Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  ‘Just … some old research.’

  ‘Does it have to do with what we spoke of …’ Hiam stepped closer, lowered his voice despite the moan of surf and wind. ‘The degradation?’

  The Master Engineer was staring off into the middle distance once more, his lined face almost wistful. ‘Yes … That is, no. It bears upon it.’

  Hiam fought down the urge to take hold of the man. What had so shaken him? ‘What is it? Tell me. I order you to tell me.’

  But Stimins just glanced over, studying him, his rheumy eyes swimming, and then his lips twisted up into a grotesque attempt at a reassuring smile. Hiam was shocked to see in that expression the same face he turned to his own subordinates when they asked about undermanned patrols and empty seats at the messes. ‘Do not worry, sir,’ the old man said. ‘You’ve enough to concern yourself with.’

  And he walked away to disappear into the driving snow, leaving Hiam alone to stare into that churning white that seemed to be consuming the wall while he spun on his own small island of stone and all he could think was … the fourteenth tower. Ice Tower. The lowest point in all the leagues of Stormwall.

  CHAPTER IV

  It is said that the Priestess came alone out of the icy fastness of the Southern Emptiness, wearing only rags, her feet bare, leaving behind a path of blood. Yet all whom she met, priest and lay alike, bowed to the fire of her gaze. It has also been said that with the wave of a hand she flattened a Jourilan keep outside Pon-Ruo where the local priest of Our Lady the Saviour denounced her. This last rumour is not true. For she demands nothing, not even recognition; asks not a thing of anyone. All who would follow her must do so of their own volition. And do not be deluded. They do so. In their scores.

  Prison Writings

  Dust Ebbed, apostate

  Dourkan

  ON A ROCKY SHORE JUST EAST OF THE CITY OF EBON THE CAMP fires of the city’s outcasts and destitute flicker like the myriad lights of that great fortress and urban sprawl itself. At one such driftwood fire sit two old men and three old women, the women layered in threadbare shawls and skirts, the men in old finery, much patched and frayed.

  One of the women rocked and sang tunelessly under her breath as she knitted. She cast a sly glance aside from beneath her ropy grey hair. ‘I see you there, Carfin,’ she crooned. ‘No sneaking up on ol’ Nebras!’

  A shadow detached itself from the surrounding gloom, straightened long and tall. ‘I was not sneaking,’ a voice answered, as deep and slow as the surf licking almost to the fire’s edge. ‘I merely walk quietly.’ This fellow emerged from the night as a tall narrow-limbed man in dark shirt and trousers, both a patchwork of mending. He sat far back from the fire.

  ‘We are six,’ the second woman announced, and she jerked back a quick drink from a silver flask that then disappeared into her shawl.

  ‘We are indeed, Sister Gosh …’ one of the men answered, standing. He raised his gaze to the night sky, a hand going to his patchy goatee. Nebras rolled her eyes; the other man hung his head. ‘The stars are in alignment to allow our convening. The Goddess Below waits yet, breath held. Master of Chains searches without success. We, the High and Mighty Synod of Stygg Theurgists, Witches and Warlocks—’

  ‘Such as we are …’ muttered Nebras, not pausing in her knitting.

  ‘—are hereby come to order. Totsin Jurth the Third presiding as senior member. Now, first item of business. Sister Gosh, will you bless our assemblage?’

  The silver flask disappeared once again into the shawl. Sister Gosh sat straighter, rearranged the folds of her layered wraps. She raised one crooked finger and squinted an eye. ‘Let’s see. Yes. May the Lady not track us down or sniff us out. May she not catch us in her grasping hands to stuff us down her greedy throat. May she not suck the marrow from our bones, nor boil our blood in the heat of her eternal hunger until our eyeballs pop and our tongues burst aflame.’ She eyed Totsin. ‘How was that?’

  Totsin’s grey brows had risen quite high. ‘Well … yes. Thank you, Sister Gosh. Quite adequate, if rather visceral.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now, second order of business. Absent members. What news of Sister Prentall?’

  ‘Caught by the witch-hunters and delivered to the Lady,’ announced the third woman.

  ‘Ah.’ Totsin glared at Sister Gosh, who mouthed I didn’t know! ‘Thank you, Sister Esa. Any other news? What of Brother Blackleg?’

  ‘Dead,’ said the other man, now staring deep into the fire, his chin in his hands.

  ‘Ah. Not … the Lady … ?’

  ‘No. His liver.’

  ‘Ah. I’d thought him indestructible.’

  ‘As did he, obviously,’ the man observed laconically.

  Totsin nodded, wiped his hands on his greasy trousers. ‘Very well.

  Sad news. We are diminished greatly. Yet night turns inexorably, and winter comes. We needs must consider the future and what is to be our course of action given the proliferation of signs and portents confronting us …’ Nebras had drawn up her shawls tightly and raised a hand. Totsin blinked at her. ‘Ah, yes … Sister Nebras?’

  ‘As you say, Totsin. The wanderings of the Holds wait for no one – like the tide. And it is strangely high this night. Let us be on our way then.’

  ‘But … we have yet to decide …’

  ‘Very good, Totsin,’ cut in Sister Gosh. ‘I vote we decide. Carfin?’

  The lanky man far from the fire pushed back his hanging black hair, clasped his frayed jerkin. ‘I abstain.’

  ‘Abstain?’ Sister Gosh snapped. ‘You came all this way just to abstain? Why didn’t you just stay in your mouldy cave?’

  ‘It is not a cave – it is a subterranean domicile.’

  ‘Perhaps we could—’ began Totsin.

  ‘And you’re an obtuse ingrate.’

  ‘Hag.’

  ‘Eunuch.’

  ‘If we could just—’

  ‘Actually, eunuch isn’t the technically correct word—’

  ‘I see something!’ the fellow staring into the fire announced.

  Sister Gosh sat up, as did Totsin. Even Carfin drew closer. ‘What is it, Jool?’ Sister Esa whispered.

  The man thrust out a clawed hand. ‘The tiles!’

  Sister Nebras drew a pouch from her quilts, upended it into the man’s hand. He slashed his other hand through the fire, casting burning embers aside to reveal the steaming sands beneath. ‘Fire, Night, Earth, Light, Seas, Life, Death. All are gathered now for this coming season at the Stormwall.’ Jool cast the tiles across the steaming sands. ‘I see conflagration.’

  ‘Well … it is a fire,’ Totsin whispered to Carfin.

  A glare from Sister Nebras silenced him.

  Jool studied the spread of the small wood and ivory tablets. ‘All paths lead to destruction now. There is no escape for anyone. This season will see the grasp of the Lady tightened beyond all release. Or shattered beyond repair.’

  ‘Who opposes?’ Sister Esa hissed.

  The man reached down to gingerly pluck one tile from the sprawl. He held it up to the light of the remnant embers and examined it, puzzled. ‘Where is this one from?’ he asked Sister Nebras.

  She set it in her palm. Everyone crowded close. ‘It’s the oldest of all my dearies,’ Sister Nebras said, breathless. Her brows rose in wonder. ‘And yet my most recently gained.’

  ‘Bloodwood,’ Carfin observed.

  ‘Inscribed with a House,’ said Totsin.

  ‘The House of Death,’ Sister Nebras said, hushed.

  ‘It’s from Jakatakan,’ said Jool, certain.

  Sister Esa let out a small yelp. ‘Jakatakan! Then … it’s them.’

  Sister Gosh straightened, nodding. She took a fortifying nip from her flask and sucked her teeth. All waited, tense, while she gathered herself. ‘Jakatakan. Ancient isle. The mythical island beyond the Riders.’ She addressed the others. ‘But not so mythical, yes?’

  ‘Until they came,’ breathed Sister Esa.

  ‘And what name did they
come bearing?’ Sister Gosh demanded.

  ‘The name of the Island of the House of Death,’ said Totsin.

  ‘Malaz,’ said Carfin, facing outward to the night.

  ‘They are coming,’ affirmed Sister Gosh. ‘All contend now. The Lady. The Stormriders. The Invaders. And whosoever shall prevail this season, this land shall see their grip so tightened, their power so increased, that never shall we escape.’

  Totsin pulled at his beard. ‘Yet what of their domination? Foreigners …’

  ‘We are all foreigners here,’ Sister Nebras sneered.

  Jool drew a surprised breath. ‘Bloodwood …’

  ‘Of course!’ Sister Esa answered. ‘The Elders. The First. They never capitulated.’

  ‘Blood,’ Carfin droned into the night, morose. ‘I like it not.’

  Sister Nebras crouched to gather up the tiles. ‘So the time for flight and hiding is past. We must join our hands on to this casting. Aya!’

  Jool knelt. ‘What is it?’

  The old woman held up a gnarled hand, joints swollen and crooked. ‘Did you not see this one?’ Cradled in her palm was a tile that glimmered mother-of-pearl, carved from shell. On it was inscribed a stylized warrior armed with a long spear.

  Jool examined it yet dared not reach out. ‘The tile of the Riders hidden there, deep within the heart of the fire.’

  ‘And yet even now deathly cold to my touch.’

  The two locked gazes, saying no more. Sister Nebras drew an awed breath. ‘The Riders. The Lady and the Invaders shall bleed each other dry and they will finally prevail.’

  ‘The casting is … suggestive,’ Jool allowed.

  ‘Perhaps we should reconsider—’ Totsin began.

  ‘No,’ Sister Nebras said. ‘I’ve had my fill of her protection.’

  ‘Enough talk,’ Sister Esa agreed, adding, ‘she is always listening.’ With that the six separated, five walking off separately in different directions. The one remaining stared silently off into the night for a time. He kicked through the sands of the reading then drew himself up stiffly. All alone, he adjusted his tattered cuffs and smoothed his goatee. ‘Very good,’ he announced. ‘Very good. We are decided then. By my authority as senior member this assembly is adjourned.’

  * * *

  ‘Biggest damned dogs I have ever seen …’ breathed Jheval, clearing his throat and spitting.

  He and Kiska were hunched down in a narrow crevasse that split a rock face. Though the two Hounds of Shadow had withdrawn, Kiska glimpsed the occasional blur of dun brown and shaggy tan. Ye gods, what monsters these guardians of the Shadow Realm! Even more terrifying now than when she’d seen them in her youth. She still heard the occasional skitter of kicked stones, and sometimes she could feel the growls of the great beasts vibrating the stone against her back. Even when the silence lengthened she was not fooled. She knew they were still out there, waiting. Canny beasts. Sucking in great breaths, she lowered her head between her knees to fight the gathering darkness of utter exhaustion. She held her side. That had been close. So close, she had the impression that the hounds had been playing with them, allowing them the illusion of escape. It was only chance they’d come across this tiny retreat. But they hadn’t really escaped at all, had they? Only delayed the inevitable.

  At least she was with someone who could keep his head. Even while she watched, Jheval took one sip from his water skin, just enough to wet his mouth. He knew how to survive in a desert – even if this really wasn’t a desert. A different kind of one, she supposed. A desert of eternity.

  ‘How long do we have?’ he asked, undoing his headscarf.

  ‘You mean – how long can we last?’

  He used the scarf to rub his short sweat-soaked hair. ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘Good question … This is Shadow. From what I’ve overheard it may be that in principle we have for ever. We will be slow to hunger and thirst. Eventually, I suppose one of us will be driven mad by our position and the other will be forced to kill that one …’

  ‘Or vice versa.’

  She blinked at the man, then nodded her appreciation of the point. ‘Exactly so – by that time, who could say?’

  He leaned his head back, staring up at the vault of the narrowing roof. ‘So, a waiting game.’ He offered her a sideways grin. ‘Luckily, I’m especially good at those.’ He edged himself down into a more comfortable position, giving every impression of a man completely at ease. ‘I have all the time in the world. What of you?’

  Kiska considered the question. Could she definitively argue that time was of the essence? No one could know. Yet prudence would dictate that she not delay. ‘Unfortunately, I cannot say the same.’

  A shrug. ‘Well then. Let us hope conditions change. As for myself – I care not.’

  ‘Truly? You really couldn’t care either way?’

  ‘No.’ He was tossing small stones out on to the cracked dirt before the opening. Kiska’s first reaction was irritation, but now she saw the reasoning behind the seemingly insignificant tic, and smiled. Teasing. The man was actually teasing them. And perhaps, eventually, they would tire of investigating these constant false alarms, and would come to ignore them. Then …

  ‘When I … left… Seven Cities,’ he began, musing, ‘I was with a woman. We had much in common. I thought that I’d finally met a woman I could come to think of as a partner.’ He let out a long breath, a wistful sigh. ‘But … she too couldn’t believe that the future held no fascination for me. It interested her, though. Greatly. She had ambitions. I, apparently, did not. And so we parted ways, and there was much shouting and many broken pots. An ugly domestic scene – the sort I swore never to find myself involved in.’ He looked over, his dark eyes narrow in what she imagined must be a habitual squint. ‘What of you?’

  Kiska stretched her arms up over her head. She leaned her head back to stare at the dark crack above. ‘You asked of the Claw. Well … have you ever joined something because you thought it was a shining perfect example of what could be right in the world? Only, in time, to discover that it was just as corrupt and petty and, frankly, as stupid as everywhere else?’ She glanced over to catch him eyeing her with a strange intensity. He lowered his gaze. ‘So it was with the Claw. I was very young when I joined. I’d grown up sheltered – and a touch spoiled. Like anyone, I suppose.’

  She shifted to find a more comfortable seat on the rock, began kneading her side. ‘I knew nothing. But then, that is the definition of being young, yes? So how can you possibly fault anyone for it? In any case, I began to see and hear around me how promotions went to those from certain families, or to those who knew certain people in the organization. The success and advance of incompetents is a universal mystery, yes? Some would say it is because those above prefer subordinates who do not threaten them. I do not agree. I would say such reasoning only reveals that person’s own preferences. Myself, I would want only the most skilled and accomplished around me – how else might one be more assured of success?’

  ‘Not everyone feels that way,’ Jheval muttered darkly, his gaze inward.

  ‘No,’ Kiska agreed. ‘So I found it to be in the Claw. I came to see that many were only concerned with their own advancement and avoiding responsibility for mistakes, and I saw how this directly threatened the lives of those below and around them. Including myself. And so I walked away rather than be a casualty of someone’s self-seeking.’

  She glanced over and was startled to see the man studying her once more. He became aware of her regard and quickly looked away.

  ‘We haven’t heard anything for a time, have we?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps they’ve given up.’ And he smiled, knowing full well the answer.

  ‘And what of you?’ Kiska asked.

  Jheval kept his gaze lowered, his eyes averted. After a long pause he murmured, ‘Another time, perhaps.’ A rather awkward silence followed that, into which Jheval clapped his hands and rose to his feet, bent over. ‘Right. Let’s have a look then.’

  ‘Don�
�t be a fool.’

  He gave her a mad grin. ‘Have to test the waters occasionally, don’t we?’

  ‘Don’t—’

  But he’d jumped out, rolling, and stood, knees bent. ‘Hey, y’shaggy lapdogs! Where are you?’

  The answer came with stunning swiftness. A great dun mountain of muscled hide and flashing teeth pounced exactly where Jheval stood – or would have been standing had he not launched himself backwards to land scrambling and kicking his way back into their narrow hole. Kiska helped yank him in while a great blow struck shards of rock from the fissure and the enraged snarling was an avalanche. Jheval lay on top of her, gasping. He sent her a grin over his shoulder. ‘Your turn next time,’ he said, and rolled off.

  Kiska just shook her head. The lunatic! He was actually enjoying himself! Still, that grin – so damned boyish.

  * * *

  Every jolt of the narrow launch sent lightning flashes of pain across Rillish’s sight. Wincing, he squeezed his brow while the eighteen-marine crew rowed him and Devaleth across the intervening sea to Admiral Nok’s flagship, the Star of Unta. He’d been drinking far too much Kartoolian spirit these last few days while trying to make sense out of this new posting.

  Greymane, reinstated. Who would have thought it possible? He’d heard that the man’s own troops had tried to kill him; that Korelri assassins had cut his heart out; that he’d fled condemned by Malazan High Command. Now he was back after having served for a time in the ranks of the Empire’s most enduring enemy, the mercenary Crimson Guard. Mallick Rel obviously cared nothing for the man’s record under prior rulers – which dovetailed nicely with Rillish’s own evaluation of the Emperor: there was someone who cared nothing for old accepted ways, who would do whatever it took to win. Perhaps Mallick saw something of that quality in Greymane. Who knew? With the grim overcast dawn of this day he’d thrown the last empty bottle out of the window and come to the final conclusion that the best he could hope for was that the man would fail to remember him.