Behind the horde, among the churned-up dirt, the shin-deep ruts and tossed rubbish, the gnawed bones, broken pots and excrement, Least Branch stopped to point back along the trail of broken earth. ‘Just follow our path. You cannot miss it. But you do not really seek this Whorl, do you? It opens on to the shores of Chaos. And we sense behind it an unhinged intelligence. We flee it. As you should, too.’
Kiska was staring up the trail all the way to the flat horizon, which to her eyes appeared bruised, darker. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I believe it’s what we’re here for.’
‘Then I must say farewell, though I confess I am tempted to accompany you.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Because I believe there is a chance you will meet the Guardian. I say this because he has spoken to you once and so may again, for he seldom does anything without a reason. And so, should you meet him, ask him this for myself and for my people, the fishers of Ixpcotlet — why did he do nothing? Why did he not intervene? We are very confused and disappointed by this.’
Kiska faced Least Branch directly, gazing almost straight up. ‘If I meet him I will ask. This I swear.’
The daemon waved its thin armoured limbs, the meaning of the gesture unknown to Kiska. ‘I will have to be satisfied with your vow. My thanks. Safe journeying to you.’
‘Goodbye. And our thanks.’
‘Fare you well,’ Jheval added.
They watched the great daemon lumber away. The spears clattered and swung on its back as it went. Alone now, free of their huge guide, Kiska felt exposed once more, though the plains that surrounded them lay utterly flat and featureless.
Jheval cleared his throat. ‘Well, I suppose we’d best get on our way.’
Kiska eyed him: his fingers were tucked into the lacing securing his morningstars; a habit of his while walking. Thinking of her behaviour during their imprisonment, Kiska said nothing, nodding and starting off. Perhaps they would discuss those days — perhaps even weeks, who knew? — of cramped involuntary companionship some time in the future. Right now it was too close and too raw.
Perhaps, as she suspected, neither of them would ever mention it again.
They had assembled forty thousand regulars supported by a backbone of six thousand Malazan veterans of the Sixth. The force was known officially as the Army of Rool. Envoy Enesh-jer commanded, representative of Overlord Yeull. Ussu served as adviser, while Borun commanded his detachment of a thousand Black Moranth. The Overlord remained at the capital, Paliss.
Ussu was mounted, out of consideration if not for his age, then for his rank. Most of the officers and all of the Envoy’s staff were mounted. However, there was no organized cavalry force large enough to play a major part in any engagement, save harassment, scouting and serving as messengers. The Jourilan and Dourkan might pride themselves on their cavalry, but it had never been cultivated in Rool, or Mare. Possibly the peoples of Fist followed the model of the Korelri — who of course considered horses particularly useless.
Ussu wished they had many more mounts; the crawling progress of the army chafed him. They had yet to reach the Ancy valley, let alone the Ancy itself. Perhaps it was pure nostalgia, but he was sure the old Sixth could have managed a far better pace. Riding by, he shared many a jaundiced gaze with the veterans, sergeants and officers, as together they scanned the trudging, bhederin-like Roolian troops. He pulled his cloak tighter against the freezing wind cutting down from the Trembling range and stretched his back, grimacing. Gods, when was the last time he rode for more than pleasure? Yes, we’re all older now. And perhaps the past glows brighter as it recedes ever further. But what we face is not the past — it is the present Malazan army. What of their standards? Who is to say? We know just as much of them as they of us.
And so two blind armies grope towards each other.
Where lies the advantage? Intelligence.
He spurred his mount to the van, and the coterie of officers and staffers clustered around the Envoy. Like flies. Yet is that fair? This Enesh-jer was selected by Yeull. Though it seems as if the choice was based more on the fervency of the man’s devotion to the Lady than on any command competence or experience. Like those of his staff and inner circle: more like priests in their pursuit of rank and prestige than interested in field command. And so similarly am I suspect to them. Magicker, they whisper. Dabbler in the forbidden arts.
Ussu eased up to catch the Envoy’s gaze as he rode past, but the man was engaged in conversation with an aide, his lean hound’s head averted — stiffly, it seemed to Ussu. The staffers and other lackeys were not so circumspect. Some eyed him coolly, others with open disapproval, while the worst offered open enjoyment of what could be taken as a deliberate, calculated insult.
Ussu revealed no discomfort. He bowed respectfully in his saddle, urged his mount on. In advance of the van, he kneed the mare into a gallop. What lay ahead? Three days ago word had reached their column by way of refugees of the fall of Aamil. The stories were wild, even given a penchant for panicked exaggeration. The city levelled; citizens slaughtered; a demon army in blue armour, which from their description Ussu quickly understood to be Blue Moranth. The invaders marching west. Things became rather fanciful after that. Flash floods tearing down from the Trembling range carrying off hundreds of the invaders; roads washed out; murderous hailstorms, landslides and earthquakes.
The literal end of the world. Absurd. Though, nights ago, a shaking of the ground and yells of horror and alarm throughout the camp woke everyone. Such manifestations were thought to represent the displeasure of the Lady.
The landings would have been more than ten days ago now. Just where were these invading Malazans, their new rivals? Had scouts reached the bridge? Had their commander — could it really be Greymane? — ordered a spear-like dash for control of this single crossing over the Ancy?
And why was Yeull so reluctant to destroy it?
Climbing a rise he came to a small contingent of Roolian horse halted at its crest. In their midst sat Borun, looking rather uncomfortable atop a broad, muscular stallion. Ussu walked his mount ahead until he shared their view down into the Ancy valley stretched out below, the broad river flowing south towards Mirror Lake at the foot of the Black range. Mid-valley it broadened over a course of shallow rapids spanned by the long slim timber and stone bridge raised by Malazan engineers of the Sixth what seemed so long ago. Beside it, on the west shore, the bailey and stone keep of the fortress of the Three Sisters, named for the rapids. Surrounding the fortress sprawled a small town of farmers and businesses catering to travellers of this main trader road.
Borun dismounted and joined him. ‘Any sign of them?’ Ussu asked.
‘None. We seem to have beaten them here.’
‘I’m surprised. They must be aware of the bridge’s importance.’
‘Perhaps,’ the Black Moranth commander mused, ‘they assume it already destroyed.’
Ussu eyed the blunt side of the commander’s helm. Yes. If it were up to them it would have been blown immediately. ‘You still have munitions?’
The helm tilted an assent. ‘We yet have some crates we salvaged from our wrecked vessels.’
‘I suggest you put them to use.’
Borun faced him direct; Ussu could discern no detail behind the narrow vision slits of his helm. ‘The Overlord has not given his permission to mine the bridge.’
Ussu smiled faintly. ‘We can always blame the Malazans. Their saboteurs can’t leave any bridge unblown.’
A sound escaped Borun’s helm as he rocked slightly. It took a moment for Ussu to recognize the gravelly hoarse rasping as laughter. It was the first time he’d ever heard it. ‘Let us go down and examine this fortress, then. Shall we?’