'And what did the lost spirits in the barrow tell you?'
'Nothing. There, uh, there weren't any.'
Whiskeyjack's eyes narrowed. 'There weren't any? It was a Rhivi barrow, was it not?''
'One of the few still remaining in the area, aye. It was, uh, cleaned out. Recently.'
'Cleaned out?'
'Someone or something gathered them up, sir. Never known that to happen before. It's the strangest thing. Not a single soul remains within those barrows. I mean, where are they?'
'You're changing the subject, Quick Ben. Nice try.'
The mage scowled. 'I'm doing some investigating. Nothing I can't handle, and it won't interfere with anything else. Besides, we're now officially on the march, right? Not much I can do out in the middle of nowhere, is there? Besides, I have been sidetracked, sir. Those snatched spirits … someone took them, and it's got me curious.'
'When you figure it out you'll let me know, right?'
'Of course, sir.'
Whiskeyjack gritted his teeth and said no more. I've known you too long, Quick Ben. You've stumbled onto something, and it's got you scampering like a stoat with its tail between its legs.
Sacrificing a goat, for Hood's sake!
On the road from Pale, Onearm's Host — almost ten thousand veterans of the Genabackan Campaign — moved to join the ranks of Caladan Brood's vast army. The march had begun, onward to war, against an enemy they had never seen and of whom they knew almost nothing.
CHAPTER SIX
Where they tread, blood follows …
Kulburat's Vision
Horal Thume (b.1134)
Saltoan's sunset gate was reached by a broad, arching causeway over the canal. Both the bridge and the canal itself were in serious need of repair, the mortar crumbling and webbed in wide, grass-tufted cracks where the foundations had settled. One of the Vision Plain's oldest cities, Saltoan had once stood alongside the river Catlin, growing rich on the cross-continent trade, until the river changed its course in the span of a single, rain-drenched spring. Korselan's Canal was built in an effort to re-establish the lucrative link with the river trade, as well as four deep lakes — two within the old river bed itself — for moorage and berths. The effort had seen only marginal success, and the four hundred years since that time had witnessed a slow, inexorable decline.
Gruntle's scowl as he guided his horse onto the causeway deepened upon seeing Saltoan's low, thick walls ahead. Brown stains ran in streaks down their sloped sides. The caravan captain could already smell the raw sewage. There were plenty of figures lining the battlements, but few if any of them actual constabulary or soldiers. The city had sent its vaunted Horse Guard north to join Caladan Brood's forces in the war against the Malazan Empire. What remained of its army wasn't worth the polish on their boots.
He glanced back as his master's carriage clattered onto the causeway. Sitting on the driver's bench, Harllo waved. At his side, Stonny held the traces and Gruntle could see her lips moving to a stream of curses and complaints. Harllo's wave wilted after a moment.
Gruntle returned his attention to Sunset Gate. There were no guards in sight, and little in the way of traffic. The two huge wooden doors hung ajar and looked not to have been closed in a long time. The captain's mood soured even further. He slowed his horse until the carriage drew alongside him.
'We're passing right through, right?' Stonny asked. 'Straight through to Sunrise Gate, right?'
'So I have advised,' Gruntle said.
'What's the point of our long experience if the master won't heed our advice? Answer me that, Gruntle!'
The captain simply shrugged. No doubt Keruli could hear every word, and no doubt Stonny knew that.
They approached the arched entrance. The avenue within quickly narrowed to a tortuous alley buried beneath the gloom of the flanking buildings' upper levels, which projected outward until they almost touched overhead. Gruntle moved ahead of the carriage again. Mangy chickens scattered from their path, but the fat, black rats in the gutters only momentarily paused in their feasting on rotting rubbish to watch the carriage wheels slip past.
'We'll be scraping sides in a moment,' Harllo said.
'If we can manage Twistface Passage, we'll be all right.'
'Aye, but that's a big if, Gruntle. Mind you, there's enough that passes for grease on these walls …'
The alley narrowed ahead to the chokepoint known as Twistface Passage. Countless trader wagons had gouged deep grooves in both walls. Broken spokes and torn fittings littered the cobbles. The neighbourhood had a wreckers' mentality, Gruntle well knew. Any carriage trapped in the Passage was free salvage, and the locals weren't averse to swinging swords if their claims were contested. Gruntle had only spilled blood here once, six, seven years back. A messy night, he recalled. He and his guards had depopulated half a tenement block of cut-throats and thugs in those dark, nightmarish hours before they'd managed to back the wagon out of the passage, remove the wheels, lay rollers and manhandle their way through.
