He winced at that. ‘Speak to him for me, won’t you? I… I couldn’t tell him.’
‘Yes.’
‘And give my apologies to Rillish. He proved himself. He deserved better.’
‘I will.’
‘Good. My thanks.’ He started up the beach, turned back. ‘Tomorrow. You’ll have till tomorrow. Get everyone into the hills — and see Nok through this. It’s up to you.’
‘Yes. I’d say good luck, but I can’t bring myself to. I’m sorry.’
The High Fist nodded. ‘Goodbye. Good luck to you.’ And he bowed his head in a kind of salute.
Devaleth watched till he disappeared into the forest of this unremarkable length of coast. A forest soon to be swept utterly away should the man succeed — which isn’t guaranteed, either.
She summoned Ruse and returned to the Warren.
Her return journey was uneventful. The shallow wash remained, either the remnant of a flood, or a flood from an earth tremor, or some such thing. She could not tell. She avoided the moraine but bumped up against waterlogged corpses sunk in the water. Though their flesh was disintegrating in a cloud around their bones, these bodies appeared unusual: very gracile, the bones curved oddly, the skull narrow, limbs elongated. Very pale, of course, as the bleaching of the water accomplishes that. But still, very pale indeed.
Unnerved, she hurried on. When her sense of the Warren told her she’d found the place of her entrance she reached out once more to step through.
And she entered a maelstrom of noise and smoke and screaming. Malazan dead carpeted the tidal interzone of algae-skirted rocks and pools. Troopers hunched for cover among those rocks. Arrows and crossbow bolts whipped past her and she quickly raised a shield from Ruse to deflect them. Launches and jolly boats choked the shore, abandoned or half sunk.
What was going on? Why were they still here?
Furious, she slogged over to the nearest crowd of soldiers. ‘What are you doing!’ she demanded.
The troopers gaped at her. One, a sergeant by his armband, offered a hasty salute. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, High Mage, ma’am. It’s them shoreward cliffs. Their archers beat back every charge.’
She studied the cliffs: some three fathoms of loamy soil, no handholds, no gaps. ‘Very well. Looks like you can use some help.’
The sergeant nudged the troopers near him. ‘Yes, ma’am. An even exchange, every time.’
‘Prepare yourselves…’
Ruse called to her. It practically sang. Yes, yes, she answered. So be it. She extended her arms to reach out over as wide a front as possible. Come. Rush through. Rise. She tugged the waters behind her, urging them into a swelling, a great roll or front that came surging upward. She sensed the enormous Blue dromonds and men-of-war anchored behind in the bay as tiny toys bouncing far above her consciousness. And she pushed.
Yells of alarm rang out around her but she did not turn.
An immensity now leaning forward behind her, rising inexorably. The weight was impossible, but she allowed it to flow through her, onward, promising release just ahead. A wave took her from behind, climbed her body and kept mounting ever higher. She sensed the launches and jolly boats surging overhead, men and women momentarily suspended, counter-balanced in their weight, kicked forward.
The surge struck the cliff like a tidal bore and was pushed upward, bulging, rising. It washed over the lip, taking with it everyone along this stretch of the landing, to burst outward in a great release of pressure, washing onwards, diminishing.
The surge sank around her, leaving her sodden, exhausted, and she slouched on to a rock. Water rushed round her knees, charging back to the sea, dragging the loamy soil with it, and peering up she saw the cliff eroded into draws that ran now like small waterfalls. A huge launch, some two fathoms in length itself, tottered on the lip of the cliff before sliding backwards, empty.
Troopers of the Fourth and Eighth splashed in from either side, charging, cheering, urging one another on. The charge thickened into a constant stream of soldiers as the entire landing converged on this gap to claw themselves up the slope. When next she raised her head for a look, a guard of troopers had her covered in a barrier of overlapping shields. She rubbed at a sticky wetness over her mouth and her hand came away clotted in blood. Nosebleed — of course.
Some time later the self-appointed honour-guard straightened, saluting, and, after bowing to her, jogged off. Devaleth turned to see the Blue Admiral, Swirl. The Moranth draped a blanket over her shoulders.
‘High Mage,’ he began, wonder in his voice, ‘I am amazed. Had I known — we would have merely stood aside to let you clear the way.’
She shook her head. ‘That wasn’t me. I just tapped something abiding within Ruse. Something so immense the mere possibility of it allowed this.’
The Blue Admiral tilted his helm. ‘I confess I do not understand. Does this bear on the High Fist’s last orders?’
‘What were they?’
‘Fist Shul is to strike inland, take high ground. The fleet is to withdraw from the coast.’
She jumped up, tottering, clutching the blanket. ‘Yes! That is it. We must withdraw to the centre of the Narrows. Shul will take the troops. He, all of us, we have until tomorrow.’
The Admiral bowed. ‘We will complete the unloading as soon as possible, then. Will you not return to the flagship?’
She nodded her relief. Gods, yes. I can feel her pushing against me. Raging. Full of hate and poison. Best to get away as soon as possible.
She took a step and would have collapsed but for the Admiral’s catching at her arm. Dizzy, she thanked him. He waved guards to him, ordered them to return her to the flagship. Despite her distaste for displaying weakness, she allowed them to walk her to the nearest boat.
‘What do you mean he isn’t here?’ Overlord Yeull stared at Ussu as if he were somehow responsible. ‘This is his landing! His moment! Why wouldn’t he be here?’ The man’s gaze darted about the tent, feverish, wild. ‘Where is he? He must be found!’ The eyes, white all round, found Ussu. ‘You! Find him! I command you! Find him and destroy him!’
Ussu drew breath to disagree but one look at the man hunched over the brazier, blankets and a fur cloak draped over his shoulders, hands practically sizzling over the embers, convinced him not to argue. He bowed. ‘I am your servant.’
The man glanced to him as if startled by his presence. ‘What? Yes! Go!’ He waved Ussu out.
Outside the darkened command tent, Ussu adjusted his robes and considered the Overlord’s degenerating condition. He always was unreliable — now, who knows what whim might take him? Things did not look promising.
Still, they were here in Korelri. Should these Malazans even gain a foothold, like a shallow wave they would break against the wall. He crossed to his tent, ducked within. His Roolian soldier attendants were still wiping up the blood from his earlier efforts. One was casting sawdust on the bare ground. The corpse had been wrapped and carried off. How the Lady mocked him for clinging to such crutches. Still, he remained reluctant to throw himself entirely into her hands.
‘Another prisoner, magus?’ an attendant asked.
‘No. That is all for now.’ No need to scry anew. Greymane was not here, that much was certain. Still, where was the man? It troubled him also that he could not find him. What was he up to? If he had sufficient power at his disposal he could locate the fellow — but not power pulled from the Lady, not yet. He wasn’t that desperate yet. But perhaps from another source…
‘I have need of a horse,’ he told an attendant. ‘Have we any?’
‘We brought a few across, sir. For messages.’
‘Very good. Prepare one.’
The man bowed and left. Ussu began packing a set of panniers. Should the Malazans gain a foothold then it would be an infantry battle, hedge-jumping and door-to-door skirmishing. Not his campaign. It seemed the Overlord had given him his mission, and thinking on it, he did believe it important. This man, Greymane, Stonewielder, must be planning something, and he, Ussu, the Lady’s erstwhile High Mage, was the only one with the slightest chance of
