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

  The Marquis nodded to Sergeant Shepherd who raised his arm in a ‘forward’.

  With the gathering of dusk the bivouac came to resemble less and less a military encampment and more a gathering of brigands. From under the awning raised on poles that served as the command tent, Ghelel watched drunken fights break out around campfires, betting and wrestling over what meagre loot had been gathered so far, and a virtual army of camp followers picked up at Ipras and Idryb who circulated among the men and women. Captain Tonley entertained them with stories of the crossing while the Marquis sat calmly on a camp stool and smoked his pipe. Molk, Ghelel noted, had disappeared the moment they entered camp. Gloriously drunk by now, no doubt.

  Almost no one noticed when an old man bearing two leather buckets of stones stooped under the awning. He dropped the buckets then pulled off his oversized wool cloak revealing a wrestler’s broad shoulders and knotted, savagely scarred arms that reminded Ghelel of oak roots. Captain Tonley sprang from his stool to offer the man a tankard. The fellow drank while eyeing them over its rim. The Marquis stood and bowed. Ghelel followed suit. Finishing the tankard he thrust it at the captain who staggered back.

  ‘Another. It’s dusty work in the hills.’

  The man extended a hand to the Marquis who took it. ‘Marquis Jhardin, Commander of the Marchland Sentries.’ He indicated Ghelel. ‘Our new Prevost, Alil.’

  The man grunted, turned to her. She extended her hand, which disappeared into his massive paw. Ghelel had an impression of a brutal blunt Napan-blue face with small guarded eyes under a ledge of bone, brush-cut hair white with dust, but what overwhelmed everything was the pain in her hand. It felt as if it had been cracked between stones. ‘So this is our new Prevost,’ he said, eyeing her, and she knew that, somehow, this man also knew. ‘Commander Urko Crust.’

  ‘Commander,’ she managed, her teeth clenched against the pain.

  Sighing his ease, Urko sat on a stool. Captain Tonley set another tankard next to him. ‘Captain Tonley. Just because I’m away for the day doesn’t mean that the entire camp has to go to the Abyss.’

  The captain flinched. ‘No, sir.’ Saluting, he ducked from the awning.

  Urko dragged the buckets close, nodded for the Marquis to sit. Ghelel sat next to him. ‘What word from Choss?’ In the distance, the sharp commands of Captain Tonley filled the dusk.

  The Marquis set to repacking his pipe. ‘She’s on her way. Is right behind you, in fact.’

  Startled, Ghelel stared at Jhardin. She? The Empress? Coming here? Gods! Then, this could be it. The battle to decide everything.

  But Urko merely nodded at the news, as if he’d half-expected it. He selected a stone from a bucket and studied it, turning it this way and that. He spat on it, rubbed it with a thumb. ‘So, deploying to the south is out of the question. Can’t have the river between our divisions.’

  ‘No. Choss requests that you take the north-east flank.’

  He grunted, set the stone on a table. ‘And the south?’

  ‘We’ll keep an eye on the south. They haven’t the men in Heng for a sortie in any strength.’

  Urko selected the next stone, frowned at it, threw it into the darkening night. ‘So. I will hold the north-east, Choss the centre, Heng will block the south flank, and the Seti will harass and skirmish.’ He let out a long growling breath. ‘Probably the best we can arrange for her.’

  Gathering herself, Ghelel cleared her throat. ‘With all due respect, she marches to relieve Heng, doesn’t she? Shouldn’t we stop her before she reaches it?’

  Urko’s grizzled brows clenched together. He lowered his gaze to retrieve another stone. The Marquis took a mug from the table and filled it from an earthenware carafe of red wine. ‘Ostensibly, she marches to relieve Heng, yes. But she should know enough not to trap herself in it. No, the best way for her to relieve the siege would be to take the field.’

  ‘Do we have any intelligence on the size of her force?’ Ghelel asked. Urko cocked a thick brow at the question, peered up from his inspection of the stone.

  ‘Amaron has his sources,’ Jhardin answered. ‘I have been informed that, at best, she can field no more than fifty thousand – and that is assuming she conscripts all down the coast at Carasin, Vor, Marl and Halas.’

  ‘Then we well outnumber her.’

  ‘Yes. But numbers count for less than you would think. The emperor was almost always outnumbered. Wasn’t that so, Urko?’

  The old general grunted his assent while buffing the stone in a cloth. ‘She has other assets…the Claw. The mage cadre. And there is always the possibility that Tayschrenn may choose to dirty his hands.’

  Ghelel sat back on her stool. Great Togg forefend! She hadn’t considered that. But the High Mage had yet to act in any of this. Why should he now? Clearly everyone was assuming he would not. To think otherwise was to invite paralysis.

  ‘So,’ Urko said, taking a long draught from the tankard. ‘We’ll wait here for the rest of the force to catch up. Then we will deploy to the north-east.’ He handed a stone to Ghelel. ‘Take a look at that.’

  One side of the oblong stone was coarse rock but the other revealed a smooth curved surface that glistened multicoloured, reminding her of pearl. After a moment the likeness of a shell resolved itself, spiralled, curving ever inward with extraordinary delicacy. ‘Beautiful…’ she breathed.

  One edge of the general’s mouth crooked up. ‘You like it?’

  ‘Yes! It’s wonderful.’

  ‘Good!’ He sat back and watched her turn the stone in her hands. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

  These last few moons strange dreams had dogged Kyle. He slept restlessly, often waking with a start, in a cold sweat, as if having seen or heard something terrifying. And always, the images, the ghost-memories, receded just as he reached for them. This last week on board the Kite had passed more calmly, however. Perhaps it was the monotonous rocking, or the slapping rush of the waves, or the melodies Ereko hummed to himself during his long nights at the tiller, but he’d slept either more easily, or far more deeply.

  One night Kyle dreamt, or thought he did; he was not sure. All that he knew was that suddenly he became aware of himself walking through mist, or what seemed like mist, or clouds. And he was not alone.

  He walked just one pace behind, and slightly to the right of, a slim pale figure who wore layered thick robes that dragged on the ground behind – a ground, Kyle now saw, of dry baked dirt. He walked slowly and deliberately with long strides, his wide hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed, perhaps deep in thought. Long white hair hung to the middle of his back. The man’s similarities to the Magus, the Wind Spirit upon the Spur, made Kyle’s eyes well with suppressed emotion, but there were differences as well; this man was not as powerfully built and he seemed taller. Yet even as he watched the man’s figure rippled, shifting and wavering before returning once more to the slim snow-pale man. In that moment Kyle swore he glimpsed another shape, a bestial form unfolding.

  He should not be there and it terrified him. Had they somehow trespassed or wandered too far in their journey? The man’s sandalled feet raised clouds of dust but no sound reached Kyle of their fall. The dull pewter vault of the sky made his eyes ache to look at it; it seemed to blur when he studied it too carefully. Shadows flew across the two of them, cast themselves on the ground around them, all without any seeming source.

  Eventually, after Kyle knew not how long, a destination detached itself from the horizon ahead, a low dark hill or structure of some sort. It resolved into a heap of gigantic darkly smoky crystals, as large as a building. Upon reaching it, the man planted his feet firmly, and from what Kyle could see, set his chin in a fist as he made a survey of the formation, carefully, from right to left. Coming to a decision, he took hold of one crystal with both hands. He strained, grunting and hissing his breath, and with a massive grinding crack the huge shard gave way. It stood twice the height of the man who himself stood far taller than Kyle. The man pushed it aside an
d reached for another.

  ‘Hold!’

  Kyle and the man spun.

  A slim figure came walking upon them, dark-skinned in a night-black cloak over sombre clothes, tall with long white hair. Noting the hair, Kyle wondered at a common ancestry between these two.

  ‘Anomandaris,’ the man greeted the newcomer, straightening, and loosening his arms at his sides.

  Anomandaris bowed. ‘Liossercal.’ Closer now, Kyle saw that the man was no Dal Hon or of any other darkly-hued tribe, but non-human: his black skin seemed to absorb the dull light that fell upon it, yet his eyes were bright gold lamps that shone now with a kind of reckless amusement.

  ‘What business have you here?’

  ‘I may ask the same.’

  Liossercal crossed his arms, rumbling, ‘Research.’

  The brow over one gold eye arched. The newcomer kicked at the broken crystal. ‘It would seem that the subject may not survive the investigation.’

  The arms fell again, large hands splayed. ‘What of it?’

  A shrug. ‘It is young yet, Liossercal. A child. Would you dismember a child?’

  Liossercal, whose back was still to Kyle, seemed surprised. ‘A child? This is new, yes, the weakest of these strange invasions into our Realms and thus so very appropriate to my purposes. But a child? Hardly.’

  The one named Anomandaris took a step closer. ‘This is my point. It is new and thus unformed. Who is to say what is or is not its character or purpose? You? The universe you inhabit is one of certainties, I have learned. So you can say for certain you know of the future then?’

  ‘A poor argument. You play to my own point. What I can say of a certainty is that we will never know unless we investigate.’ And Liossercal turned to the formation.

  ‘I will not allow it.’

  Liossercal stilled. He slowly returned to face the newcomer. ‘An ocean of blood birthed the hard-won accord between our Realms, Anomandaris. You would risk that? For this? It is not even of our existence! It is alien – very possibly a threat. I would resolve this mystery.’

  Anomandaris’s eyes seemed to glow even brighter in the gloom. ‘It is my interpretation that this house is of Emurlahn and Emurlahn exists as proof of the accord between our Realms. Threaten one and you threaten all.’

  Liossercal drew himself up straight, head cocked to one side. After a time he nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very well. I will reflect upon this new light you bring to the situation. A reprieve, then, for a time, for this Shadow House.’

  Anomandaris inclined his head in agreement. A smile lifted his thin lips and he gestured an invitation to the empty plains. ‘Tell me of Resuthenal, then? How fares she?’

  Liossercal clasped his hands behind his back, accepted Anomandaris’s invitation. They walked off side by side. ‘She is in fine health, though the mention of your name still enrages her. Especially when I point out that she lost as a result of her own stupidity.’

  Anomandaris laughed. ‘Yes, that would enrage anyone.’

  Kyle wished to follow the two; he certainly knew that he ought not remain. The things the two spoke of were complete mysteries to him, but he feared being left behind, becoming lost in this strange dream. If only he could have seen the man from the front – he would know then for certain that he dreamed of the patron of his tribe, the Wind King himself. Now dead, killed by Cowl. He struggled to will himself to follow the two receding figures.

  ‘You have come far enough, I should think.’

  Kyle turned. He faced a woman, an extraordinarily beautiful woman with deep black eyes and long straight black hair wearing a flowing dress that shimmered white and silver. He attempted to throw himself face-down in the dirt before this Goddess but found that he could not. He closed his eyes, face averted. Who was this? Sister Dawn? Queen of the Night? Great Mother Goddess?

  The woman laughed and the sound brought shivers to his spine. ‘Come with me, Kyle. It is time that you returned. You are in powerful company, lad, and it is drawing you along with its wanderings. Your dreams are not your own. And I have to say, they are quite perilous.’ She led him off.

  After a time he dared ask, ‘Who were they?’

  She waved a hand dismissively. ‘Memories. Nothing more than old clinging memories.’

  Kyle glanced back to the heap, the ‘house’. He was startled to see yet another figure now standing beside it – this one tall and slim as well, but by his silhouette quite ragged and carrying a longsword at his back. Kyle raised a hand to point but the woman, Goddess, whoever she was at his side, urged him on. ‘Some things,’ she said, ‘are best left unnoticed. Now,’ and she faced him, ‘it is time for you to move along.’

  He opened his mouth to speak but found that he could not. He was frozen, immobile. His vision darkened. He heard water, nearing.

  ‘Lad? Kyle?’

  Kyle opened his eyes. Stalker crouched over him, his hazel eyes narrowed. Seeing Kyle awake the scout grunted and moved aside. ‘You were fast asleep. Something’s come up.’

  ‘What?’

  In answer the scout gave a disgusted wave to the sea beyond. Kyle pushed himself up. The sky and sea held a formless grey pre-dawn light. Mist enclosed them on all sides. The sail hung limp. They were becalmed. He glanced back to Ereko who sat motionless, a hand still on the tiller, squinting off into the fog. Kyle shifted to the stern, whispered, ‘What is it?’

  A shrug from the giant who did not take his eyes from the mist. ‘Something. A presence. But,’ and he gave a lopsided smile, ‘I am not afraid.’

  ‘We’ve moved.’ This from Traveller at the bow.

  ‘Yes. Question is…are we closer, or farther…’ Ereko raised a hand, took a long deep sniff of the air. ‘Land,’ he announced, smiling.

  Stalker went to the gunwale, sniffed the air. He looked to the giant. ‘Desert?’

  Ereko agreed.

  ‘I hate deserts,’ said Coots.

  ‘Lizard gives him god-awful indigestion,’ Badlands explained.

  ‘Man the oars,’ said Traveller.

  The brothers readied the oars. Kyle sat at one, flexing his arm–Ereko had healed it their third night out. ‘I think everything gives you indigestion, Coots.’

  Sitting, the brother strained furiously on the oar and let out an enormous fart. He looked surprised. ‘By the Dark Lady, you’re right. Even rowing gives me indigestion.’

  Stalker cuffed him on the shoulder. ‘Pay attention. I hear breakers.’

  The mist dissipated and the wind rose revealing a long flat coast of dunes guarded by a reef. Ereko stood tall and scanned the shore. He nodded to himself, satisfied. ‘North around the coast a space yet,’ and he sat heaving the tiller around to face them away from the waves breaking over the reef. ‘Ready sail.’

  Captain Moss’s search for the Seti Wildman of the Hills brought him and his troop of thirty horse north to the rugged High Steppes that formed one heartland of Seti territory. On their way they encountered bands of Seti young bloods, soldiers of the Jackal, Plains Lion, Ferret, Wolf and Dog warrior societies, male and female. Some demanded payments in weapons or coin before allowing the troop of Malazan horse to proceed; others challenged Moss to single combat, but when he told them he was on his way to find the Wildman they laughed and said they would leave Moss for him.

  The troop entered the Lands of the Jackal, so named for Ryllandaras, the legendary man-beast, brother to Treach who was now ascended as Trake, god of war. The bands they passed no longer continued on southward, but trailed them instead, coalescing into an informal escort of considerable numbers. Moss also noted that many no longer carried fetishes or colours proclaiming their allegiance to one or another clan Assembly.

  On the third day smoke ahead announced a large encampment. Moss’s slow pace brought him to the very lip of a grassed escarpment that fell steeply to a wide valley dotted by hide tents and corrals. Moss waved away the fat biting horseflies that circled his head, eased forward in his saddle. ‘Near a thousand, I should think,’ he said to h
is sergeant who nodded. The sergeant, a great wad of rustleaf bunching one cheek, raised his chin to the east where an erosional cut offered a way down. ‘Have to do,’ Moss sighed, and waved his men on.

  They crossed a thin stream, an undersized remnant of what once must have been a massive flow. On the opposite shore a crowd was gathered. A raised hand from one Seti elder stopped Moss, who inclined his head in greeting then cocked a knee around the pommel of his saddle, watching. By way of his height advantage, he could see that the crowd surrounded an oval of open ground. At one edge stood a tall muscular Seti youth, his bare chest and legs smeared in paints proclaiming his many victories. His knife-brothers and sisters laughed with him, wiping more paint across his face. One pressed a functional-looking fighting blade into his hand. Moss cast across the oval for the youth’s opponent but saw no likely figure. Eventually, straightening from a crouch, an unlikely candidate did appear. An old man, wild-haired with a gnarled grey beard. The Wildman? If so, he was from that much older Seti generation, back when it was unusual to meet any who stood taller than the backs of their mounts.

  Moss leant aside to a Seti warrior, asked in Talian, ‘What’s going on?’

  The woman answered, reluctantly, ‘A challenge.’

  ‘Who would challenge such an old man?’

  She looked up, smiled sharp white teeth. ‘The old man challenged him.’

  ‘Why?’ But the woman didn’t answer because the old man had drawn a knife from the back of his deerskin trousers and strode ahead. Waving the blade, he beckoned the tall youth forward. Moss could see him more clearly now; other than his trousers he wore only a thick leather vest revealing a barrel chest matted by silver-grey hair and equally hairy bent arms that seemed to hang unnaturally long. His lips were pulled back from canine-like yellowed teeth in an eager, almost scornful grin. The young blood laughed as he came forward but Moss knew he was in for more than he expected – the old man was fully as wide as he was tall.

  Moss had always thought these ritual challenges raucous, chaotic mob scenes but an eerie silence now took the crowd, as of a collective holding of breath. The two combatants crouched, arms reaching out to one another. Moss straightened in his saddle, more than a little anxious since the target of his mission might just be eviscerated before his eyes.