took a great breath, turned the cup in small circles on the table before him. ‘But I’m older now. That attack from the Chosen, and the Malazans finding me now… I’ll never be able to hide. And perhaps I shouldn’t have run in the first place. I had people in Korel. People who depended on me. One fellow, Ruthan he was called, he was ready to fight, but I hope he followed my warning. When I was forced to leave… well, it’s always gnawed at me. Like a betrayal. I’ve sometimes found myself wondering — are they still alive?’
Kyle filled Greymane’s cup and one for himself from a jug of watered wine, and, ducking under hammocks, sat. He studied his friend across the table. The man’s long dirty hair, now the hue of iron in this dim light, hung almost to the table. He was unshaven, his wide jowls grey with bristles. Old. The man looks old, and tired. Was this some sort of misguided effort to fix past failures? But from what he understood the failures were not of his making… Still, it was obvious he felt responsibility.
Responsibilities. Duties. Why was it that those who took on such burdens did so of their own accord? Kyle supposed that, in the end, those were the only kind that truly mattered. Like his sitting here now across from his friend. No one had asked. He need not accompany the man. His hand slid to the sword at his side. Burdens willingly taken on, he decided, come to define the bearer.
‘So you are in charge then?’ Kyle finally said into the relative silence of the creaking hull planks and the waves surging past.
‘Of all land operations, yes. Once we arrive — Hood! Should we arrive.’
‘But not the fleet?’
‘No.’
‘Who is?’
Greymane offered a half-smile, his pale sapphire eyes holding a tempered humour. ‘You will have a chance to meet a living legend, Kyle. The name will mean nothing to you seeing as you’re a damned foreigner, but the naval assault will be commanded by Admiral Nok.’
But Greymane was wrong. Kyle had heard of him.
Esslemont, Ian Cameron
Stonewielder
CHAPTER III
Master of violence!
And violence mastered.
Companion to darkness.
Hail the Warlord!
Hammer fell and fist heavy.
What ancient seams
Does he mine when
Night thoughts turn
To fault, fracture,
And that which must be done?
Courtiers in bright finery once crowded the reception hall of Fortress Paliss, capital of the once sovereign Kingdom of Rool. Tapestries lined its stone walls. Long tables offered up delicacies and wines from distant exotic lands in this, the most powerful state on Fist — rival to Korelri.
Once.
Now, the broad hall stood empty, dark and cold. A single occupant — other than his guards — sat at one bare table, his back to a blazing conflagration roaring within a stone fireplace four paces across.
Ussu entered and crossed the wide unlit hall. Shadows danced over him, flickering from the distant fire. His master, Yeull ’ul Taith, commander of what remained of the Malazan Sixth Army, Overlord of Fist, sat as no more than a silhouette of night, awaiting him.
With Ussu walked Borun, Black Moranth, leader of a contingent of that race shipwrecked on Fist some fifteen years ago and now Yeull’s second. Commander of what the locals cursed as Yeull’s ‘Black Hands’.
Ussu noted how Borun’s armoured boots grated on the stone while his footfalls came in comparative silence. He looked down to his leather sandals almost hidden beneath layered robes. Quiet. Hidden. And so it has always been. Who was to know that he, Ussu, once a mage of little note within the Empire, now pursued power by other, darker, means?
They halted before their commander. Yes, commander, now. Yeull ’ul Taith. Overlord. High Fist, after a fashion. First went Greymane — ousted on account of his outrageous leanings. Then that Imperial-appointed governor — what had his name been? Found dead. Then Fist Udara — but her suicide had appeared genuine. And now Yeull — clinging on like a man gripping a plank in a storm. Terrified of betrayal. Yet hanging on just the same, even more terrified of letting go.
Yeull straightened, a thick bearhide wrap falling from his shoulders. His long black hair hung wet with sweat over a pale scarred face. Dark eyes darted between Ussu and Borun. ‘Yes? What is it?’
‘News, m’lord. Of a kind.’
Yeull leaned in his tall chair, draped an arm over its back. ‘Look at you two.’ He gestured to Ussu: ‘White,’ then to Borun, ‘and black.’
Ussu favoured pale hues such as ivory and cream. And his hair was long and thoroughly grey. While Borun was, of course, black.
‘Is one to suggest caution, the other haste?’
‘M’lord…’
‘Is one to prove trustworthy, the other… well… not so trustworthy?’
‘M’lord!’
The dark eyes sharpened. ‘Overlord.’
Ussu bowed. ‘Yes, Overlord.’
‘What is it?’ He poured himself a glass of wine from an earthenware decanter. ‘Is it cold in here? I feel cold.’
As he stood before the roaring bonfire sweat now prickled Ussu’s underarms, chest and face. ‘No, m- Overlord. I am not cold.’
‘No? You’re not?’ He tossed back the glass in one swallow. ‘I am. To the bones.’
‘He is calling for you.’
Yeull looked up from studying the empty glass. ‘What? Someone calling me? Who?’
‘The prisoner,’ Borun said, his voice a coarse growl.
Yeull set down the glass carefully, straightened in his seat. ‘Ah. Him. What does he want?’
‘He must have news for us, High Fist. Something to offer, in any case.’
‘It is cold — I swear it is cold.’ Yeull turned aside. ‘More wood for the fire.’
Ussu turned a quick look to Borun but could see nothing within the vision slit of his lowered visor. These Moranth and their armour! The man must be sweltering.
‘So?’ Yeull demanded. ‘Why are you here speaking to me then? Speak to him.’
‘He will only talk to you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, High Fist.’
‘Out of the question.’ The High Fist drew the bearhide cloak tighter about his shoulders.
Ussu suppressed his irritation. ‘We have been through this before, High Fist. It must be you. None other.’
The man was looking aside, his gaze distant, almost empty. ‘It will be cold down there. So far below.’
