Tyvar motioned that he wished to witness. The northern warriors eyed one another, unsure. Taking advantage of their indecision, he simply barged up the nearest dirt ramp. Jute pressed in to follow in his considerable wake. Giana pushed forward as well.
Along the way they passed tents and awnings raised over ranks of wounded being treated. The ramp itself was blood-spattered and littered with fallen broken accoutrement of war: shattered spear-hafts, battered shields, a hide shoe, slit and soaked in its owner’s blood.
When Jute made the wall, he was treated to the breathtaking view of a mass of foreign besiegers, though a rather ragged and poorly armed mass. Dotted among these ranks of men — and Jute felt reluctant to name such shabby specimens soldiers — stood fully armed and armoured obvious professionals. And these all bore the same heraldry upon their shields and banded-iron hauberks: the sigil of a tower.
Jute didn’t know the symbol. ‘What soldiers are those?’ he asked Tyvar.
The commander was obviously wondering the same thing himself as he scratched his beard musingly. After a time, he came to a conclusion and nodded to himself. ‘Letherii,’ he murmured. ‘Some noble or trading house of the Lether Empire.’
Lether? Jute was surprised; the Letherii were not seafarers. But then, there was gold to be had, so he really ought not to be shocked that the Letherii were involved. Jute put their numbers in the hundreds. The contingent also appeared to have two commanders, as they were the only individuals mounted. One of these raised a hand, as if for silence, though no one was talking, and announced: ‘Very good, King Ronal. Your silence is answer enough. Remain cornered here in Mantle. You can watch while we take control of all the north.’
The speaker was a younger man in what was obviously an extremely expensive set of banded armour, inlaid and etched with intricate curling designs. His fellow commander sat tall upon his mount, boarding-pole slim, grey-haired, in much-worn leathers.
‘Your realm, King Ronal,’ the younger fellow continued, ‘has dwindled to a stone’s throw across. I understand that the custom here is that when the grip of the old ruler weakens, a new one arises to assert control. Who am I to argue with tradition? Sieges, by the way, are all about time. Time and suffering. We go now to take control of the goldfields — first things first, after all. Once that is done, we will return to relieve you of your suffering. Until then.’ He offered a mocking bow in farewell.
Wrapped in his bear cloak, King Ronal the Bastard cackled a grating laugh and waved him off. ‘Go on! The Icebloods will have your heads!’
The Lether noble was not concerned. ‘I think not. I wonder, if fact, whether there are any of them left.’ He turned his mount and cantered off, followed by his companion officer. King Ronal stormed from the wall. His bodyguard and crowd of court followers nearly tripped and fell over one another to keep from underfoot.
Tyvar pushed towards the man’s path. King Ronal caught sight of him; indeed, it was hard to miss him as he was as broad as a haystack. The king pointed, shouting: ‘What in the name of the ancients do you want?’
Tyvar bowed his head. ‘Once more, King Ronal, I humbly offer my-’
The Bastard threw his spindly arms into the air. ‘Another damned foreigner making demands upon me! To the Hooded Taker’s grip with all of you!’ and he barged onward without another glance. His entourage hurried after him.
Jute and Giana moved close to Tyvar who had remained quite still, his features controlled, but impassively so. Jute could not help but let out a growl. ‘I cannot believe such treatment. Tyvar, sir, you show astounding patience …’
The Blue Shield commander gave a wave as if to brush that aside. ‘If dedication to something infinitely greater than oneself should teach anything, it is humility.’
Jute remained unconvinced. ‘Well … I’m dumbfounded. Especially given the fame of your brother order the Grey Swords, and what they managed against the Pannions. This is plain stupidity!’
Tyvar brusquely shook his head. ‘No. It is pride. We outlanders have taken his kingdom from him. Brushed his people aside. Why should he be favourably inclined towards us?’
‘Pride …’ Giana ground out. Something in her tone made Jute glance at her. She was scowling ferociously. ‘Just another word for stupidity …’ She was staring off towards the wall as she spoke and Jute followed her gaze to find the old Malazan woman, the emissary of that empire, staring back. Her hands were busy adjusting the folds of her black layered blouse and skirts, brushing her face, primping her tightly pulled-back hair. He realized that she and Giana were somehow communicating, and that Giana was not happy. He returned his gaze to the ex-lieutenant to find her glaring straight at him; he hurriedly looked away.
Tyvar let out a breath, loosened his shoulders. ‘It would appear that we must yet wait a while longer.’ He invited them to follow him back to the stairs. ‘Perhaps when they get hungrier they will be more amenable to negotiation.’
* * *
The grit of pulverized rock crackled beneath Silverfox’s sandalled feet as she walked the subterranean chamber. With her toes she edged aside shattered wood from a chair to approach a sprawled corpse. A woman. Sliced through by the clean unmistakable cut of an Imass stone weapon. Nothing sharper, she thought, feeling very distant from it all. Even in this day and age, after all these centuries.
Her minders, Pran and Tolb, hovered nearby, she was certain, though she couldn’t see them at the moment. Prudent, that, given what she felt rising up within her.
She thought she’d managed to contain it all. Tamp it down, choke it off. She’d told herself she could live with all this killing. This murder. Now her numbness scared her. A new worry clawed at her stomach — was she becoming what she despised?
Oblivion would be preferable.
Yet … the dread within her whispered: what if not even oblivion is for you?
She raised her gaze to the stone ceiling where colossal wild magics had gouged and scarred the root rock. She blinked to clear her vision. The stink of rotting flesh assaulted her nostrils and raised acid in her throat.
I deserve this reek. I should live with it always. A reminder-
No. I should not need reminding. That I would ever need reminding is … unforgivable.
Grit crackled again as she made her way to the next corpse: an elderly man thrust through numerous times. Strong in his Jaghut blood, this one — he appeared to have ignored several mortal wounds to continue fighting — yet without the obvious strong markers of his heritage, the pronounced jaws and tusk-like teeth, the height. Without those. So did communities change over time. Look at the diversity of the peoples she knew — all from a common ancestor.
Ancestors she walked with now, who yet appeared far from her blood with their thick robust bones, their squat build and wide jaws.
Flies swarmed the dark holes that once held this one’s eyes. She was grateful that she did not have to meet his gaze, even a fixed death stare. She suspected it would be too much. She felt she was on a knife’s edge of … shattering. The faintest, most innocuous sound might send her tumbling over that edge to where she could never find herself again.
She’d driven her flesh beyond exhaustion, beyond what it should be expected to endure. Yet that was as nothing to the agony her soul had inflicted upon itself. Could a person choke on self-loathing? She felt she was as much a walking corpse as her companions.
Quick light steps across the littered floor swung her about: she caught a glimpse of a slip of a girl, her glaring eyes bright and wild in the gloom, her shirt and long skirting tattered and scorched, before the child launched herself upon her. Instinctively, Silverfox caught her arms and they rocked there, straining, limbs outstretched.
No reason remained in the hatred and rage pouring from the wide eyes. The broken nails of the clawed fingers stretched for her. Protect yourself! the voice of Tattersail shouted within. Destroy her! the Thelomen bellowed.