Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

He tilted his head, considered the question for a time. ‘I want to be left alone.’

  Jheval gaped, spread his arms to the vast emptiness around. ‘You want to be alone yet you follow us?’

  A scowl of annoyance. ‘Not you two.’ He pointed to his head. ‘The voices. They won’t leave me alone. Do this. Do that. Give me this, give me that. Will they never stop?’ He dug his hands into his thin hair. ‘They’re driving me crazy!’

  Jheval eyed Kiska then rolled his gaze to the sky. ‘Okay. The voices. Listen, I’ve heard that if you dig a hole in the ground and stick your head in it makes the voices go away.’

  ‘Jheval!’ Kiska cuffed his shoulder. She turned to the man. ‘What’s your name?’

  His brows furrowed in thought. Kiska flinched away when a waft of fish-rot struck her. She glimpsed two dark shapes wheeling far overhead – the giant ravens?

  ‘Warbin al Blooth?’ the old man muttered. ‘No, no. Horos Spitten the Fifth? No. That’s not right. Crethin Spoogle?’ He yanked frantically at his hair again. ‘I can’t remember my name!’

  Kiska held out her hands. ‘It’s all right. Never mind. But we have to call you something – just pick one.’

  ‘I can’t! You pick one.’

  ‘I have some suggestions,’ Jheval muttered.

  Kiska waved Jheval onward. She tried to think of inoffensive names. ‘Okay. How about Grajath?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Frecell?’

  ‘No.’

  She clenched down on her irritation. ‘Warran?’

  ‘Warran,’ he echoed. As they walked along he repeated the name, trying it out. ‘Okay. I suppose that will do.’

  And thank you too! She gestured ahead. ‘You came this way?’

  ‘No. Yes. Maybe. Once. Long ago.’

  Jheval snorted, shaking his head.

  ‘And the lake?’

  The old man shot her a narrowed glare. ‘Why? The fish?’ He pointed. ‘I knew it! You’re after an even bigger one! Well, you’re too late! It’s gone.’ He laughed hoarsely, cleared his throat, and spat something up.

  ‘Not the fish!’ Kiska snapped. ‘The Whorl – the Rift – the thing that drained the lake.’

  Warran waved dismissively. ‘Oh, that. No fish there.’ He gestured aside. ‘Best to go that way.’

  Now Jheval was eyeing the old man. ‘Why?’

  ‘Shorter. No crabs.’

  ‘Crabs?’

  ‘You think that fish was big? Wait till you see the crabs that eat them.’

  ‘Ah.’ They stopped. Jheval looked at Kiska. She squeezed her hands on her staff. She squinted to the storm on the horizon.

  ‘Is that it?’

  Warran nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll show us the way round the lake?’

  ‘Yes – but then we’re through! No more favours! I mean, fair’s fair.’

  She let out a long breath. ‘All right. Show us.’

  He rubbed his chin, clearly taken aback. ‘Really? Okay. Ah, this way – I think.’

  Jheval hung back next to Kiska, opened his mouth. ‘I know!’ she cut in. ‘I know. We’ll see. Time doesn’t seem to matter, does it? We’ll just backtrack if we must.’

  He frowned, considering this, then shrugged. ‘Very well.’

  After a time they came to a field of tall sand dunes. A miasmic wind hardly stirred them. Tufts of sharp brittle grass grew on their slopes and in the troughs between. Kiska found the going very tiring as her sandalled feet sank into the shifting sands. Occasionally she would peer around for the two dark shapes; eventually she would find two dark dots on a distant rise, or black angular shapes cruising far above. She almost spoke of them to Jheval but decided not to raise the subject in front of their companion.

  ‘After I caught my prize I was struck by many regrets,’ the odd fellow announced suddenly as they slogged up one slope.

  ‘That you didn’t have the strength to pull it?’ she offered.

  ‘Oh, no. I was making progress … slow … but progress. No, my biggest regret was in not thinking ahead.’

  ‘Oh?’ she said drily.

  ‘Yes. Because it is one thing to catch what you’ve always sought. After that it is quite another matter. The question really should be: what do you do with it once you’ve caught it?’

  Kiska could only frown, uncertain. There seemed almost to be something there. It was almost as if it applied to her – a tangential lesson? Homey aphorism? Or insane babble? The problem was she had no idea how to take anything this crazy old man came out with.

  CHAPTER VII

  Be not too rigid,

  For you will shatter;

  Be not too yielding,

  For you will be bowed.

  Wisdom of the Ancients

  Kreshen Reel, Compiler

  SHELL THOUGHT THE STRAIT OF WATER THAT RAN ALONG THE SOUTH side of the long narrow island of Korel very calm given the constant storm raging just to the north. It had been snowing for the last three days and nights. She couldn’t recall when she last saw the sky. Thick dark clouds hung so low she thought the masts would scour them. It was dark and bitterly cold. Snow flurries gusted over the boats constantly – an improvement, however, on the numbing sleet that had left her wet and chilled to the bone. So cold was she that she found herself wondering about that rendered fat Ena had been offering.

  As their small flotilla approached the Korel shore the Sea-Folk brought her and Lazar over to the boat carrying Blues and Fingers. If anything, Fingers was even more miserable than she. His seasickness had left him weak and now he complained of chills, aches, a racking cough, and a constantly running nose. He spent all his time hunched under blankets at the bows, where they sat with him now.

  ‘Orzu hasn’t said so,’ Blues began, ‘but if they land there’s a good chance the Korelri will just grab the lot of them.’

  ‘They must’ve known that from the start,’ Fingers objected, and coughed wetly.

  ‘That’s why we’re paying them,’ Lazar said.

  ‘Since we’re talking problems anyway,’ Fingers said, sniffing and hawking something up over the side, ‘maybe Shell should ’fess up about ours.’

  Blues sat back against the side as the boat rocked in the rolling waves. It was evening and the Korel shore was a jagged dark line dominating the north. Shell watched his gaze move between them. ‘You mean about this “Lady”.’

  ‘Un-huh. Look, I know the plan was for us to get hold of Bars then the five of us blast through to a Warren to escape. But you must feel her strength. This is way more than we bargained for back in Stratem. There’s a good chance she could slap us down …’ He coughed, holding his chest and grimacing in pain.

  Blues was nodding, eyeing the distant shore. ‘So maybe something more … mundane.’

  ‘In which case’ – Fingers pressed shut one nostril and blew heroically, emptying the other over the side in a blast of stringy wetness – ‘we’ll need a boat. And a crew.’

  Lazar raised his dark brows in silent appreciation. Shell inclined her head to the suffering little man. God’s grin, Fingers. You may be as sick as a dog, but you are your usual cunning self.

  Blues turned away, gestured amidships, and called: ‘Get Orzu.’ Then he looked Lazar up and down. ‘You look the part more than any of us. How would you like to be the next Champion of the wall?’

  The big man considered, frowning, then spat over the side. ‘I hear the pay is the shits.’

  Orzu at first refused. What else could the man do? Shell mused. After all, when four armed and dangerous passengers ask you to sell them into slavery it would be prudent to show some reluctance. Only their continual assurances of their seriousness half convinced him. Then Fingers pointed out that in any case they intended to be let off on the Korel shore, and so he, Orzu, and his clan of Sea-Folk might as well profit from it. The old man finally bowed to that logic.

  The deal struck was their bounty in return for one boat, with a minimal volunteer crew, to remain behind until the spring’s tu
rn, celebrated here by bonfires lit in the name of the Lady’s Blessing. For the rendezvous, if any, Orzu suggested a maze of isthmuses, saltwater swamps, and narrows south of the city of Elri. Blues agreed.

  Then the man said he had to go ahead to make the arrangements. He peered at them all for a time, a hand pressed to the side of his face, shaking his head, then gave a heavy sigh. ‘You are crazy, you foreigners. But fare you well. May the Old Ones guide you.’

  ‘You too,’ said Shell.

  ‘Take care of your family,’ Blues said.

  The old man pressed his hand atop his head. ‘Aya! They are so many! Such a burden. It is heavy indeed.’

  They took shelter in an isolated cove on the uninhabited south shore of Korel. It seemed the Korelri had no interest in what they named Crack, or sometimes Crooked, Strait. All their attention was reserved for the north, and the threat beyond.

  In the morning Ena accosted Shell while she ate a breakfast of fish stew. ‘What foolishness is this I hear?’

  ‘Foolishness?’ Shell answered mildly.

  ‘You giving yourselves over to the Korelri? In truth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The girl-woman made an angry gesture. ‘Stupidity! You will be killed.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Look at you. You are no warrior.’

  ‘Ena … I’ve served in a mercenary company for a very long time. You’d be surprised.’

  ‘The Riders …’

  ‘An enemy like any other. Listen, Ena. You would do whatever you must for your family, yes?’ A guarded angry nod answered that. ‘Very good. And so would I. At least grant me that dignity.’

  Again, a slow nod. ‘You do this for your people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The young woman sat and cradled her broad stomach. ‘I will stay with the boat.’

  Now it was Shell’s turn for anger. ‘You most certainly will not.’

  ‘The Korelri will not harm me.’

  ‘When are you due?’

  An indifferent shrug. ‘Soon.’

  ‘Can’t have that kind of complication.’

  ‘Babies are born all the time everywhere. It is not a complication.’

  ‘It is if it’s not necessary.’

  Ena smiled mockingly. ‘Babies are not necessary? You have been too long in your mercenary company, I think.’

  That stopped Shell. She could not maintain her anger in the face of chiding from someone certainly younger in years, but perhaps older in other ways, than her. True. There is no stricture. It would not seem to be against the Vow. Why not, then? Time away from duties, I guess. Always something else to do. And now I am too old. Yet, am I? I took the Vow in my twenties … Strange how this had not occurred to me before. Change in company, I suppose.

  She studied the girl’s blunt profile while she looked out to sea. Straggly dirty hair, grimed face; yet sharp intelligent dark eyes. ‘Don’t stay with the boat, Ena.’

  She smiled wistfully, agreeing. ‘The Elders wouldn’t allow it anyway.’

  ‘Good luck with your life and your child, Ena.’

  ‘And you, Shell. May the Old Ones guide you.’

  Old Ones? Shell thought about that. Which Old Ones might that be? Burn, she imagined. The Elder Gods. Hood. Mael. D’rek. Osserc? K’rul? Sister Night? That sea-cult that was probably another face of Mael, Chem’esh’el? Who knew? Something chthonic, certainly. Perhaps they should accept all the help they could get, but with the proviso this cult of the Lady presented: one should be careful of whom one accepts help from.

  *

  The exchange took place on a military pier at the Korelri fortress named Shelter. Shell, Blues, Lazar and Fingers were led up, hands securely tied. It was overcast as usual, a grim dark day. Snow blew about them in flurries. The flat grey fortress walls and the stone pier all had a military look to them. No colour, starkly functional. A troop of guards accepted them. From his dark blue cloak and silver-chased armour, the one leading the detachment was the lone Korelri Stormguard. And he was old, grey-bearded.

  He looked them up and down, each in turn, while Orzu watched, clasping and reclasping his hands. Blues and Lazar the Chosen accepted immediately. He stopped in front of Shell.

  ‘You can fight?’ His accent reminded Shell of the rural Malazan Isle twang.

  She raised her bound wrists. ‘Untie me and find out.’

  The man ran a hand through her blonde hair, longer now than she usually kept it. ‘Perhaps you could contribute more in one of the brothels.’

  Twins’ laughter! I didn’t even think of that! Maybe I have spent too long in a mercenary company.

  And so she head-butted him.

  He lurched away, gasping his pain, a hand to his nose. Blood gushed over his mouth. The guards leapt forward, weapons sliding from sheaths. But the Stormguard raised his other hand. His eyes were black with rage, yet that rage slipped away and the mouth twisted into a grin revealing blood-stained teeth. ‘Show the Riders your spirit, woman.’

  Next he turned to Fingers. He regarded him carefully, his thin shivering frame, pale drawn face, cracked lips, sick watery eyes and running nose, and was not impressed.

  ‘I don’t want to be in the brothel either,’ Fingers said.

  ‘Show me your hands,’ the man growled.

  Fingers held them up. The Stormguard turned them over, felt the palms. Then there was a metallic click and Fingers yanked his hands away: a dull metal bracelet encircled one wrist.

  ‘That’s otataral, mage. Don’t try any of your daemon tricks.’

  Fingers’ shoulders sagged. He glared at Orzu. ‘Did you tell him? Bastard!’ He went for Orzu but the Stormguard kicked him down. Lazar lashed out, but somehow the Chosen slipped the blow.

  Shell was impressed. And he was probably assigned this duty because he was too old to stand the wall. For the first time she wondered just what they had gotten themselves into.

  The Stormguard pushed them along. ‘Pay the man, Gellin. Standard bounty.’

  ‘Standard?’ Orzu yelped. ‘But they are skilled fighters. Champion material.’

  ‘Oh yes? Then how is it you got the better of them?’

  Orzu held up his open hands. ‘Come now, Chosen sir. You are too old for such naivety. Even the greatest fighter must eat and drink. And it is so very easy for d’bayang or white nectar to find its way into such things. And as for the rest … well, then it is all so very easy.’

  The old Chosen stomped over to the guard called Gellin and took the bag of coin from him. He threw it down before Orzu, where it split amid the slush and footprints on the stone pier. The coins clattered, some sliding into the water. ‘You disgust me. Take your money and go before I run you through here and now.’

  Orzu fell to his knees, bowing and scooping up the coins. ‘Yes, honoured sir. Certainly. Yes.’

  Shell wanted to say something, but of course she couldn’t. She allowed herself one glance back: the old man was still on his knees, pocketing the coins, peering up through his hanging grey hair. He did not so much as wink.

  She remembered some of her conversations with Ena; thought of deception and false fronts. For generations this was how the Sea-Folk survived. And now we, too, have elected for that same strategy. I can only hope our own subterfuge will prove as successful.

  * * *

  Devaleth found the nightly staff gatherings increasingly uncomfortable. The remaining Roolian force had held them at the bridge for four days now. Each time a push gathered yardage, or established a foothold on the opposite shore, a counterattack from elite forces, mainly the Black Moranth, pushed them back. The narrow width of the bridge was now their bottleneck. And they were stuck in it.

  Greymane’s van had arrived near dawn of the night they took the bridge, scattering the remaining Roolian forces on the east shore. Unfortunately, the forced marching had taken its toll and his troops could not break through.

  It was winter, and food was scarce. What meagre supplies Greymane’s forces had carried with
them were exhausted. Foraging parties ranged everywhere. Any effort to harvest fish from the Ancy was met with bow-fire from the opposite shore. Not one horse or mule remained. Some troops now boiled leather, moss and grasses. Fist Khemet’s relief column, escorting all their logistics, was still a week away.

  They had to break through soon, before they were too weak to fight at all.

  The stalemate was taking its toll on the High Fist. He obviously felt the suffering of his troops. His temper was hair-thin and increasingly it sharpened itself on one target: the Untan aristocrat, Fist Rillish. Greymane stood leaning forward on to the field table, arms out, long hair hanging down obscuring his face. Kyle sat beside him, legs out straight. Devaleth hung back close to the tent flap as if waiting for an excuse to flee. Fist Rillish stood rigid, back straight, helmet under one arm.

  ‘One more assault …’ Greymane ground out, as he had these last days.

  ‘With respect, the troops are too weak, sir,’ Rillish countered, again.

  Greymane raised his head just enough to glare at the Fist. ‘The more time passes, the weaker they are!’

  The nobleman did not flinch. ‘Yes, High Fist.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’

  Rillish drew a deep breath, pushed on. ‘That we defend.’

  ‘Defend? Defend! Defence has not gotten us this far! If we could just break through there is nothing between us and Paliss!’

  ‘Yes, High Fist. But we cannot. Therefore we should dig in, defend. Wait for Fist Khemet’s column.’

  Greymane’s bright blue gaze, almost feverish in the tent’s gloom, shifted to Kyle. ‘What do you say?’

  The Adjunct shifted uncomfortably, the chair leather creaking beneath him. He cleared his throat. ‘I am no trained officer, of course … But I have to agree with the Fist.’

  ‘It is sound, High Fist,’ Devaleth cut in.

  Without turning his head to acknowledge her, he grated, ‘I did not ask you.’

  ‘Sir!’ Rillish objected.

  The High Fist pushed himself from the table, scattering maps. He went to a sideboard and poured a drink. Tossing it back, he slammed down the glass. ‘Very well. Fist Rillish, order the troops to raise defences across the west approach to the bridge and to hunker down.’