Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  The old man’s answer was a knowing smile. He wrapped his bloody knives in a length of stained leather. ‘Now you’re talking like a leader.’

  He was left thinking about that. Depending upon how badly Martal was wounded the lead may indeed fall to him. His vow said nothing against giving orders. It was long past the time he ought to talk to Captain Carr regarding what further surprises Martal might have set aside.

  *

  If Prince Ranur the Third was in charge of the assembled Jourilan Imperial forces, he gave them no time to recover from the blunting of their first cavalry charges. Ivanr failed to track down Captain Carr before alarm horns blared from the walls of the fortress. The splendidly armoured counts and barons of the lands were driving their massed crossbowmen and archers out on to the field. Ivanr recognized the coats of Dourkan mercenaries and Jasstonese free companies among the ranks of the local peasants and burghers.

  Normally, a cavalry sortie would scatter such forces, but the Army of Reform’s cavalry, so greatly outnumbered for so long, had been reduced to almost nothing. Its commander, Hegil Lesour ’an ’al, now fought on foot in charge of a brigade. Before the heaving lines of the Imperial archers could be cajoled into range for a volley on the fort, horns blazed again, summoning the Reform pike units to debouch. Ivanr ran to a wall to watch as carriages were pushed aside and the infantry jogged out. A forest of the tall pikes rustled and clattered, held upright. More horns called and broad lines formed then advanced upon the Imperial skirmishing crossbow and archer forces.

  Ivanr thought this lunacy. The skirmishers could dance round the pike formations; were these Martal’s orders? And who was in charge? Martal’s wound was too severe, surely. These pike men and women were exposed to counter-charges from the cavalry. It was worse than foolish to sortie. Yet she could not relinquish the field to these archers, could she? They would ring the fort and grind us down.

  Sure enough: movement among the flags and pennants of the Imperial cavalry. They would answer this challenge. Far across the field, ranks of the heavy cavalry assembled before tents and wagons of spectators. Spectators! They’d brought courtiers from Jour. Perhaps members of the Imperial family as well. Gods. So sure were they of crushing these insolent peasants.

  And before today Ivanr would have half agreed with such an estimation. But the dawn execution of the Priestess before the eyes of all these men and women who had set everything aside, risked everything they knew in their life, to answer her call, seemed to have changed that. He sensed in them a grim, annealed resolve that perhaps had been within them all along, which before today he had failed to notice – or, he could admit, had discounted.

  Yet on the field the harassing crossbow mercenaries and archers had brought the pike units into disarray. Seeing their chance, the Imperial cavalry sounded a call and the distant reverberation of hooves reached Ivanr once more.

  Form up! Ivanr urged from the wall; he cut his palms, so tightly did he clench the timbers. But the mercenaries and undisciplined Imperial archers – perhaps completely oblivious of the threat now plunging down upon them from behind – stubbornly kept the units engaged.

  Horns blared and the knot of mounted guards and messengers of command parted, revealing the black-armoured figure beneath the Reform pennant. Martal! What was she doing? This would kill her! She was not gesturing: she seemed to have a death’s grip on the pommel of her saddle. Upon the field the pike units milled, hafts clattering. Out of this malformed ungainly mass ranks formed as if by magic and once again the layered serried points faced the cavalry. Ivanr raised a fist, recognizing movements he and they had worked upon for months, now perfected out upon the field.

  Only now did the milling archers and hired crossbow mercenaries recognize their peril. They were caught between the two forces. The Imperials did not hesitate; further horns sounded, announcing an increase in pace, and lances angled down. The hired skirmishers panicked, scattering, and the coursers charged through. Pennants and flag heraldry went down beneath churning hooves. Entire units disappeared, ground into the muddied field like chaff.

  The charge shuddered home on to the layered pikes and the reverberations of the impact rippled through the entire massed square. He wondered at the training and discipline necessary to force a horse to impale itself on sharpened iron and an impenetrable crowd of massed humans. First and second ranks disappeared beneath tumbling horseflesh, the armoured riders caught amid stirrups and strapping, crushed and broken. Helms and other unidentifiable pieces of armour flew overhead. Yet the square held, solid and unmovable. The trailing courses of cavalry swung off, circling to assemble for another charge.

  Away from the centre, however, things were not going as well. The archers and Jasstonese mercenaries who had withdrawn to the extreme left now punished the pike brigade of that flank. Men and women fell, helpless beneath the withering volleys.

  A second wave came charging down upon the centre. A call Ivanr didn’t recognize sounded from the Reform signallers and nothing immediately seemed to come of it. Then, just before the heavy cavalry struck, movement rustled amid the main square and men and women shifted aside, clearing three channels – effectively breaking into four smaller units. An extraordinarily dangerous move completed just as it should be, at the moment of impact. Many of the coursers struck home, smashing pike hafts and driving through into the ranks, but most of the horses curved aside despite the raking and thrusting of knee and spur, preferring these opened corridors.

  The ranks then closed in upon the cavalry from either side. Heavy armour might prevent impalement but the impact unseated many riders. Mounts went down, snapping hafts thrust into flanks and necks. It was a slaughter as all those countless pikeheads of sharpened iron closed together like jaws upon the enemy.

  Even as the second charge was obliterated the left flank collapsed. That brigade broke to run pell-mell to the rear, effectively abandoning the field. Horns sounded as Martal, or Carr, or some other commander, ordered the centre to shift to the left. The hired Dourkan archers and Jasstonese crossbow companies jogged forward into the gap, sending up harassing fire, but seeing another disciplined square marching down upon them – one fresh from mangling their heavily armoured superiors – they melted away.

  No third massing of Jourilan aristocracy appeared. Either they had had enough for the day, or, as Ivanr suspected, so supremely assured of their victory were they that all those barons or dukes interested in taking the field this first day had already done so. Others would have their day tomorrow.

  And Ivanr wondered how the Army of Reform could possibly survive another day like this. Martal’s command group now turned to ride back to the fortress. He noted how closely two of her guard flanked her, covering her and simultaneously guiding her mount as she rode stiff and unmoving within her armour. He left the wall to be at her tent when she returned.

  The men and women of the camp acted as if they had won a crushing victory. They cheered him, calling out, ‘Deliverer.’ The title surprised and irritated him, for behind it he sensed the cynical guiding hand of Martal. Two female pike infantry, dirtied and sweaty from the field, knelt in his way asking for blessing. The act embarrassed him excruciatingly, but he did not show it. Instead he raised them up and said loudly enough for all around to hear: ‘Your bravery is our blessing.’

  The tears that started from their eyes burned him for the betrayer and impostor he felt and he moved on quickly, clearing his throat and wiping his own eyes. Damn them for tormenting me! Don’t they see I’m not what they think? That they are casting upon me the weight of their own hopes? Their own dreams? No one should be asked to carry such a burden. It’s impossible!

  He found a circle of guards turning everyone away from Martal’s tent. They’d lifted her from her horse and now she lay within. The same bonecutter was removing her armour once more and cursing her and her aides as he did so. The woman’s face was white with agony and blood loss, wet with sweat – or perhaps shock. She was barely conscious, her eyes stari
ng sightlessly upwards.

  The clenched, pale lips parted. ‘Carr has command,’ she hissed through clamped teeth.

  ‘You still command,’ Ivanr said. ‘You will always command.’

  ‘Ivanr …’ she said, peering around, straining.

  He knelt at her side. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I must be seen tomorrow! I must … no matter what!’ Ivanr looked to the bonecutter, who shook his head. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Martal,’ he answered, simply to quiet her. ‘I understand.’

  She eased back, letting go a taut breath. ‘Tell him I tried. I tried my best. I would so like to have seen him again.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My old commander. Tell him that, won’t you?’

  Ivanr could not answer. Her old commander! The Malazan … Greymane! ‘Yes,’ he managed, clearing his throat, hardly able to speak.

  ‘That’s enough,’ the bonecutter said. ‘Everyone out.’

  Straightening outside the tent, it took all the strength Ivanr possessed to fix upon his face an expression of resolve, even one of firm optimism. He entered the gathered crowd, which parted before him. He squeezed shoulders, set hands on bowed heads, and answered their questions and worries: yes, she was wounded but she was recovering. She would lead them tomorrow. Never fear. Tomorrow they would finish the Imperials. The Black Queen would see them through again.

  Yet he hardly heard his words or saw their faces. Instead Martal’s parting words haunted him. Her old commander … Greymane. The

  Betrayer … Stonewielder. Tell him she had tried … Tried what? I thought she’d been fighting for us! Yet what if all this time she’d been serving his command? And he was now back! But no – that was too incredible, too far-fetched. More likely she saw herself as remaining loyal to his … what? His … intent. Perhaps that was it. She’d been honouring his intent. And that – according to the Lady’s priesthood – nothing less than the annihilation of their faith itself.

  But Beneth chose her! He chose her. A neat dovetailing of purpose? Nothing more? Perhaps so.

  Still, he was shaken.

  That night sleep would not come. He lay restless until, giving up and rising, he threw a long loose jerkin over his shirt and trousers and went to a gap in his tent flap to stare out at the night. Overcast, as usual, the winter clouds scudding so low as to be almost within reach, yet stubbornly yielding none of their snow. Occasionally stars winked through openings only to disappear. Torches of pickets upon the walls flickered orange and red. The smell of an army in the field wafted over him: wet leather, unwashed bodies, the stink of privies too close for comfort.

  ‘She’s dead,’ a man’s voice whispered behind him.

  He started, tensing. The fellow was an old man in dirty torn shirt, vest and dark trousers, bearded, with wild grey-shot hair. His eyes seemed to glow in the gloom of the tent. ‘Dead?’ Ivanr asked, his throat dry, even though he knew.

  The man gestured him back in with a crook of a finger. ‘First Beneth, now Martal. Leaving … you.’

  Ivanr considered rolling backwards, a feint to the right …

  Deep crimson flame alighted on the man’s hand and he bared yellowed teeth in a knowing smile. Ivanr let the flap close. ‘You are a mage. The Lady doesn’t usually permit such things …’

  ‘Special dispensation for those who cleave to the path of the righteous.’

  ‘Which would be … ?’

  The smile twisted into a sneer. ‘Save your sophistry for the sheep outside.’ He gestured and a vice clamped itself round Ivanr’s body. Invisible bonds tightened like rope in a crushing agony. He could not breathe, could not shout. His vision darkened.

  Then relief as the bonds dissipated, seeming to shred. Ivanr drew a shuddering breath. Blinking, he saw the mage frowning, uncertain.

  ‘There is some sort of passive protection upon you,’ he muttered. ‘How …’ His eyes widened and he glanced about in sudden alarm. ‘No …’

  The tent flap was thrust aside and an old woman entered – if anything she appeared even older than Sister Gosh. She was lean and wiry, dark as aged leather, her wiry hair up in a tight bun. The man bowed, his tongue wetting his lips. ‘Sister Esa.’

  The old woman, Sister Esa apparently, was pulling the gloves from her hands. ‘I was hoping you would come, Totsin.’

  Totsin edged around the tent as if searching for a way out. ‘Now … Sister Esa … let’s not jump to conclusions.’

  The old woman’s gloves came off, revealing hands twisted like claws, long nails broken and thick like talons and black with dirt. She gave a strange gurgling hiss and her lips drew back over teeth now black as well, and needle sharp. Ivanr flinched away, horrified. Soletaken? She launched herself upon Totsin.

  The two wrestled in silence, the woman straining to set her claws or teeth into the man, he holding her wrists, head twisting aside. They fought, gasping and panting. The woman’s hands and teeth edged ever closer to the man’s flesh until she shuddered suddenly, her back arching in anguish. She fell to the floor, spasms twisting her limbs. The old man straightened his clothes and spat upon her.

  ‘The Lady is with me, Esa. And now she has you …’

  Ivanr leapt to his pallet and spun, his shortsword in hand, to slash Totsin. Incredibly, the man flicked his head aside, the blade merely gashing across his face. He clamped a hand to his head. Blood welled between the fingers. Ivanr closed, but searing pain bit into one ankle and he fell: the old woman had him.

  ‘I leave you to the Lady,’ Totsin gasped, rage and agony in his voice. He disappeared in a moil of greyness that enveloped him then vanished, leaving Ivanr alone with Sister Esa. He almost called for help, but caught himself – gods, if this got out it would terrify everyone!

  The hand clenched, its talons cutting into his flesh and grating the bone. The head rose, eyes rolled back all white. The hair on Ivanr’s neck stirred as a voice gurgled from the throat: ‘Embrace me, Ivanr, and I will forgive you …’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and brought the blade down through the neck.

  Some time later steps in the tent roused him and he leapt up, short-sword readied. It was Sister Gosh, pipe in mouth, staring down at the wrapped corpse of Sister Esa. A sudden fury took him that only now did she appear. ‘Where were you?’ he demanded. ‘Together you might’ve taken him!’

  She shook her head. ‘I told her not to step in. We can’t fight the Lady.’

  Ivanr fell back on to his pallet, exhausted. ‘Well, he got away.’

  She let out a lungful of smoke. ‘I think we’ll meet yet.’

  ‘And then what?’

  She drew hard on the pipe and its embers blazed. She peered at him from deep within the crow’s feet wrinkles at her eyes. ‘Then we’ll see.’

  Ivanr grunted at the predictable, maddening opaqueness. He hung his arms over his knees. ‘So … is she really gone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he …’

  ‘No. The wound.’

  He grunted again, accepting that. In other lands, he knew, such wounds could be treated by healers with access to Warrens. But here, the Lady denied all. That alone was more than enough reason for her destruction. How many needless deaths all these ages … ? ‘Well,’ he said, gazing at the dirt floor, ‘I don’t know if we’ll last tomorrow.’

  ‘Keep them fighting, Ivanr. You’re here to do more than defeat these Imperials. More eyes than you know of are on this confrontation. The walls of Ring city are within sight. You have to show that these nobles can be stood up to. That there’s a chance.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘We’ll see. Tomorrow.’

  He gestured to the decapitated corpse. ‘And her?’

  ‘Have some men you trust take her off and bury her. Now, before dawn.’

  He nodded. ‘And you?’

  Sister Gosh had crossed to the flap. ‘I don’t know. I’ll do what I can. Before, I said we may not meet again. Now I’m even more sure of that. Go
od luck to you.’

  ‘And to you.’

  She ducked from the tent. Ivanr lay down again to try to steal some rest before dawn.

  * * *

  After Shell and her partner, Tollen, the Malazan Sixth Army veteran, had stood short stints at various posts along the wall, two Korelri Chosen came for them. They were in holding cells, separated. The Stormguard didn’t seem to know what to do with Shell, being female, and so they emptied out a pen for her private use. Personally, she thought it was more for their sensibilities than hers. She could squat to relieve herself just as easily anywhere – it was they who seemed all shirty about it.

  The two were fettered again and led off along one of the maze of corridors that ran like a rat’s nest within the Stormwall. It was a long walk, much farther than any previous one, and took up more than the day. Deep into the evening they were tugged up stairs to exit a minor tower – the kind that only bore numbers – in this case, Tower Fourteen. From here they walked into the punishing frigid wind and sleeting snow. They’d been given tattered old cloaks, and Shell retied the rags she had wrapped over her sandalled feet and up over her legs, her head and neck, and finally her hands as well.

  The wall climbed before them, high above the shore below, more of a connecting corridor than a working part of the Stormwall. At the crest of the pass it fell steeply in lethal sets of stone stairs to a section that looked to span a narrow inlet. Snow flurried in Shell’s face as she hunched, scrabbling with her numb fingers for holds and grips to help herself down. Tollen descended facing the stairs, almost flat on all fours. Waves pounded below, reverberating like thunder. Riders drove those waves. She recognized the pitch of their force, their enmity.

  The descent levelled to a smoother grade. Shell now made out a wide marshalling walkway more ice-choked than any she’d seen so far. It even seemed broached in courses of frozen rivers of ice. Stone blocks cluttered the walk, as did canted broken tripods. Ropes lay unusable beneath layers of ice. They passed a work gang where labourers hammered at a block to free it from its sheath of ice. One armed guard, a hired mercenary judging from his heavy armour, stood watch.