Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(145)

Enguf bobbed his head again. ‘Oh yes. Quite, ah, acceptable.’

‘Excellent.’ The Blue Shield commander gestured an invitation towards the stairs. ‘Shall we?’

Jute was not one for heights. He kept his gaze raised to the top where the stairs ended at a landing of planks. Each wobble and groan of the wood made his heart hammer, and his hands were slick upon the worn timbers. Tyvar led while Cartheron came last. Jute knew the old Malazan officer was falling behind, but he couldn’t force himself to turn to look back. ‘Are you with us, sir?’ he called.

After a long silence the man’s weak answer came drifting up with the wind: ‘Fucking stairs.’

Eventually, far beyond the length of time Jute thought it should take them, they reached the creaking and trembling landing atop the last switchback. Jute forced his numb wobbling legs to continue on to the exposed granite of the promontory itself.

From this vantage he had an excellent view of the site. The first thing he noted was that he’d been too harsh in his earlier impression: what the main tower lacked in height, it more than made up for in sheer bulk. And although it did possess only three storeys; they were three very tall storeys. It rose a stone’s throw from him at the rear of an enclosed bailey that was a gently falling slope of trampled grass, beaten dirt, and exposed rock. A quite tall wall of what looked like piled shards of slate and other rock encircled it, forming a broad arc touching the cliff on both sides. Beyond the wall rose many plumes of white smoke; the campfires of the besieging outlanders.

The bailey itself was currently jammed with humanity. They lay under awnings and tents, walked about, or just sat. He realized that here was where a good portion of the locals had fled.

Cartheron arrived, puffing and panting. He was rubbing his chest and wincing. ‘I’ve lost my appetite for all this running around,’ he grumbled to Jute.

Next to them, Tyvar drew a great breath of air, nodding to himself. ‘Stone. All stone. A strong defensive position,’ he said approvingly.

‘Let’s go meet the local tin-pot tyrant,’ Cartheron said, and started forward.

The locals stopped them before they reached the tower. They weren’t soldiers, but they obviously knew how to handle their spears and axes. Jute thought them rather negligent in not having a guard atop the stairs. But then he reflected on the nature of those stairs, and decided that maybe they were right in not expecting any horde to come charging up that way.

‘May we have an audience with your ruler?’ Tyvar boomed out. He held his hands far out from his sides. ‘We have come to negotiate.’

‘Your weapons,’ one of the local spearmen commanded. ‘You cannot speak with King Ronal while armed.’

Tyvar was all broad smiles and cheerfulness. ‘Of course.’ He unbuckled his belt and handed over his sword.

Jute looked to his own waist. All he carried was his eating dirk. This he offered, but a spearman just scowled at him as if he were a fool. Cartheron, it appeared, wasn’t armed at all. They were escorted round the fat girth of the tower.

Jute’s wonder at the construction of the edifice grew as he saw that the walls consisted of mammoth roughly dressed fieldstones that were clearly far too huge for any man, or gang of men, to raise. Who could have built using such immense rocks? Their techniques must have been far more sophisticated than this crude result.

The main entrance disturbed him further. An open portal it was, without a door. Visibly narrower towards the top than the base. And its top! Jute stared as he walked beneath: a titanic single rock lintel longer than any man.

Within, it was dark. Very dark. Its builders, it seemed, considered windows a luxury. Fires burning in braziers and torches in wall sconces provided what little light there was. The main floor was mostly all one great chamber. Spearmen and women crowded it. Straw was thick upon the stone-flagged floor. Dogs chased one another among the forest of legs. The guards parted for them while their escort urged them onward. Towards the far end of the chamber, the last file of guards grudgingly parted to reveal a long table of coarse-hewn timbers and a seated row of what Jute assumed to be the local dignitaries. The one at the centre wore a simple crown that was nothing more than a ring of bronze atop his long unkempt brown hair. This was fortunate, as otherwise Jute would have had no clue that this was the king. The man was small, and possessed the manic stare of a terrified predatory animal.

‘What do you foreigners want?’ this fellow demanded. ‘You capture the vessels blocking the harbour and you expect a reward?’ He waved them off. ‘Take them and good riddance to you!’

Tyvar bowed. ‘Greetings, King Ronal. My name is Tyvar Gendarian and these are my travelling companions, captains Cartheron Crust and Jute Hernan. Please be assured, we expect no reward at all. In fact, we are here to offer our swords in your service. I command two hundred mercenaries, while these captains offer their vessels.’

Jute marvelled at Tyvar’s diplomacy and patience. He’d imagined that any man in his position would be unable to swallow such insults, yet the discourtesies merely brushed off the man as if he really did not give a damn about any of it. He was also rather taken aback to hear that he was offering the service of the Silver Dawn.

The king, and Jute wondered whether the man really was, or whether he merely chose to style himself one, snorted his disdain, or tried to, as one of his eyes kept twitching. He turned his head to peer at the men and women seated along the table. These were all quick to emulate his disapproval, with shakes of their heads and pursed lips.