Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  ‘Well, we’re up,’ said Goss into the silence following that brutal demonstration. Sailors came out and wiped the decking. The Moranth squads changed out. Suth and his squad pushed their way down to the midships.

  They broke through to the cleared decking and though Suth had faced uncounted duels and matches, he found his mouth dry, his heart racing. He saw Wess tuck a ball of something into his cheek. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Resin of d’bayang poppy, and kaff leaves. Deadens pain. Want some?’

  Suth didn’t bother hiding his distaste. ‘Gods, no. I don’t want to be doped.’

  ‘You’ll want some later. Believe me, we’re in for some pain.’

  Suth just grunted; he couldn’t dispute that. He turned to the rest of the squad. ‘If it looks like we’re going to lose a flank, form square.’

  Lard laughed at that. ‘Yeah. A square of five. Ha!’

  ‘Just do it.’

  ‘Who made you—’

  ‘Do it,’ cut in Yana.

  Lard subsided, looked to tightening his shield strap. Suth adjusted his helmet.

  ‘Ready?’ Ship’s Captain Rafall called down.

  Yana pulled on her tall full helm, clashed her wood sword against her broad infantry shield. ‘Ready!’

  The Blues squad readied their shields.

  Five, Suth saw. One for one. And an idea came to him. ‘Yana, Lard – concentrate on your man on the end. We’ll take up the slack.’

  ‘Two against one, aye,’ Yana answered.

  The trumpet blew.

  There was no time for strategy after that. Suth could only focus on hammering his right, hoping to cover for Dim, who should be covering for Yana. He only hoped Wess wouldn’t go down right away. The hardened tip of a wood shortsword jabbed for him like a viper. The Blue opposite bashed his shield like an anvil, hoping to overbear him. And he nearly succeeded, for this type of fighting was new to Suth. A great shout went up over the pounding of blood in his ears, the gasping breaths. He caught out of the corner of his eye the sight of Wess calmly and methodically edging aside the Blue’s thrusting shortsword, his moves precise and efficient, almost lazy. He’s conserving his strength! Gods! To think he’d doubted the man.

  Dim, on his right, was too slow and awkward with his shield and was absorbing terrible punishment from the blunt-edged thrusts. But he didn’t go down. Too dumb to fall! It probably didn’t even occur to the man as a possibility. A starry hammer-blow to his head was Suth’s last clear impression and chagrin came with the realization that it was he who had lost his focus.

  An uncertain amount of time later his surroundings unblurred and stopped spinning. He was standing; someone had his arm. He shook his head. ‘Okay … I’m okay.’

  Goss’s face appeared close, squinting into his. ‘You took quite a shot.’

  Suth touched a gloved hand to his forehead, hissed at the pain. The fingers came away wet with blood. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Lard and Yana teamed up. Took down two Blues.’

  ‘So we won!’

  ‘Naw. You lost. But you did better than most of the others. Congratulations.’

  Troopers of the 4th came now, clapping him on the back and shoulders. Lard’s coarse laugh sounded above everyone’s voices. The Blues, Suth saw, were calmly readying for the next fight. All unharmed? And then, after this, off to the next ship and the next set of duels? By the Great Witch! It was inhuman.

  He looked over and almost groaned: Wess was steadying him. Wess, of all people! The man let him go while giving him a sceptical eye, gauging his stability. ‘Told you so,’ he said, and spat out the ball of leaves and resin. Then he crossed his arms over his shield and leaned against it, apparently not even winded.

  Oponn’s laughter! It just went to show you never could tell.

  The 2nd went last. They acquitted themselves well, forming square immediately and offering a stubborn defence that held out the longest against the Blues’ steady pressure. Over the next few days word came of what squads were tapped to ship over to the Blues’ vessels. Of the five on the Lasana, three were asked: the 20th, the 2nd, and their own 17th. Of the two passed over, it occurred to Suth that each displayed one possible unforgivable failing: one did not fight as a unit, while the other did not fight to the end. It was a worrying lesson. It suggested to Suth that the Blues were expecting a ferocious confrontation where quarter would not be asked for, or given.

  * * *

  Banging at the front entrance to his house woke Bakune. It was past the mid-night. His housekeeper came to his bedroom door sobbing about ruffians and thieves. He ordered her to the kitchen. He felt quite calm, which was a surprise. He’d known he’d been living on borrowed time since all his files and records had been confiscated.

  Would it be treason or heresy? Or did it really matter? Of course it didn’t.

  Steeling himself, he left his rooms and descended the stairs to the front. He opened the door and blinked, uncertain. No troop of the Watch; no Guardians of the Faith from the Abbey; just one dumpy figure in a cloak dripping with wet snow who pushed him aside and slammed the door.

  The figure threw back his hood to reveal himself as Karien’el.

  Bakune could not keep from arching a brow. ‘I knew you’d be coming for me, but I didn’t think you’d come yourself.’

  Weaving, Karien’el waved the comment aside. ‘Screw that.’ He was drunk, perhaps gloriously so, his nose a bulbous wreck of broken vessels, a web of flushed angry veins across his cheeks. ‘I’ve come to say my goodbyes, my friend. Do you have any wine or something stronger in this wretched house?’

  ‘So, someone is coming to take me, then?’

  Karien looked confused for a moment, then chuckled. ‘Lady, no, my friend. I am the one going away. My just rewards, I suppose. Now, let’s have a toast to the old days.’ He headed for the parlour like an old visitor, when in fact Bakune could not remember ever allowing the man into his home.

  Sighing, Karien’el thumped into a chair, glass of Styggian wine in hand, while Bakune teased the embers of the banked fire back to life. What could the Watch captain want here? Hadn’t he already destroyed his life? Perhaps he’d come to ask him to do the honourable thing.

  ‘You are going away then?’ he asked stiffly.

  ‘Yes. Haven’t you heard? No, I suppose you wouldn’t have.’

  Bakune eyed him, uncertain.

  ‘The Lady and all these foreign gods as well, man!’ Karien growled. He tossed back the wine. ‘You remain a fool. But an honest one – which is why I’m here.’

  Bakune did not answer. Pursing his lips, he prodded the wood with a poker; it seemed the man had come to talk and he had best allow him to unburden himself then send him on his way.

  ‘The Malazans, man. They’re leaving. Marching away tomorrow. All the garrison.’

  Bakune almost dropped the poker. ‘Lady— That is … that’s unbelievable.’

  Karien’el slyly tapped the side of his nose. ‘Part of my job is to know things, Assessor. And I’ve been hearing rumours of the massing of troops in the east, and a summoning of the Mare fleet.’

  ‘The Skolati … ?’

  ‘No, man! Not the useless Skolati.’ He struggled to lever himself from the chair, gave up, and waved the empty glass. Bakune brought the carafe and poured.

  ‘No, not the Skolati. Mare doesn’t push out every hull that will float for the Lady-damned Skolati!’

  Kneeling, Bakune returned to the strengthening fire. The house was freezing; it was an early winter. ‘Then … who?’

  ‘Exactly. So … who?’

  Examining the fire, Bakune shrugged. ‘I assure you, Karien – I have no idea.’

  The man cradled the glass against the round expanse of his gut like a sacred chalice. He hung his head and rolled it slowly from side to side. ‘All the gods real or unreal, cursed or blessed … Must I do everything for you, Assessor? I have wrapped it all up nice and tidy. Can you not make the leap?’

  ‘I am sorry, Karien. It
is late. And really, I do not deal in supposition.’

  Sitting back, the Watch captain rubbed his eyes and sighed his exhaustion, defeated.

  ‘No, I suppose not. I should have known better.’ He took a sip and smacked his lips. ‘Very well. I will do all the work for you – as usual. A second invasion. A new wave of Malazan legions.’

  Bakune forgot the fire. He straightened. ‘But that is incredible …’

  ‘Credible. Quite credible.’

  ‘Mare will—’

  ‘Mare failed the first time, don’t forget.’

  ‘Then the garrison, the Malazan Overlord, is marching on Mare?’

  The captain made a disgusted face. ‘No he’s not marching on Mare! He’s marching to repulse the Malazans should any of them succeed in landing!’

  ‘But he’s Malazan …’

  Karien’el stared at Bakune for a time then downed his remaining wine and pushed himself to his feet. ‘I don’t know why I bother. I think perhaps I pitied you, Assessor. All these years not taking one coin to drop a charge, or decide a case favourably.’ He gestured to the tiny parlour. ‘Look at this place. Here you are in a cramped walk-up in town when other Assessors hold estates and manor houses. I know what your pension will be, Bakune, and believe me – it won’t be enough.’ He headed for the foyer. ‘Yeull named himself Overlord of Fist for life, my friend. All these decades of tribute and taxation to our rulers the Malazans. The sales of slaves and prisoners to the Korelri … all that gold. Has any of it reached the Imperial throne in far-off Quon?’ He shook the melt from his cloak. ‘Not one Styggian penny! The throne wants its due in territory and taxation. They’ll hang Yeull as a usurper. And he knows it.’

  ‘But you say you are leaving …’

  Karien snorted and drew on his cloak, throwing up its broad hood. ‘The Malazans aren’t going alone. They’re taking all the militia with them – and you are looking at the captain of the local militia.’

  ‘The Watch is marching with them?’

  ‘Yes. Not that we have a choice. I’m here now to give the lads the time to desert. If anyone’s left when I get back I’ll be surprised.’

  Bakune stood in something of a daze; he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Who will keep the peace? Enforce the laws?’

  ‘Ah! Now we get to the nub of the matter. The Abbot, my friend. The Guardians of the Faith will be the new authority.’

  ‘The Guardians? But they are nothing more than religious enforcers.’

  ‘Exactly. So be careful, man.’ He rested a hand on the door latch. ‘Which brings us to my final message. I’ve always been a betting man, Bakune, with an eye on the main chance and all my options. I’ve made no pretence about it all these years. Well, I’ve placed a number of bets. And in case I should not come back and the Malazans win through – as I believe they shall – then I want you to know that your files still exist. I was ordered to destroy them but I salted them away instead … just in case.

  ‘So, there you are. Those two lads who’ve been shadowing you? I transferred them to your office. They’re reliable. That’s it. The best I could do. Good luck. And farewell.’

  Karien’el went out, pulling the door shut behind him. Bakune stared at the closed portal. And farewell to you, Karien. It would seem I never really knew you. But then, I suppose we are both hard men to know. Best of luck to you as well.

  * * *

  Winter is more than a bitter time on the Stormwall. The wind blows keen from the north. It cuts more than the breath or exposed flesh. The sight of an entire sea of hate charging down upon you does more than bruise the vision. It tests the spirit. One either breaks beneath the weight of all that unrelenting enmity, or one’s spirit is annealed into something stronger, something almost inhuman.

  So it was with a calm detachment that Hiam opened his eyes to the dark of night and a knock at his door. He sat up, noted the grip of the cold on his arms, his breath misting the room. ‘Enter.’

  His aid, Staff Marshal Shool, opened the door, helm under an arm. ‘Apologies, Lord Protector. Thought you would want to know. Riders sighting coming in via the communication towers.’

  ‘Very good, Shool.’ Hiam went to the hearth, where a pot of tea was kept hot night and day, poured a thimble. ‘Where?’

  ‘The Great Tower, Ruel’s Tears, and Wind Tower.’

  ‘A broad front.’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Contact?’

  ‘Light skirmishing reported.’

  ‘Wall Marshal Quint?’

  ‘Tower Nine, I believe, lord.’

  ‘Very good, Shool. I will move command to the Great Tower.’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  Hiam inclined his head. ‘I will be down shortly.’

  Shool bowed. ‘Very good, lord.’ He withdrew, pulling shut the door.

  For the first time that season Hiam dressed for war. Over thick fleece insulating shirts and vesting he strapped on a boiled leather cuirass faced in iron rings and chased in silver, leather vambraces and leg greaves, and pulled on thick leather gauntlets backed in iron mail. Last was his layered felt cloak. He tucked his helm under an arm and went to the north window. Here iron shutters rimed in ice sealed the opening. He unbolted the shutters and yanked one open, sending a shower of ice clattering to the floor. A great gust of searingly cold air blasted into the chamber, buffeting the fire. The season’s cloud front hung like a dark ceiling, lashed by lightning. To the north, a bluish-green glow lit the horizon: the aura of the risen Stormriders. Below, waves crashed over the lowland rocks of the dead shore to pound the wall’s base like a hammer of demons. Hiam felt the report of each blow rising through his sandalled feet as a murmur of vibration.

  So, a westerly launch. Were they hoping to draw attention from the centre? Too early to tell yet. And broad. A broad opening front. Could they know? No – how could they? Some claimed they spied from the shallows, counted men. He did not think so. Still, tradition dictated a constant showing of strength at each section. Even if it meant marching the same men up and down its length.

  Hiam pulled on his helm, its forward-sweeping cheek guards allowing a tight slit for vision. He swung shut the iron leaf. Behind him the wind had snuffed the fire in its hearth. He struggled to dismiss attributing any significance to this sign. Lady strengthen them now. For now was the time of their greatest testing. He descended the stairs.

  Upon the ramparts Chosen saluted as he passed. He was flanked by Shool and a picked troop of guards. ‘The Champion?’ Shool asked over the buffeting wind.

  ‘Have him moved out.’

  ‘Yes, lord.’ Shool waved for a runner.

  Though the waves crashed, spume lashing, and the wind was a constant punishing roar, the iron nails set for traction in the sandals of the Chosen clashed loudest in the rhythm of their marching. Hiam took great satisfaction from that steady beat. Ahead, Tower Twelve jutted outwards, taking full advantage of a higher rocky headland. There Chosen and mixed guards pointed east, shouting, their words lost. Hiam stopped, leaned outward over crenellations for a look. Far back across the sweep of some four curtain walls – contact.

  Immense breakers pounded, their weight cast back by the curved slope of the wall in broad wind-lashed swaths of spray. Within flowed the opalescent glow of Stormriders, speeding back and forth, seeking weaknesses in the defence. Hiam raised his spear, shaking it. ‘For the Lady!’

  A great answering shout went up from the Chosen – though the regulars seemed far from eager, eyeing one another and shifting the grips on their spears.

  ‘Let us hurry,’ Hiam called to Shool. ‘This may be a full assault.’

  * * *

  The muted booming of waves reached Corlo through the uncounted tons of rock of the wall. He sat, arms crossed over his knees, shackled in a holding cell in line with other impressed and prisoner ‘defenders’ of the wall. So it was no surprise to him when the barred door rattled open and Chosen warders entered, unlocking chains.

  ‘Stand at atte
ntion!’

  It took some effort to straighten, Corlo having been enclosed in the unheated cell for weeks so that his legs were numb and weak.

  Beside him rose a great giant who he thought carried Thelomen or Tarthinoe blood. ‘Looks like we may see some action,’ he murmured to the man.

  ‘No talking in the ranks!’ a Chosen yelled.

  ‘If I should fall,’ the huge fellow rumbled, ‘I am Hagen of the Blackrock, Toblakai.’

  Corlo’s legs felt weaker and he slid down the cold slick wall. ‘You are Toblakai?’

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘But the guards call you “Thel”.’

  Hagen snorted his contempt. ‘Here in these lands – what do they know?’

  ‘You’re not of here?’

  ‘No. I am of the south. A land of mountain forests, cold rushing streams.’

  Corlo gaped at the giant. ‘The south? You mean the Ice Wastes?’

  ‘No – beyond that.’

  A Chosen warder stopped in front of Corlo, kicked his feet. ‘Stand!’ Corlo could only stare uncomprehending at the guard. South? But that was Stratem! Thinking furiously, he clutched a leg. ‘Ah! I cannot. My legs are numb. Frozen.’

  The Chosen Stormguard scowled his disgust. ‘You’re coming whether you can walk or not.’ He gestured to the Toblakai. ‘You. Thel. Carry him.’

  Behind his great mane of tangled hair and beard the giant gave Corlo such a grin.

  Hagen cradled Corlo in his arms like a child. When they stepped out on to the ramparts and the cutting wind sawed at their flesh he hunched, protecting Corlo from the worst.

  ‘You are from Stratem, then?’ Corlo asked, his voice low.

  ‘I know of no Stratem.’

  ‘That is the land south of the Ice Wastes.’

  ‘My friend,’ Hagen rumbled, ‘the land south of the Ice Wastes is Toblakai land.’

  Corlo thought it best not to press the matter. The giant’s shackles clattered and scraped across the ice-rimed stones of the walk. He glanced behind, then frowned down at Corlo. ‘Eight crossbowmen follow us. I usually only warrant four.’