Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

‘I always have eight.’

  ‘You are a most dangerous fellow, are you?’

  ‘I’m a mage.’

  The huge fellow grunted again. ‘A mage? Always I hear how these Korelri are so frightened of magi. You do not look so fearsome to me.’

  A stave cracked against Hagen’s back. ‘No talking!’

  ‘Is that rain?’ Hagen asked airily. ‘I thought I felt a drop.’

  ‘Perhaps it was just the wind.’

  ‘Yes. The wind as from a baby’s rear.’

  ‘Far enough!’ the Stormguard shouted. ‘Stop here. You, Thel. Set him down. You, Malazan, stand or sit. It is up to you.’

  Hagen set Corlo down. ‘You are a Malazan mage?’

  Corlo winced at the phrasing, but nodded just the same.

  The iron-bound door to a nearby tower swung open and out shambled a fettered and shackled figure in a torn linen shirt, his hair and beard tangled and matted.

  ‘Who is this unfortunate?’ Hagen asked.

  Corlo took a deep breath, appalled – but not surprised – by Bars’ deterioration. ‘You are looking at the current Champion of the Stormwall, my friend.’

  ‘Great Mother protect us.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Corlo agreed softly.

  The Chosen took a cocked crossbow from a guard and pressed it to Corlo’s head. ‘Talk to your friend, Malazan. Impress upon him the nearness of his death. He shall stand the wall whether he holds iron or not.’

  A clout of the stock urged Corlo forward. He stopped before his friend and commander, Iron Bars. The man did not look up. Did not even seem aware that someone stood before him. A great wave crashed against the nearby curtain wall, sending a wind-driven lash of icy spray that drove everyone to hunch – all but Bars, who did not flinch. Corlo waved a hand before the man’s staring pale eyes. Not a glimmer of recognition. Lunacy? Withdrawn beyond all touch? No, he could not believe it. The vow he swore would not allow it. The Vow of the Crimson Guard: undying, unyielding resistance to the Malazan Empire so long as it should endure. This vow had sustained the original Guard, who swore it for some one hundred years, made them virtually immortal, able to defy even evidently mortal wounds. Such a vow would not allow defeat.

  But he was torn – should he speak of Halfpeck? Would it make a difference? He raised a hand, ‘Bars … I have news …’

  ‘Enough, Malazan!’ The Stormguard shoved Corlo aside. ‘I have seen this pose before. A cold dash of the Storm Sea brings them all round right quick!’

  Crossbowmen urged Bars forward. Chains clunked as he shuffled along.

  Corlo and Hagen were forced to follow at a distance. ‘Your friend, I fear, has the look of a jumper,’ said Hagen.

  ‘I don’t believe he’ll jump.’

  The Toblakai had the sensitivity not to answer.

  The detail marched them about another league east, well past the Wind Tower. Here, they watched while Bars was unshackled. ‘I know why I am here, Hagen,’ Corlo said. ‘Why are you? Why were we chained together?’

  ‘I wondered that too, Malazan. But now I know.’

  ‘You do?’ Covered by crossbowmen, the Chosen led Bars by a single chain down on to the lowest defences, the outermost machicolations of this section of the wall. The way was treacherous; already ice layered the stone in a thick blue-green blanket. Hammering reached Corlo as the Chosen banged at an iron ring encased in ice. ‘So … why?’

  The giant’s jaws worked and he let go a long heavy sigh. ‘Before your friend arrived, Malazan, I was the Champion of the wall.’

  Corlo blinked, staring, then comprehension dawned, and he swallowed hard, kneading his hands. ‘I see.’

  A great wave, a tall comber, came rolling up this curtain section of the wall, breaking at the crenellations. Chosen and regulars stood hunched behind shields, spears ready, watchful and tense. A half-section away what they waited for appeared in the shape of a Stormrider. It reared from the spume, scaled armour glittering hues of mother-of-pearl and opal. A long jagged ice-lance darted at the nearest guard, who took the blow upon his shield. Immediately, nearby guards closed, spears thrusting. The second rank, crossbowmen and archers, loosed upon the figure who turned away, shield raised, to submerge with the receding wave.

  Corlo unclenched his teeth and let out a breath that plumed before him. He’d never get used to the way they just appeared like that. Who were these beings? The Korelri named them demons come to destroy the land. Malazan scholars thought them just another race – if a mindlessly hostile one.

  Hagen flinched then, fists rising, as a Rider breasted the crenellations directly in front of Bars and the Chosen. The Stormguard spun, sword out blindingly fast to parry a lance-thrust, then rolled backwards out of range. Say what you would about these Chosen, Corlo reflected; they were damned good. The Rider thrust at Bars, who merely twisted sideways, the lance scything the air exactly where he had stood. A storm of crossbow bolts sent the Rider curving down behind the wall.

  ‘That one will be back next wave,’ Hagen murmured. ‘Certain.’

  The Chosen drew an extra blade, dropped it at Bars’ feet and backed away. Around Corlo the crossbowmen quickly reloaded, using goatsfoot hooks to pull down the twisted sinew cords.

  At the defences Bars made no move for the blade.

  ‘Take it, fool!’ Hagen bellowed, hands cupped to his mouth.

  ‘Take it, Bars!’ Corlo yelled.

  Hagen tapped Corlo’s shoulder, motioned to the east. ‘Here it comes …’

  A great swelling comber struck like an avalanche as it rolled down the curtain wall. All along its length, amid the spray, defenders thrust at glimmering phosphorescent figures that lunged, rearing.

  ‘Take it!’ Corlo roared with all his strength, into the rushing thunder of the wave. Bars seemed insensate, a bedraggled figure in a soaked linen shirt, long matted hair dripping, rags wrapped at loins and feet.

  As the wave reached opposite, bulging and breaking, two Riders lunged, both thrusting jagged lances. Bars seemed merely to brush one thrust aside while grasping the other lance and pulling it from the hands of the Rider. The crossbowmen and archers fired volleys, driving the two helmed figures back. They regarded Bars steadily as they sank from view. Bars threw away the lance, which burst into fragments upon the flagged ramparts.

  ‘I will admit to being impressed,’ Hagen said.

  The Chosen closed on Corlo. Steam plumed from the Stormguard. He yanked off his helmet and pushed back his sodden hair. ‘Your friend must defend the wall!’ he roared. ‘If he doesn’t – the next volley takes him! Then you’re next!’

  ‘I must get closer.’

  ‘No closer. I’ll not lose two men to this position.’

  ‘Time is running out,’ Hagen warned. ‘The next wave gathers.’

  Corlo cupped his numb hands to his mouth. ‘Blade Commander! Commander! Avowed!’

  At the defences, Bars’ head slowly turned their way. Corlo could make out no expression behind the wind-lashed hair and beard. This could be it – he may give himself up. Corlo’s last resort came to him and his stomach twisted at the thought. No! That would be terrible! Yet he had to save him … Sickened, he held up his hands, forcing insensate fingers straight. ‘Seven! Seven of the Blade!’

  It appeared to Corlo that the eyes widened, the mouth opened as if in disbelief. Corlo thrust his hands higher, fingers extended. Bars raised his own hands, stared at them, then held them up with seven fingers out as well.

  ‘The wave …’ Hagen warned.

  ‘Yes! Seven!’

  The hands dropped and the dishevelled figure stared about as if coming to himself. The wave struck in a shuddering impact, driving a lash of spume that obliterated the sight of Bars at the crenellations. When the sheet fell Bars remained, sodden, dodging the thrusts of two Riders then lashing out an arm to knock one down behind the wall. The other he punched, helm shattering like cracked shell to reveal, briefly, a head much like that of any man, if pale and thin. That Rider sank as well.
/>   Bars picked up the blade still at his feet, turned, and pointed at Corlo.

  Rather than thrilling Corlo the gesture terrified him. I am a dead man. If not the Riders, then my own commander. I am so sorry, Bars.

  The Chosen grunted his relief. ‘Good. I was worried there, for a moment. Threat of death always brings them round. Half-detachment stand down! Warm your bones! You two as well,’ he added, indicating Corlo and Hagen.

  As they shuffled to the nearest tower, Hagen leaned down to Corlo, who dragged along behind. ‘Very impressive. Your man reminds me of the fellow who was Champion before me – though he has not the man’s elegance. He was Malazan too. They called him Traveller. Do you know him?’

  Corlo shook his head, hardly listening, feeling that he would vomit with self-loathing. ‘No. I don’t know anyone named Traveller.’

  ‘No? Too bad. If anyone deserved fame, he did. I would face anyone with sword, axe, or spear, but not that fellow.’ The Toblakai leaned closer, glancing left and right. ‘He escaped, you know,’ he whispered hoarsely, and winked.

  Corlo could not muster any interest in the man’s hints. From what I have done, Hagen of the Toblakai, there is no escaping.

  Closer to the wall’s centre sections, the door to a minor tower crashed open to admit two Chosen Stormguard aiding Hiam, the Lord Protector. They sat him next to a roaring fire. One pulled off the man’s helm, poured a glass of steaming tea. The other yanked off ice-layered gauntlets to rub the pale clawed hands.

  ‘He stood two shifts in the thick of it,’ said Shool, crouched, rubbing the man’s hands.

  ‘Come and get me next time!’ Wall Marshal Quint snarled.

  ‘I had his back!’

  ‘Quit bickering,’ Hiam slurred through numb lips. ‘I am fine.’

  Gaze slitted, Quint canted his head to the door. Shool nodded. Aside, Quint rounded on the younger man. ‘You do not allow this to happen,’ he hissed, outraged.

  ‘I cannot order him—’

  ‘Then get me! Send word! Anything.’

  ‘He’s determined—’

  ‘I know. But standing to the end is my job right now, not his. We can’t afford to lose him. Understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The older man’s scarred face softened, and he brushed melting ice and rime from Shool’s cloak. ‘It’s too early for this, yes? Wait for the midseason bonfires and the high-water bore. Let’s not all call for the Lady’s Grace yet, hey?’

  A curt nod from Shool, who was hardly able to stand himself.

  ‘Very good. That’s the extent of it, you know – my sympathetic side. From now on it’s the butt of my spear for you lot and the business end for the Riders, yes?’

  The lad managed a half-smile. ‘Aye, Wall Marshal.’

  ‘Good. We’re done here.’ Quint pulled on his helm then yanked open the door, admitting a blast of frigid wind and a swirl of snow, and stamped off to the ramparts.

  Shool heaved the thick door shut behind him. Yes, old spear, there will no doubt be time for the Lady’s Grace. I can see it in the eyes of all the brothers and sisters. We may yet all be calling on the Lady before this season’s end.

  CHAPTER V

  And so the people came to the land promised and set aside for them by the Blessed Lady from time immemorial. And they found it empty, virgin, and unspoilt, but for the wild peoples who lived like animals upon it and knew not Her name. And so the people brought to these wild folk Her name with flame and with sword. And they were enlightened.

  Excerpt from The Glorious History of Fist

  Compiled in the Cloister of Banith

  DEVALETH STOOD PEERING OUT OF ONE OF THE LARGE GLAZED windows of Nok’s cabin on board the Star of Unta. Rain lashed the glazing, obscuring her view of the dim evening light and the vessels rising and falling out amid the great iron-blue rollers. Yet they called to her, the gathered mages of Ruse out there. How the Warren beckoned! She just had to reach out … they would all know then, of course. And they would mass against her and she would not last an instant.

  For the last three days and nights Greymane’s expeditionary force had been losing ships to Marese predation. It had become a continuous running engagement of sudden ramming and retreat into the heaving waves.

  Greymane’s divisional Fists, Shul and the nobleman Rillish, had withdrawn to their own vessels. Greymane had asked her – his ‘sea-witch’, he called her – to remain with him and the Adjunct, Kyle, on board the flagship. Reports streamed in of these darting Marese attacks, and every dawn the list of lost vessels mounted. ‘Morale?’ Nok had asked one Malazan captain come in from the convoy rear. The woman shook her head. ‘We understand orders not to pursue or engage, Admiral. But … it’s hard to just sit there and wait for them to take us like ripe fruit.’

  This evening Nok leaned over his desk, charts flat beneath his palms. His long white hair hung down, obscuring his lined face. ‘Prevailing winds will remain out of the north-west?’ he asked her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘By now, I presume,’ he continued, straightening, and pushing back his hair, ‘any fleet would have bunched up, ready for slaughter, or been torn apart in countless minor engagements.’

  Devaleth glanced to Greymane, a dark shape hunched in a chair, leaning forward, thick forearms on his knees. ‘Yes.’ She remained fascinated by the man, unable to take her eyes from him.

  ‘Then,’ Nok gestured to an aide, ‘let us not disappoint.’ To the aide: ‘Send my compliments to Admiral Swirl. Have him direct the Blues’ warships to begin forming up.’

  ‘Yes, Admiral.’ The aide departed.

  She’d been leaning against a wall, her arms across her wide chest. She watched the aide go, frowned her disquiet. ‘Admiral … with all due respect … no one has ever defeated we Marese at sea.’

  ‘That was never our intent,’ Greymane said from his dark corner seat.

  The young Adjunct’s face echoed Devaleth’s own confusion – this was news to him as well. Greymane sat forward, the chair creaking ominously beneath his bulk. ‘Nok and I are in accord on this. Only a fool attacks an enemy where he or she is strong. Such a fool deserves to fail.’

  ‘But the battle order …’

  ‘The Blues will form a wedge between the Marese and us,’ Nok explained. ‘A skirmish line, or flying chevron, call it what you will. They will engage.’

  ‘While you …’

  ‘The transports, with a few Blue vessels, will punch through and head for the coast.’

  Devaleth was shaking her head, horrified. ‘The losses …’

  ‘I am charged to secure this front for the Empire,’ rumbled Greymane. ‘And I intend to do that. One way. Or another.’

  But she was not convinced. ‘You don’t understand what you are facing, High Fist. To you Malazans the “Warren of Ruse” is a forgotten mystery. We of Mare have never forgotten it. And it is more than a Warren of power to us. It is our religion. Every Mare vessel is sanctified to Ruse. Every vessel carries a priest-mage sworn to Ruse. The rowers and crew are all initiates. Every board and rope is bound by ward and ritual to the will of the captain. High Fist … our vessels cannot be sunk.’

  ‘If we are going to sink, Devaleth,’ Greymane said, low and precise, ‘then why are you with us?’

  ‘High Fist …’ Nok objected.

  But she raised a hand, accepting the blunt question. ‘Fair enough. You have been to the region, High Fist. You know why I am returning.’

  ‘I may. But I want to hear it from you.’

  She felt a tight grimace twisting her face. ‘The cult of the Lady. It must be confronted. It is a sickness upon us.’ In the gloom, Greymane was nodding his agreement. ‘Do you know, High Fist,’ Devaleth continued, musing, ‘why your Malazan invasion failed in the first place?’

  ‘No.’

  Almost hoarse with the strength of her emotion, she ground out: ‘It is because our lands have already been conquered. We just don’t realize it.’

  Kyle, she saw, shared a l
ook with the High Fist and something eased within her chest. They know. Somehow, they understand.

  ‘Devaleth …’ Greymane began.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Remain with the Admiral. Give him all the help you can for the coming battle.’

  She flinched, considered explaining how outnumbered she was – thought better of it – bowed curtly. ‘Yes, High Fist.’

  Greymane gestured to Kyle. ‘And you …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The assault. I want you with them in case there’s trouble.’

  ‘Me? What of you?’

  ‘I will be with the last transport.’

  ‘What? The Marese will pick you off!’

  ‘Kyle … consider the men. It won’t look like flight if my banner is with the rearguard.’

  ‘Admiral, talk some sense into him.’

  Carefully pouring himself some wine while the vessel rolled and heaved, Greymane was almost chuckling. ‘The Admiral, Kyle, agrees.’

  The youth sent a wordless appeal to Devaleth but she shook her head; she agreed as well. The least hopeless of all the hopeless options, it seemed to her.

  Kyle stared from man to man, unable to find the words. The two commanders exchanged amused looks. Finally Kyle waved his disgust. ‘Lunatics – both of you!’ He stormed out.

  Bowing, Devaleth followed.

  Alone, the two were quiet for a time; Nok accepted a glass from Greymane. ‘Your Adjunct,’ Nok said, savouring the drink. ‘Are you sure the lad is up to the job?’

  Greymane swallowed, then frowned over his answer, considering how to reply. Eventually he cleared his throat. ‘Nok … I tell you this in all trust. Kyle is from Assail.’

  The old Admiral straightened, his eyes widening. ‘That is impossible.’

  ‘I was with the Crimson Guard when it slunk its way wide south of Assail lands. Kyle was recruited then. He’d come down from the north.’

  ‘There’s so much I would ask … What of the Imass?’

  But the High Fist was shaking his head. ‘No. He’s just a tribesman. He knows nothing of wars or fighting further north. Although …’ and here the High Fist looked away, thoughtful, ‘there were three lads – friends of his – I believe they knew more of what was going on up north. They kept damned mum about it all, understandably.’