Forge of the High Mage

Book 4: Path to Ascendancy

by Ian C Esslemont

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Dark Fantasy; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

Brought to you by Penguin.

After decades of warfare, Malazan forces are now close to consolidating the Quon Talian mainland. Yet it is at this moment that Emperor Kellanved orders a new campaign far to the north: the invasion of Falar.

Since the main Malazan armies are otherwise engaged in Quon Tali, a collection of orphaned units and broken squads has been brought together under Fist Dujek - himself recovering from the loss of an arm - to fight this new campaign. A somewhat rag-tag army, joined by a similarly motley fleet under the command of the Emperor himself.
There are however those who harbour doubts regarding the stewardship of Kellanved and his cohort Dancer, and as the Malazan force heads north, it encounters an unlooked-for and most unwelcome threat - unspeakable and born of legend, it has woken and will destroy all who stand in its way. Most appalled by this is Tayschrenn, the untested High Mage of the Empire. He is all-too aware of the true nature of this ancient horror - and his own inadequacy in having to confront it. Yet confront it he must, alongside the most unlikely of allies . . .
And then the theocracy of Falar is itself far from defenceless - its priests are in possession of a weapon so terrifying it has not been unleashed for centuries. Named the Jhistal, it was rumoured to be a gift from the sea-god Mael. But two can play at that game, for the Emperor sails towards Falar aboard his flagship Twisted - a vessel that is itself thought to be not entirely of this world . . .
Here, then, in the tracts of the Ice Wastes and among the islands of Falar, the Empire of Malaz faces two seemingly insurmountable tests - each one potentially the origin of its destruction . . .

These are bloody, turbulent and treacherous times for all caught up in the forging of the Malazan Empire.

©2023 Ian C Esslemont (P)2023 Penguin Audio

Release date: January 9, 2024

Publisher: Tor Publishing Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

Prologue

THE ISLAND OF KYNARL RISES FROM THE OLIVE-GREEN waters of Walk Sea near to the centre of a ring of similar such isles. It possesses its old palace where kings and queens of ancient times once ruled, together with the usual temples and holy shrines dedicated to the region’s multiplicity of gods, goddesses, demi-god champions, local noted spirits and honoured ancestors. It is most famous, however, for housing the greatest library in all Falar, and even beyond. A collection rivalled perhaps only by the assemblage of scrolls and elder knowledge rumoured to exist in far Darujhistan.

The fourth, and last, time the priests of Mael arrived at the library to make their demands, its chief curator and archivist was a woman named Leanara of Curaca. Flanked by her staff of sectional librarians, apprentices, copyists and sub-archivists, she met the delegation upon the marble steps to the institution’s colonnaded main entrance.

It was a pleasant day, the breeze light but constant. Good sailing weather, as any Falaran would note. The delegation wore the deep blue robes of their order, servants of the ancient sea god Mael, whom they held pre-eminent among the many sundry sea gods and goddesses – the patron and guardian of all Falar itself.

Leanara was clad in plain linen tunic and trousers, the chain and single gold key of her office about her neck. She bowed to the priest leading the delegation, who answered the bow courteously enough. ‘M’lady,’ this one began, ‘we are come for the scrolls of Old Falar.’

‘Then I wonder why you came at all,’ she answered. ‘Our resolve remains as it always has.’

Behind his thick oiled and curled beard the priest smiled thinly. ‘The gesture must be made. You must be given every chance.’

‘Every chance?’

The priest opened his arms, perhaps to encompass the island. ‘Think of the welfare of all these innocents.’

Leanara pressed a hand to her chest, her mouth hardening. ‘So. Threats again. You think you can win your way through threats? I thought here among these isles we no longer tolerated tyrants.’

‘Yet you tolerate lies – and would have your way by spreading them.’

Now she smiled, amused. ‘Let knowledge spread and let the people weigh its merits, and decide for themselves.’

He shook his head, apparently regretful. ‘Falsehoods. Deception. A deliberate campaign of defaming.’

‘Let the people decide! Let these ancient records be read! If it is false that your cult – this Jhistal – is a distortion and abuse of the true, older worship of Mael, then you have nothing to fear.’

The priest stepped closer to the Chief Librarian and whispered, his voice low and tight, ‘It is one thing to flirt with defiance – it is wholly another to endanger everyone who lives upon this isle with your selfish ambition and wilfulness.’

She stared, shocked, searching his face, then hissed, ‘You would not dare …’

He drew himself straight, smoothing his raiment. ‘Do not try us, Chief Librarian. You have five days to hand over the scrolls.’ Turning, he waved off his delegation and they marched away in a fluttering of sea-blue robes.

Leanara looked to her staff; all eyed her in varying degrees of dread.

‘They really wouldn’t do such a thing … would they?’ stammered the youngest of the sub-archivists.

‘No,’ she assured the lad. She gestured to the columned front of the library. ‘Lose all this knowledge? No. That would earn the condemnation of everyone.’

They, however, did not appear entirely convinced.

Over the next days, she noted how the streets and main markets of the town appeared unusually empty. House fronts stood boarded up, and she overheard talk of people meaning to head off-island for a time – to visit relatives, or to travel.

The priests of the Jhistal, it seemed, had made their intentions public.

But then of course they

would, she told herself. How else to put pressure upon her and the library? In the streets, those citizens she knew, instead of greeting her, now looked away, or through her, as if she no longer existed.

Or was already dead.

She kept to the halls of the library after that. Of her staff, only four now remained, two being the young sub-archivists.

She met the dawn of the fifth day on the steps of the library once more. She was expecting another visit from the delegation: they, having made their point, would no doubt arrive demanding delivery. Yet fear also gnawed upon her; the stories of this … Jhistal. A monster, an immense beast from the depths that crushes cities and swallows entire fleets.

Folktales surely! None living can claim to have seen this thing! And the cult was cynically exploiting these old tales. No wonder they feared exposure so much.

She waited, but still no one appeared. Indeed, a deathly quiet seemed to hang over the town below – from here a collection of red-tiled roofs – as if it were entirely abandoned.

Her two sub-archivists – last of her staff now remaining – came jogging up the road and climbed the stairs to her side. ‘It’s empty,’ one told her, wonder in his voice. ‘There are none there.’

Her brows rose in astonishment. It seemed she hadn’t given due consideration to the powers of fear and ignorance, or of superstition.

‘What’s that?’ the older of the two asked, her shock of bright red hair a mass about her face. She was pointing out past the bright harbour below, to the open seas beyond.

Leanara squinted at the shimmering green waters – the sea appeared different. Higher? Closer? An unusually large wave?

Sudden, mouth-drying dread gripped her then and she almost staggered. Swallowing, she looked to her two young apprentices. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, ‘it seems those with power will do anything to hold on to it after all. I underestimated the depths of their selfishness and greed.’

The sub-archivists exchanged secretive looks. ‘It’s all right, m’lady,’ said the girl, ‘we took precautions. We locked the scrolls in a bronze chest and sealed the lid with lead.’

She rested her hands upon their shoulders. ‘Well done, my young archivists.’

They watched, silent now, for there was no time to run or panic, as the sea continued to rise. It towered, far taller than the roofs of the town below – taller even than the peaked stone roof of the library – and she knew then just what this Jhistal was.

Not some eldritch beast summoned from the depths. Not some rampaging monster.

A simple wave. An immense mountain of water, leagues high, it seemed to her.

The tales of its enormous destructive power now made sense. Pity she would not live to record her observations. She turned to her two apprentices once more. ‘I am so very sorry—’

Their answer was lost as the gargantuan wave swallowed the shore in a mind-numbing concatenation of power. The town disappeared under its skirts while its rearing head was lost above.

The island! was Leanara’s last thought. It will sweep the entire island clean! Then she knew no more.

CHAPTER 1

THROUGH DRIVING SNOW A LONE FIGURE WALKED HUNCHED. A long cloth-wrapped bundle just as tall as he was hung cumbrously across his back. He paused occasionally, to adjust this burden, and to shade his eyes against the howling winds to scan the white wastes surrounding him. During one such pause a great fit of coughing wrenched him and he bent even further to spit into the snow, leaving a red blossom of slush. Yet his gaze was drawn ever onwards to a single mountain crag that dominated the western horizon.

After many days the traveller reached the foothills of this lone peak – fields of naked broken rock amid the snow. Selecting one depression reasonably sheltered from the driving winds, he sat against a boulder and drew his long burden from his back. Unwrapped, it was revealed as some sort of musical instrument, a huge horn perhaps, carved from a single gigantic piece of ivory or bone. This he pressed to his lips to blow a few experimental notes, then set aside and tilted his head, as if listening for the winds to respond. With no such response forthcoming, he shrugged, held the instrument to his chest, and closed his eyes to sleep.

So did it go day after day, week after week, and month after month. The seasons did not change; no spring came to lessen the blasts of snow, for the mountain sat at the centre of a vast wasteland of icefields countless leagues across. Thus no beasts accosted the musician, and no fellow travellers appeared. Birds, however, did pass far overhead and these he watched from the corner of his eye, a humourless smile sometimes stretching his cracked lips across his large, upthrusting canines.

But then he would return to his music. And such eerie inhuman music it was – if it may be named such at all. Deep rumbling basso passages too low for any normal ear, or high trilling keening; all mixed together in constantly altering rhythms, beats and progressions. On and on, looping, rolling, changing in pitch and speed, then even repeating for a time.

And always the musician would pause to listen, as if expecting the winds to answer.

As, eventually, they did.

Something far too low for a human ear washed over the piper, making the small stones lying all about him vibrate and jump. The musician perked up, straightened, and repeated his last passage.

The answer repeated itself as well.

Now the musician clambered to his feet. Taking a huge breath, he blew a deep blast upon the instrument that went on and on, for far longer than any human lungs could possibly encompass. Finishing in a flourish, he raised his head to listen. He waited. And he waited, head cocked. After a time he frowned then critically studied the horn.

An immense concussion rocked him backwards on his feet, sent the snow all driving away, and he hunched, wincing and shaking his head. Then he slipped the instrument onto his back and set out to climb the mountain’s lower slopes.

He was searching for something, and, eventually, he found it. Through the gusting snow he spotted thin wisps of fog, or a plume of mist, high up one ice-encrusted face of the mountain. This he struggled towards, and, after a time, he reached.

A fresh crack of broken rock it was. A crevasse in the sheath of ice. Steam roiled from far within. At its edge the musician paused, raised a thumb to one up-thrusting canine to scratch it thoughtfully, and smiled, nodding to himself.

Then he slipped within, amid the billowing steam, to disappear.

* * *

Towards the end of the pacification of the northern wilds of Nom Purge, the roving Malazan Imperial Seat settled in next to the confluence of two unnamed rivers to remain stationary for an astonishing fifteen days.

A tent city quickly developed as daily more and more Malazan cohorts arrived to guard the Emperor and his – some said bodyguard, some assassin, while others whispered him to be the true cunning and driving force behind the pair’s astonishing rise to power – Dancer.

On the fifteenth day the general of the West, Fist Choss, arrived accompanied by his staff

and personal guard. Throwing the reins of his mount to a groom, he stomped into the imperial command tent to find the Emperor, Kellanved, sitting at a table heaped with a mess of maps, lists and accounts. Dancer sat aside in a camp chair, arms crossed, his legs straight out before him.

The Fist went to a side-table set with cold meats, breads and fruits. He tucked his gauntlets into his belt and nodded a greeting to Kellanved. Selecting a poultry leg, he took a bite. Round the mouthful, he demanded, ‘What’s this about you ordering Korelan relief forces north, here, to you?’

The wrinkled, aged Dal Hon mage exchanged a glance with his cohort, who tucked his hands up under his arms. ‘I’m redeploying them,’ he explained.

Choss coughed on his poultry, wiped the grease from his tangled beard. ‘Really?’ he answered, incredulous. ‘That force is badly needed to relieve those troops. They are hard-pressed, surrounded. All Korel has risen against them.’

Kellanved gave a curt wave. ‘Exactly. A lost cause. We miscalculated there. I’ll not pour more resources down that hole.’

Choss stared, his outrage obvious. ‘But the remaining troops, man! What of them?’

‘Word has been sent. They may withdraw.’

‘If they can,’ the general muttered, darkly. ‘And regardless, we can use those forces here. Dujek is still stamping out insurrections in the east, and I’m still trying to pacify the west coast. Surly is camped in Unta to keep it quiet and all the while Dal Hon threatens to explode. Not a good time to start yet another front.’

‘Dassem remains in Li Heng,’ Dancer put in, speaking softly.

Choss grunted at that, half-placated.

While they had been talking, youths in travel-stained leathers, or hooded in grey robes, silently came and went, whispering with Kellanved, sometimes delivering scrolls. They entered from a rear chamber set off by hangings – a room Choss knew possessed no other exit.

‘And where, may I ask,’ he said, ‘will this new strike force be headed?’

As Kellanved was conferring with a woman whose robes seemed to actually be smoking, Dancer answered: ‘Falar.’

The general’s thick brows rose in disbelief. He threw the half-eaten leg to the table. ‘Falar … Really? Why not fabled Jacuruku while you’re at it, hey?’

‘Falar is no fable,’ Dancer observed, calmly and quietly.

But the Fist was shaking his head, hands on belt. ‘No. This is madness. We’re still not completely consolidated …’

‘We will never be completely consolidated,’ Dancer answered. ‘We must push on. Expand. Expand or die. It’s the nature of the beast.’

‘Is Surly for this?’ Choss asked, pulling a hand down his beard. The two rulers exchanged another silent glance to which the general nodded. ‘Thought not. Then I demand a full council meeting to review this.’

Kellanved flapped his hands in frustration. ‘A full meeting? Do you have any idea how long it would take to assemble everyone?’

Choss gestured without. ‘Your troops are still arriving. We have time.’

The Dal Hon mage raised his chin, half turning away, huffing, ‘I’ll have you know I don’t need anyone’s permission.’

The Fist nodded his agreement. ‘True. However, as we have all seen over the years, everything goes so very much smoother with everyone’s cooperation.’

Kellanved wrinkled up his dark face in distaste. He glanced to Dancer. ‘What say you?’

Dancer echoed Choss’s nod. ‘I agree. We have to have everyone on board.’

The Emperor pressed his hands to his forehead, sighing. ‘Oh, very well! If you must!’ He waved the Fist out – who bowed and exited. Kellanved then snapped his fingers and a leather-clad messenger, a slim woman, emerged from the rear room. ‘Send word to everyone,’ he told her, ‘we assemble here for a full Imperial Council meet.’ The woman bowed and ducked from view. Kellanved continued to massage his forehead.

Dancer was studying the tops of his soft leather shoes. ‘Told you so,’ he murmured.

The Emperor looked to the tent ceiling, sighing anew. ‘Oh, please …’

* * *

A bird winging its way northwards on the updraughts over the Great Fenn Range eventually came to the flat horizon of a continental ice sheet stretching as far as can be seen – even from such a great height.

All was not a wasteland of ice, however. Emerging here and there amid the plain of blowing snow rose islands of heat: fumaroles roiled out great gouts of steam and pits of mud and upwellings of boiling water bubbled. Here lay stone, soil, grasses and low scrub brush. And here could be found game: mice, hares, deer, and the lynx and bears and wolves that preyed upon them.

Impelled onwards, the bird wafted over one such island of life, riding its thermals, to find below huts of hide held down against the constant wind by rings of stones. At the centre of this gathering of huts rose a huge edifice like an upturned ship’s hull, with a broad opening at its highest point. And from this maw came and went a veritable storm of birds of all sizes, shadings and kinds. Here the bird flitted within, selected a perch amid the many rafters and hangers, and promptly set to preening its feathers.

The High Priestess of the Great Assembled Clans of the Jhek lowered her face from the opening high above her seat to regard the crowded and this day uneasy court. She wore a scarf of cloth across her eyes yet seemed to peer everywhere and see every shift of stance, every murmur and every furtive glance.

Around her seat perched a multitude of birds of prey: kestrels, falcons, red hawks, and even two of the Great Eagles of the Fenn Range, each as tall as a boy. Their keen gazes darted all about, as sharp as their hooked razor beaks.

Today the Priestess too was nervous, though she strove to hide it. And she may have been able to disguise her emotions from her court, but she could not

screen them from her pets, so deep and personal was her connection with them. Her unease spread to the birds and they loosed more shrill calls than usual, half rose from their perches, and shook their wings as if eager to hunt.

Reflexively, she reached out to smooth the plumage of the nearest. All here knew her as ‘the Great High Priestess’, or ‘Bird Mother’, but she thought of herself by another name, a name none among her adopted people knew. She also thought of herself as young still, though carrying an ageing frame and iron-grey hair.

And perhaps these differences from her predecessors was why she, inheritor of a near timeless line of priests and priestesses stretching back millennia, had been the first to break with an equally long tradition of warfare and hostility and call a truce with the Jhek’s blood-enemy, the giant Thelomen of Fenn.

Now, after a decade of hard-won peace and mutual disregard, they wished to speak. Why? Whatever for? They seemed to need nothing and be content in their isolation.

No, the problem lay among her shapeshifting, Soletaken clans. And she focused upon a group of tall and ropy Jhek warriors among the crowd of her court. The wolf-warriors – most resentful of her peace, and most eager to return to hunting their traditional enemy. Epitomized by their clan leader – white-haired, lean, and ever with a hungry sharp-toothed smile – Looris.

Wiry wolf-soldier scouts came bursting into the longhouse, half loping, wearing loincloths only despite the cold. Her guard of bear-clan soldiers straightened before her, some growling.

‘They come, Great Mother!’ one scout panted.

She waved them down. ‘Very good.’ She turned to Looris. ‘They come openly, in peace … remember that.’

Looris bowed his long and lean head.

The double-door entrance darkened then as huge figures ducked within. Four of the Thelomen, coming through single-file. Shaggy, in ragged hides, but not dull-witted or slow, no, bright and keen, peering all about and grinning as if in jest.

They bowed to her, rumbling, ‘Bird Priestess.’

She answered the bow. ‘You are well come. To what do we owe this honour?’

One stepped forward, eliciting warning growls from her assembled bear-warriors. This one bowed anew, and even offered a wink; she focused all her sharp eyes upon him to see the dark designs of jagged tattooing thick upon his features, and she thought him strangely familiar.

‘We are come, Bird Priestess,’ he began, ‘because we are troubled.’

‘Troubled?’ She made a show of glancing about her court. ‘Not by anything we have done, I trust.’

‘No. Not you or yours. Though we believe you share our disquiet.’

She had indeed been troubled for some time, yet she did not answer. She had kept her unease from her adopted people because, frankly, she was afraid. Afraid of what her suspicions might mean for them. ‘Go on,’ she invited, her voice a touch fainter.

The giant inclined his head and said, ‘No doubt you have heard the strange sounds coming amid the winds from the north. Smelled strange new scents upon the air. Felt the quakes and rumblings beneath your feet.’

She nodded. ‘Indeed … And what, then, does this portend?’

‘That is the question, is it not? We propose an expedition to discover the truth of this. A shared one.’

Looris stepped forward, his teeth bared. ‘The northern plain is forbidden to all! None may venture there – upon pain of death!’ The assembled wolf-warriors growled their support of this.

‘And it is forbidden for a reason, is it?’ the giant answered, nonplussed.

She raised a hand for calm. ‘So, an expedition to the Broken Plain, and the forbidden mountain within. How is this to be done?’

The Thelomen gestured to his fellows – two other men and one woman. ‘One of my kin here shall go accompanying a force of your scouts. They shall cross the plain, examine the mountain, and discover what there is to discover, if anything.’

She tilted her head in a very bird-like manner. ‘And you?’

He pressed a wide hand to his chest. ‘I shall remain here at your court as guarantor of my people’s true intent.’

She nodded. Hostage. ‘I see. What, ah, guarantor do you wish of us?’

The giant inclined his head to her. ‘Your word, as pledge, is good enough for us.’

She answered his gesture. ‘I am honoured by your trust. My word is given. A contingent of our wolf and bear warriors shall scout and guide one of you.’

The spokesman giant waved to the largest of all the four. ‘This is Bellurdan, mighty among us. He has volunteered to go.’

She nodded to this one. ‘Our thanks. May your travels be safe.’

Bellurdan answered her with a slight bow, crossing his thick arms.

She turned to Looris. ‘Select our swiftest runners and most cunning scouts. I understand no one has entered the Broken Plain in generations.’ She then turned to an older bear-warrior on her right. ‘Athan, select our hardiest warriors.’

Athan, chief of the bear-warriors, growled his assent.

Finally, she faced the Thelomen spokesman once more. ‘And you? If you are to remain among us, I should know how you are called, yes?’

The great shaggy giant grinned down at her, and again seemed almost to wink. ‘Indeed, little one. You should. I am named Koroll.’

The Priestess couldn’t hide her startled surprise. ‘Koroll? Of Li Heng?’

His grin widened. ‘Just so. And I must say, your aura is familiar as well.’

The Priestess raised a hand to her eyes as if to wipe them, but, brushing the cloth of the scarf, she jerked as if stung. She waved her court out. ‘Go now, prepare.’

The assembled warriors filed from the hall, as did the three other Thelomen. Koroll moved to go as well, but the Priestess raised a hand. ‘Stay. You

may stay … we must talk.’

Athan straightened to his considerable full height – near to that of the Thelomen Koroll. ‘Priestess! I object!’

She urged him down – gently. ‘It is all right. They are here among us, outnumbered. None would dare provoke us. They came in trust … which I offer as well.’

Koroll bowed to her. ‘You are wise, little one. I am happy to speak of anything you wish.’

She paused as Athan lumbered from the hall, the last to go. ‘Can you tell me, perhaps, of the south?’ she asked, her voice low.

Koroll nodded. ‘All I know and have heard. Yes.’

She knotted her hands together. ‘You have heard much?’

Koroll nodded profoundly once more. ‘Indeed I have, little one. And, as I said, your aura is familiar from the past. You have my name – would you honour me with yours?’

The Priestess let out a shaking breath then lowered her voice to whisper, ‘… Ullara.’

* * *

The day Tayschrenn arrived at the newly bustling military encampment and tent city that encompassed the first full imperial war council for some time, he immediately turned his back upon it to walk out onto the rolling grassed hills of Purge to face the north, where, faintly, the jagged teeth of the Fenn Range could just be distinguished.

It was strange, he mused, as the cold winds buffeted him, whipped the tall grasses all about, and sent his long hair lashing, but for some time now something had been bothering him about the north. He could barely put his finger upon it – but where earlier he’d have dismissed it, over the years he’d learned to give greater heed to his instincts.

He crossed his arms and tapped fingers to biceps, frowning. It was all so very irksome – just something in the wind, or thinking he’d heard some distant sound, or felt something, even this increase in minor quakes shivering the ground.

A shadow crossed his vision and he glanced over to see the mage Nightchill standing to one side watching him, her head tilted as she examined him, as if she were amused.

He arched a brow. ‘Yes?’

‘You are troubled,’ she observed.

‘Am I?’

She turned her oddly long and narrow features to the north and raised her chin, indicating the distant blue line of mountain peaks.

He frowned anew. ‘I am not certain …’

‘Yet you sense … something …’ She nodded to herself. ‘I have watched you grow over these years, Tayschrenn of Kartool. You are coming into your strength, and you are stronger than you know. That you sense anything is a testament to your potential.’ She now regarded the north, slit-eyed. ‘I, too, am troubled. And now our esteemed leader chooses this time to mount an expedition northwards.’ She shook her head. ‘Is it prescience? I sometimes wonder.’ She gave him another odd sideways glance, almost mocking. ‘They say

that is one prerequisite for … well … His and Dancer’s time in the Dead House may have, how shall I say it, anointed them?’

He felt oddly offended by the insinuation. ‘I received no such special gift or advantage from being within the house, I assure you.’

She nodded her assent. ‘Yes. You entered. As did the devotee of Hood, Dassem. And his potential is obvious to all. So, the four of you. Any others?’

‘None that I know of.’

She raised a hand. ‘Then do not misunderstand me. I do not speak of gifts or aid or any such mundane thing. That would be beneath the Azath. The mere fact that they allowed you entrance means that they acknowledge the possibilities of you. Your potential. Do you understand?’

Indeed he did not, but he saw no reason to argue. This was in fact just the sort of vague and airy talk that he despised in magery – and which sadly the field was so very prone to. ‘You seem to know a great deal about all this,’ he countered, hoping to glean some scrap of further knowledge of the strange woman.

She shrugged, untouched by his challenge. ‘A little.’

She turned to the south and the wind-buffeted tent city amid the rolling hills, and crossed her arms. ‘Now, dare we descend into the vipers’ pit, yes?’

Tayschrenn crooked a small smile and extended an arm, inviting her onwards. ‘After you.’

The main briefing tent was lit by candles and braziers and was therefore quite smoky, rather dim, and uncomfortably warm. Dancer and Kellanved waited at the main table, which supported the official Imperial map of the northern regions – which was to say, a cobbled together collection of half guesswork and half legend.

Surly stood to one side, speaking with those survivors of her old Napan associates that could attend: the short and lean Cartheron and his unlikely brother, the gigantic Urko, together with the wind- and sun-darkened Tocaras, liaison with the Seti tribes, and the bearded, wild-haired general Choss.

Also present was the acknowledged ‘Champion’ of the Empire, Dassem Ultor – who never used the title himself. He was standing by the table, studying the map, his typical stern self. At the sideboard was the newly arrived Eastern Commander, Fist Dujek, squat, half-bald, the stump of his left arm leather-wrapped. He stood alone, perhaps feeling a bit out of place.

Of the mages, there were Tayschrenn and Nightchill – two ‘High Mages’ of the Empire – plus ancient A’Karonys, and the blunt and bald figure of Hairlock, looking ill-tempered, as usual. The rest of the official Imperial Cadre, including Tattersail, was engaged elsewhere.

Kellanved raised his eyes from the map to regard the low canvas roof above. ‘If everyone is quite ready, perhaps we can get this over with.’

‘Not everyone is here,’ Dassem observed. ‘What of Admiral Nok?’

‘He will remain in the south,’ Kellanved answered tersely. ‘There is work for him there.’

Dancer eyed Surly. ‘And your right hand, Amaron?’

‘Too involved in tracking a conspiracy among the Untan nobility.’

Dancer nodded, accepting this. He next eyed Tocaras, or Toc as he was now more commonly known. The man had been living among the tribes for some time and was even wearing Seti hunting leathers. ‘Good to see you,’ Dancer offered.

The wiry Napan dipped his head in acknowledgement.

‘May we begin?’ Kellanved cut in. He waved everyone to the table. ‘It will be a two-prong assault. A land force and a naval force.’ He gestured to the map. ‘The expeditionary force will march north through the Fenn Range by way of Eagle Summit Pass.’

‘That will bring them past the Guard’s Red Fort – this Citadel,’ Choss observed. ‘Will we finally bring that down?’

Dancer shook a negative. ‘No need. We keep a garrison on their doorstep, and word is there’s precious few of them left inside anyway. They are dispersed now – a spent force.’

Kellanved raised a hand. ‘For the moment, anyway. Now, a second, naval flotilla will then travel along the east coast, timed to arrive just before the land element.’

High Fist Cartheron was shaking his balding head. ‘No. Suicide to challenge the Falarans at sea. We’d need a thousand ships – which we don’t have to spare. So,’ and he raised a finger, ‘point two … what naval force?’

Tayschrenn recognized Kellanved’s cagey look as the hunched fellow’s gaze darted about the tent. He tapped his walking stick on the ground – and again Tayschrenn couldn’t quite recall just when the thing had appeared. ‘Ah, yes. The naval force.’ The wrinkled black-skinned mage fiddled with the stick, studying it. ‘We will sweep up all the freebooters, smugglers, and remaining independent captains as we go. I believe we’ll be able to pull together a fleet of some five hundred.’

‘Sea-trash and scoundrels,’ Cartheron snorted. ‘That’s a joke – going up against Falaran galleys!’

‘The flagship won’t be a wreck,’ Kellanved objected.

Cartheron cocked a brow. ‘And that would be …?’

‘The Twisted.’

Everyone objected at once. Urko shouted, ‘Ridiculous – unless I’m on it!’

Surly demanded, rather tightly, ‘What would be the use of that?’

Kellanved and Dancer exchanged a look. ‘It’s these legends of this monster. The Jhistal. I would match the Twisted against it.’

For the first time Tayschrenn could remember, the Napan woman actually appeared shocked. ‘You?’ she said. ‘You will be going?’

Kellanved shrugged in a too-smug attempt at modesty. ‘Well … on and off … as it were.’

Surly eyed Dancer. ‘And you?’

The lean assassin nodded. ‘I will go as well, of course.’

Surly was shaking her head. ‘I can’t permit – that is,’ and she cleared

her throat, coughing into a fist. ‘That is … I can’t approve of this.’

‘Well, we’re going,’ Kellanved huffed.

‘Who is to lead the fleet?’ Urko asked. ‘You?’

Kellanved flinched. ‘Gods, no.’ He looked to Cartheron Crust. ‘I was hoping …’

Cartheron glanced at Surly. ‘Well … you should have someone with a level head along … I can relinquish the title of High Fist.’

‘Temporarily,’ Surly put in, her expression souring.

The Imperial Champion had been quiet this entire time, but now he extended a hand to speak. ‘I too will go. I will accompany the land forces, Emperor.’

Everyone objected further. Once again Surly appeared surprised. ‘Whatever for?’ she demanded, now rather exasperated.

‘This Jhistal. If it is a monster, I should meet it.’

‘I shall go as well,’ Nightchill announced. ‘And Tayschrenn is interested.’ She regarded him sidelong. ‘Is this not so?’

All eyes turned to him and he cleared his throat. ‘Ah – yes. I do wish to take a look at the north.’

‘We can’t all abandon Quon!’ Surly fairly snarled. ‘That’s more than enough for any expeditionary force.’

‘Yet who will command?’ Choss put in. ‘You still haven’t said who will command the land force.’

Kellanved nodded. ‘Ah, yes. Well, Dassem, of course.’

‘No,’ Surly answered, her thin lips compressed.

Dancer and Kellanved exchanged a look, the Emperor’s brow rising. ‘And why ever not?’ Kellanved enquired.

‘A commander must have an eye on the entire engagement. Not fight in the front ranks.’

Dassem pushed back the kinky long black hair hanging loose about his shoulders. ‘Yes. We’ve been through this before. I cannot command if I am fighting.’

Kellanved entreated the tent ceiling. ‘Well … Fist Dujek here then.’

‘His wound is still fresh,’ Surly objected.

‘Well then, he won’t be fighting, will he?’ Kellanved observed, offering Surly a smile of victory.

The commander of the imperial intelligence – and assassination – service took a breath, her lips yet tighter. ‘You are too improvident with our better generals. You have sent Greymane away – now you would take Dujek?’

The one-armed commander pulled his hand down his unshaven chin, glanced between the Emperor and the Mistress of the Imperial Claws. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘if it’s all the same—’

‘I’m not taking or sending him away,’ Kellanved interrupted. ‘He’s going with me. And anyway, the eastern command can safely go to his Adjutant there, Whiskeyjack.’

Surly started as if stung, and she appended, ‘A temporary promotion. Sub-Fist only.’

Kellanved waved a hand to end the meeting. ‘Very well. And you can summon us if

need be.’

Everyone bowed to him and Dancer, and slowly filed out. Kellanved stood rocking on his heels, walking stick at his back, nodding to himself. Once all were gone, and the heavy tent flap had fallen, Dancer murmured, ‘That went far smoother than I’d expected.’

‘Indeed.’

Yet Dancer frowned again. ‘And the Korel expeditionary force?’

The Emperor shook his head. ‘They must withdraw.’ He drew a long breath. ‘We should’ve known better than to meddle in that region. Still, lesson learned, hey, my friend?’

‘And Falar will somehow be different?’

The mage appeared shocked. ‘Why of course! I assure you.’

Dancer crossed his arms to regard his partner steadily. Kellanved hunched beneath the gaze, lowered his eyes to fiddle with his walking stick. After some time, he murmured, ‘Of course …’