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

  Bars could only stare. There’s a thousand of these swordsmen? ‘Bars. Iron Bars, Fourth Company, Second Blade, Avowed of the Crimson Guard.’

  All remaining Seguleh turned to stare. Bars returned the glances then remembered Jemain’s warning and looked away. The one Seguleh who had kept the most apart from everyone, standing far at the bow, walked back to face him. His mask was far less decorated than the others, marked by just a few lines. But of course Bars could not make any sense of its design. Then he again recalled Jemain’s words and he quickly pulled his gaze from the man’s face. ‘Word of you Avowed have reached us,’ this one said. ‘Why did you not identify yourself before?’

  Bars shrugged. ‘I saw no reason to.’

  The Seguleh seemed to understand such reasoning. ‘You are a stranger to our ways, so I will be plain. I challenge you.’

  ‘Don’t accept!’ Jemain blurted.

  Bars gently touched the wet dressing at his neck, wiped his forearm across his mouth to come away with a slick of drying blood from the gash down his face. The pain of his pierced leg was a roar in his ears. It twitched, hardly able to support him. ‘I, ah, respectfully decline,’ he murmured, his voice a gurgle.

  The Seguleh inclined his mask fractionally. ‘Another time, then.’ He glanced to his men and as one they moved to the ship’s side. ‘We go now.’

  Bars stared again. Gods, these people. They were constantly wrong-footing him. ‘Wait. Where are you going? What’re you doing out here? Twin’s Turning, man. Why’re you even talking to me now?’

  As the others carried the dead spokesman to the side, their leader, so Bars assumed, faced him again. ‘You have standing now. I am named Oru. I am now your, how is it…Yovenai…’

  ‘Patron, or commander – something like teacher, too,’ Jemain supplied.

  Oru did not dispute Jemain’s translation.

  Bars gestured to the dead Seguleh. ‘And his name?’

  ‘Leal. Her name was Leal.’

  ‘Her? Her!’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gods Below. He’d no idea. But he would remember her name; he’d rarely come so close to being overborne. Oru had jumped down lithely to the galley. Bars leaned over the side. Holding his neck he croaked, ‘What are you doing out here? Why are you just going like this?’

  ‘You are of the Agatii. You have your mission. We have ours. We search for something…something that was stolen from us long ago.’

  ‘Well…may the Gods go with you.’

  ‘Not with us,’ Oru replied flatly.

  Crewmen pushed off with poles. As the oars were readied, Bars did a quick head-count and came up with fifteen. Burn’s Mercy, fifteen of them. Then the fog swallowed the vessel leaving only the echoes of wood banging wood and the splash of water.

  Turning from the side Bars found Jemain studying him once more. ‘What?’

  ‘I would never have believed it.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, the Lady favoured me.’

  ‘The Seguleh don’t believe in luck.’

  ‘There you go. Now, let’s get to rowing. You give the orders, first mate. I can hardly speak.’

  ‘Aye, Captain. And Captain…?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I tried to get a good look at Oru’s mask. If I’m right, he’s ranked among the top twenty.’

  On the second day of their flight from the fallen Border Fort, Rillish awoke to find five Wickan children staring down at him with the runny noses and direct unfiltered curiosity of youths. Rillish sat up on his elbows and stared back. The children did not blink.

  ‘Yes? Are you going to help me up, or not?’ The gruelling demands of their escape had worsened Rillish’s leg wound. Yesterday soldiers took turns carrying him. His dressings stank and were stained yellow-green.

  ‘No,’ said the eldest, their guide, a girl who might just be into puberty.

  ‘No?’ Rillish gave a thoughtful frown. ‘Then you’re planning to put me out of my misery they way you do your wounded.’

  The girl’s disdain was total. ‘A townsman lie. We do no such thing.’

  ‘No,’ Rillish echoed. It occurred to him that he was now being studied by what passed for the ruling council of the band of youths he’d rescued – the five eldest. ‘May I ask your name?’

  ‘Mane,’ said the girl. A sheathed, antler-handled long-knife stood tall from the rope of woven horsehair that served as the belt holding the girl’s rags together – all of which amounted to nothing more than a frayed blanket pulled over her head. The blade would have been laughable had the girl’s face not carried the tempered edge to match it. It also occurred to Rillish that he knew that blade.

  ‘Then may I ask the purpose of this council meeting?’

  ‘This is not one of your townsman council meetings,’ the girl sneered. ‘This is a command meeting. I command.’

  ‘You command? No, I think I—’

  ‘Think as you like. Here on the plains if you wish to live you’ll do as I say…’

  ‘Mane, I command the soldiers who guard you and who rescued you and your—’

  ‘Rescued us?’ the girl barked. ‘No, Malazan. From where I stand we rescued you…’

  It occurred to Rillish that he was arguing with a ten-year-old girl; and that the girl was right. He glanced up to study the shading branches of their copse of trees. ‘Very well. So, I will do you the courtesy of assuming all this is leading somewhere…’

  ‘Good. He said you would.’

  ‘Who?’

  A grimace of self-castigation. ‘Never mind. The point is that we’ve decided you will ride in a travois from now on.’

  ‘A travois. How kind of you.’

  ‘It’s not kindness. You’re slowing us down.’

  I see. The party already burdened by one – a young boy, no more than a toddler, wrapped in blankets and doted on by the children. ‘I’ll get my men—’

  ‘Your men will not pull it. They are needed to fight. Three of our strongest boys will pull it.’

  ‘Now wait a minute—’

  Mane waved him silent. ‘It has been decided.’ She and the four youths abruptly walked off.

  Well. He’d just been dismissed by a gang of brats. ‘Sergeant Chord!’

  A touch at his shoulder woke him to a golden afternoon light. Sergeant Chord was there jog-trotting beside the travois. The tall grass shushed as it parted to either side and Rillish had the dislocating impression of being drawn through shallow water. ‘Lieutenant, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant?’

  ‘Trouble ahead, sir. Small band of armed settlers. The scouts say we have to take them. Strong chance they’ll spot us.’

  For some reason Rillish found it difficult to speak. ‘Scouts, Sergeant?’

  A blush. ‘Ah, the lads and lasses, sir.’

  Their movement slowed, halted. Sergeant Chord crouched low. Rillish squinted at him, trying to focus; there was something wrong with his vision. ‘Very well, Sergeant. Surround the party, a volley, then move in. None must escape.’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s just what she ordered as well.’

  ‘She, Sergeant?’

  Another blush. ‘Mane, sir.’

  ‘Isn’t that your knife at her belt?’

  ‘It is, sir.’

  ‘Doesn’t that have some kind of significance here among the Wickans?’

  His sergeant was looking away, distracted. ‘Ah, yes, it does, sir. Didn’t know at the time. Have to go now, sir.’

  ‘Very well, Sergeant,’ but the man was already gone. He felt a vague sort of annoyance but already wasn’t certain why. Behind him, the other travois sat disguised in the tall grass, its band of carriers kneeling all around it, anxious. Rillish had the distinct impression the older youths, boys and girls, were guarding the travois. While he watched, youths appeared as if by magic from the grass, talked with the toddler on the travois, then sped away. It appeared as if they were relaying information and receiving orders from the child. He chuckled at the image. The hand of one of his youthful
carriers rocked his shoulder. ‘Quiet, Malazan,’ the boy said.

  Quiet! How dare he! Rillish struggled to sit up; he would show him the proper use of respect. A lance of lightning shot up his leg. The pain blackened his vision to tunnels, roared in his ears like a landslide, and he felt nothing more.

  ‘Lieutenant, sir? Lieutenant!’

  Someone was calling him. He was on board a troop transport north-east of Fist in a rainstorm. Giant swells rocked the awkward tub. He felt like a flea holding on to a rabid dog. The captain was yelling, pointing starboard. Out of the dark sped a long Mare war-galley, black-hulled, riding down upon them like Hood’s own wrath. Its ram shot a curl of spray taller than the sleek galley’s own freeboard.

  ‘Hard starboard!’ the captain roared.

  Rillish scanned the deck jammed full of standing Malazan regulars – reinforcements on the way to the stranded 6th. He spotted a sergeant bellowing at his men to form ranks. ‘Ready crossbows!’ he shouted down.

  ‘Aye, sir!’ the sergeant called.

  Before he could turn back, the Mare war-galley struck. The stern-castle deck punched up to smack the breath from him. Men screamed, wood tore with a crunching slow grinding. A split mast struck the deck.

  Entangled beneath fallen rigging, Rillish simply bellowed, ‘Fire! Fire at will!’

  ‘Aye, sir!’ came the answering yell. Rillish imagined the punishment of rank after rank of Malazan crossbowmen firing down into the low open galley. He hacked his way free, one eye blinded by blood streaming from a head cut. ‘Where’s the cadre mage, damn her!’

  ‘Dead, sir,’ someone called from the dark.

  The deck canted to larboard as a swell lifted the two vessels. With an anguished grinding of wood they parted. The ram emerged, gashed and raining pulverized timbers. The war-galley back-oared. Hood take this Mare blockade! The only allies of the Korelri worth a damn. He wondered if one out of any five Malazan ships made it through. The vessel disappeared into the dark, satisfied it had accomplished its mission; Rillish was inclined to agree. The transport refused to right itself, riding the swells and troughs like a dead thing. He picked his way through the ruins of the stern-castle, found the sergeant. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  The sergeant grimaced, spat. ‘I’m thinking the water’s damned cold.’

  ‘I agree. Have the men drop their gear. We’ll have to swim for shore or hope another of the convoy is nearby.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Lieutenant? Sir?’

  Rillish opened his eyes. It was night. The stars were out, but they were behaving oddly, they had tails that swept behind them whenever he looked about. Sergeant Chord was peering down at him. He felt hot, slick with sweat. He tried to speak but couldn’t part his lips.

  ‘You’ve taken a fever, sir. Infection.’

  Rillish tore his lips apart. ‘I was thinking of the day we met, Chord.’

  ‘That so, sir? A bad day, that one. Lost a lot of good men and women.’

  A young Wickan boy appeared alongside Chord. Mane was there as well. ‘This lad,’ Chord said, ‘is a Talent – touched with Denul, so Mane says. He’s gonna have a look.’ The boy ducked his head shyly.

  Just a child! ‘No.’

  ‘No, sir?’

  ‘No. Too young. No training. Dangerous.’

  Chord and Mane exchanged looks; Chord gave a told-you-so shrug.

  ‘It’s been ordered,’ Mane said.

  ‘Who?’

  Mane glanced to the other travois, bit her lip. ‘Ordered. That’s all. We’re going ahead.’

  ‘No, I—’

  Chord took hold of him. Other hands grasped his shoulders, arms and legs. Folded leather was forced into his mouth. Rillish strained, fighting, panted and yelled through the bit. The youth touched his leg and closed his eyes. Darkness took him.

  He awoke alone in a grass-bordered clearing under the stars exactly like the one he’d last seen. In fact, so similar was it all that Rillish suspected that perhaps Chord and the others had simply decided it most expedient to abandon him. He found he could raise his head. He saw the youth sitting cross-legged opposite a dead campfire, head bowed. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Don’t bother yourself, outlander,’ growled a low voice from the grasses. ‘He won’t answer.’

  Rillish scanned the wall of rippling brown blades. ‘Who’s there?’

  Harsh laughter all around. ‘Not for you, outlander. You shouldn’t wander lost, you know. Even here.’

  He felt at his sides for a blade, found none. Harsh panted laughter again. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re deciding…’

  Shapes swept past the wall of grass – long and lithe. ‘Deciding…what?’

  ‘How to kill you.’

  The shapes froze; all hints of movement stopped. Even the air seemed to still. Something shook the ground of the clearing, huge and rippling slow. Rillish was reminded of the times he’d felt the ground shake. Burn’s Pain, some called it.

  ‘Enough…’

  The shapes fled.

  A presence entered the clearing – at least that was all Rillish’s senses could discern. He could not directly see it; his eyes seemed incapable of processing what they saw. A moving blind spot was all he could make out. The rich scent of fresh-turned earth enveloped him, warm and moist. He was reminded of his youth helping the labourers on his family orchards. The presence went to the boy, seemed to envelop him.

  ‘Such innocence.’ The aching desolation within the voice wrenched Rillish, brought tears to his eyes. ‘Must it be punished?’ The entity turned its attention upon him and Rillish found he had to look away. He could not face this thing; it was too much.

  ‘Rillish Jal Keth,’ the thing spoke, and the profound weight of a grief behind the voice was heartbreaking. ‘In these young times my ways are named old and harsh, I know. But even yet they hold efficacy. Guidance was requested and guidance shall be given. My children needs must now take a step into that other world from which you come. I ask that you help guide that step.’

  ‘You…ask?’

  ‘Subservience and obedience can be coerced. Understanding and acceptance cannot.’

  Rillish struggled to find his voice. ‘I understand – that is, I don’t understand. I—’

  ‘It is not expected that you do so. All that is expected is that you strive to do so.’

  ‘But how will I know—’

  The presence withdrew. ‘Enough…’

  Rillish awoke to a slanting late afternoon light. The female soldier who had helped him escape the fort was holding a cool wet cloth to his face as she walked along beside the travois. He gave her a smile that she returned, then she jogged off. Wait, he tried to call, what’s your name? Shortly afterwards Sergeant Chord appeared at his side. ‘Sergeant,’ he managed to whisper.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The boy. Where’s the boy?’

  Chord held a rigid grin of encouragement. ‘Never you mind anything. You just rest now, sir.’

  ‘Sergeant!’ But he was gone.

  The next morning Rillish could sit up. He asked for water and food. The most difficult thing to endure was his own smell; he’d shat himself in the night. He asked for Sergeant Chord and waited. It seemed the sergeant was reluctant to come. Eventually, he appeared. Rillish now saw that the man had a good start on a beard and his surcoat of grey was tattered and dirt-smeared. He appeared to be sporting a few new cuts and gashes as well. Rillish imagined he must look worse, he certainly smelled far worse. ‘I need to get cleaned up. Is there water enough for that?’

  The sergeant seemed relieved. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mane came walking up; she now wore settler’s gear of soft leather armour over an oversized tunic, trousers and even boots.

  ‘The boy?’ Rillish demanded. ‘The healer?’

  Sergeant Chord lips clenched and he looked away, squinting.

  ‘Dead,’ Mane said with her habitual glower. ‘He died saving you. Though why I do not know, you bei
ng a cursed Malazan. That’s a lot of Wickan blood spilled saving you…’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Chord murmured.

  Rillish let his gaze fall. She was right, and had a right to her anger. But he had not asked to be healed. He looked up. ‘You said something. Something about orders. What did you mean?’

  Mane bared her teeth in defiance. ‘Not for you, Malazan.’

  Her answer chilled Rillish.

  He found he could walk part of the next day. The boys with his travois followed along with the other at the centre of their ragged column of some seventy children – a good third of whom were always out ranging far beyond the column at any given time – and the thirty regulars who walked in a van, a rearguard and side-pickets. The more Rillish studied the other travois and the twelve youths who constantly surrounded it, the more he saw it as the true heart of their band. Who was this child to inspire such devotion? The self-styled guards interposed themselves whenever he tried to approach. The youth ignored him, wrapped in horse blankets, his eyes shut most of the time. The scion of some important chieftain’s family, Rillish had come to suppose.

  Walking just behind the van, he paused to draw off his helmet and wipe his face. Damn this heat! The sun seemed to glare from every blade of grass. Insects hummed around him, flew at his eyes. He was a mass of welts, his lips were cracked and sunburnt and his shit had the consistency of soup. From a satchel he pulled out a balled cloth, unfolded it and eyed the dark matter within. Food, was it? It looked more like dried bhederin shit to him. He tried to tear a bite from an edge and after gnawing for a time managed to pull away a sliver. He waved Sergeant Chord to him.

  Sweat stained the flapping remains of the sergeant’s grey surcoat. Two crow feathers fluttered at the man’s helmet. Studying them, Rillish raised a brow. Chord winced, ducking. ‘In case we get separated from the column, sir. Safe passage ’n’ all, so I’m told.’

  ‘I see.’ Rillish lifted his chin to the west where hazy brown hills humped the horizon. ‘Our destination?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The Golden Hills. Some kind of sacred lands for the Wickans, sir.’

  ‘So Mane is reasonably confident on finding other refugees there.’