Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  A laugh. ‘Just wondering, because it looks like we’re in for a lot more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Blues waved to encompass the kids, the men and women sitting outside on the bare smoothed stones, watching and waiting. ‘Because it looks like we just hired the entire clan.’

  ‘Blues!’

  The next morning twelve broad fishing boats, longboats Shell imagined you might call them, lay pulled up on the strand. Orzu’s clan of fisherfolk was busy piling them up with their meagre smelly possessions. Now that she’d had time to reflect upon it, she couldn’t blame them. This was their chance to escape this desolate shore. Others had now found the courage to speak; a girl, fat with child and carrying yet another, seemed to have attached herself to Shell.

  ‘What is your name?’ she asked the girl.

  ‘Ena.’ The child she carried in her arm was fighting to open her blouse to reach a swollen teat. She brushed the small hands aside. ‘You?’

  ‘Shell. Where will you go?’

  She shrugged. ‘We go to Theft.’

  ‘What will you do there?’

  Again the indifferent shrug. ‘Same as here.’

  You are wiser than you know, young woman-child. For you, things are sadly unlikely to change.

  Ena was eyeing her soft leathers under her thick travelling cloak, her leather gloves and tall boots. ‘Where you come from?’

  ‘The south. Far to the south. Before that, far to the north.’

  An older woman, exact relationship uncertain, came and took the child from Ena, then the two argued back and forth for a time until the old woman marched off enraged.

  ‘What is it?’ Shell asked.

  A smile. ‘Mother says I am lazy. Work to be done. But I tell her I am no longer a child to be ordered about. The … Blessed Lady … she is known where you are from?’

  Shell was surprised by the non-sequitur. It was a moment before she could reply. ‘No. She is not known. She is only known here.’

  Ena tucked a hand under the swell of her belly. Her many relations tramped back and forth readying the boats. Blues was arguing with Orzu next to one particularly overloaded skiff; he appeared to be miming sinking.

  ‘Yes. We thought so, no matter the words of her priests.’

  ‘Her priests? You have heard them?’

  Ena nodded with child-like earnestness. ‘Oh yes. They come here. Half-starved wanderers. They stay and preach to us. Lady this and Lady that. They try to convert us.’

  ‘Convert you? You do not worship the Lady?’

  She nodded, so serious. ‘Oh no. We are the Sea-Folk. We follow the old ways. Oh, the last of the priests seemed harmless enough until he tried to use the boys to satisfy himself. So we bound him and threw him to the Sea-Father.’

  ‘The Sea-Father? Oh, yes. The old ways.’

  ‘Yes. The Sea-Father. The Sky-Father. The Dark-Taker. The fertile Mother. And the Enchantress. The priests spoke against her the most. But we do not listen. We know the Lady by her ancient name. Shrikasmil – the Destroyer.’

  Shell studied the child-woman while she stared out to sea. She was pretty despite her greasy hair, the grimed unwashed face. Pretty perhaps only because of her youth and her pregnancy. ‘Why travel to Theft, then? Surely you will not be welcome.’

  Again the uncaring shrug, though tinged by a wry smile. ‘Nowhere are we welcome. We are the Sea-Folk. We come and go as we please. We choose to harbour at Theft till they chase us off. It was strange, you know …’ and she cocked her head, her brows wrinkling, ‘he was glad when we threw him in. Happy. He wanted to be martyr to the Lady. They all want to die for her. It is perverse. Shouldn’t faith seek life?’

  Shell said nothing. Ena answered her own question with what seemed her response to everything: a shrug of dismissal. Then, rousing herself, she walked off to lend her family a hand. Shell remained, facing the sea, troubled. Something the girl had said. Dying for her. They all want to die for her. Something in that clawed at her instincts. She did not know what it was, yet. But there was something there. She could feel it the way she could feel the Lady’s own baleful hot gaze glaring from the north. From this point onward none of them should dare summon their Warrens.

  BOOK II

  The Land

  On the subcontinent known to some as Korel, to others as Fist, the Chosen who defend the Stormwall against the attacks of the ocean-borne ‘Riders’ foretell that should these Riders broach the wall they shall sweep on to engulf the world entire in an eternal reign of ice and storm.

  Despite these claims, the Malazan Emperor Kellanved ordered his armies to invade Korel lands. This confronted the Stormguard with a horrifying choice: defend the wall or defend their lands. Skilfully, Kellanved swiftly withdrew the necessity for said choice by offering to limit his holdings to territory currently occupied. The Chosen readily agreed to these terms. In this, and many other pacts, it may be said that Kellanved manoeuvred and negotiated his way to Empire. Few in these times appreciate this distinction.

  Sketches of History

  Ordren Stennist

  Academe, Kartool

  CHAPTER VI

  History consists of nothing more than the lies we tell ourselves to justify the present.

  Book of Forbidden Knowledge

  Odwin Innist, condemned scholar

  AFTER THE TENTH WAVE OF THE NIGHT LORD PROTECTOR HIAM discovered his endurance was failing him. Times were he could stand two watches of back-to-back fighting without feeling the strain. But in the weakened parry of a Rider’s lance-thrust, his spear nearly wrenched from his grasp, he saw instantly that he would not last to the dawn.

  He abandoned the counter-strike, readying instead, content to let that Rider slide past. The men of his bodyguard urged it on. Yet there was no time to recuperate as the next wave came crashing in far higher than he could ever remember this early in the season. It inundated the lowest defences. Hiam charged down where Chosen wallowed in the knee-deep, frigid water. Riders now walked the outer machicolations. Their shell-like scaled armour hung as ragged skirting all the way down to the waters. They dropped their lances and drew saw-bladed longswords.

  He and his six bodyguards crashed into the Riders like their own wave. Hiam faced one, lunging high to draw his parry while his bodyguard thrust low to impale the demon, who grunted and grasped the spear, only to have his hand slashed as the guard yanked free the broad leaf-shaped blade. This one fell into the shallow water to dissolve like ice rotting. Another Rider shook off the attacks of two Chosen to charge Hiam. He parried the Rider’s swing but the ice-blade caught at the haft of his spear like a gripping fist to heave it aside.

  A kind of calm acceptance took Hiam then. The Rider was inside his guard – this was how it should end for him. The fiend’s sword swung, but a spear from a guard deflected the blade enough for it to clash from Hiam’s full helm like a bell. The blow brought him to one knee.

  His guards pressed close, defending. Hiam regained his footing, launched his spear at the Rider then shrugged his broad round shield from his back and drew his thrusting blade. By this time his guards had finished the last Rider.

  So be it. The spirit is willing but age has wrought its betrayal. Imagine, to have survived nearly thirty seasons upon the wall only to fall to so pedestrian an enemy – the snail’s crawl of the years.

  Out amid the chop of the surging breakers the Riders did not press their advantage. The nearest reined in its horse-like mount of glowing sapphire ice and pearl-like spume to sink beneath the surface. As it went Hiam believed he saw it raise its lance in salute. Lady damn them for this façade of honour and courtesy. They fool no one.

  The attack upon this section of the wall was over for now. A tap on his shoulder let the Lord Protector know his shift might as well end. He rotated out, accompanied by his guard of six, back to the marshalling walk behind the layered walltop defences. Shaking, he drew off his lined gauntlets to warm his hands over a nearby brazier. He told himself the shaking was the c
old … only the cold.

  I’m slowing. Twice the age of these men around me. Might not last the season. All it takes is one mistake, or the mounting sluggishness of exhaustion. Better this way, though. Better to fall now on the ramparts than perhaps to live to see … No! That is unworthy – Lady forgive me! Now is my trial of weakness.

  He pushed down his steaming hands until the heat seared them and he groaned, yanking them away. Tears started from his eyes. How I will miss these men! He felt as if his heart were squeezing to a knot in his chest. That is my regret. That I will share no more time with my brothers. These are the best of men. Our cause is just and our hearts are pure.

  Other hands extended over the charcoal embers and Hiam glanced up to see Wall Marshal Quint eyeing him with narrowed gaze.

  ‘A close one,’ Quint murmured.

  Hiam cleared his throat. ‘Shouldn’t have been. I just lost my footing.’

  Not even deigning to honour that with a response, Quint watched him from over the embers.

  ‘You have a report?’ Hiam asked, rather testily.

  A slow nod. ‘Trouble in the west. Out near the Wind Tower. Seven fell in one shift – a run of bad luck.’

  Hiam straightened, alarmed. ‘And?’

  ‘Marshal Real was there. He called for the Lady’s grace – and was answered. He held until relief arrived.’

  Grunting his understanding, Hiam relaxed. ‘I see. Bless him then. The Lady has gathered him to her. May he sit as one of the Holy Martyrs.’

  Quint nodded again. ‘She judged him worthy.’

  ‘And our champion. How is he doing?’

  ‘He has roused himself. We should squeeze another season out of him after all.’

  ‘Excellent. That frees up a lot of men.’

  ‘Yes. And you – just what did you think you were doing down there?’

  Hiam drew his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. ‘Helping out.’

  ‘Damn foolishness is what that was. Throwing yourself away. Don’t do that. We all need you. The men need to know you’re here watching over them. That alone is worth a thousand spears.’

  Hiam was quite impressed by his old friend’s burst of loquaciousness. It was the most he’d heard out of him in years. He smiled chidingly at the scowling Wall Marshal. ‘Why, Quint … if I didn’t know better I’d think you were worried.’

  ‘Ha! I want you out of the action. Am I going to have to post a guard on you?’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘You know I would and you know it’s within my rights.’

  It is at that. The Wall Marshal was meant as a counter-weight to the Lord Protector – and his judge also, if need be.

  To change the subject Hiam asked, ‘Any word from Master Stimins?’

  Quint snorted his contempt. ‘Came across him on the Rampart of the Stars. Lying prostrate he was, ear to the stones. Says he was listening to the wall. Mad as a barking cat.’

  Hiam smiled, imagining the confrontation. Quint’s outrage. Stimins’ complete confusion in the face of it.

  Quint turned his head aside, drawing Hiam’s gaze to an approaching runner. The man jogged straight up, extending a folded slip. Hiam thanked him and took the missive.

  Emissary from Overlord of Fist. Must talk. Shool.

  Hiam nodded to the runner. ‘I will accompany you back.’ To Quint: ‘You have the wall, Marshal.’

  Quint’s scarred face twisted even further. ‘It’s about damned time.’

  It was after dawn when Hiam and the messenger reached the Great Tower. The Lord Protector was clenching his teeth against the sour bile of exhaustion and he managed the last few trotting leagues on blind will alone. Reaching the door he nodded stiffly to the messenger, dismissing him without daring to risk a word. Within, he leaned back upon the door to suck in great lungfuls of the warmer air and tried to swallow to wet his parched throat. A guard approached and he knelt, adjusting the studded leather wraps and his greaves. Seeing him, the guard, a Chosen veteran, stood to attention. ‘Sir!’

  Hiam straightened, nodded to acknowledge the man then edged back the folds of his cloak and drew off his full helm. He pushed a hand through his icy sweat-soaked hair. ‘Hot out there tonight, Chenal.’

  ‘And me stuck in here.’

  ‘No matter – more than enough for all of us. Tomorrow, yes?’

  ‘Aye. Tomorrow.’

  ‘Guests?’

  Chenal raised his gaze to the ceiling. ‘Claims to be Roolian. But he’s one o’ them invaders from way back. Plain as the nose on his face.’

  ‘Thank you, Chenal. Give them my regards tomorrow.’

  ‘That I will, doubly.’ He saluted, fist to heart. ‘Lord Protector!’

  Hiam answered the salute, headed to the circular stairs. He took his time. He wiped his face on his cloak as he climbed, steadied his breath. Outside the door he paused, then slowly pushed it open. Within, Marshal Shool leapt to his feet, saluting. ‘Lord Protector!’ Another man wheeled, startled from where he stood warming himself at the fireplace. The moment he turned Hiam knew him as Malazan, as his skin ran to a far darker hue than the coffee brown common among many of this region. He was wrapped in furred cloaks and wore thick boots, and a fur hat rested on a chair nearby.

  Hiam acknowledged Shool, who extended a hand to the guest: ‘Lord Hurback, emissary of the Overlord of Fist.’

  Hiam bowed, placed his helm on the narrow table next to the door, set his shield on a stand, then hung his cloak. ‘Lord Hurback. You are most welcome.’

  Hurback bowed also, then his thick black brows wrinkled in confusion. ‘You have seen fighting, Lord Protector?’

  Hiam went to a sideboard, poured himself a cup of tea, picked up a slice of black bread. ‘Of course. Every brother – and sister – of the Stormguard fights. During the season none is away from the wall for more than a day.’

  ‘Of course,’ the emissary echoed weakly. ‘How commendable.’

  Hiam invited him to sit before his plain wooden desk and slid in behind. He tried not to show the relief he felt as he eased his weight from his aching legs. Shool bowed and moved to leave; Hiam gestured that he should remain.

  ‘To what do we owe the honour of your visit, m’lord?’

  The man sat, taking care to straighten his fur-trimmed robes. Ermine and wolf, so it appeared to Hiam. His curly black hair was greased to a bright shine and rings set with red stones glittered at his fingers. Hiam reflected that this was perhaps the first of these invader Malazans he’d met who wasn’t in chains at the wall. They sell their own as readily as they sell any other – remember that, Hiam.

  ‘I bear a personal missive direct from Overlord Yeull. I have been entrusted with its contents and have been instructed to offer any further clarification as needed.’

  Full of his intimacy with this self-styled Overlord, isn’t this one … Hiam eyed his cot waiting for him across the room. Why didn’t he just hand over the damned thing? ‘He is well, I hope? Any word from our Mare allies regarding these renewed Malazan aggressions?’

  The emissary goggled at him, clearly startled beyond words. What do they think we are here? Brainless brutes? Our intelligence service is vastly superior to theirs. Across these lands every adherent of the Lady knows where their loyalties ought to lie. With us. Those whose blood defends them.

  ‘The Lord Protector is eminently well informed,’ the emissary managed. ‘Reports are that they have broken the invading fleet and that only a few stray vessels managed to land on Skolati shores.’

  That is not what our sources in Mare are reporting. So, landings are confirmed. A thought struck the Lord Protector and he almost glared at the hapless emissary: Lady forgive them! He hasn’t come to request troops to help defend Rool, surely!

  Struggling to keep his voice level, he asked, ‘And what can we in Korel do for the Overlord?’

  An expression flitted across Lord Hurback’s broad flat face, one Hiam was unaccustomed to seeing opposite him: a kind of vain smugness. The e
missary extended the sealed vellum missive. ‘You shall see, Lord Protector.’

  Vaguely troubled by the man’s manner, Hiam broke the seal, opened the folds, and read. It was some time before he looked up again. ‘Is this true?’ he breathed, stunned and perplexed. ‘The Overlord pledges ten thousand fighting men for the wall? Even now? Facing invasion? This does not make sense …’

  In the face of the Lord Protector’s amazement, the emissary’s self-satisfaction returned. He shrugged as if to dismiss the offer as inconsequential between friends. ‘It makes perfect sense, Lord Protector. As you know, we in Rool cleave tightly to the Blessed Lady – more so than many of our erstwhile allies, yes? We know this land’s true enemy. And we are concerned. This pledge is a measure of that concern.’

  And what, dear Lady, does Yeull expect in return? Yet … ten thousand! Half again our entire remaining complement. It was as if they knew! Our Lady, as Lord Protector, defender of your lands, this is an offer I simply cannot reject.

  Hiam took a slow sip of the now cold tea and regarded the emissary, who answered his look with half-lidded satisfaction. However much I may dislike the messenger or dread the answer, I must ask. He cleared his throat. ‘And what, if anything, does the Overlord request in answer to such extraordinary generosity?’

  Knowing he had won, Lord Hurback smiled broadly. He raised his hands, open and palm up. ‘The smallest of requests, Lord Protector. Nothing you could possibly object to given the measure of his offer. Indeed, you should even welcome his proposal …’

  Listening, Hiam could not dismiss the suspicion that nothing this man might propose would be welcome. Yet listen he did. His commitment to the defence of the wall gave him no choice – this was perhaps what men like this emissary, or Overlord Yeull, could never understand. They could ask for twenty galleys full of gold, or all the jewels of the mines of Jasston. Such worldly treasure was as nothing to the Stormguard, who were ready to give over everything they possessed – which was in truth only the armour on their backs and the weapons in their hands, and of course their lives – to defend their faith.