticks straight down, angled slightly outwards from his body. ‘Let us pass and we’ll make no trouble.’
Quint’s scarred face twisted in an almost otherworldly contempt. ‘Pass? You can pass all right. You’re needed to stand the wall. The Riders are stirring. Now’s your chance to serve the Lady.’
Indeed, the waves were hammering the wall, but even Shell, new as she was to the place, could hear the difference: the arrhythmia of their pounding, and the relative weakness. It was as if they were drawing off — but it was far too early for that.
‘We decline the honour of dying for your Lady,’ Blues said.
The man levelled the spear. ‘Why? You’re going to die anyway.’ And he thrust. Blues blocked the spear with his crossed sticks and lashed out, kicking the man back. He grunted, recovering instantly, to drive Blues back with a series of short thrusts. Shell was startled: Blues was their mercenary company’s weapon-master; no one could stand before him. Certainly, there were those who could outlast him or overbear him, such as Bars or Lazar, or Skinner, for that matter, but in technique and ability with any weapon the man was peerless among them.
They duelled in this manner for a time, neither able to penetrate the other’s guard. Shell watched, her amazement growing moment by moment. Who were these Stormguard? Obviously, she saw now, their reputation was not overblown.
Snarling his disgust, the Chosen, Quint, stepped back to point his spear. ‘You’ve talent, I’ll grant you that. A shame you refuse to put it to the proper use. But now we’re done. Let’s see how you like a touch of the Lady’s Wrath.’
The aura that played about the man intensified at his hands, flaring to a brilliant glow. Shell had no time to call out a warning before it shot like a lance from the spearhead to strike Blues full in the chest. He staggered back, the aura dancing about him, sizzling. He smacked backwards into a wall with a sickening crunch that brought down another rain of dust from the roof, but he did not fall.
Quint gazed at him, utterly astonished. ‘How is this? You live?’
Blues wiped blood from his cheek and mouth and shook himself like a dog. ‘I felt something like that before, Wall Marshal. On another continent, and from another supposed god. I seem to have built up a tolerance.’
Quint struck a ready stance. ‘Then we’ll just have to settle this the old-fashioned way.’
Blues sighed, shook his head. ‘No. I don’t have time for this.’ He raised his arms and Shell saw his D’riss Warren come to him, the Warren of Earth and Stone. He thrust his arms out, sending an answering blast of power that struck the Wall Marshal and knocked him flying backwards to crash through the heavy panelled door and tumble out on to the cluttered, ice-strewn wall.
Tollen let go a low whistle that Shell seconded: yes, it’s easy to forget that the man is also one of the Guard’s strongest mages. She stepped through the wreckage to Blues’ side. ‘Decided to test the waters, did you?’
Blues gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘I guess the Lady’s too busy to care so much right now.’
The Malazans and other prisoners pressed forward. ‘Let’s go,’ Tollen called.
Outside, enormous shards of shattered ice choked the walk. Gouges had been taken out of the sides and entire buildings were gone — having slid off the rear, or collapsed. A great crack ran down the side of the tower, the dressed stone blocks shattered. A howling wind rampaged through the debris, driving pulverized ice into Shell’s face. As they stood peering for a way through the carnage, a figure straightened amid the shattered wreckage, throwing off slivers of broken ice: Wall Marshal Quint.
‘Won’t this guy stay down?’ Blues grumbled.
‘Now you know how it feels,’ Tollen complained.
Blues caught Shell’s eye. ‘Let’s see if he can swim…’ He was gesturing to raise his Warren anew when a blast of power erupted between him and Shell, tossing them both aside. Shell had a momentary glimpse of the waters foaming and lashing next to the wall before slamming down with a bone-snapping impact against stone.
When Ussu returned to his chambers he found the door open, his two aides fled. Very well. Good help and all that… The Crimson Guard Avowed, Bars, lay as before. Ussu tested the pins and lengths of chain, giving each a yank. Strong still.
The real blast was on its way. Where to sit it out? The chamber boasted a sturdy desk built of thick timbers. Beneath this? Too undignified. He went to the doorway, blocked the door open, pressed himself up against one jamb. Have to do.
He heard it just before it struck. How appropriate, he judged, that it should come rumbling like the avalanche and landslide that it was. Then a jolt threw him from the doorway and he tumbled about the hall like a doll kicked by the floor. Bone-juddering fractures announced the calving of huge shards from the tower’s sheath of ice. A crack shot through the roof, beams exploding. Pulverized rock showered down upon him.
As the shaking stilled, he stirred, groaning, shook dust from his hair. He staggered like a drunk to his room through the fallen rubble of the hall. Within, he found an icy wind cutting about the chamber; the falling ice had torn the shutters from the window. His subject lay stretched over the thick table as before, arms and legs pinioned. Ussu pressed his ear to the man’s naked chest, ignored the ugly gaping wound oozing blood.
A steady beat! As strong as before. It was as if nothing had happened! Thank you, my Lady. With such seemingly inexhaustible strength to draw upon — imagine what I can accomplish!
He brushed the dust and litter from the man. Pulled the larger stones and fallen grit from the wound. Would the Riders bother to strike here? Somehow he didn’t think so. They had their breach elsewhere. No, it would be the Malazans. This was their chance to finish things. Shattering a section of the wall was one thing — stone and wood can be repaired. Truly crushing the Korelri would be another.
It was hard to think with such enormous forces pressing upon him. The gathering might felt like a mountain suspended above his head. A vast displacement was bearing down through the Narrows. And he, even from this far, felt it like a giant’s boot crushing him.
And what of the Overlord? He raised his Warren and cast his vision south. What he saw made him lurch, almost sickened. No! You fool! The man had his army marshalled still within sight of the coast! Why wasn’t he in the highlands? Had he no idea — but no, of course not. Gods! I must warn him!
Ussu threw himself upon Bars. He savagely pushed his hand into the wound, parting the glutinous scab of blood and fluids to quest down amid the organs. His fingers slid down around a lung and through the tears in the fat and muscle fibre surrounding the beating heart. Pressing his head down close to the subject’s chest he closed his eyes and reached out to take the additional energy needed for a sending. Grasping this, he projected his consciousness southward.
He found Yeull wrapped in layers of blankets and furs, standing outside watching his tent burning to the ground. Chaos surrounded him, soldiers running about. ‘Overlord!’ he called, peremptorily, to be heard above the riot. The man’s eyes flicked about, searching. His mouth drew down, frowning even more.