Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  The two Korelri escorted them to a tower so layered in blue-tinted ice running in flows down its sides that it appeared as if the water had been poured. A single narrow doorway gave access to inner chambers where braziers burned, giving light and heat to close, damp rooms. Workers squatted, eating; bedrolls over straw crowded the wet stone floors. Down a narrow circular staircase they came to cells, more holding pens. Their fetters were struck and Shell was pushed into one, Tollen another.

  Shell sat on the straw-littered raised stone slab she supposed was the bed and leaned back against the wall, only to flinch away – the stones were glacial and glittered with ice. Across the narrow corridor the opposite cell was occupied by a squat fellow in ring armour over leathers, rags at his feet and hands, his hair unkempt and growing a beard, leaning back asleep. He was much the worse for wear, but Shell would recognize Blues anywhere.

  She whistled a call and one eye cracked open; he sat up, staring. Shell signed: A Malazan soldier with me. Any news?

  Lazar is here. Fingers?

  Don’t know. I met someone who knows Bars.

  Who?

  Shell spelt: Jemain.

  Blues shrugged. Don’t know him.

  Said he’d get back to me.

  A second shrug. We’ll see.

  Shell said aloud: ‘How is it here?’

  ‘Damned desperate. Too many Riders, not enough guards.’

  ‘Losing people?’

  ‘Losing workers.’

  ‘What’re they doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘This is Ice Tower,’ a new voice answered: Tollen. ‘Always rough here. Looks like the waves are really cresting now.’

  ‘Get some rest, damn you!’ someone barked. ‘You’ll need it.’

  Shell lay back, hugged herself. Whoever that was, he was right. Best think of what was to come. Don’t let yourself get caught unprepared. And that accent … another damned Malazan?

  Come the dawn, the nightshift of guards came trooping down the stairs exhausted, soaked through and shivering. A new shift was pulled together; neither Shell nor Blues was selected. ‘How long you been here?’ she asked.

  ‘Only a few days.’

  ‘How many of us prisoners are there here?’

  Blues cocked his head, signed: Thinking of breaking out?

  Can’t stay for ever.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Blues answered aloud. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether we should interfere …’

  Shell stared at the man. A shiver took her; good gods, that Blues should be uneasy about this …

  She jumped as a guard appeared to unlock her cell. He motioned her out.

  ‘Good luck,’ Blues called. ‘Guard yourself.’

  She gave him a nod. Sword out, the man forced her ahead up the circular staircase. At the top four regular guards covered her with cocked crossbows. Weapons cluttered the far wall. ‘Take your pick,’ one invited her, grinning. She eyed the spears and two-handed swords, but decided on a more conservative approach and selected sword and shield.

  The guard motioned her to the door. ‘Let’s go.’

  The door led to the corridor that exited the tower. Outside, the guard pointed to the right and they crossed the walkway, hunched, heads turned away from the punishing, cutting wind. They came to a work crew struggling with a tripod and block and tackle. The guard motioned Shell to the outer ice-entombed machicolations here. He hammered at the ice to expose an iron ring and shackled her to it. Waves pounded, soaking them with spray that shocked her though she’d felt its teeth before. Another defender squatted off to the right. He appeared to be an old man, wearing nothing but rags, his long hair and beard grey-shot and matted. Who was this fossil?

  ‘Hey, grandfather,’ she called, cupping her hands at her mouth. ‘What are you doing here?’

  The haggard head barely edged over to glance. She caught a glimpse of a gaunt, skeletal face as it turned away. The sight of that seeming death mask made her shudder.

  A great bell-like resonance sounded then from the waters of the inlet. That was new. Some sort of extra effort here? Maybe they think this is their chance. She strained to penetrate the blowing snow. Far out, the surface of the waters seemed to bulge, swelling. That’s a lot of water – and it’s headed for a very narrow gap! Shell braced herself. Behind, the workers scrambled for cover. A block the size of a cart hung suspended from the tackle. Raising the wall from the rear, working towards the front.

  Glancing back Shell caught the old fellow staring at her. He quickly glanced away. The tall bulge rolled inexorably down upon them. Like a tidal bore. Only generated by the Riders. Shell edged forward as far as she dared, peered over and down. They looked to have only some three fathoms of freeboard here. That surge could overtop them! Feeling a rising panic she glanced about, but no one appeared unduly alarmed. Queen preserve her! This was what they fought here!

  The old man straightened, his arms loose at his sides. He appeared completely unarmed.

  Shell edged back: the ice-webbed surge was almost upon them. She reached behind with one foot, sought a knob or irregularity to brace, found one.

  The surge struck the wall; or rather, it began rising up the side of the wall. Shell’s footing rocked backwards beneath her as if fluid itself. The water came on and on, swelling with Shell’s own dread until it washed up over the top and swept her feet out from under her. Frigid glacial waters flowed over her. The shock almost took the life from her, but she straightened, braced against the flow, gasping in air, throwing her head back, to face a Stormrider standing atop the wall. The entity, wearing armour like shells sewn into a coat, thrust at her. She took the blow on her shield, swung a clumsy counter that the rider sidestepped. It circled, attempting to force her to put her back to the inlet. She dodged to forestall that. She shield-bashed but lacked the raw power to drive the Rider back. It slashed at a leg and she dodged back. It glanced behind her but she refused to look. Then it simply sank down into the receding waters to wash away in the flow. Shell was left standing, panting, her flesh in an agony of cold. She risked a quick glance behind: the tripod and block were gone, swept clean off the wall.

  A loud high-pitched report, as of iron tearing, sounded from her right and she looked over: the old guy’s post was empty. Where—

  Hands took her throat from behind, lifted her from her feet.

  ‘I knew I recognized you!’ someone snarled. ‘Skinner sent you, didn’t he?’

  With a despairing, almost bizarre feeling that this wasn’t really happening, Shell recognized the voice. ‘Bars!’ she gasped.

  ‘No torc, I see,’ he hissed. ‘Going to wait for a wave then take me down while I’m busy, yes? Then off to your Warren. Looks like you missed your chance. Now … where is he?’

  ‘No – you don’t—’

  Bars’ frigid hands, like two wedges of ice, throttled her. ‘Raise your Warren and I’ll tear your head off. Now … where is he!’

  ‘Who?’ she managed, stealing a breath.

  ‘Quit stalling! Skinner! Damn his betraying soul!’

  Deceiving gods! Oponn, you have outdone yourself! Skinner! He was renegade now. His attempt to usurp K’azz failed and he was forced out – disavowed. And Bars thinks he’s sent me! Shell drew upon all the strength those of the Avowed possess and yanked Bars’ own hands a fraction apart while her legs kicked uselessly. ‘Blues is with me!’ she gasped before those iron fingers cinched like vices to cut off her breath utterly. Stars flashed in her vision and a roaring drowned out all sounds.

  She came to lying in frigid water. A Korelri Chosen held a spear levelled at Bars while a regular guard helped her up. ‘What is this?’ the Korelri demanded.

  ‘An old grudge,’ Shell croaked, rubbing her neck.

  ‘You are both finished then?’

  Shell nodded. Bars crossed his arms. Blues, he signed, insistent. She nodded again.

  ‘Your shift is done,’ the Korelri told Bars, motioning him off. ‘You … you stay as yet.’

  Shell continued
massaging her neck. Frankly, she would rather face the Riders.

  They left her alone, staring out over the slate-grey waves whipped into white caps. After a time it occurred to her that the Stormrider had seemed more interested in damaging the wall itself than in killing anyone.

  * * *

  Suth sat on Banith’s wharf, leaning forward on piled equipment, chin in his arms, watching the battered fleet of Blue dromonds and Quon men-of-war lumbering out of the bay. ‘All the in-bred gods! I can’t damned believe it.’

  ‘Wish them luck,’ Len said, saluting.

  Lying back, eyes closed, Wess saluted the sky. Lard grumbled, ‘Lucky bastards.’

  Keri blew out a breath. ‘Someone has to stay behind …’

  ‘Hood take this Fist,’ Pyke said. ‘’Cause a him we’re missing all the action.’

  Yana gave the man a look of contempt. ‘You’re glad we’re staying, so stop your mouth.’

  Pyke straightened. ‘I’ll stop your—’

  ‘Store it!’ Goss cut in.

  ‘I need a drink,’ Yana said, pushing herself up. ‘Let’s go.’

  Suth stood and adjusted his cloak against the cutting wind. ‘Aye. Let’s go.’

  ‘Your sweetie’s still here,’ Keri told Suth.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That Barghast gal.’ She made a fake grab for Suth’s crotch. ‘I hear once they get hold they don’t let go.’

  Suth flinched away. ‘We ain’t doin’ nothing.’

  Lard got a dreamy look on his wide face. ‘Too bad. That sounds pretty damn good.’

  They walked the near empty streets, heading back to their inn. Snow blew across the cobbles. They passed the occasional burned or boarded-up pillaged building, remnants from the riots and panic of the landings.

  Yana flinched abruptly, hissing, a hand going to her side where a crossbow bolt had suddenly sprouted. Goss, Suth and Lard rushed the abandoned building opposite. Lard kicked down the boards covering the broken door. Suth charged the stairs, Goss following. Noise brought him to a rear room where a window gaped open. He leaned out: someone had let himself down, jumping, and now ran up a back alley. A slim gangly figure. A kid. A Queen-damned young kid. Goss arrived, a crossbow in hand: Malazan made. Suth shook his head in disbelief. ‘Did you see him?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, I saw him. A kid.’

  Suth blew out a breath. This was gonna be ugly. What could they do? They couldn’t let it go unanswered. Everyone and their grandmother would be taking potshots at them. They had to respond. No choice. They went back down to see Yana.

  Wess had his shield unslung and was covering her while Keri treated the wound. ‘We have to get back to the inn. Lay her down,’ she said. Goss nodded.

  ‘Who was it?’ Pyke demanded. ‘Did you get him?’

  ‘Just a kid,’ said Suth. ‘He got away.’

  ‘A kid?’ Pyke said, offended. ‘So? Why’d you let him go?’

  ‘I did not—’

  Goss pulled Suth away. ‘Shut that mouth of yours,’ he warned Pyke. ‘Lard, carry Yana. Let’s go.’

  Inside, they checked their rooms, laid Yana down and summoned a bonecutter. Goss placed Wess and Lard on guard then sat with Suth, Keri and Len. ‘Started already,’ he told Len, who nodded.

  ‘What?’ Suth asked.

  ‘Insurgency. Attacks, killings, fire-bombings an’ such. A vicious mess. Might get orders to pull back into the garrison.’

  Len took a deep pull from his stein of beer. ‘I hate occupations. Bad blood all around. Hate. Suspicion. We’ll be prisoners in our own garrison.’

  Goss just hunched, depressed. ‘Reminds me of damned Seven Cities.’

  *

  Captain Betteries and Captain Perin joined Fist Rillish for dinner that evening in the commander’s rooms in the old Malazan Sixth Army garrison. The stone fort was crowded, holding two thousand men and women when normally it would hold less than half that. The rest of the Malazan expeditionary forces were encamped inland, in the hills around Banith. Captain Betteries was a red-haired Falaran native, while Captain Perin hailed from north Genabackis, his skin almost as dark as a Dal Honese, but his face much wider and more brutal in features than the more refined lineaments of the Dal Hon. They had just finished a first course of soup when a steward opened the door to allow Captain Peles to enter. All three officers stood. Captain Peles waved for them to sit.

  ‘Welcome,’ Rillish said, inviting her to a seat.

  Peles sat, as did they. Rillish wondered to see her now without her helm and thick mail coat. Her long silver hair was unbraided to fall loose; she wore a long-sleeved jacket over a pale shirt. And while most would not consider her battle-flattened nose and scarred cheeks beautiful in the narrow, stereotypical image of some floaty, cultured, urban lady, Rillish thought her extraordinarily attractive, even desirable. He discovered her answering his stare.

  ‘Yes, Fist?’

  He swallowed, looking away to pick up his wine glass. ‘How are the security arrangements?’ Captain Peles had been appointed chief of his guard.

  ‘This garrison is a death trap. There’s no well. The storerooms are too small. The arsenal is as empty as a merchant’s generosity.’

  ‘I agree,’ Captain Betteries added.

  ‘What would you suggest?’ Rillish asked Peles.

  ‘I suggest we withdraw to outside the town. Build our own fortress.’

  ‘That would cut down on the nuisance sniping,’ Captain Perin commented.

  ‘What’s the report?’ Rillish asked.

  ‘Two troopers wounded in separate incidents. Plus the usual vandalism, theft and physical assaults.’

  The main course arrived. The news had blunted Rillish’s appetite. So soon. Occupations breed mutual disgust, harden divisions, and brutalize all parties. Should they withdraw from town? Perhaps they should. Yet even if they went now, of their own choosing, it would look as if they’d been chased out. And so they were already effectively trapped. ‘You have taken all the usual steps?’ he asked Captain Betteries.

  The man nodded, a little worse for drink. ‘Arrested the local leaders. This acting Lord Mayor, who’s also the local magistrate, apparently. A few others.’

  ‘But I understand Admiral Nok had some sort of agreement with the man.’

  ‘Better to have him where we can keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Where is the Adjunct, may I ask?’ Captain Perin enquired.

  ‘With the troops outside the town.’

  ‘And you, sir, Fist. I understand you have been here before?’

  Rillish’s jaws tightened. ‘Yes, Captain. It was my second posting.’

  Captain Perin seemed unaware of Captain Betteries’ not-so-subtle glare for silence. ‘Here, in Rool?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Rillish answered, a touch tartly.

  ‘Then …’ The captain tailed off as he appreciated the dangerous waters he was entering. ‘Ah … interesting.’ He addressed his dinner. After a time his gaze turned to Peles, where it rested while they ate. ‘You are of Elingarth?’ he asked finally.

  The broad-boned woman almost blushed. ‘Around there,’ she muttered into her plate.

  ‘I am surprised. It is rare for one of the military orders to strike out on his or her own.’

  ‘There are those of us who are selected to travel, to learn other ways, other philosophies.’

  ‘A sound strategy,’ Captain Betteries said.

  Captain Perin was nodding as well. ‘Yes. You could bring back information, useful knowledge. But you may also bring back dangerous ideas. The contamination of foreign beliefs …’

  Peles cut up her fish. ‘We do not follow the philosophy of purity versus pollution. That is a false choice, a false dichotomy. The truth is, nothing is “pure”. Everything is the product of something else.

  To name something “pure” is to pretend it has no history, nothing before it, which is obviously false.’

  Rillish stared. That had been the longest speech he’d heard from the woman, who n
ow blushed at the silent attention she was receiving from the three men.

  ‘Well argued,’ Captain Betteries said, and he took another drink.

  Later that night Rillish sat in his offices reviewing quartermaster reports. After sorting through the entire pile of paperwork he came to an envelope addressed to him and sealed with wax. An aide’s note said that it had been left by the front gate. He broke the seal and opened the thick folded paper, careful not to touch the inner slip – he knew of some who had been poisoned in this manner.

  He read the short message once. Its contents obviously confused him as he frowned, puzzled. Then he read it again. The third time he snatched it up and stood, swearing and cursing. He summoned his aides.

  *

  The building was unprepossessing. It had the look of long abandonment, of having been looted then occupied by squatters for some time. It was deep into the night when Rillish arrived. He came alone, wrapped in a dark cloak. The name in the note was enough to assure him of the message’s validity and of his safety. He waited in the main room among the rubbish and filth until a light grew above and a man came down the stairs, lamp in hand. The man was squat and muscular and bald. Seeing him, Rillish stared, amazed.

  ‘All the gods above and below … Ipshank. You still live. I couldn’t believe it.’

  The priest appeared uncomfortable. ‘Rillish Jal Keth. I don’t believe we actually met.’

  ‘No. But I heard much of you. You saw Greymane, then? You must have.’

  ‘We met.’ The man waved the lamp. ‘Right here. Secretly.’

  ‘Secretly? There’s no reason for secrecy. All that was a long time ago.’

  Ipshank set the lamp on a low table. He rubbed a hand over his bald pate. ‘There are those who still remember. You. Myself … others. And the enemy remains.’

  Rillish shook his head. ‘It’s over. Finished. You should have gone with him. How could you not have, knowing what he faces?’

  There was a long measured acknowledgement from the man as he crossed his arms and hung his head. In the dim light the faded boar tattoos gave his face a death-like cast. ‘That was what he said. That I should come with him. But I couldn’t. My work is here. Our work is here.’