— it was they who seemed all shirty about it.
The two were fettered again and led off along one of the maze of corridors that ran like a rat’s nest within the Stormwall. It was a long walk, much farther than any previous one, and took up more than the day. Deep into the evening they were tugged up stairs to exit a minor tower — the kind that only bore numbers — in this case, Tower Fourteen. From here they walked into the punishing frigid wind and sleeting snow. They’d been given tattered old cloaks, and Shell retied the rags she had wrapped over her sandalled feet and up over her legs, her head and neck, and finally her hands as well.
The wall climbed before them, high above the shore below, more of a connecting corridor than a working part of the Stormwall. At the crest of the pass it fell steeply in lethal sets of stone stairs to a section that looked to span a narrow inlet. Snow flurried in Shell’s face as she hunched, scrabbling with her numb fingers for holds and grips to help herself down. Tollen descended facing the stairs, almost flat on all fours. Waves pounded below, reverberating like thunder. Riders drove those waves. She recognized the pitch of their force, their enmity.
The descent levelled to a smoother grade. Shell now made out a wide marshalling walkway more ice-choked than any she’d seen so far. It even seemed broached in courses of frozen rivers of ice. Stone blocks cluttered the walk, as did canted broken tripods. Ropes lay unusable beneath layers of ice. They passed a work gang where labourers hammered at a block to free it from its sheath of ice. One armed guard, a hired mercenary judging from his heavy armour, stood watch.
The two Korelri escorted them to a tower so layered in blue-tinted ice running in flows down its sides that it appeared as if the water had been poured. A single narrow doorway gave access to inner chambers where braziers burned, giving light and heat to close, damp rooms. Workers squatted, eating; bedrolls over straw crowded the wet stone floors. Down a narrow circular staircase they came to cells, more holding pens. Their fetters were struck and Shell was pushed into one, Tollen another.
Shell sat on the straw-littered raised stone slab she supposed was the bed and leaned back against the wall, only to flinch away — the stones were glacial and glittered with ice. Across the narrow corridor the opposite cell was occupied by a squat fellow in ring armour over leathers, rags at his feet and hands, his hair unkempt and growing a beard, leaning back asleep. He was much the worse for wear, but Shell would recognize Blues anywhere.
She whistled a call and one eye cracked open; he sat up, staring. Shell signed: A Malazan soldier with me. Any news?
Lazar is here. Fingers?
Don’t know. I met someone who knows Bars.
Who?
Shell spelt: Jemain.
Blues shrugged. Don’t know him.
Said he’d get back to me.
A second shrug. We’ll see.
Shell said aloud: ‘How is it here?’
‘Damned desperate. Too many Riders, not enough guards.’
‘Losing people?’
‘Losing workers.’
‘What’re they doing here?’ she asked.
‘This is Ice Tower,’ a new voice answered: Tollen. ‘Always rough here. Looks like the waves are really cresting now.’
‘Get some rest, damn you!’ someone barked. ‘You’ll need it.’
Shell lay back, hugged herself. Whoever that was, he was right. Best think of what was to come. Don’t let yourself get caught unprepared. And that accent… another damned Malazan?
Come the dawn, the nightshift of guards came trooping down the stairs exhausted, soaked through and shivering. A new shift was pulled together; neither Shell nor Blues was selected. ‘How long you been here?’ she asked.
‘Only a few days.’
‘How many of us prisoners are there here?’
Blues cocked his head, signed: Thinking of breaking out?
Can’t stay for ever.
‘Don’t know,’ Blues answered aloud. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether we should interfere…’
Shell stared at the man. A shiver took her; good gods, that Blues should be uneasy about this…
She jumped as a guard appeared to unlock her cell. He motioned her out.
‘Good luck,’ Blues called. ‘Guard yourself.’
She gave him a nod. Sword out, the man forced her ahead up the circular staircase. At the top four regular guards covered her with cocked crossbows. Weapons cluttered the far wall. ‘Take your pick,’ one invited her, grinning. She eyed the spears and two-handed swords, but decided on a more conservative approach and selected sword and shield.
The guard motioned her to the door. ‘Let’s go.’
The door led to the corridor that exited the tower. Outside, the guard pointed to the right and they crossed the walkway, hunched, heads turned away from the punishing, cutting wind. They came to a work crew struggling with a tripod and block and tackle. The guard motioned Shell to the outer ice-entombed machicolations here. He hammered at the ice to expose an iron ring and shackled her to it. Waves pounded, soaking them with spray that shocked her though she’d felt its teeth before. Another defender squatted off to the right. He appeared to be an old man, wearing nothing but rags, his long hair and beard grey-shot and matted. Who was this fossil?
‘Hey, grandfather,’ she called, cupping her hands at her mouth. ‘What are you doing here?’
The haggard head barely edged over to glance. She caught a glimpse of a gaunt, skeletal face as it turned away. The sight of that seeming death mask made her shudder.
A great bell-like resonance sounded then from the waters of the inlet. That was new. Some sort of extra effort here? Maybe they think this is their chance. She strained to penetrate the blowing snow. Far out, the surface of the waters seemed to bulge, swelling. That’s a lot of water — and it’s headed for a very narrow gap! Shell braced herself. Behind, the workers scrambled for cover. A block the size of a cart hung suspended from the tackle. Raising the wall from the rear, working towards the front.
Glancing back Shell caught the old fellow staring at her. He quickly glanced away. The tall bulge rolled inexorably down upon them. Like a tidal bore. Only generated by the Riders. Shell edged forward as far as she dared, peered over and down. They looked to have only some three fathoms of freeboard here. That surge could overtop them! Feeling a rising panic she glanced about, but no one appeared unduly alarmed. Queen preserve her! This was what they fought here!
The old man straightened, his arms loose at his sides. He appeared completely unarmed.
Shell edged back: the ice-webbed surge was almost upon them. She reached behind with one foot, sought a knob or irregularity to brace, found one.
The surge struck the wall; or rather, it began rising up the side of the wall. Shell’s footing rocked backwards beneath her as if fluid itself. The water came on and on, swelling with Shell’s own dread until it washed up over the top and swept her feet out from under her. Frigid glacial waters flowed over her. The shock almost took the life from her, but she straightened, braced against the flow, gasping in air, throwing her head back, to face a Stormrider standing atop the wall. The entity, wearing armour like shells sewn into a coat, thrust at her. She took the blow on her shield, swung a clumsy counter that the rider sidestepped. It circled, attempting to force her to put her back to the inlet. She dodged to forestall that. She shield-bashed but lacked the raw power to drive the Rider back. It slashed at a leg and she dodged back. It glanced behind her but she refused to look. Then it simply sank down into the receding waters to wash away in the flow. Shell was left standing, panting, her flesh in an agony of cold. She risked a quick glance behind: the tripod and block were gone, swept clean off the wall.
A loud high-pitched report, as of iron tearing, sounded from her right and she looked over: the old guy’s post was empty. Where Hands took her throat from behind, lifted her from her feet.
‘I knew I recognized you!’ someone snarled. ‘Skinner sent you, didn’t he?’
With a despairing, almost bizarre feeling that this wasn’t really happening, Shell recognized the voice. ‘Bars!’ she gasped.
