Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  The Adjunct swung again and the man’s head spun from his neck. At that the spell seemed to shatter and everyone charged, cutting down the priests in a frenzy of loathing. They hacked the corpses long after they’d fallen, then Suth crossed to where the Adjunct was on his haunches, his blunt tribesman features drawn down in a frown. The youth was examining the decapitated corpse. Not one drop of blood could be seen pooled at the severed neck. Suth’s heart lurched in his chest and his gorge rose sour in his mouth. He turned away, staggered outside the temple to suck deep the warm smoke-tinged air. Wess emerged, clapped him on the back. ‘Fucking butcher’s work, hey? Not proper soldiering.’

  ‘You’ve – seen – things like that before?’

  He gave a curt nod. ‘Yeah. There’s nothing you can do. Either it gets you or you get it.’

  Suth drew in a deep breath. Distant fighting still rumbled from the waterfront. ‘What now?’

  ‘What now?’ Wess adjusted his helmet. ‘Now the real fighting starts. We’re headed to one of the gate towers!’ and he laughed, spitting.

  Goss came out, followed by the rest of the squad. ‘Form up. We’re for the east gate. Double-time.’

  The Adjunct emerged as well. The remaining Blue marines took up positions around him. He signed to Goss, who shouted, ‘Move out!’

  *

  It was long past mid-night when Rillish’s two captured Marese galleys, one rammed and listing, limped down the coast. He was certain they must be the last vessels and would arrive too late for the assault. That they still floated at all was enough, of course, but still, he was disappointed.

  A Skolati merchant caravel, fat and slow, crossed ahead of them, bows to the south. The Skolati were not alarmed; for all they knew they were crippled Marese struggling home. Rillish was willing to let them go. It had been a night of alarms and excursions, flight and chase, and they were all exhausted. A figure walked to the stern of the distant cargo vessel, set a foot on the low rail to peer back at them. He was armoured, and the orange pre-dawn light caught at bright silver filigree adorning his cuirass and headgear, and tracing the longsword sheath.

  Rillish’s breath caught in his throat. Burn deliver them! He ran back to the sailing master. ‘Take that ship!’

  The man blinked sleepily. ‘What?’

  ‘Come aside of it! Take it! Now!’

  The sailing master squinted at the vessel. ‘It isn’t even a warship!’

  ‘Do it!’ Rillish gripped his sword. ‘Or I’ll force you.’

  The man scowled behind his beard. ‘Very well!’ He leaned on the tiller arm and the galley began to heave to. Rillish faced the crowded vessel and shouted: ‘Row! Row now with all your strength! One last charge!’

  The troopers groaned, protesting, but the galley picked up speed. The Malazan sailors with them adjusted the sail to cut closer to the weak wind. Rillish watched for a time then turned on the sailing master. ‘We’re barely gaining. Can’t you do more?’

  ‘Your soldiers row like retards. They are not in time. It takes years of training. Still,’ and he shrugged, ‘we are gaining.’

  Rillish shaded his gaze to look behind. The other captured galley was following, but at a great distance. The sailing master saw his gaze. ‘He is cursing you very much right now, I think.’

  ‘Yes. I expect so.’

  He found Captain Peles at the bows. She eyed him, puzzled. ‘A prize of war, Fist?’

  ‘A hunch. We’re going to board. Do not charge ahead. Form a line, shields out. Yes?’

  She saluted. ‘As you order, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’

  Their progress was agonizing. A pale pre-dawn glow gathered to the east. Arrow-fire flew from the cargo ship but it was thin and uninspired. As they drew aside, Rillish saw that he’d been right. Three men in dark armour, silver-detailed, awaited them at mid-deck. Three Korelri Chosen – veterans of the wall. He was glad to have more than a hundred heavy infantry backing him up.

  Eventually, the sailing master was content with their relative positions and the bow of the galley swung over towards the bow of the cargo vessel, cutting it off. ‘Toss grapnels,’ he called. ‘Ship oars!’

  Marines threw the pronged iron grapnels, heaved on the ropes. The vessels swung together. Oars that were slow to be drawn were snapped. Their ends swung, hammering troopers flat.

  ‘Board!’ Rillish yelled, stepping up on to the railing and leaping. The troopers followed, shields at their backs. Rillish fell, rolling, then jumped up to retreat to the infantry now lining the ship’s side. The sailors of the cargo vessel stood empty-handed, surrendering. The three armoured men calmly faced them alone, weapons undrawn. ‘Ready shields,’ Rillish ordered. The troopers complied, forming line. He drew his duelling swords, pointed to one of the Korelri Stormguard. ‘Surrender and you will be spared.’

  ‘Do you know who we are?’ the man asked from behind the narrow slit of his chased blue-black helm.

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘Then you know our answer.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We cannot allow you to boast of our defeat, invader. You will not have our swords or armour to spit upon as spoils of war. It would be an insult to Our Lady. That cannot be permitted. And so—’

  Rillish took a breath to shout, lurched forward. ‘NO!’

  The three turned and vaulted over the side. Rillish threw himself to the rail, staring down. Three dark shapes sinking from sight, blades drawn, glinting in the slanting light, held upright before their helms. Gods! It was inconceivable. Such fervour. Such dedication. Such waste. He found tears starting from his eyes and he turned away.

  Captain Peles was there, peering down, troubled. ‘So those were Korelri, yes?’

  Rillish cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice thick.

  ‘And we are to invade their lands?’

  Rillish almost laughed at the thought. ‘Yes.’

  The woman said nothing; her sceptical look was enough.

  ‘Captives, sir!’ A trooper ran up, saluted. ‘The cargo – human captives. Hundreds jammed in down there.’

  Rillish answered the salute. ‘Thank you, soldier.’

  ‘Slaves?’ Peles said, surprised. ‘They are slavers?’

  ‘Of a kind, Captain. Bodies. Hundreds of bodies destined for the wall. Warm bodies to man it and defend it against the Stormriders.’ Rillish could see that the woman was shaken. ‘We’ll sail the vessel for Aamil. We’ll free them there – if we have the port. Have the master send over what sailors he can spare.’

  Captain Peles saluted. ‘Aye, sir.’

  *

  Just after the sun cleared the horizon Rillish’s captured Skolati vessel bumped up against the stone pier at Aamil in one of the last available berths. Malazan sailors threw down ropes. The mage of Ruse, Devaleth, was there waiting to greet him. After last orders to the ship’s master, he went to the gangway and found Captain Peles there with a detachment of Malazan heavies. ‘No need, Captain.’

  ‘Every need, sir.’ She saluted. ‘You are an Imperial Fist. You should be treated as such.’

  Rillish answered the salute, nodded his exhausted acquiescence. ‘Very well, Captain.’ He climbed the gangway to bow to Devaleth, who gave wry, but pleased, acknowledgement.

  ‘Good to see you made it,’ he said.

  ‘And you.’ She gestured up the pier. ‘This way.’

  She led him to a tall thick gateway. Peles followed with his guard. The detritus of war was piled high here and teams came and went, still pulling bodies from the heaped wreckage and carting them off to be buried or burned. Rillish was surprised that the broad stone archway was still intact. As they walked beneath it, the stones marred by dark stains, Rillish observed, ‘Why didn’t the Blues just blow the gate?’

  Devaleth walked with her hands clasped at her back. She was frowning at the ground, her face drawn, her eyes bruised. ‘Yes, why not? They’ve burned and blown up everything else.’

  Rillish cleared his throat. ‘I’m �
� sorry for your countrymen, Devaleth.’

  She nodded absently as they walked. ‘I never thought I’d see it happen. The blockade broken. Do not get me wrong – I am glad, of course. It is necessary. Still …’ she gave him a wintry smile, ‘a shock to one’s pride.’

  A squad posted at an intersection straightened, saluting. Rillish answered the salute. Devaleth led him round the corner. ‘I understand,’ she said, ‘the Blues fear a counter-assault from Mare. And so they left the defences as intact as possible.’

  ‘Ah. I see. How are the Skolati?’

  ‘Quiet. Just as shocked, perhaps. Staying indoors. No doubt they hope we will just go away.’

  ‘You were here for the attack?’

  ‘No. I was with the Admiral. After we broke through the blockade he sent me on with some last messages for the High Fist.’

  Rillish felt his chest tighten. ‘Ah. Yes. Of course.’ The stink of smoke that hung over the city now made Rillish sick. He’d known, of course, that he would be reporting to the man, but he’d somehow managed to keep it all out of mind.

  Devaleth gestured up the narrow cobbled road to an inn where Malazan troopers stood guard. ‘Here we are.’

  As Rillish entered, two squads lounging in the common room straightened to their feet, saluted. Rillish answered, nodding to them. He motioned for Captain Peles to wait here with his guard, then followed Devaleth up the stairs.

  Two troopers stood guard at a door on the third floor. Devaleth knocked and it was opened by the young Adjunct, Kyle. His thick black hair was a mess, his wide dark face smudged with soot, and he still wore his armoured hauberk – he’d not even cleaned up from the fight yet. He inclined his head in greeting. ‘Fist Rillish,’ he called out, opening the door wide.

  The High Fist was within, facing a man in rich-looking robes, bearded and sweating, flanked by Malazan troopers. Greymane waved the man away. ‘That’s all for now, Patriarch Thurell. I want everything gathered at the main square. Supplies, all mounts, cartage.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Certainly.’ The man bowed jerkily, hands clasped at his front. He seemed terrified. The troopers marched him past Rillish and out of the door.

  Greymane peered down at Rillish. His eyes seemed a brighter blue than usual, glittering from under the wide shelf of his brow. Rillish bowed. ‘Congratulations upon your victory, High Fist.’

  Greymane leaned against a table, crossed his arms. ‘Here at last, Fist Rillish Jal Keth. Now that the fighting is over.’

  Rillish clamped his teeth against the urge to laugh the comment off, cleared his throat. ‘We saw much action at sea.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Swallowing, Rillish squeezed a gloved hand until it ached. He felt Devaleth there at his side, her own stiffness, but he dared not look to her. ‘You have orders, sir?’

  Perhaps it was the room’s poor lighting, but Rillish thought the man was glowering as if trying to think of what to do with him. His wide mouth drew down and he heaved a heavy breath. ‘It just so happens that a number of squads from the 4th have struck on ahead inland – my very intent, as it happens. You are to lead the rest of the 4th after them. Push, Fist. Push on westward. I will follow with Fist Shul and the main body. Adjunct Kyle here will accompany you. As will the High Mage.’

  Rillish jerked an assent. ‘Certainly, High Fist. I understand. You wish to break out before the Skolati can organize a counter-strike.’ He nodded to the Adjunct, who stood watching from the door, his face emotionless, hands at his belt. ‘You are most welcome.’ The young man just nodded, utterly self-contained. So, my minder. Greymane is to take no chances with his subordinates this time.

  ‘You will leave immediately. I understand we can even offer some few mounts.’

  ‘That would be welcome as well.’

  The High Fist grimaced again as if uncomfortable, rubbed his unshaven jaw. Rillish hoped it was because the man was as ill at ease with this interview as he. Then Greymane merely waved to the door. ‘That is all.’

  Rillish drew himself up stiffly, saluted. ‘High Fist.’

  The Adjunct opened the door.

  Reaching the street, Rillish said nothing. Ranks of infantry marched past. Smoke plumed up from still-burning buildings. Broken rubble choked a side street. None of it registered clearly with him; everything spun as his pulse throbbed in his chest and temple. As they walked side by side, Devaleth and he, the Adjunct having remained behind for now, Devaleth said quietly, ‘You show great forbearance, Fist.’

  Rillish glanced behind to Captain Peles and his guard, gave a curt wave as if to cut the memory away. ‘Whether I bellow and bluster, he remains my commanding officer. There is nothing I can do. Therefore, I’d rather cultivate equanimity. For my peace of mind.’

  ‘His paranoia threatens to incite the very actions he suspects.’

  Rillish shot her a hard stare. ‘I’ll thank you not to talk of such things again, High Mage.’

  She inclined her head. ‘As you prefer, Fist.’

  ‘For now let us get the 4th organized. I will hold a staff meeting at noon.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  * * *

  Orzu had fished the inland seas of Korel and its archipelagos all his life. He’d been born on a boat, part of no nation or state, had grown up knowing loyalty to no land or lands. Lately he and his clan had been living in a tiny fishing hamlet so small it appeared on no map. It was a collection of slate-roofed stone huts on the shores of the Plains of Blight. And if one climbed the tallest hill within a day’s walk and squinted hard to the south one could just make out the snowy peaks of the Iceback range. So it was quite a surprise to him when three men and a woman came tramping down the barren shore of black wave-smoothed stones to where he sat mending his nets in the lee of his boat.

  He watched them approach, making no secret of his open examination. Seen hard travel. A shipwreck further up the coast, maybe? Armed and armoured. Soldiers. But whose? Stygg? Jasston? None had the look. The shortest was distinctly foreign-looking with his dark, almost bluish hue.

  If they were raiders they were the sorriest-arsed brigands Orzu had ever seen. Thieves did come through occasionally: outlaws from Jasston, thugs from Stygg. He and his fellow villagers had no particular weapons or armour to oppose them; their main defence was in appearing to have nothing. And so he just eyed the four while they walked up and the foremost, the bluish-hued fellow, rested a hand on the side of his boat drawn up on the strand and addressed him in mangled Katakan: ‘You sell boat?’

  Orzu took the pipe from his mouth. ‘No, I no sell boat.’

  ‘We pay much gold, many coin.’

  ‘Fish don’t want coin.’

  The four talked then, their language foreign, but with a very familiar lilt to it. Orzu thought he could almost catch the odd word or two. Closer now, he also noticed how the tip of one’s nose was black, the edges of another’s ears. The skin of all four was cracked and bloodied, flaking. Frostbite. Damned severe, too. They couldn’t have come down from the Ice Barrens, could they? But that was a desolate emptiness.

  ‘We pay you to take us. To Korelri. Yes?’

  Orzu thought about that. ‘How much coin?’

  The spokesman gestured to the tallest of them, a great thick warrior in a mail shirt that hung to his ankles, a wide shield on his back, and a helm tied to his belt. His long black hair was a great mane. This one handed over a fat leather sack. The spokesman gave it to Orzu. It was amazingly hefty. Orzu peered in, took out a coin. Gold. More fortune than he’d ever dreamed to touch. He cinched the bag up tight. ‘I take you. But must bring wife, children.’

  The four eyed one another, confused. ‘Take your … family?’ said the spokesman.

  ‘Yes. My price. Bring wife, children. Go tomorrow morning. Yes?’

  ‘Why …’

  ‘My price. Not so high, yes?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘My name Orzu. We have deal, yes?’

  ‘Blues. We have a deal.’

  Blues? What a
n odd name. Must be for the hue of his skin. Orzu shrugged inwardly. No matter. He set down his mending and stood. ‘First we eat. My wife make you fish stew. Is good, you see.’

  That caught their interest. All four perked up at the mention of hot food.

  Shipwrecked. Must be. What other possible explanation could there be? This was good. They would eat well, meet the family.

  And he had such a very large family.

  The stench was the hardest thing for Shell to endure. She sat near the doorway – nothing more than a gaping hole in the piled stones of the walls of the hut – and held the clay bowl down away from her face. All the while the fat woman, this fellow’s wife, grinned toothlessly at her, the only other woman present. At their feet a great gang of children cried, fought among themselves, gaped at her so close she could smell their stale breath, and gobbled down the rotten stew. Whose were they? Not this old couple, surely.

  ‘Blues,’ she called, edging aside a youth who seemed determined to find something hidden far up his nose. ‘Let’s just take a boat and go. We’re wasting time.’

  From where he sat next to the gabbling old fellow, apparently the patriarch of this horde, Blues shook his head. ‘It’s their livelihood, Shell. They’d starve.’

  Lazar stuck his head in. ‘There’s more coming outside. Two more boats are pulled up.’

  ‘Thanks.’ More of them! A damned family reunion.

  At least Fingers seemed in his element: fascinating the kids with tricks of sleight of hand. They squealed when he made stones appear from their noses and mouths. She called to Blues: ‘There’s more of them outside.’

  He spoke to the old man, listened, cocked his head in concentration. In-laws. His daughters’ and sons’ spouses’ brothers and sisters and their children.

  ‘Well, who in the Queen’s name are these kids?’

  Blues looked surprised. ‘Haven’t you been listening? Grandchildren, of course.’

  ‘Blues …’

  ‘How do you like the food?’

  ‘It’s vile. Why?’