So it was with a calm detachment that Hiam opened his eyes to the dark of night and a knock at his door. He sat up, noted the grip of the cold on his arms, his breath misting the room. ‘Enter.’
His aid, Staff Marshal Shool, opened the door, helm under an arm. ‘Apologies, Lord Protector. Thought you would want to know. Riders sighting coming in via the communication towers.’
‘Very good, Shool.’ Hiam went to the hearth, where a pot of tea was kept hot night and day, poured a thimble. ‘Where?’
‘The Great Tower, Ruel’s Tears, and Wind Tower.’
‘A broad front.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Contact?’
‘Light skirmishing reported.’
‘Wall Marshal Quint?’
‘Tower Nine, I believe, lord.’
‘Very good, Shool. I will move command to the Great Tower.’
‘Yes, lord.’
Hiam inclined his head. ‘I will be down shortly.’
Shool bowed. ‘Very good, lord.’ He withdrew, pulling shut the door.
For the first time that season Hiam dressed for war. Over thick fleece insulating shirts and vesting he strapped on a boiled leather cuirass faced in iron rings and chased in silver, leather vambraces and leg greaves, and pulled on thick leather gauntlets backed in iron mail. Last was his layered felt cloak. He tucked his helm under an arm and went to the north window. Here iron shutters rimed in ice sealed the opening. He unbolted the shutters and yanked one open, sending a shower of ice clattering to the floor. A great gust of searingly cold air blasted into the chamber, buffeting the fire. The season’s cloud front hung like a dark ceiling, lashed by lightning. To the north, a bluish-green glow lit the horizon: the aura of the risen Stormriders. Below, waves crashed over the lowland rocks of the dead shore to pound the wall’s base like a hammer of demons. Hiam felt the report of each blow rising through his sandalled feet as a murmur of vibration.
So, a westerly launch. Were they hoping to draw attention from the centre? Too early to tell yet. And broad. A broad opening front. Could they know? No — how could they? Some claimed they spied from the shallows, counted men. He did not think so. Still, tradition dictated a constant showing of strength at each section. Even if it meant marching the same men up and down its length.
Hiam pulled on his helm, its forward-sweeping cheek guards allowing a tight slit for vision. He swung shut the iron leaf. Behind him the wind had snuffed the fire in its hearth. He struggled to dismiss attributing any significance to this sign. Lady strengthen them now. For now was the time of their greatest testing. He descended the stairs.
Upon the ramparts Chosen saluted as he passed. He was flanked by Shool and a picked troop of guards. ‘The Champion?’ Shool asked over the buffeting wind.
‘Have him moved out.’
‘Yes, lord.’ Shool waved for a runner.
Though the waves crashed, spume lashing, and the wind was a constant punishing roar, the iron nails set for traction in the sandals of the Chosen clashed loudest in the rhythm of their marching. Hiam took great satisfaction from that steady beat. Ahead, Tower Twelve jutted outwards, taking full advantage of a higher rocky headland. There Chosen and mixed guards pointed east, shouting, their words lost. Hiam stopped, leaned outward over crenellations for a look. Far back across the sweep of some four curtain walls — contact.
Immense breakers pounded, their weight cast back by the curved slope of the wall in broad wind-lashed swaths of spray. Within flowed the opalescent glow of Stormriders, speeding back and forth, seeking weaknesses in the defence. Hiam raised his spear, shaking it. ‘For the Lady!’
A great answering shout went up from the Chosen — though the regulars seemed far from eager, eyeing one another and shifting the grips on their spears.
‘Let us hurry,’ Hiam called to Shool. ‘This may be a full assault.’
The muted booming of waves reached Corlo through the uncounted tons of rock of the wall. He sat, arms crossed over his knees, shackled in a holding cell in line with other impressed and prisoner ‘defenders’ of the wall. So it was no surprise to him when the barred door rattled open and Chosen warders entered, unlocking chains.
‘Stand at attention!’
It took some effort to straighten, Corlo having been enclosed in the unheated cell for weeks so that his legs were numb and weak.
Beside him rose a great giant who he thought carried Thelomen or Tarthinoe blood. ‘Looks like we may see some action,’ he murmured to the man.
‘No talking in the ranks!’ a Chosen yelled.
‘If I should fall,’ the huge fellow rumbled, ‘I am Hagen of the Blackrock, Toblakai.’
Corlo’s legs felt weaker and he slid down the cold slick wall. ‘You are Toblakai?’
‘Yes. What of it?’
‘But the guards call you “Thel”.’
Hagen snorted his contempt. ‘Here in these lands — what do they know?’
‘You’re not of here?’
‘No. I am of the south. A land of mountain forests, cold rushing streams.’
Corlo gaped at the giant. ‘The south? You mean the Ice Wastes?’
‘No — beyond that.’
A Chosen warder stopped in front of Corlo, kicked his feet. ‘Stand!’ Corlo could only stare uncomprehending at the guard. South? But that was Stratem! Thinking furiously, he clutched a leg. ‘Ah! I cannot. My legs are numb. Frozen.’
The Chosen Stormguard scowled his disgust. ‘You’re coming whether you can walk or not.’ He gestured to the Toblakai. ‘You. Thel. Carry him.’
Behind his great mane of tangled hair and beard the giant gave Corlo such a grin.
Hagen cradled Corlo in his arms like a child. When they stepped out on to the ramparts and the cutting wind sawed at their flesh he hunched, protecting Corlo from the worst.
‘You are from Stratem, then?’ Corlo asked, his voice low.
‘I know of no Stratem.’
‘That is the land south of the Ice Wastes.’
‘My friend,’ Hagen rumbled, ‘the land south of the Ice Wastes is Toblakai land.’
Corlo thought it best not to press the matter. The giant’s shackles clattered and scraped across the ice-rimed stones of the walk. He glanced behind, then frowned down at Corlo. ‘Eight crossbowmen follow us. I usually only warrant four.’
‘I always have eight.’
‘You are a most dangerous fellow, are you?’
‘I’m a mage.’
The huge fellow grunted again. ‘A mage? Always I hear how these Korelri are so frightened of magi. You do not look so fearsome to me.’
A stave cracked against Hagen’s back. ‘No talking!’
‘Is that rain?’ Hagen asked airily. ‘I thought I felt a drop.’
‘Perhaps it was just the wind.’
‘Yes. The wind as from a baby’s rear.’
‘Far enough!’ the Stormguard shouted. ‘Stop here. You, Thel. Set him down. You, Malazan, stand or sit. It is up to you.’
Hagen set Corlo down. ‘You are a Malazan mage?’
Corlo winced at the phrasing, but nodded just the same.
The iron-bound door to a nearby tower swung open and out shambled a fettered and shackled figure in a torn linen shirt, his hair and beard tangled and matted.
‘Who is this unfortunate?’ Hagen asked.
