Orb ,Sceptre ,Throne

They who go out into the world see the wonders wrought by the gods,

And return humbled

Wisdom of the Ancients, Kreshen Reel, compiler

Antsy dreamt of the northern campaigns. he was back in Black Dog Woods. He lay flat in the cold mud and snow as auroras and concatenations of ferocious war-magics flickered and danced overhead. Mist clung about the trees like cobwebs. His squad was hunched down around him, toothy grins gleaming through the camouflaging muck. Downslope, along a track of churned mud and ice, a column of Free Cities infantry filed past. He gave a ready hand-sign. He timed his move then leapt up, aimed, and fired his crossbow. A hail of bolts lanced down from either side of the road. The column became a churning mass of screaming men.

The contingent’s leader ignored the missiles. Wearing armour of blackened plates over mail, and a helm beaten to resemble a boar’s head, the man charged the slope. Behind him soldiers scattered, struggling in the rime and iced mud. The commander was headed straight for him. Antsy threw aside his crossbow, knowing it was useless as every bolt rebounded from the man’s virtued armour. The Sogena City officer swept up a blade that resembled a cold blue shard of ice. No choice now but to pull a Hedge. Antsy threw a Moranth munition point-blank at the man’s iron-armoured chest.

His world shattered into white light as a giant’s fist slapped him backwards. He lay staring up at snow drifting over him like ash. He felt nothing, just a vague lightness. Faces crowded into his vision. Unending thunder reverberated in his ears.

‘Sarge? Antsy? You alive, man?’

He swallowed hot blood mixed with bile. Countless gashes stung his face, and his chest was cold with wet blood. He grabbed one trooper, a woman, and tried to raise himself. ‘Did I get the bugger?’

‘Yeah, Sarge. You drove him off good.’

Something was stabbing at his arm. Antsy snatched the hand, twisted it, and got a girl’s surprised squeak. He looked up, blinking, into darkness. A weak bronze light was shining up the stairwell of the Spawn, and in its glow he saw Orchid glaring at him. ‘Sorry.’ He released her hand.

‘Your neck bled in the night. Did you reopen it on the rocks?’

‘Something like that. Where’re Malakai, Corien?’

‘Malakai went further in, exploring. Corien went down to the water. Now take off that armour. I have dressings and a balm.’

He pulled at the laces of his hauberk — more of a jack, really, what some might call a brigandine. Mail over layers of leather toughened by bone and antler banding glued between them. Beneath this he wore a quilted aketon padded with hessian, and under that a linen shirt. When he pulled the shirt over his head Orchid let out a hiss — he presumed at all the scars of old wounds and the crusted blood from his dash against the rocks.

‘Corien told me you were a professional soldier. I’ve never met one before. What’s this?’

She was pointing to the tattoo on his shoulder of an arch in front of a field of flames. He thought about lying, then decided it really didn’t matter any more. ‘That’s my old unit. The Bridgeburners. All gone now.’

‘Disbanded?’

‘Dead.’

‘Oh.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘Is that why it’s glowing and the flames are moving?’

‘Glowing?’ He raised his arm to study it. ‘It ain’t glowing.’

The girl was frowning, but she shrugged. ‘I thought it was.’ She handed him a wet cloth. ‘Clean yourself up. I guess that makes you my enemy,’ she added, musing, watching him wipe away the blood.

‘Oh? You from the north?’

She glanced away, biting at her lip. ‘Sort of. Anyway, you sacked the Free Cities.’

‘Sacked ain’t the word. Most capitulated.’

She took back the cloth, began cleaning the wound on his neck, rather savagely. ‘Who wouldn’t in the face of your Claw assassins? Your awful Moranth munitions?’

He winced. ‘Careful there, girl.’

‘You use them, don’t you? Bridgeburners? Siegeworkers, sappers, saboteurs?’

‘Yeah. That’s right.’

She pushed herself away. ‘It’s not deep, and it’s clean now.’ She dug into her shoulder bag then suddenly looked up. ‘Those are the things in your pannier bags, yes? The things Malakai wants?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You would have used them against Darujhistan, wouldn’t you? Razed the city?’

‘I suppose so. If it came to a siege.’

She threw a leather pouch at him. ‘Put that on the wound. You Malazans are nothing more than an army of invading murderers and bullies. Barbarians.’

Antsy saluted. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

They sat at opposite ends of the tilted chamber in silence the rest of the time. Antsy pulled on his shirts and hauberk then set to oiling his weapons and tools. Orchid wrapped herself in Malakai’s cloak, which was dry; the man must have thrown it off before diving into the water. Digging through the equipment Antsy found a lamp: a simple bowl with a wick. Utterly useless. And without a light he was useless. What a way to pull together a cache for his retirement.

Oh well, he’d probably just have died of boredom anyway.

Corien returned first. He climbed the stairs carrying an armload of flotsam: broken boards, lengths of rope, pieces of broken furniture cut from some dark wood. He dropped the lot in the lowest corner of the chamber then brushed at his brocaded finery.

‘What’s all this?’ Orchid demanded.

He bowed. ‘Well, we are wet and the air in here is chill. That calls for a fire.’

‘That won’t burn. Half of it is wet.’

He looked to Antsy. ‘Would you care to do the honours?’

‘Certainly.’ Antsy crab-walked across the canted floor. He dug in the equipment for a skin of oil, from which he poured one precious stream over the refuse before pulling out his flint and iron.

‘Uh-oh,’ said Orchid, and she clambered to the opposite side.

All it took was a few strikes at the driest length of old rope and the hairs began to sizzle. Blue and yellow flames enveloped the pile. ‘Excellent,’ said Corien. ‘Now, Orchid, you first.’

‘Me first what?’

‘Your clothes. We ought to dry your clothes. You have that big cloak to wrap yourself in.’

She snorted. ‘Tell you what — you two wander up the hallway to take a look while I dry my clothes.’

Corien bowed again. ‘Your wisdom is as unassailable as your beauty.’

She scowled at the courtly praise as if suspecting she was being mocked.

Antsy pushed Corien up the tunnel.

A cloud of sooty black smoke climbed with them. They shared a worried glance in the uncertain light of the fire before a leading edge of the cloud caught an updraught and the smoke was sucked deeper into the complex. Antsy eased out a tensed breath.

Corien led the way. Round the first corner it became almost instantly dark. Even for Antsy, trained and experienced sapper that he was, comfortable in any mine, it was unnervingly close and black. Like feeling your way through ink. He resisted the urge to call for Corien. The lad was just ahead, he could hear him: the scrape of the bronze end-cap of his sheath, his slightly tensed breathing, his gloved hands brushing the stone walls as they advanced like blind fish through the murk.

Beneath Antsy’s fingers the cut and polished stone walls were as smooth as glazed ceramic. He kept stumbling as the passage not only tilted upwards but canted a good twenty degrees. The walls slid by slick and cool under his fingertips. He glanced back and could just make out a slight lightening of the absolute black — a hint of the fire far behind. ‘How far on does this go?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can’t you see? I thought you had that unguent thing.’