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 mage scanned the field from under his palm, bobbed his sour agreement. ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So…’ he ducked back down into the thin trench, ‘wait for night.’

  Nait restrained himself from tossing a shovelful of dirt on to the man. He kept one eye on the gathering firefight. From the unit absorbing the storm of bolts on the flank came twin arcs of flame that shot skyward then came crashing down, bursting into billowing orange-red infernos. In their wake arose swaths of flames as the sun-browned grasses took up the fires like the rarest of tinder. Skirmishers ran like ants from a kicked nest.

  Nait squeezed himself down into the shoulder-width trench. Lady save them, it’s started. And things were not looking good. ‘Water!’ he bellowed. ‘Douse yourselves!’ He fought with shaking hands to unstop a bulging skin.

  The popping of distant sharpers sounded: his cohorts punishing whichever mage that was – as if he or she was still there! Yet the pattern was now set. Mages would reveal themselves to smash any point of strength and the saboteurs would seek to stalk and hammer them. The hammering part Nait loved…but he wasn’t too keen on that stalking part. Gonna get hammered ourselves draggin’ our asses across this field. No – won’t do. ‘Heuk!’

  Jawl showed up, crouched above Nait, her long hauberk touching the ground down past her knees. ‘Do we have to keep diggin’? We’ve been diggin’ all the damned day. I mean, the fighting’s startin’.’

  ‘Will you get down! Fire’s comin’!’

  ‘Naw – it was snuffed out.’

  Nait straightened. ‘What do you mean, “snuffed out”?’ He squinted out over the field. Plenty of smoke hanging in the still air but very little fire. Heuk had dragged himself over, hugging his tall brown earthenware jug. ‘What happened to the fire?’ Nait asked.

  ‘Put out by one of ours.’

  ‘We got one c’n do that?’

  A shrug. ‘Sure. Serc Warren. Maybe Bala.’

  ‘Bala? Who’s that?’

  A rotten-toothed grin: ‘Oh you’ll know her when you see her.’

  Jawl was still squatting next to the trench. Nait gave her a glare. ‘What in the name of Rotting Poliel are you doin’ there? Get to work! Keep diggin’ – it’s what saboteurs do.’ The youth pulled a long face, sulked away. Nait studied Heuk. ‘Listen, I don’t want to be run all over Hood’s playground out there…’

  ‘Sound policy.’

  ‘But we need a way to spot the targets ’n’ such. Can’t you do anything to help us out?’

  The mage lowered his greasy seamed face to the open top of his jug as if studying its depths. He looked up, winking. ‘I think I can maybe do that.’

  Nait’s brows rose. Damn – we’re gonna actually see some action out of this broken-down old fart? ‘So? Do it.’

  ‘Wait for night.’ And he ducked down.

  Smartarse. Nait studied the lines. The Sword standard kept edging forward yet not quite committing. The Guard lines remained immobile. Why’d they put their backs to a cliff? True, they gotta hold the road to the bridge, but still…Neither side wants to get bloodied. We know there’s Avowed waiting for us; and they’re outnumbered more than four to one.

  Shimmer could not believe the punishment these Untan irregulars were inflicting on her lines. They were like biting flies – or hornets – and her forces the blundering bhederin attempting to swat them. Something had to be done; how much longer must her men and women hold the line – no more than obliging targets?

  Brethren! She called within her thoughts to her fallen brother and sister Avowed. Speak with Skinner. We must advance! Sweep the field of this threat! We cannot delay any longer.

  Your concerns shall be conveyed, came the distant response.

  Concerns? Her tactical judgment no more than a concern? Was she not second in command?

  Skinner warns you to put aside your panic. These pests shall be dealt with in good time.

  Panic! Panic! She took hold of the grip of her long whipsword. Who did he think he was? She almost set out from her flank commander position to confront the man, but refrained knowing she could not abandon her post. Damn him! Well, she would act, even if he wouldn’t! Brethren! Orders for Smoky, Twisty and Shell: you are given leave to punish those skirmishers – and keep moving!

  Orders shall be conveyed.

  Damn right they will be conveyed. Skinner may have no regard for the third investiture common soldiers of the lines – but she was going to do everything she could to protect the men and women of her command!

  Orders acknowledged.

  Good. Now those pests will be made leery of approaching her flank!

  Moments later a great sheet of flame arose across the intervening field and began sweeping north. Distant figures writhed, caught in the sudden eruption. The great mass of skirmishers recoiled, fleeing. The wedge of fire broadened, swelling, a runaway grass fire threatening to engulf the entire field. Then, just as suddenly, the flames were snuffed, as they had been before. Who in the Queen’s Mysteries was that mage? The irregulars crept forward once more, began targeting her lines where her soldiers hunched behind shields. Damn, they’re brave bastards! Sudden wails of surprise and alarm – the barrage stuttering, thinning. Twisty and Shell at work. Less showy than Smoky but just as effective. She could imagine Twisty ruining their weapons, Shell softening the ground beneath their feet. Enough to send them running.

  Something flashed across her vision then. Men and women of her bodyguard fell, one clutching at a bolt in her neck, another in his chest. Cold iron punched into Shimmer’s back and she spun, pinned the attacker’s arm and struck, crushing the man’s throat. Claws! Two full Hands! Another crouching figure aimed and she ducked; a bolt sang overhead. She leapt, rolling to take the woman down, clasped her head and twisted, breaking the neck. She stood, drawing long-knives from her belt and something struck her, a wave of pressure that when it passed left her surroundings darkened, quiet. Suddenly it was dusk, the sky colourless. The field remained but now stretched empty. Shadow! She spun, found what she searched for: the mage some distance off. Ignoring the pain of the thrust in her back, she made for him.

  Shadows closed, coalesced before her. She pushed through. Something clutched her throat, cutting off her breath. She felt at her neck but found nothing. Shadows throttling her! How to…She fought to breathe but nothing came. Her lungs charred. Her chest tightened in a rising frenzied panic. But still through the blurring haze she saw him, the Claw mage, and she made for him. Amazingly the man did not move; he watched her advance with disbelief in eyes that widened and widened as she closed. The shadows tightened like a hangman’s noose. She felt her pulse throbbing, clenched off.

  ‘No…impossible…’ the man breathed, astounded.

  A more thorough briefing may have been required regarding the Avowed, Shimmer reflected as she swung, slitting his throat in one slash, then she fell, her vision blackening.

  Brethren! I join you…

  Olo sat smoking his pipe, lying back in his skiff, his arms crossed, legs out, hat pulled down over his eyes against the sinking late afternoon sun. ‘Boatman,’ someone called, ‘for hire?’ His boat rocked slightly, and he roused, reluctantly.

  ‘What?’ A fat man in rich dark-blue robes stood on the dock peering down at him, a strange unnerving grin on his thick lips. Olo stared back, suspicious. What in the God of a Thousand Faces was a rich fellow like this doing hailing him? He looked like some kind of eunuch or functionary from the Empress’s court. Was he lost? ‘Ah, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Use of your craft, good boatman, to take me across the harbour.’

  ‘Across? You mean to the spice and silk docks p’chance?’

  ‘No. I mean straight across. West.’

  Olo sat up straighter, glanced over, shading his gaze. ‘But there’s nothing there…’

  ‘My concern, do you not think?’ and the fellow produced a gold coin. Olo goggled at the coin then held out a hand. The man tosse
d it. It felt hefty enough, not that he’d held many gold Imperial Suns in his life. ‘Be my guest.’

  Whoever he was, the man was at least familiar with the water as he smoothly eased himself down on to the light craft of hand-adzed planks. Olo readied the oars, pushed away from the dock. ‘Been quiet since the attack and the Empress leaving, hey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A course, she took all of Unta with her, didn’t she!’ and he laughed.

  Silence. Olo cast a quick glance to his passenger, found him moodily peering aside, a slight frown of puzzlement wrinkling his pale face. Olo squinted as well: the fellow appeared to be watching a shoal of clustered leaves bobbing in the waves. Old prayer offerings. Not a man for small talk, obviously. Olo rowed on, taking a moment to pull down his loose woollen hat. A bottle of Kanese red maybe, and that Talian girl – the one who was so full of herself. Or maybe rice-piss for as many days as he could stomach it. And thinking of that – Olo shot a quick look to his self-absorbed passenger, pulled out a gourd and took a quick nip.

  ‘What are you up to, Mael?’

  Olo gasped, choking. ‘Me sir? Nothing, sir! Just a touch thirsty’s all.’

  But the eunuch wasn’t even looking his way; he was turned aside, looking out over the water. Olo squinted as well but saw only the smooth green swells of the harbour, the forest of berthed ships. The boat slowed.

  Without so much as turning his head the man said, ‘Row on or jump out. Your decision.’ And he held his hands over the side.

  Olo gaped at the fellow. What? Who was he to—

  The water began to foam under the man’s hands. It churned as if boiling, hissing and paling to a light olive green.

  Olo almost fell over backwards as he heaved on the oars. Gods forgive me! Chem Bless me! Thousand-fold God favour me! What have I done to deserve this – other than all those things I’ve done but never told anyone?

  ‘Those folded leaves. The flowers and garlands on the water. What are they?’

  Pulling harder than he had in thirty years, Olo gasped a breath. ‘Offerings. Prayers.’

  ‘Offerings to whom?’

  ‘The God of the waters, sir. God of all the seas. God of a Thousand Moods, a Thousand Faces, a Thousand Names.’

  ‘No! Mael! You shall writhe in agony for this!’

  Olo gaped at the man. Mael who? Then, remembering, he renewed his pulling. The skiff bucked, bobbing in suddenly rough waters.

  ‘Speak! I command you!’

  Olo somehow knew that his passenger was not addressing him. The tiny skiff sped up, but not from any efforts on Olo’s part. The water was swelling, climbing upwards, bulging beneath them like a blanket billowed by air, and his skiff was sliding down its slope. He abandoned his oars in futility, scooped up the gourd and emptied it over his face, gulping. And horribly, appallingly, he heard something speak: ‘Mallick. What is there for us to talk of?’

  ‘What have you been scheming!’ the passenger demanded.

  ‘I? Nothing. Your prohibitions forbid this. I have merely been here – awaiting your summons. Am I to be blamed that others have sensed me, sent their offerings? Their prayers? Is it my fault that somehow have been recalled the ancient titles and invocations?’

  ‘What are you babbling about!’ his passenger fairly howled, hands now fists at his temples.

  The voice took on a harsh edge. ‘I am free of you now, Mallick. Your bindings upon me have frayed, unravelled by the plucking of countless thousands. We are done, you and I. Finished. We shall speak no more. I could crush you now – and I should for all the crimes you have committed. But I will withhold my anger. I have indulged it too much of late. My last gift to you is this passage. That, your life, and my mercy – may it gall you.’

  The skiff suddenly spun like a top, whirling on foaming waters. Olo had the sickening sensation of falling, then water heaved over the sides, the boat rocking, settling. He scrambled to use his cupped hands to toss out the water. His passenger sat slumped in the stern, soaked in spray. Olo then grasped the oars, rowed for his life. The west shore was close now, though it looked too wild and steep. Had they drifted out into the bay? As his boat neared the rocky shore he looked around and gaped, stunned. Where in the Queen’s Teasings was he? This was not Unta! There was a town to the north, but it was much too small. Though it too did look as if it had seen an attack. He steadied the craft at a rock, setting a sandalled foot out to hook it. Waves threatened to break the skiff on the shore but he pushed back, fighting the surge. Movement announced his passenger stirring.

  ‘We’re lost, sir,’ he called over the waves.

  A long pause, then, ‘Yes. I am. But perhaps not completely.’

  The man was obviously one of those crazed mages he heard all about in songs and somehow his insanity had touched him – Gods, may it pass! ‘What I mean, sir, is I don’t know where we are.’

  The man edged his way forward, set a cold damp hand on Olo’s shoulder. ‘We are in Cawn,’ he said, and he pushed off Olo to reach the rock.

  Olo gaped up at him. ‘Really, sir? I mean, I’ve never been.’

  The fat fellow pushed back his wet hair, clasped his hands across his broad stomach, his fingers weaving, and he regarded the town to the north through lowered eyelids. ‘Well, you have now.’ Something must have caught his eye then for he stooped, reaching down, and came up with a folded leaf votive offering. It held an old wilted geranium blossom. So, even here in Cawn too, Olo reflected. The fellow regarded it for a time, quite pensive, his fat lips turned down. ‘Patience, this lesson. Patience, and – acceptance of the unalterable. Will I finally learn, I wonder?’

  ‘Pardon, sir?’

  But it was as if Olo had not spoken at all. The fellow tossed the offering back into the waves and turned away. Further up the shore, where a short cliff rose from a steep strand of gravel, driftwood and black, angular rocks, a group of men and women now waited where just before none had been. Olo recognized the dark-cloaked figures from stories and was now glad to have simply been left alive. He lifted his gourd for a drink but found it empty and threw it aside in disgust. Then he remembered the coin and fished around inside his shirt. He found it and shouted his glee then glanced hurriedly to the shore but the figures were gone, and his eerie passenger with them. May they fall into the Abyss!

  He pushed off from the slippery algae-lined rock and back-oared. Now for Cawn. He hoped they were civilized enough here to boast a brothel or two. And what a tale he had to tell! It might even be good enough for one on the house.

  Ullen picked up a fallen soldier’s helmet only to find it heavy with gore. He dropped the wet thing. Four of Cowl’s Avowed assassins. The reserves in turmoil. Some sort of flesh-bursting Warren magics only stopped by an end of bodies to feed it. He caught the eye of the healer treating High Fist Anand, bloodied and prone on a cloak, cocked a question.

  The healer rose to put her face to his ear. ‘He may live.’

  Ullen turned to the pale, shaken staff officers, Imperial and Talian. ‘Reorder the brigades.’ Relieved jerked nods all around. ‘The rest of you, follow me. From now on we’ll keep moving.’

  Salutes. ‘Aye, Commander.’

  He headed south to the best vantage of the field he could find. Ahead, smoke draped the entire slope where fires rose raging only to suddenly whip out as if by invisible tornadoes. The heaving mass of irregulars still fired their withering flights of bolts into the hunched lines of Crimson Guard soldiery. So far the thrumming and singing of the crossbows was the main noise of battle. Behind the lines, the Blades waited, veterans and Avowed all. On the west, Urko’s command of Talian heavies had broken through and now faced a number of coalesced Blades. Good luck, old friend. The tall standard of the Sword was still pressing in the centre, now facing the thickest of the lines. Ullen had to admire the man’s bravery and martial spirit, even if it was accompanied by a rather appalling lack of imagination. He waved forward a messenger. ‘Ride to V’thell. Give him my compliments and have him break that
east phalanx at all costs, then head west to the road to cut the main Guard elements from the bridge.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  A staff lieutenant cleared his throat. Ullen turned, a brow raised.

  It was an Imperial officer. ‘With all respect. That is not Korbolo and Anand’s battle plan.’

  ‘No, it is not. But I served under Choss who has faced the Guard before and his lesson is not to treat them as an army but as individuals. Separate the Blades, isolate them, bring superior numbers to bear and bury them.’

  The Imperial staff command officers stirred uneasily. ‘Again, with all due respect, Lieutenant-commander. We defeated you.’

  Ullen merely blinked, puzzled. ‘We were not the Guard.’

  Another staff officer, a young Dal Hon woman, spoke. ‘Should we not check with the Empress? What if she is not safe?’

  Ullen returned his gaze to the field. ‘That is not my concern. My job is to win this engagement if at all possible.’ And he headed off again – he’d been standing in one place long enough. The assembled staff and messengers of command could choose to follow or not.

  He climbed up on to the south road, a high point, its bed raised by Imperial engineers. The deep amber slanting light of late afternoon now gathered over the broad slope. Cries snapped his attention to the centre field where a swirling in the light revealed a Warren opening. Darkness blossomed and out came something night-black and angular, winged. A demon. And not one of ours. The staff officers shouted their alarm. Ullen turned on them, ‘Have the skirmishers concentrate their fire on that thing!’

  The Dal Hon woman saluted, ‘Aye’, ran for the nearest mount.

  Good. A lesson from Choss: even if you know it’s not enough – do something! And where was their damned mage cadre? Done in by the Veils already?

  While the entire field of gathered men and women watched, the thing swooped over Urko’s heavies and stooped, slashing left and right. It then rose, carrying a victim that it dismembered in full view of all, limbs spinning, fluids splashing. Ullen swore that his complete command flinched at the spectacle. Damn it to Hood! They had to show everyone they possessed the firepower to counter that thing! That display alone was enough to break morale.