Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  ‘You will see Bars?’

  ‘Yes. He’s on the wall now. I’ll see him later.’

  ‘What …’ The man wet his lips. ‘What will you tell him?’

  ‘The truth. What he deserved long ago. The truth.’

  ‘And then … ?’

  Corlo shrugged, unknowing. ‘Then we’ll leave the wall.’ One way, or another.

  ‘How will he take it?’

  Very poorly, I expect. ‘Never mind, Jemain. Stay out of his way until I can speak to him, yes?’

  The man nodded, rather relieved.

  ‘Good. And thank you. It’s good to finally know … anyway.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’

  Corlo urged him on. ‘Yes, I know. Better go.’

  A wave goodbye and the man backed down the hall of cells. Corlo watched him go then rested his forehead against the frigid bars.

  ‘I say you don’t tell him,’ said someone from across the hall.

  Corlo started up, a blistering curse on his lips, but something in the bearded, ragged-haired head at the grate opposite stopped him. And the man spoke Talian. ‘You’re Malazan?’

  ‘Yeah. Tollen’s the name. Listen, there’s some four or five Avowed here in this tower. Enough to take this entire section of wall. And I want to get my fellow veterans out. We need your boy Bars. So don’t say a damned thing.’

  Four other Avowed? So Bars had it right! Shell hadn’t come alone. Corlo was quiet for a time, coming to terms with this proof. Then he snorted. ‘He deserves the truth anyway. And I don’t take directions from some bastard Malazan.’

  ‘I’m trying to save your damn-fool life, Guardsman!’

  Corlo pushed himself from the door. Save a life! That’s just what I told myself every time I spoke to Bars. I was trying to save his life. Well, lying is no way to do that. Better to be thought a betrayer, a traitor, than that.

  *

  Atop Ice Tower, a Korelri Stormguard arrived and bowed to Section Marshal Learthol, who was in conversation with Wall Marshal Quint. ‘The captive has been delivered.’

  Learthol accepted the message. Quint gave curt wave. ‘Good. Let’s hope we can squeeze the last of the season out of this champion.’

  Another Chosen stepped forward from the shadows of the chamber and the Korelri guard stiffened, bowing again. ‘Lord Protector.’

  Lord Protector Hiam acknowledged the bow. He addressed Learthol: ‘I understand there are others here just as promising …’

  ‘Yes. A surprising number of skilled prisoners of late. We must keep a close eye upon them.’

  The Lord Protector studied the oil flame of the communication device of this uppermost chamber. ‘Yes, Section Marshal. And we must take care to watch this flame. If calamity strikes we will have to summon aid quickly.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. I must say, we are honoured by your presence.’

  The Lord Protector waved such sentiments aside. ‘Where else would I be, Learthol? You’ll have more support soon. These Roolians will fill the inconsequential gaps. Easing the load for us. Soon you will have the numbers you should have had all along.’

  ‘My thanks. But we would have held regardless.’

  ‘Of course.’ The Lord Protector stared into the flame for a time, then gazed at Learthol as if not seeing him. ‘That will be all. Thank you.’

  Bowing, the guard and the Section Marshal exited, pulling the door shut behind them.

  In the relative quiet the howling wind returned to punish the shutters, which were seized in ice on all four sides. Quint’s scarred face twisted as he studied the Lord Protector. ‘You have news?’

  A slow assent from Hiam. ‘Yes. This overlord and his Roolian troops have been pushed back from the coast. The Malazans have struck inland towards the Barrier range.’

  Quint slammed the butt of his spear to the flagging. ‘They would take Kor!’

  Hiam pressed a hand to one iced shutter. ‘Perhaps …’

  ‘Perhaps? What else could they intend?’

  ‘They might …’ Hiam wrenched open the westward-facing shutters. Cutting winds whipped through the chamber, snapping their cloaks and clearing a table of clutter and pages of vellum. The oil flame of the communication beacon was snuffed. Hiam stared down the ice-encrusted wall, where beneath fat hanging clouds and driving snow raging waves were breaking almost even with the wall’s outermost crenellations. All is grey – iron-grey, both sea and stone. ‘They might make a strike for the wall,’ he admitted.

  Quint slammed shut the leaf. ‘Good! We will crush them!’

  Hiam gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Of course, Quint.’

  ‘Yes!’ The Wall Marshal relit the fat wick of the oversized lamp. ‘Perhaps the Lady has drawn them here to destroy them.’ He studied his commander through narrowed eyes. ‘Had you not thought of that, Hiam?’

  The Lord Protector was startled. No, indeed. I had not considered that … Lady forgive me! My faith is shallower than I suspected. I must pray long tonight. He answered Quint’s steady gaze. Living Spear of the wall. You know no doubt, Quint. The Spear does not reflect – it strikes!

  Rubbing his brow, Hiam acknowledged, ‘No, Quint I hadn’t thought of that. My thanks for reminding me that the ways of the Lady are beyond our knowing.’ He squeezed the older man’s shoulder. ‘With you as our pillar, we shall not fail.’ And he passed by to descend the narrow circular staircase, leaving Quint alone in the light of the guttering flame.

  That evening Hiam was taking a hot dinner of stew with Section Commander Learthol. There came a knock at the door and a Korelri Chosen bowed. ‘Lord Protector, the adviser to the Overlord has arrived. Shall I admit him?’

  Hiam sipped his tea. ‘Yes. Have him brought up.’

  The man bowed. ‘Lord Protector.’

  ‘I have heard stories of this one,’ Learthol said, after the Chosen had left. ‘They say the Lady permits him the practice of his witchery.’

  Hiam nodded. ‘Yes. There is precedent in history.’

  Learthol stroked his long chin. ‘True. There are stories of a pair of travelling sorcerers. She did not destroy them.’

  Hiam waved a hand. ‘I understand they were merely passing through. They were of no consequence.’

  A knock came at the door and Hiam called, ‘Enter.’

  The guard showed the man in, then, at a sign from Hiam, departed. The man, Ussü, bowed. His robes were travel-stained and wet with rain and snow. His long grey hair was plastered to his skull and he was shivering. Rising, Hiam gestured to a chair. ‘Please sit. You are just arrived? What word from the Overlord?’

  Sitting, the old man extended his hands out to the small stove in the middle of the chamber. ‘Thank you for receiving me, Lord Protector.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘No doubt you have heard the news from the south.’

  ‘Yes. These Malazans have gained a foothold.’ The man winced, whether at the bluntness of his phrasing or the use of the word Malazans, Hiam wasn’t sure.

  ‘Yes, Lord Protector. They have struck inland for the foothills and the Barrier range.’

  ‘And the Overlord?’

  ‘Is marshalling his troops in order to pursue, I understand.’

  Hiam offered the man some tea. ‘Excellent. If they dare to move north we will have them caught between us, yes?’ And should they dare approach? What could we possibly spare to meet them? Blood and iron, of course. As we deliver to all who would defy the Lady.

  Ussü accepted the small cup. ‘Yes, Lord Protector.’

  ‘And the Overlord sent you to reassure us, perhaps?’

  ‘In truth, Lord Protector, I am come on another errand. I wish to question your champion. If I may.’

  Hiam grunted a laugh. ‘Your timing is impeccable, Adviser. You can have him. Just this afternoon he lost his mind. Went berserk. Tried to murder his cellmate – a companion of many years. Madness is a terrible thing. It can drive us to betray everyone around us. Sometimes for the most insignificant, or imagined, slights. Wh
o is to know the reasons behind the breaking of a mind?’ And he shrugged.

  ‘That is a shame, m’lord. I’m sorry you lost so able a fighter. Still, he may be of use to me.’

  Hiam scooped up more of his stew. ‘What is it you require?’

  The Roolian – Malazan, Hiam corrected himself, and a damned mage – blew out his breath. ‘Oh, a private chamber, shackles, strong aides to help me. And chains, sir. Your strongest chains you use for hauling stone blocks.’

  Hiam was rather taken aback by these requests. Still, these he could manage. And, who knows? Perhaps something will come of it. He nodded. ‘Very well. I believe we can pull something together.’ He turned to Section Marshal Learthol. ‘Would you see to it?’

  Learthol dabbed his mouth, stood. ‘This way, Adviser, if you please.’

  Standing, Ussü straightened his heavy sodden robes and bowed to Hiam. ‘My thanks, Lord Protector.’

  Hiam watched the man go, Learthol bowing as he closed the door, and he wondered: had he just made an error? Still, the Lady permitted the man his infringements – she should be the final arbiter, not he.

  *

  Ussü worked on his preparations long into the night before, exhausted, falling asleep at the work desk of the chambers provided. The next morning he awoke to hands and feet numb with cold, and frost thick in the corners of the stone chamber. The wind battered the one shuttered window. A servant arrived with an iron brazier stoked with charcoal and a modest meal of bread, goat’s cheese and cold tea.

  Two Theftian labourers arrived later, with orders to serve him. These he set to work fitting iron pins into joints in the walls, and securing lengths of chain. When all was in readiness, he briefed the two with detailed instructions as to how to proceed, then left to request the Champion be moved to his chamber. He decided not to be in sight until the man was secured: there remained the slight possibility that he might recognize him as a Malazan and become suspicious.

  From down the hall he watched while the man was marched, manacled and under guard, up to the room. On first setting eyes on the fellow he was aghast: this emaciated, haggard, tattered wretch was the Champion? Still, anyone else carrying such half-healed wounds, frostbite, and exposure damage would surely be dead. That he was apparently able to ignore all these mutilations spoke well for the coming experiment. He waited to give time for the man to be securely chained, then entered.

  The subject was laid out on a thick oaken table at the centre of the chamber, gagged. His legs were together and straight, wrapped in chain lengths secured to pins in either wall. His arms were together as well, stretched up over his head and extending down towards the floor, wrapped in chains, and secured to a pin sunk in the flagging. Ussü leaned over the grimed, stinking fellow to peer into his eyes.

  Nothing. No apparent awareness. Merely a dull stare straight up at the ceiling. Catatonic? Just as well. All the easier for his purposes. Yet … lack of a will to live would not do … He began cutting the rags from the man’s chest.

  ‘You do not know me,’ he told him, ‘but I believe I know you.’

  Tearing away the rags, he went to a table where his instruments had been laid out. ‘I must admit that when I heard that the Korelri Champion was a Malazan who denied being a Malazan … and named Bars, well, I became intrigued.’ He glanced back, and there, around the fellow’s eyes – a slight tightening? ‘I, as you can tell, am Malazan. Sixth Army, to be exact. Cadre mage Ussü at your service.’ Knife in hand, he bowed.

  He pressed a hand to the arc of the man’s naked ribs, testing, prodding. ‘You, on the other hand, are Bars, Iron Bars, Avowed of the Crimson Guard.’

  Ussü stepped back, reconsidering. Perhaps the stomach cavity? Less risk of harming a lung, but still, such bleeding. It drains the life force. The man’s eyes flicked sidelong to catch sight of him; the jaws shifted as if nearly summoned to speech.

  ‘Yes. Imagine how much the Empire would pay for a living Avowed to study. Quite a lot, no doubt.’ The man’s astounding chest capacity decided things for Ussü. More room than had ever been offered before. It would be the front. He waved to his aides to take hold of legs and arms, then leaned over the man. ‘But that is not why we are here. They say the Avowed cannot be killed.’ He held the keen obsidian-bladed scalpel up before the man’s eyes. ‘This is what we are here to test.’

  The chains crashed and rang, almost singing with strain as the subject convulsed.

  Ussü flinched back, a hand on the man’s side as one might calm a spooked horse. But the bindings held – so far. He rolled his sleeves up. He traced the line of the cut between ribs, nodded to his aides, and slit the flesh down through the muscle.

  Gagged, the subject howled incoherencies, writhing and twisting. Ussü went to his instruments and selected his largest, most sturdy rib-spacer. He returned to the subject. ‘I’m told,’ he said conversationally, ‘that this is a worse agony than even trained torturers can inflict.’ He pushed the sharpened, toothed edges into the cut then struck it home with a heave of his bodyweight. Foam blew out around the edges of the gag and the eyes burned a blazing white-hot fury. Good! Rage will stoke the will to live.

  Ussü began turning the spacing screws. ‘Not that I am implying any sort of parallel between myself and some brute torturer. For the analogy breaks down here, you see? The torturer requires something from his victim and is attempting to draw it from him – or her. Yet I require nothing from you.’

  Which is a half-lie. I require that you live. ‘I, however, am motivated purely by curiosity and the pursuit of knowledge.’ Ussü paused in the turning. Does that not then make both torturers and I knowledge-seekers? He cocked his head, considering. The knowledge I seek is not held by anyone else … that is a fundamental distinction. Nodding, he continued widening the gap between the ribs.

  Something shook him then – not the subject, and not the waves slamming with mind-numbing regularity against the tons of stone beneath, but something new – an earth tremor. Ice outside the walls crackled as the entire structure rolled slightly, as if an immense giant had laid a gentle hand against the tower. The aides shared terrified glances. Ussü merely attempted to measure the extent of the displacement. Interesting … such tremors are common on Fist, but I understand rather rare events here in the Korel Isles.

  The movements subsided with a diminishing of the landslide roaring accompanying it. Ussü returned his attention to the subject, dismissing the event. He’d entered high on the torso as he’d decided to come in above and between the lungs. The subject had stopped writhing, as even the slightest motion now induced waves of intense agony – or so he intuited. The gap large enough, he wiped his hand on the side of his robes, then, keeping it flat, like a knife-edge, worked it down into the blood-filled cavity.

  The subject convulsed as if axe-struck, bellowing fury and anguish in a storm of mouthings and roaring. Ussü rode out the convulsion, hand up to his second knuckle in the man’s chest. After the waves of twitching passed, Ussü carefully began edging aside organs and pushing down through films of tissue to reach the heart, cradled as it was in its protective pocket of fat and muscle.

  Incredibly, the subject was still conscious. Just half an arm’s length away the eyes blazed at him like promises of Hood’s own vengeance. Ussü pulled his gaze away: he’d brushed the heart. It was time to summon his Warren. He reached out, mentally, opening himself to the wash of energies, and was seized by a torrent that nearly threw him off the body. Gods! What lay behind such might? There was something here – some mystery beyond this Crimson Guard. They’d touched something. Something dormant, or hidden, with this vow of theirs.

  No matter. There lay future researches. For now, the task at hand. Ha! At hand! In hand, perhaps. Where was Greymane – the Betrayer – Stonewielder?

  He reached out, seeking him. The extraordinary might available to him drove Ussü’s consciousness far to the west, and there he found his man. An aura shone about him like a sky-gouging pillar, and the grey stone blade h
e carried in his hands streamed a molten puissance Ussü’s Warren interpreted as a blinding sun-flare. The earth rolled about the man as if it were a cloth, shaken, and the merest echo of that release cast Ussü away from the body like a blow. He struck the stone wall and slid down, stunned.

  His aides shook him awake. Coming to, he flailed, groggy. Then he stood, worked to catch his breath. He grasped one’s shirt. ‘The Lord Protector! Where is he! I must speak to him!’

  The aides, Theftian labourers, merely gazed at one another, baffled. Snarling, Ussü thrust them aside to stagger for the stairs. ‘Stay here! Watch him!’

  *

  Hiam was with Master Engineer Stimins discussing the potential damage from the tremor when the Overlord’s adviser, Ussü, burst in among them. Blood stained his robes, hands and arms, as if he’d been groping his way through a slaughterhouse. Two nearby Chosen drew blades on him. Hiam took one look at the man’s stricken gaze and waved the guards aside.

  ‘Lady forefend, man, what is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘Who named him Stonewielder?’ the Malazan demanded, almost frenzied.

  Hiam felt his jaws clenching. ‘We do not discuss that,’ he ground out.

  ‘Who! Dammit, I must know.’

  Master Engineer Stimins caught Hiam’s gaze, cocked a brow. Hiam gave him curt assent. ‘There are locals on these islands. Indigenous tribals who survive here and there, such as in the Screaming range. They first named him Stonewielder. There are long-standing predictions of the wall’s destruction. As old as the wall itself. They claimed he fit them. The stone’s revenge against the wall – that sort of nonsense.’

  The Malazan mage had been nodding his agreement, as if in confirmation. ‘Yes. You here in Korel dismiss the Warrens – but they are real. One is named D’riss. The Warren of the Earth. The very ground beneath our feet. This … weapon … many claimed Greymane carries. Just now I found him, and it. It channels D’riss directly, Lord Protector. The might of the earth. And it has just been unsheathed against the wall. I felt it. Far to the west the Stormwall is being shaken to its roots. You felt the tremor, didn’t you? There is worse to come at any moment.’