The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

Icarium answered. “Magic powerful enough to drive gods to their knees, soldier.”

  “We have to get out of here,” Crokus muttered.

  This time everyone nodded agreement.

  Chapter Nine

  The Malazan engineers are a unique breed. Cantankerous, foul-mouthed, derisive of authority, secretive and thick-headed. They are the heartstone of the Malazan Army…

  THE IMPERIAL MILITARY

  SENJALLE

  As he descended into the Orbala Odhan, Kalam came upon the first signs of the uprising. A train of Malazan refugees had been ambushed while traveling along a dried stream bed. The attackers had come from the high grass lining both banks, first with arrow fire, then a rush to close with the hapless Malazans.

  Three wagons had been set aflame. The assassin sat motionless on his horse, studying the smoke-hazed heaps of charred wood, ash and bone. A small bundle of child’s clothing was all that remained of the victims’ possessions, a small knot of color ten paces from the smoldering remains of wagons.

  After one last glance around in search of Apt—the demon was nowhere to be seen, though he knew it was close—Kalam dismounted. Tracks revealed that the train’s livestock had been led away by the ambushers. The only bodies were those that had been burned in the wagons. His search revealed that there had been survivors, a small group abandoning the scene and fleeing south, out across the Odhan. It did not appear that they had been pursued, but Kalam well knew that there was little chance of salvation out on the plain. The town of Orbal was five, perhaps six days away on foot, and it was likely that it was in rebel hands in any case, since the Malazan detachment there had always been undermanned.

  He wondered where the refugees had come from. There was little to be found for leagues in any direction.

  Making a sound on the sand like the beat of a skin drum, Apt ambled into view from downstream. The beast’s wounds had healed, more or less, leaving puckered scars on its black hide. Five days had passed since the D’ivers attack. There had been no sign that the shapeshifter still pursued them, and Kalam hoped that it had taken enough damage to be discouraged from persisting in the hunt.

  Nevertheless, they were being trailed by…someone. The assassin felt it in his bones. He was tempted to lay an ambush of his own, but he was one man alone and his pursuers might be many. Moreover, he was uncertain whether Apt would assist his efforts—he suspected not. His only advantage was the swiftness of his travel. He’d found his horse after the battle without much trouble, and the animal seemed impervious to the rigors of the journey. He’d begun to suspect that an issue of pride had arisen between the stallion and the demon—his mount’s bolting from the fight must have stung, and it was as if the horse was determined to recover whatever delusions of dominance he possessed.

  Kalam climbed back into the saddle. Apt had found the trail left by the fleeing survivors and was sniffing the air, swinging its long, blunt head from side to side.

  “Not our problem,” Kalam told it, loosening the lone surviving long-knife at his belt. “We’ve enough troubles of our own, Apt.” He nudged his mount and set off in a direction that would take him well around the trail.

  In deepening dusk he rode across the plain. Despite its size, the demon seemed to vanish within the gloom. A demon born in the Shadow Realm, I shouldn’t be surprised.

  The grassland dipped ahead—another ancient river track. As he approached, figures rose from cover along the nearest bank. Cursing under his breath, Kalam slowed his mount, raising both hands, palms forward.

  “Mekral, Obarii,” Kalam said. “I ride the Whirlwind!”

  “Closer then,” a voice replied.

  Hands still raised, Kalam guided his horse forward with his heels and knees.

  “Mekral,” the same voice acknowledged. A man stepped clear of the high grasses, a tulwar in one hand. “Come join us in our feast, rider. You have news of the north?”

  Relaxing, Kalam dismounted. “Months old, Obarii. I’ve not spoken aloud in weeks—what stories can you tell me?”

  The spokesman was simply another bandit who now marauded behind the rebellion’s noble mask. He showed the assassin a gap-toothed smile. “Vengeance against the Mezla, Mekral. Sweet as spring water, such vengeance.”

  “The Whirlwind has seen no defeat, then? Have the Mezla armies done nothing?”

  Leading his horse, Kalam strode with the raiders down into the encampment. It had been carelessly laid out, revealing a sloppy mind in command. A large pile of wood was about to be set alight, promising a cooking fire that would be visible across half the Odhan. A small herd of oxen had been paddocked inside a makeshift kraal just downwind of the camp.

  “The Mezla armies have done nothing but die,” the leader said, grinning. “We have heard that but one remains, far to the southeast. Led by a Wickan with a heart of black, bloodless stone.”

  Kalam grunted. A man passed him a wineskin and, nodding his thanks, he drank deep. Saltoan, booty from the Mezla—probably the wagons I saw earlier. Same for the oxen. “Southeast? One of the coastal cities?”

  “Aye, Hissar. But Hissar is now in Kamist Reloe’s hands. As are all the cities but Aren, and Aren has the Jhistal within. The Wickan flees overland, chained with refugees by the thousand—they beg his protection even as they lap his blood.”

  “Not black-hearted enough, then,” Kalam muttered.

  “True. He should leave them to Reloe’s armies, but he fears the wrath of the coddled fools commanding in Aren, not that they’ll breathe much longer.”

  “What is this Wickan’s name?”

  “Coltaine. It’s said he is winged like a crow, and finds much to laugh about amidst slaughter. A long, slow death awaits him, this much Kamist Reloe has promised.”

  “May the Whirlwind reap every reward it’s earned,” the assassin said, drinking again.

  “A beautiful horse you have, Mekral.”

  “And loyal. Beware the stranger seeking to ride him.” Kalam hoped the warning was not too subtle for the man.

  The bandit leader shrugged. “All things can be tamed.”

  The assassin sighed, set down the wineskin. “Are you betrayers of the Whirlwind?” he asked.

  All motion around him ceased. Off to his left the fire’s bone-dry wood crackled in a rising flame.

  The leader spread his hands, an offended expression on his face. “A simple compliment, Mekral! How have we earned such suspicion? We are not thieves or murderers, friend. We are believers! Your fine horse is yours, of course, though I have gold—”

  “Not for sale, Obarii.”

  “You have not heard my offer!”

  “All Seven Holy Treasures will not sway me,” Kalam growled.

  “Then no more shall be said of such matters.” The man retrieved the wineskin and offered it to Kalam.

  He accepted but did no more than wet his lips.

  “These are sad times,” the bandit leader continued, “when trust is a rare thing among fellow soldiers. We all ride in Sha’ik’s name, after all. We share a single, hated enemy. Nights such as these, granted peace under the stars amidst this holy war, are cause for celebration and brotherhood, friend.”

  “Your words have captured the beauty of our crusade,” Kalam said. Words can so easily glide over mayhem and terror and horror, it’s a wonder trust exists at all.

  “You will now give me your horse and that fine weapon at your belt.”

  The assassin’s laugh was a soft rumble. “I count seven of you, four before me, three hovering behind.” He paused, smiling as he met the bandit leader’s fire-lit eyes. “It will be a close thing, but I will be certain to kill you first, friend.”

  The man hesitated, then answered with his own smile. “You’ve no sense of humor. Perhaps it is due to traveling so long without company that you have forgotten the games soldiers play. Have you eaten? We came upon a party of Mezla only this morning, and they were all too generous with their food and possessions. We shall visit them again, at dawn. There are women amo
ng them.”

  Kalam scowled. “And this is your war against the Mezla? You are armed, you are mounted—why have you not joined the armies of the Apocalypse? Kamist Reloe needs warriors like you. I ride south to join in the siege of Aren, which must surely come.”

  “As do we—to walk through Aren’s yawning gates!” the man replied fervently. “And more, we bring livestock with us, to help feed our brothers in the army! Do you suggest we ignore the rich Mezla we come upon?”

  “The Odhan will kill them without our help,” the assassin said. “You have their oxen.” Aren’s yawning gates…the Jhistal within. What does that mean? Jhistal, not a familiar word, not Seven Cities. Falari?

  The man’s expression had cooled in response to Kalam’s words. “We attack them at dawn. Do you ride with us, Mekral?”

  “They are south of here?”

  “They are. Less than an hour’s ride.”

  “Then it is the direction I am already traveling, so I shall join you.”

  “Excellent!”

  “But there is nothing holy in rape,” Kalam growled.

  “No, not holy.” The man grinned. “But just.”

  They rode in the night, beneath a vast scatter of stars. One of the bandits had stayed behind with the oxen and other booty, leaving Kalam riding with a party of six. All carried short recurved bows, though their supply of arrows was low—not a single quiver held more than three, and all with ragged fletching. The weapons would be effective at close range only.

  Bordu, the bandit leader, told the assassin that the Malazan refugees consisted of one man—a Malazan soldier—two women and two young boys. He was certain that the soldier had been wounded in the first ambush. Bordu did not expect much of a fight. They would take down the man first. “Then we can play with the women and boys—perhaps you will change your mind, Mekral.”

  Kalam’s only response was a grunt. He knew men such as these. Their courage held so long as they outnumbered their victims, the hollow glory they thirsted for came with overpowering and terrorizing the helpless. Such creatures were common in the world, and a land locked in war left them to run free, the brutal truths behind every just cause. They were given a name in the Ehrlii tongue: e’ptarh le’gebran, the vultures of violence.

  The withered skin of the prairie broke up ahead. Hump-shouldered knobs of granite were visible above the grasses, studding the slopes of a series of low hills. Faint firelight blushed the air behind one such large outcropping. Kalam shook his head. Far too careless in a hostile land—the soldier with them should have known better.

  Bordu raised a hand, slowing them to a halt about fifty paces from the monolithic outcrop. “Keep your eyes from the hearth,” he whispered to the others. “Let those fools be cursed with blindness, not us. Now, spread out. The Mekral and I will ride around to the other side. Give us fifty breaths, then attack.”

  Kalam’s eyes narrowed on the bandit leader. Coming at the camp from the opposite side, he would run an obvious risk of taking an arrow or three from these attackers in the melee. More soldier’s humor, I take it. But he said nothing, pulling away when Bordu did and riding side by side on a route that would circumvent the refugees’ camp.

  “Your men are skilled with their bows?” the assassin asked a few minutes later.

  “Like vipers, Mekral.”

  “With about the same range,” Kalam muttered.

  “They’ll not miss.”

  “No doubt.”

  “You are afraid, Mekral? You, such a large, dangerous-looking man. A warrior, without doubt. I am surprised.”

  “I’ve a bigger surprise,” Kalam said, reaching over and sliding a blade across Bordu’s throat.

  Blood sprayed. Gurgling, the bandit leader reeled back in his saddle, his head flopping horribly.

  The assassin sheathed his knife. He rode closer in time to prop the man back up in his saddle and hold him balanced there, one hand to Bordu’s back. “Ride with me a while longer,” Kalam said, “and may the Seven Holies flay your treacherous soul.” As they will mine, when the time comes.

  The glimmering firelight lay ahead. Distant shouts announced the bandits’ charge. Horse hooves thumped the hard ground. Kalam tapped his mount into a canter. Bordu’s horse matched the pace, the bandit leader’s body weaving, his head now lolling almost on its side, ear against one shoulder.

  They reached the hill’s slope, which was gentler on this side and mostly unobstructed. The attackers were visible now, riding into the shell of firelight, arrows zinging to thud into the blanket-wrapped figures around the hearth.

  From the sound those arrows made Kalam knew instantly that there were no bodies beneath those blankets. The soldier had proved his worth, had laid a trap. The assassin grinned. He pushed Bordu down over the saddlehorn and gave the bandit leader’s horse a slap on the rump. It charged into the light.

  The assassin quickly checked his own mount’s canter, slipped to the ground still in the darkness beyond the firelight, and padded forward noiselessly.

  The crisp snap of a crossbow sounded. One of the bandits pitched back in his saddle and tumbled to the ground. The four others had pulled up, clearly confused. Something like a small bag flew into the hearth, landing with a spray of sparks. A moment later the night was lit up in a cascading flame, and the four bandits were clearly outlined. The crossbow loosed again. A bandit shrieked, arching to reach for a quarrel embedded in his back. A moment later he groaned, sagging as his horse stepped in a confused circle.

  Kalam had escaped exposure in the burst of light, but his night vision was gone. Swearing under his breath, he edged forward, long-knife in his right hand, double-edged dagger in his left.

  He heard another rider coming in hard from one side. Both bandits wheeled their mounts to meet the charge. The horse appeared, slowing from what had been a bolt. There was no one in the saddle.

  The flare-up from the hearth was ebbing.

  His nerves suddenly tingling, Kalam stopped and crouched down. He watched as the riderless horse trotted aimlessly to the right of the bandits, the animal moving closer to come alongside one of the attackers. In a fluid, graceful motion, the rider swung up into view—a woman, who had been crouching down out of sight over one stirrup—twisting to chop down at the nearest bandit with a butcher’s cleaver. The huge blade connected with the man’s neck and cut through to lodge in his vertebra.

  Then the woman had both feet on the saddle. Even as the bandit toppled she stepped onto his horse, taking the lance from the saddle holster and jabbing it like a spear at the second bandit.

  Cursing, the man reacted with a warrior’s training. Instead of leaning back in what would have been a hopeless effort to avoid the lancehead flashing at his chest, he drove both heels into his horse, twisting to let the lance slip past. His mount rammed the other horse, chest to flank. With a startled yelp the woman lost her balance and fell heavily to the ground.

  The bandit leaped from the saddle, unsheathing his tulwar.

  Kalam’s dagger took him in the throat three paces from the dazed woman. Spitting in fury, hands clutching his neck, the bandit fell to his knees. Kalam approached to deliver a killing thrust.

  “Stand still,” a voice snapped behind him. “Got a quarrel trained on you. Drop that lizard-sticker. Now!”

  Shrugging, the assassin let the weapon fall from his hand. “I’m Second Army,” he said. “Onearm’s Host—”

  “Is fifteen hundred leagues away.”

  The woman had regained the breath that had been driven from her lungs. She rose to her hands and knees, long black hair hanging down over her face.

  The last bandit finished dying with a faint, wet gurgle.

  “You’re Seven Cities,” the voice behind Kalam said.

  “Aye, yet a soldier of the Empire. Listen, work it out. I rode up from the other side, with the bandits’ leader. He was dead before his horse carried him into your camp.”

  “So why does a soldier wear a telaba and no colors and ride alone? Desertio
n, and that’s a death sentence.”

  Kalam hissed in exasperation. “And clearly you chose to protect your family instead of whatever company you’re attached to. By Imperial Military Law that counts as desertion, soldier.” As he spoke the Malazan stepped around, his crossbow still trained on the assassin.

  Kalam saw a man half dead on his feet. Short and wide, he wore the tattered remnants of an Outpost detachment uniform, light-gray leather jerkin, dark-gray surcoat. His face was covered in a network of scratches, as were his hands and forearms. A deep wound marred his bristly chin, and the helm shadowing his eyes was dented. The clasp of his surcoat ranked him a captain.

  The assassin’s eyes widened upon seeing that. “Though a captain deserting is a rare thing…”

  “He didn’t desert,” the woman said, now fully recovered and sorting through the weapons of the dead bandits. She found a lightweight tulwar and tested its balance with a few swings. In the firelight Kalam could see she was attractive, medium-boned, her hair streaked with iron. Her eyes were a startling light gray. She collected a belted sword-hoop and strapped it on.

  “We rode out of Orbal,” the captain said, pain evident in his voice. “A whole company escorting out refugees—our families. Ran smack into a Hood-damned army on the march south.”

  “We’re all that’s left,” the woman said, turning to gesture into the darkness. Another woman—a younger, thinner version of the other one—and two children stepped cautiously into the light, then rushed to the captain’s side.

  The man continued to aim an unsteady crossbow at Kalam. “Selv, my wife,” he said, gesturing to the woman now at his side. “Our children, there. And Selv’s sister Minala. That’s us. Now, let’s hear your story.”

  “Corporal Kalam, Ninth Squad…Bridgeburners. Now you know why I’m out of uniform, sir.”

  The man grinned. “You’ve been outlawed. So why aren’t you marching with Dujek? Unless you’ve returned to your homeland to join the Whirlwind.”

  “Is that your horse?” Minala asked.

  The assassin turned to see his mount step casually into the camp. “Aye.”