The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire)

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘Honour? Modesty? But that was the last thing he ever wanted from me.’ She leant aside to Hurl and whispered in mock soft-voice: ‘How he begged me to throw aside all modesty, then! And he certainly didn’t want my mouth closed, then.’

  ‘Do tell,’ Hurl managed, torn between horror and falling off her horse from stifling her laughter. At her other side Sunny’s evil grin was as wide as Hurl had ever seen it.

  ‘I, ah, take it the two of you require no introduction,’ the warlord offered – showing astounding tact, Hurl thought.

  ‘None at all,’ Liss answered before anyone could speak again. ‘Let me tell you a story. Long ago I was a young Seeress of the White Sand tribe, the youngest and most gifted in ages. And I was a Sun Dancer, too. Perhaps that was when I caught the eye of a certain youth selected to become a shaman of the feared man-jackal? So long ago, wasn’t it, Imotan? But at that time I was too young for wooing and marked as sacred as well, a spirit vessel. But what is that to those who think themselves entitled to anything, eh? What did your predecessor long ago care that by seducing me he destroyed my potential as Sun Dancer? I, who called the sun back to the plains at the year’s turn, who interceded for the blessing of rain? Never mind the evil of rape that marked my body and my spirit! Do you remember the vow I swore when it was I who was thrown from the tribe, not he? Do you not know the story, Imotan…?’

  Both shamans now gaped at the old woman. ‘Surely,’ Hipal sneered, ‘you are not standing by that wild claim! Vessel of Baya-Gul! Patroness to Seers and guide of our Sun Mysteries?’

  ‘I am she.’

  Imotan waved to his warlord. ‘I do not know who this poor deluded old woman is, Warlord. Ignore her ravings. There is a story among our people of such a young woman named Liss from long ago and this may even be she, but all that has nothing to do with our business here today.’

  The warlord’s frown told Hurl that he was not so certain. ‘What is this vow?’

  ‘It is nothing, Warlord. Just a legend this witch attempts to exploit.’

  ‘I have heard the name Liss before. But not this vow.’

  ‘Warlord, she is only trying to—’

  ‘The vow!’

  Hipal bared his sharp teeth, dismissed Liss with a wave. ‘The legend is that the original Liss was exiled as a seductress and disturber of tribal accord. Upon leaving she vowed that the Seti people would wander lost for ever without knowing their true path and that they would never find it again until they welcomed her back into their hearth circles. And,’ Hipal spat, ‘until they begged for her forgiveness.’

  Both shamans eyed Liss as if ready to strike her that very moment. Imotan’s hands were white upon his reins. ‘Some,’ he ground out, ‘name that Liss’s Vow. Others, however, call it Liss’s Curse.’

  The warlord nodded his understanding. The leather of his saddle creaked as he leaned forward to rest an elbow on the high pommel. ‘So, the story circulated will be that this uprising is just one more wrong path. One more errant turn doomed to fail.’

  Liss blew Imotan a kiss.

  The warlord offered Hurl a short bow. ‘I see. My compliments to your commander, Hurl. I am sorry to say that I suspect we will be seeing much more of each other. Until then,’ and he gave the old Malazan salute instituted by the emperor, an open hand to the chest. The two shamans merely yanked their mounts around without a word.

  Leaving the hilltop, Hurl caught sight of a knot of outlanders among the Seti escort, and among them sat the slim straight figure of Captain Harmin Els D’Shil. The man sent them an ironic salute. Hurl nudged Sunny. ‘Look, there’s our old friend, Smiley.’

  Sunny waved, leering. ‘He’s mine.’

  D’Shil offered a courtier’s horseback bow.

  The ride the rest of the way back was quiet. Hurl concentrated on not giving her mount one chance for mischief. She had a boatload of questions for Liss, of course, should she dare. First, though, she’d have to run all she’d just heard past Silk.

  ‘So what did you think of our warlord?’ Liss asked of Hurl.

  ‘I’m impressed – unfortunately. I was hoping for someone less competent-seeming.’

  Liss nodded her agreement, her broad mouth widening in a smile. ‘They said he had something of Dassem about him, and they’re right. I’ve seen both.’

  Hurl eyed the old woman. ‘Who does?’

  ‘Why, Toc the Elder, of course. Congratulations! Few come away from any meeting with him in such good form.’ Reaching over she slapped Hurl’s thigh. ‘You did well, lass.’

  Hurl could only share a wondering look with Sunny. Gods Above! Toc the Elder. They were going to get handed their own asses. Then, all she could think of was her commander. Poor Storo! To stand opposite Toc! He was gonna take this hard. They might not see him sober till the Wolf Soldiers battered down the doors of the last tavern in the city.

  They rode in silence until just short of the closed North Gate of the Plains. Hurl had returned to keeping an eye on her mount just in case it thought she’d forgotten all about its horse-evil, when Sunny cleared his throat.

  ‘Liss,’ said Sunny, and Hurl knew he was about to ask what she was dying to ask but dared not broach. He was always one to dive straight in. ‘You’re not really this whatsit, this Baya-Gul thing, are you?’

  The old woman just smiled at Sunny. Aside, to Hurl, she said, ‘Here’s a tip, lass. Things only have the power people are willing to give them.’

  Hurl frowned over that. Sunny snorted, ‘What a crock of shit.’

  Liss just kept smiling. ‘That’s because you don’t believe.’

  The evening of their sixth day of flight Kyle sat with a thick patch of thorn bush behind him while he ate a raw fish and a handful of mushrooms that the brothers had scavenged during the day’s run. Stalker drank from a skin they’d filled at the stream. Their best meal in days. For his part, Kyle hadn’t contributed a thing; it was all he could do just to keep up. And these fellows were running and scavenging food all at the same time! He shook his head. He’d always prided himself on his endurance and running prowess, but these three put him to shame. Who were they anyway? Brothers, or close cousins, perhaps. But who were they in truth?

  He picked scales from his mouth and stretched his burning legs to stop them from seizing, then he turned his thoughts to the real question plaguing him. Why were they still alive? If these Crimson Guard Avowed were so fearsome why hadn’t they caught them already? Or simply murdered them one night as easily as he, Kyle, might swat insects?

  Stalker tossed Kyle the waterskin which he caught in one hand. ‘How you feelin’?’

  ‘Worn out. You fellows set an awful pace.’

  The scout grunted. ‘Well, you let me know how you’re holdin’ up. I’ll rein in the boys even more if need be.’

  Even more? By the Ancestors, Kyle knew that only the best runners of his tribe could have accomplished what they had managed in the last five days. Still, and he relaxed back to flexing his legs, what did distance matter when those hunting had access to the Warrens? He watched while the rangy, sandy-haired scout examined the bottom of one moccasin. ‘What does it matter? If they really wanted us, they could have us.’

  ‘True enough. And they did want you those first few days. But like Mara said, you had protection. Anyway, by now I figure they’re long gone.’

  The fish slipped from Kyle’s grasp. ‘Gone? You mean they’ve left? Where?’

  ‘Quon, o’ course. The invasion. They were organizing the departure when me ’n’ the boys volunteered to track you down.’ The scout gave his wolfish smile. ‘Sorry to be the one to give you the bad news, lad, but I guess you’re just not that important, hey?’

  Kyle gaped, appalled. ‘Then why in the Dark Hunter’s name have we been killing ourselves running halfway across Stratem!’

  ‘Well. Better safe than sorry, eh?’

  ‘I don’t blasted believe it!’ Kyle fought to open the waterskin.

  ‘Hey now! Don’t be upset. Things are looking up.
Remember I said you had protection, right?’

  ‘Yes – what was that about?’

  Stalker raised his chin aside. ‘Well, let’s see if they’re willing to talk now.’

  Badlands came pushing through branches and brush. With him was an old woman, squat and bandylegged, her face the hue of ironwood. She wore pale leathers decorated with fur edging, feather tufts and shells. The soft jangling of the shells accompanied her walk and Kyle did not wonder how she could move silent through the woods for he recognized her – his own tribe had its shamans, male and female, healers, priests and even warleaders. He stood to meet her.

  Badlands nodded to Stalker. ‘This is Janbahashur – as least, that’s the best I can manage.’ To her he said, ‘Stalker, Kyle.’

  They bowed. Her smile was wide and showed large white teeth. Kyle was struck by the broad ridges above her deep brown eyes. It was as if she was watching them from within a cave. ‘Thank you for your protection,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘We only helped a little,’ she said in Talian. ‘You did most.’ Kyle was deeply puzzled by that but he bowed just the same. ‘You travel west,’ she said. ‘We will help.’

  Badlands and Stalker exchanged glances. ‘How so?’ the scout asked. It seemed to Kyle that Stalker had wanted to ask another question, why? but that good manners stopped him.

  ‘We shall open a way. You cross through. Travel west.’

  ‘A Warren?’

  Janbahashur raised her brows, smiling. ‘A way, a path, call it what you will.’

  Neither of the soldiers spoke, obviously reluctant. Kyle wondered if it was up to him to say something. He decided not to be so well-mannered. ‘Why? Why help us – me?’

  The old woman’s eyes glittered with hidden knowledge and humour. ‘You could say it was whispered to us in the wind.’

  Wind. There it was. Kyle stared, daring the woman to say more, but her gaze remained calm and steady and he was forced to look away. ‘Very well. We’ll go.’

  Stalker nodded at Kyle’s acceptance. ‘OK. When and where?’

  ‘Not here. Follow me. It is not far.’

  As they walked Janbahashur fell into step next to Kyle. Her soft hide moccasins made no sound as she stepped over fallen branches and patches of moss. She directed them upslope and soon bare lichen-stained rock mounded around them. Dead fallen oak and spruce made the going slow.

  ‘Your people are like us, I think,’ she said to Kyle. ‘You live on the land, yes?’

  ‘Yes. And we worship it, and the sun, the rain – and wind.’

  She smiled again. ‘Yes. Wind. Many people worship it. To some it is merely a route to power – a tool to be used. But to us it is life.’ She breathed in expansively, exhaled in a gust. ‘Every living thing takes it in. Even the trees. It is part of all of us, intermingling. For us it is really a symbol for that most unknowable of things, the life essence.’

  ‘I see – I think.’

  She laughed. ‘There is no need to understand.’ She gestured ahead. ‘Here we are. Up here.’

  They climbed a rising dome of striated bedrock. Lichen painted it orange and red amid its dark green and zigzag of quartz veins. The peak overlooked virgin forest for as far as Kyle could see. Other than this magnificent view, the dome was empty. A few small round stones dotted it here and there, in what might be drawn as a large circle.

  Kyle looked around, caught Stalker’s eye, gestured a question. The scout nodded reassuringly.

  ‘One of your friends is watching my people, as should be,’ said Janbahashur. ‘They watch him in turn. That is good. To do otherwise would be foolish and we do not wish to waste our time on the foolish. Call him up.’

  Stalker signed something to Badlands who jogged down the slope.

  ‘It is ready,’ Janbahashur said, pointing to the centre of the broad circle. Kyle saw nothing, just empty rock. She smiled at his puzzlement. ‘Look more closely. Take your time.’

  Shading his eyes from the setting sun, Kyle squinted at the smooth expanse. At first he still saw nothing, then he noticed a slight shimmering of the ground and air around the centre of the circle, as if dust was blowing. While he watched, patches of dust and sand stirred to life on the rock, swirled faster and faster, blurring, then were sucked away to disappear as if by an invisible wind. Listening carefully, he could just make out a loud hissing as of a waterfall heard from far away.

  He looked to Janbahashur. ‘What is it?’

  ‘As you said, a path of Wind.’

  ‘Like nothing I’ve ever seen,’ said Stalker. ‘But I’m new to these Warrens. What I’ve seen were more like tears, gaps and holes.’

  Janbahashur dismissed such things with a wave. ‘Faugh. Brute force. Abusing the fabric of things. We use no such painful means. We merely bend the natural ways, concentrate and redirect forces. If you wish to get the stone from a fruit you can throw it to the ground and step on it, or, you can slowly and gently pull where the fruit would halve until it parts on its own.’

  Coots and Badlands joined them. Janbahashur waved them on, impatient. ‘Go on. Quickly. Do not pause. A few paces, I should think. Go.’

  Stalker signed something and Badlands gave an out-thrust fist and stepped forward. The gesture had something of the look of a salute to Kyle, but one he’d never seen before. Knees bent in a fighting crouch, arms akimbo, Badlands advanced on the blurred patch of air. As he came close he reached out an arm. Janbahashur, at Kyle’s side, hissed her alarm. At that instant Badlands simply disappeared. It was hard to say, but Kyle had the impression that he’d been yanked forward with immense power, as if by a giant or a god. The old woman let out a relieved breath. ‘Good. Now, you too. Go.’

  Stalker started forward as did Kyle but the old woman caught Kyle’s arm. ‘A word, young warrior.’ Stalker paused as well. His hair, the tag-ends of his shirts, the leather ties, all snapped and strained toward the apex. He was saying something but Kyle could not hear a word of it. While he watched the scout strained forward as if against a storm of wind but was losing ground as his moccasined feet slipped and shuffled backwards on the ridged rock. He must have given up the fight for in the next moment he was gone, snatched into the blur of hissing dust and sand.

  Coots now stood at Kyle’s side, a hand on one long-knife at his belt. ‘He’s not goin’ last,’ he said to Janbahashur.

  ‘I did not mean to alarm. Just a warning. Do not stop on the path. Do not turn or delay. It would be deadly for you. And do not part with your weapons, yes?’

  Kyle could not stop his hand from going to the grip of his tulwar. ‘I never do.’

  ‘Good, good. Now go.’

  Kyle bowed his thanks and climbed the last of the slope. As he closed upon the apex of the dome his steps became lighter, the going easier. As if he was actually descending. Then, something like a hand thrust itself into his back, not slapping, but accelerating so hard it forced the breath from his lungs. The surroundings blurred into a green smear. A waterfall crash detonated upon his ears, then diminished in volume – either that or he was losing his hearing. Most alarming was his footing: whatever it was he stood upon was soft and yielding like thick water, a blur of sluicing pale mud or clay. Kyle couldn’t make any sense of it. He had no idea where he was or where he was headed. He also seemed to be all alone.

  Or perhaps not. Shapes skimmed through the blurring flow parallel with him. Sleek, streamlined, like fish they were but much larger than he. Knowing he shouldn’t, Kyle couldn’t help but reach out to one. His fingers broke the surface of the shifing flow as if he’d dipped them over the side of a boat. He had the feeling that all he had to do was jump overboard to find himself in a whole new world. One of the shapes nuzzled over as if in response to his gesture. Closer, Kyle had the impression of a stranger, far more alien creature – what had Stoop called the ugly things? – squid.

  He thought that perhaps he’d tempted the Twins enough and pulled his hand back. Now, just how was he supposed to get out?

  Something slappe
d through the barrier surrounding him and lashed itself around his arm. He screamed in searing pain as he was yanked backwards off his feet with the popping of his shoulder. He drew and slashed almost without thought. A distant keening, the braking snapping away, and Kyle felt himself spinning, his arm numb and lashing about. Then impact, loose gravel sushing beneath him and he lay panting.

  A stream gurgled beside him the whole time; in this manner Kyle knew he’d not lost consciousness. He lay immobile mainly to rest and to delay any discovery of just how seriously he may be injured. Eventually, as the day dimmed, he had to accept that the demands of his flesh were still enough to force him on; especially a full bladder and an empty stomach. Slowly, painfully, he drew his good arm through the gravel to lever himself up into a sitting position. His other arm hung useless, numb, though the shoulder ached as if a fiend had sunk its teeth into it.

  Taking a deep breath, he leaned on his hand to push himself upright. A flight of birds launched themselves from a nearby tree, startled, no doubt, by his resurrection. He was on a stranded gravel shore in the midst of a braided stream. Clear water ran west around him, shallow but swift. Trees taller than any he’d ever seen reared around him, blocking out the surroundings. Night was coming, and the air was chill. He started walking west.

  The stream meandered, cutting deeply into its floodplain at times, but ever turned westward. Kyle kept to the open sandbars and gravel. Finally, ravenous, he cut a poplar branch and waded out to mid-stream. There he stood still in the dim light, lance raised. A flicker in the water; a curve of shadow. He threw. A miss.

  Eventually, he sloshed to shore with an impaled fish. One-handed, he gathered dry fallen wood and brittle grass in the dark, stuck a flint pressing his knife under a knee until the grass lit. He cleaned the fish sloppily then angled it over the flames, and sat back.

  Eating, he tossed branches on to the roaring fire. The night deepened.

  Eventually a voice growled out of the dark, ‘The lad could be hurt. Knocked out. Bleeding.’

  Kyle glanced over his shoulder. ‘Evening, Coots.’