Orb Sceptre Throne

hacking apart rotting furs. She struck for the joints, hoping to sever ligaments and cripple the creature, not knowing if it was even possible.

But she was tiring. Her reactions were slowing. The weakness of complete exhaustion now stood between what she wanted to do and what she could. She knew she would fall; it was merely a question of when and how.

It came unseen in the form of a closing feint from the creature, a stunning elbow to her temple and a choking grip on her neck. Blinking, Palla found herself staring into two empty eye sockets where only a low glow simmered, like distant campfires.

‘You would have beaten me, Sixth,’ the Imass growled, slamming her into a stone door and releasing her to fall, ‘had I been alive.’

The Imass walked on.

*

Rallick watched from a window high up in the Great Hall while the two guards hammered bolt after bolt into the Legate. Then he watched them throw down their crossbows and run. Amazingly, the creature still stood. It must have fifteen bolts in it yet it remained upright. It leaned now, bracing itself with one arm, against a pillar.

Rallick had raised the coiled fine silk rope ready to toss it down, when out of the shadows came that shuffling servant, the Mouthpiece, and he knelt flat once more. The fellow came edging out the way a mouse might circle a crippled cat.

‘You are done!’ the Mouthpiece yelled, a fist raised. Then he flinched. ‘How can you say that? It is over! It is!’ The fellow was frantic with emotion, weeping uncontrollably. He backed away. ‘Flee? Me? Go? Why? Why would they kill me? I have done nothing! Nothing!’

Then he jumped as if seeing something terrifying. His hands flew to his throat and chest. ‘No!’ he breathed, appalled. ‘No — they wouldn’t. They mustn’t! Dear Soliel succour me … no!’

He fled from the chamber.

After a moment the Legate straightened from the pillar. The mask lowered as he seemed to inspect the many crossbow bolts studding his torso and the thin wisps of smoke arising from each wound. What could only be described as a muted chuckle shook him. The creature gestured to himself as if to say: yet here I am! And he laughed on and on behind the gold mask.

Rallick eased away from the open window ledge and pulled himself up to the roof again. Crouching, he brushed the tips of his fingers over his lips for a time, eyes narrowed, and came to a decision. He stuffed the coil of rope down his shirt and padded off along the roof, heading for the maze of mismatched gables and slopes of the complex.

Down in the Great Hall the main doors opened. The Legate turned to face them then rocked backwards, obviously shocked. An Imass strode within. The Legate backed away, hands raised. The Imass closed with astonishing speed on its oddly shaped legs, clasped hold of the Legate and raised its flint sword.

‘Now I take your head, Jaghut,’ it growled.

Then it stilled, hands falling. What dried muscle and flesh remained on its ravaged visage twisted as it frowned its uncertainty. It lowered its fleshless face to the gold mask as if inspecting the workmanship. A low rumble shook the sinews and bones of its torso. Its jaws shifted in something like disgust. ‘Faugh! Human!’ It threw down the Legate in a snapping of crossbow bolts and stalked from the chamber.

At the doors it met Palla, staggering towards the throne room, but it passed on, ignoring her, and Palla paid it no attention as its broad flint weapon was now tucked into the twisted hair rope it wore as a belt. She took in the crossbow-bolt-studded form of the Legate lying supine on the floor, and fled.

~

After a time the Legate managed to roll on to his side and lever himself upright. All in the snapping of more of the bolts. He staggered for the doors, one heavy step at a time. All the while his crossbow-bolt-lanced chest convulsed in what may have been silent laughter.

The doors to the Great Hall slammed shut. The Legate pulled up short. He turned in a slow weaving and shuffling circle to scan the chamber.

Kruppe stepped out from behind the nearest pillar. He slicked back his oiled hair and adjusted his frilled shirt cuffs and crimson waistcoat. Then he made a great show of waving a handkerchief in a rather too elaborate courtier’s bow. ‘Never did Kruppe imagine he would be called to court!’

The Legate lunged for him.

Kruppe twisted and narrowly avoided one grasping hand. ‘Come, then, Legate. Let us dance again!’ Another catching hand swung, missing a sleeve by a breath. Kruppe dodged aside. ‘Nearly!’ he encouraged. ‘Come. This way.’ He waved the handkerchief. ‘It strikes Kruppe that the problem with masks is one of seeing clearly.’

The Legate snapped out a clawed hand; cloth tore as Kruppe backed away. ‘Oh my!’

*

‘Pay-dirt!’ Spindle announced, sitting back from where he’d cleared a patch of dirt from the bottom of the pit. Fisher crouched down. It was a mud-smeared flat white surface. Together they cleared as wide a space as possible.

‘Hurry, my friends,’ called one of their protectors from above. Spindle glanced up to see the man’s gold and silver teeth bright against his face in a gleaming smile. ‘We are attracting too much attention.’

‘What? You? Attract attention?’

But the man was gone and the rapid clash of swordplay sounded from all sides of the pit. Spindle caught Fisher’s eye and nodded to the bottles.

Together they uncorked two and upended them. Neither was prepared for the reaction that instantly engulfed them.

*

Palla met Jan at the main entrance. She groaned inwardly at his blood-spattered condition. Upon catching sight of her he demanded: ‘What has happened? Where is this Imass?’

Palla waved her battered state aside. ‘It is gone. It killed the Legate.’

‘What? He is dead?’

‘Or near it.’

‘Why would it …’ The Second turned away to the grounds; Palla thought he moved awkwardly, as if stiff. ‘Recall everyone. Retreat to the inner halls.’

Palla bowed. ‘As you order.’ She ran for the open doors.

Jan turned a puzzled glance up the wide entrance foyer, and headed for the Great Hall.

*

Great roiling choking clouds drove the Seguleh from the pit. The smoke gnawed the tissue of the nose and seared the lungs. Coughing and gagging, Madrun, Lazan and Thurule backed away.

‘They have been consumed!’ Madrun announced, hand on chest.

A shadow moved within the clouds and figures emerged: the taller of the two dragging the shorter. The three quickly rushed in to aid the man, who went to his knees hacking and gasping. The smaller of the two, the Malazan, sat up and made for the pit again. Lazan held him back. ‘You’ll die, man. It’s poison!’

‘The rest have to go!’ the Malazan answered. His eyes were weeping uncontrollably and a stream of blood dripped from his nose.

‘There’s nothing you can do.’

‘Oh yes, there is!’ and the fellow raised his arms to inscribe a great circle in the air. If Lazan had had one hair on his head he knew it would be prickling and he edged away. The Malazan ducked back within the dense clouds.

Madrun was thumping the other on the back. Then he raised his head to peer about. ‘Am I mad, or do you hear horses screaming?’

*

In the Great Hall the Legate lurched away from reaching after Kruppe to face the doors. Something like a muffled snarl of panic sounded from his throat. He made unsteadily for the exit. Halfway there he fell to his knees, swayed, then crashed face down, a last few crossbow bolts snapping, the mask clanging against the floor.

Still wary, Kruppe edged slightly forward to peer more closely.

The Legate’s limbs shifted and he fumbled at the polished stone flagging. He began dragging himself onward.