Corlo could not muster any interest in the man’s hints. From what I have done, Hagen of the Toblakai, there is no escaping.
Closer to the wall’s centre sections, the door to a minor tower crashed open to admit two Chosen Stormguard aiding Hiam, the Lord Protector. They sat him next to a roaring fire. One pulled off the man’s helm, poured a glass of steaming tea. The other yanked off ice-layered gauntlets to rub the pale clawed hands.
‘He stood two shifts in the thick of it,’ said Shool, crouched, rubbing the man’s hands.
‘Come and get me next time!’ Wall Marshal Quint snarled.
‘I had his back!’
‘Quit bickering,’ Hiam slurred through numb lips. ‘I am fine.’
Gaze slitted, Quint canted his head to the door. Shool nodded. Aside, Quint rounded on the younger man. ‘You do not allow this to happen,’ he hissed, outraged.
‘I cannot order him-’
‘Then get me! Send word! Anything.’
‘He’s determined-’
‘I know. But standing to the end is my job right now, not his. We can’t afford to lose him. Understood?’
‘Yes.’
The older man’s scarred face softened, and he brushed melting ice and rime from Shool’s cloak. ‘It’s too early for this, yes? Wait for the midseason bonfires and the high-water bore. Let’s not all call for the Lady’s Grace yet, hey?’
A curt nod from Shool, who was hardly able to stand himself.
‘Very good. That’s the extent of it, you know — my sympathetic side. From now on it’s the butt of my spear for you lot and the business end for the Riders, yes?’
The lad managed a half-smile. ‘Aye, Wall Marshal.’
‘Good. We’re done here.’ Quint pulled on his helm then yanked open the door, admitting a blast of frigid wind and a swirl of snow, and stamped off to the ramparts.
Shool heaved the thick door shut behind him. Yes, old spear, there will no doubt be time for the Lady’s Grace. I can see it in the eyes of all the brothers and sisters. We may yet all be calling on the Lady before this season’s end.
Esslemont, Ian Cameron
Stonewielder
CHAPTER V
And so the people came to the land promised and set aside for them by the Blessed Lady from time immemorial. And they found it empty, virgin, and unspoilt, but for the wild peoples who lived like animals upon it and knew not Her name. And so the people brought to these wild folk Her name with flame and with sword. And they were enlightened.
Devaleth stood peering out of one of the large glazed windows of Nok’s cabin on board the Star of Unta. Rain lashed the glazing, obscuring her view of the dim evening light and the vessels rising and falling out amid the great iron-blue rollers. Yet they called to her, the gathered mages of Ruse out there. How the Warren beckoned! She just had to reach out… they would all know then, of course. And they would mass against her and she would not last an instant.
For the last three days and nights Greymane’s expeditionary force had been losing ships to Marese predation. It had become a continuous running engagement of sudden ramming and retreat into the heaving waves.
Greymane’s divisional Fists, Shul and the nobleman Rillish, had withdrawn to their own vessels. Greymane had asked her — his ‘sea-witch’, he called her — to remain with him and the Adjunct, Kyle, on board the flagship. Reports streamed in of these darting Marese attacks, and every dawn the list of lost vessels mounted. ‘Morale?’ Nok had asked one Malazan captain come in from the convoy rear. The woman shook her head. ‘We understand orders not to pursue or engage, Admiral. But… it’s hard to just sit there and wait for them to take us like ripe fruit.’
This evening Nok leaned over his desk, charts flat beneath his palms. His long white hair hung down, obscuring his lined face. ‘Prevailing winds will remain out of the north-west?’ he asked her.
‘Yes.’
‘By now, I presume,’ he continued, straightening, and pushing back his hair, ‘any fleet would have bunched up, ready for slaughter, or been torn apart in countless minor engagements.’
Devaleth glanced to Greymane, a dark shape hunched in a chair, leaning forward, thick forearms on his knees. ‘Yes.’ She remained fascinated by the man, unable to take her eyes from him.
‘Then,’ Nok gestured to an aide, ‘let us not disappoint.’ To the aide: ‘Send my compliments to Admiral Swirl. Have him direct the Blues’ warships to begin forming up.’
‘Yes, Admiral.’ The aide departed.
She’d been leaning against a wall, her arms across her wide chest. She watched the aide go, frowned her disquiet. ‘Admiral… with all due respect… no one has ever defeated we Marese at sea.’
‘That was never our intent,’ Greymane said from his dark corner seat.
The young Adjunct’s face echoed Devaleth’s own confusion — this was news to him as well. Greymane sat forward, the chair creaking ominously beneath his bulk. ‘Nok and I are in accord on this. Only a fool attacks an enemy where he or she is strong. Such a fool deserves to fail.’
‘But the battle order…’
‘The Blues will form a wedge between the Marese and us,’ Nok explained. ‘A skirmish line, or flying chevron, call it what you will. They will engage.’
‘While you…’
‘The transports, with a few Blue vessels, will punch through and head for the coast.’
Devaleth was shaking her head, horrified. ‘The losses…’
‘I am charged to secure this front for the Empire,’ rumbled Greymane. ‘And I intend to do that. One way. Or another.’
But she was not convinced. ‘You don’t understand what you are facing, High Fist. To you Malazans the “Warren of Ruse” is a forgotten mystery. We of Mare have never forgotten it. And it is more than a Warren of power to us. It is our religion. Every Mare vessel is sanctified to Ruse. Every vessel carries a priest-mage sworn to Ruse. The rowers and crew are all initiates. Every board and rope is bound by ward and ritual to the will of the captain. High Fist… our vessels cannot be sunk.’
‘If we are going to sink, Devaleth,’ Greymane said, low and precise, ‘then why are you with us?’
‘High Fist…’ Nok objected.
But she raised a hand, accepting the blunt question. ‘Fair enough. You have been to the region, High Fist. You know why I am returning.’
‘I may. But I want to hear it from you.’
She felt a tight grimace twisting her face. ‘The cult of the Lady. It must be confronted. It is a sickness upon us.’ In the gloom, Greymane was nodding his agreement. ‘Do you know, High Fist,’ Devaleth continued, musing, ‘why your Malazan invasion failed in the first place?’
‘No.’
Almost hoarse with the strength of her emotion, she ground out: ‘It is because our lands have already been conquered. We just don’t realize it.’
Kyle, she saw, shared a look with the High Fist and something eased within her chest. They know. Somehow, they understand.
‘Devaleth…’ Greymane began.
