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 column reached a bridge and rumbled across, the hooves sounding like a thunderstorm over the cut and set limestone blocks of its sturdy arches. Torches appeared at nearby guardhouses, inns and farmhouses, but the column passed on, heading west into what was once the sovereign state of Bloor.

  Rillish knew, of course, that the Wickans had no intention of riding all the way to Heng. That left travel through Warren – another reason perhaps that he alone had been chosen to accompany them, having just recently endured such a mad journey. And he frankly dreaded any revisit.

  Yet he had to admit to some curiosity: how would it be done? All some thousand of them? Such a passage would be unheard of. From what he had pieced together mage-invoked travel through Warren was similar to that of a mouse daring a daylight raid upon a cat’s milk-pan. Done most timorously.

  Again, however, the grim and deadly intent upon the faces around him determined his answer: none intended a return in any case. Therefore, no price, no matter how high, would prevent their going. Gods! And he was part of this charge!

  He urged his mount close to Nil once more. ‘What Warren?’ he called.

  The young warlock pulled his gaze from ahead, appeared puzzled for a time, then grinned. ‘Much debate and snarling surrounding that, Captain. Which would afford quickest passage? One was finally agreed upon – the one least likely to invoke the wrath of any guardian – the Abyss itself!’ And he laughed, kicking his mount on ahead.

  Stunned, Rillish let his horse ease back into line. Yes, least likely to arouse the wrath of anyone: because there was nothing there! Would they fall for ever, as some said? Ride off the edge of the world? Or sink into the great ocean that some believed encircled all lands? Which would it be? Well, soon he would find out. Though he didn’t imagine he’d have the chance to pass the knowledge on.

  Ahead, the starry sky swirled, blurring and smearing in a sickening way. The road broke up in wavering lines like those of heat-mirages, though the night was cool. Rillish chanted prayers to Fanderay, Soliel, the Queen of Dreams, Dessembrae, and Trake: may they find a firm something under the hooves of their mounts and air to breathe. The column’s van, led by Nil and Nether together with a troop of other warlocks and witches, disappeared into the void revealed beyond, opening the way. The column pressed onward, unflinching, and Rilllish felt a scream gathering itself in his chest. It clawed its way up to his throat as his place in the ranks neared the void, then burst forth along with other shouts and calls from those alongside him as many drew swords, mounts leaping, ‘Hood look away!’

  From cover lying flat within tall grass at the crest of a hill, the setting sun behind, Hurl, flanked by Sergeant Banath, scanned the battlefield. It looked to her as if the Imperials were doing far better than she’d imagined. The Malazan forces controlled the ground in the east and the west, but the Guard still held the centre. Banath motioned to where the Pilgrim Way descended into the Idryn river valley. ‘Will they move on the bridge, you think?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What if the Guard breaks through – what’s to stop them from heading north?’ and Banath raised his chin to where the tall glowing pavilion advertised the presence of the Imperial person herself.

  ‘They might. But I don’t think she’ll hang around for them.’

  ‘So, what’s the objective here?’

  Hurl motioned him back down the hillock. ‘Annihilation.’ They jogged back down to the copse of woods where her troop waited with Rell, Liss and the three brothers. Hurl came to Liss’s side. ‘You’ll keep us hidden?’

  The shamaness nodded. ‘As well as I can, but I’ll confess, the magic unleashed on the far side of those hills is like a return to the old campaigns where the mage cadre ruled the field. And I fear we’ll see much worse through the night.’

  ‘We’re just here for Ryllandaras.’

  ‘Oh? What of relieving the Empress?’

  ‘Keeping him occupied would be more than enough of a contribution, don’t you think?’

  Liss’s gaze skittered aside and she pursed her lips. ‘Too true.’

  Hurl came to Rell who had dismounted, out of necessity, for Hurl had never before seen a more awkward rider – other than herself. ‘Regret coming?’

  The man edged his helmet and gilded visor side to side. ‘No, I do not. Though I do regret not having the chance to match swords with the Avowed. I have heard much of them.’

  Hurl studied the man for a time, his repaired armour, the twin milky spheres serving as the pommels of the swords at his sides – said by Silk to have been the very weapons carried by Li Heng’s ancient Protectress. ‘Why did you ever leave your homeland, Rell? All these years it’s been obvious to me that you miss it greatly.’

  The man clasped his hands at his back, his visor sinking as he peered down. ‘I had no choice. I was exiled – no, that is not true. I left of my own choice, for to stay would have been untenable.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No.’ In Rell’s tone Hurl imagined a regretful smile. The man turned half-aside as if he could not bear to speak aloud to her – or to anyone. ‘I was young. Very full of myself. I had been promoted to the highest martial body of my people. One of the youngest ever to have been so honoured. I fought many duels – but not as you and your people seem to understand them, to the unnecessary death or sloppy exhaustion. At the level I fought, blood was rarely spilt. All could be decided by the judging body in a mere one or two passes. Speed, technique, execution. Perfection of form and precision of application. Indeed, some matches were lost merely because of what one contestant failed to do. An opening overlooked. A technique not pursued to its uttermost realization. For us, in short, fighting had become a form of religious dedication and expression.’

  Hurl’s mouth had gone dry. Ye gods! This would explain a lot. She swallowed to speak, said, her voice rough, ‘Well, then, why leave?’

  ‘As I said. I was full of myself. I did the unthinkable – I disputed a ruling. The judges, all my superior in rank of course, re-emphasized their judgment. I, then, dared to question their interpretation. For this presumption I was expelled from the martial order of my society. Forbidden to carry arms. All that was left to me was a life as a craftsman, farmer or servant. I would remain free, but would never fight again. Well, you can imagine…How could I in my hot youth bear to watch my peers – men and women far less skilled than I – walk by exalted in rank while I bowed before them? No. I chose exile instead. Now, however, I would return if I could. I think I would farm. Raising something from seed to fruitful crop would, I think, prove very satisfying.’

  Yes, Rell, you have come a long way. But perhaps your only failing was being too headstrong in a society too rigid to accommodate it. ‘You could think of Heng that way.’

  A tilt of the helm. ‘My thanks, Hurl.’

  A grating shriek echoed through the twilight from hill to hill and Hurl’s back shivered, the hair on her arms rising. She ran to Liss. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Another summoned creature met an ugly end over there. Things are heating up. We can expect Ryllandaras soon, though I suspect that even he would think twice before stepping out on to that conflagration. Mage duels, I think, to the misery of all, will settle that engagement.’

  Hurl looked to the east where the crests of hills flashed in silhouette lurid red and yellow and where the echoes of sharper bursts staccatoed like falling rocks amid the roar of battle. Above the field swirled an eerie reflected glow such as that of the green and blue banners that sometimes flickered in the northern sky. Earthquake, firestorm and typhoon all rolled into one. Gods aid the common soldiers in that maelstrom! All they can hope to do is keep their heads down and avoid notice while the Avowed mages flex their muscles to clear the field.

  ‘What in the name of stinking Poliel was that!’ May called out from down the trench.

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t wanna know!’ Nait shouted. ‘Just keep firing!’ A gaggle of skirmishers ran past, heads down, and
Nait called to them, ‘Over here! C’mon, take cover!’

  They dived into the trench. ‘Gettin’ hot out there,’ one said, an idiotic grin on his smoke-smeared face.

  ‘Just fire!’ Nait told him. As far as he could see all order had been lost. The lines were intermingled. No clear front remained. But hanging smoke, real and damned Mockra illusion blocked his vision of portions of the field – he knew when the smoke was Mockra because he couldn’t smell it. Crimson Guard Blades stalked the field breaking all resistance where they found it. Since May’s lucky toss with that melter took out that demon they’d been getting a lot of unwanted attention. So far the focused fire of Nait’s squad had driven off three attempts upon them, blunted and deflected the Guardsmen to seek out softer targets. That, and the Moranth Gold who showed up out of nowhere to help defend their position. And speaking of fire, it appeared to be thinning to his left – Nait rose up out of the trench to squint down the line. Heuk was there, talking with Jawl and the boys at their lobber. What in the name of Hood’s all-too-close breath was the damned fool up to? The mage then headed to him. ‘Will you get down!’ Nait yelled.

  ‘Drink this,’ the old drunkard said, shoving his jug at him.

  ‘Go to the Abyss.’

  ‘Drink!’ and crouching he pressed it into Nait’s hands.

  ‘All right!’ Nait took an experimental sniff and pushed it away. ‘Gods, no!’

  Heuk was unsympathetic. ‘You want help? This is it.’

  Reluctantly, Nait raised the jug to his mouth, forced himself to take a mouthful of the cloying fluid, swallowed, gagging. He swiped his leather-palmed gloves across his mouth. ‘Gods! What is that?’

  ‘Horse blood, mostly.’

  ‘Horse blood? What’re you trying to do? Poison us?’

  The mage slapped him on the back, chuckling. Since the battle began the fellow seemed to come into his own; where everyone else ran ducking and wincing he strode straight and unconcerned. He motioned Nait up out of the trench. ‘Come with me. There’s someone who wants to talk with you.’

  ‘Talk with me? What’d you mean?’

  ‘C’mon.’ And the man took hold of Nait’s arm and lifted him from the trench.

  Nait stared, rubbing his wrenched shoulder. ‘Take it easy…’ Heuk pushed him up the hill.

  The wind that had been blowing constantly down the hillside now intensified. Something came throbbing overhead, a pressure, and he ducked, but Heuk gestured, muttering, and the pounding retreated. Nearby, the ground shuddered, dirt and ash flying into the air along with a few fleeing irregulars.

  ‘What in the Abyss…’ Nait gaped.

  ‘Never you mind – just keep the boys firing,’ Heuk said. ‘Here we are,’ and he pushed Nait forward. Suddenly, the air stilled and he saw that someone sat in the grass at the crest of the hillock. A very broad and heavy Dal Hon woman, a fan in one hand waving furiously at her sweaty, glistening, dark face. Sweat also drenched her silk clothes, darkening them and draping them over her wide bosom. Despite being absolutely terrified for his life, Nait was instantly captivated. Dear Gods, what a figure of a woman!

  ‘This is Bala,’ Heuk said. ‘She’s the reason you’re still alive.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, I’m the reason she’s still alive!’

  The mage’s sweat-beaded, thick arms shook as she laughed a throaty chuckle that made Nait faint with desire. ‘Well said, soldier. Your fighting spirit remains, I see. Good – you’ll have need of it. To be brief, I am exhausted. I have defied, deflected and blunted the Avowed mages’ efforts to turn this slope into one long killing ground all this long evening. But now I am done. Finished. I thought I was up to anything – that I was a match even for Tayschrenn, but now I find I must withdraw where before he alone faced down these and more. Heuk here will be taking over for me.’

  At Nait’s obvious alarm she threw up a hand up for silence. ‘If half of what he has shown me is true then you are in good hands. In fact, if any of what I suspect is true I am frankly glad to be withdrawing. So, soldier. Goodbye and good luck. I see from your stupefied gaze that you are of course entranced by our meeting. I would be pleased to remain to torture you with my unattainability but that will have to wait until we meet again.’ She snapped her fan closed with a loud snick like that of a sword sheathing and she disappeared. Nait stared blinking at the empty flattened seat of grass. Just my luck. Meet the woman of my dreams the day I’m gonna die. He knelt to press a hand down on the earth where she’d sat. It was warm to his touch. Lady, let me meet that one again!

  Heuk cleared his throat. ‘So you could see her.’

  Nait turned on him. ‘Yeah, I could see her!’

  ‘Good. Look around. What more do you see?’

  Wanting to tell the old man to stuff it, Nait reluctantly glanced away to scan the field. Lights moved through the dark of gathering twilight – bright glowing figures among those milling, running and fighting. ‘I see people all lit up.’

  ‘Good. You have a touch of the talent now. The blood has given you this, as it has everyone down in the trenches. You can see anyone with raised active Warren magics. Now get down there and use that arbalest to blow them to Hood.’

  Nait did not have to be told the advantages of this. He grasped hold of his shoulderbag and jogged down the slope. ‘Kibb! Load the lobber!’

  Laseen had been very strict in her last orders: do not enter the Imperial Pavilion. No matter what. And though Possum was dearly tempted to edge aside the thick layered cloths of its walls to peek within, he restrained himself. No sense offering myself as a target to whatever awaited hidden inside. Planted torches lit its outside perimeter, Malazan regulars stood guard at intervals. No messengers or attendants came or went. Possum watched, as before, hidden half in veils of Mockra and slanting shadows of Meanas. Night gathered, thickening. He would wait. Eventually someone worth his attentions would make a mistake; then he would pounce. In the meantime he entertained himself imagining tableaus of what was occurring within. Had Havva Gulen woven multiple layers of wards and Warren-sprung traps for any attackers? Gods knew she didn’t seem useful for anything else; he hadn’t seen her dirty, lank hair or stained robes since they’d arrived. Perhaps the Veils had already taken her out. How would they ever know? In any case, he could wait. The Hand-commanders all had their orders – the sum total of which amounted to little more than hunt down any isolated Avowed and take them out. What more could they do? Laseen had ordered no Claw bodyguards remain with her. Very well. Who was he to disagree? Technically, he wasn’t really with her, was he? He was watching from a safe distance. And should anything untoward happen…well, someone would be needed to step in to take charge…

  Movement of the thick overlapping cloths brought Possum to the balls of his feet. A shriek tore from within, inhuman, gurgling, bubbling down into the mewling of incandescent agony. Possum ran for the pavilion. Guards backed away, swords out, as something dragged itself out from under the staked edgings of the cloths. A demon, its limbs and taloned hands twisted, almost melted. Smoking patches ate at its shaggy pelt. It trailed smears of ichor and dustings of red earth behind as it writhed free of the pavilion. Possum knelt, touching the strange rust-red dust. He rubbed it between his gloved thumb and forefinger. Smooth, like chalk.

  Sighing, the tortured thing expired. Its flesh melted into a bubbling, hissing mess before everyone’s eyes. Possum backed away. Queen preserve them! What could do such a thing to a summoned creature – an inhabitant of Gods knew what Warren or Realm? Then the thought struck him: summoned! A creature of magic! As if stung Possum wrenched off his glove, turned it inside out and flicked it away like a viper. Gods! He’d almost…too horrible even to consider! He backed away further – at least none of the guards appeared to have perceived him – his Warren magics remained active. He found another vantage point, his back covered by the spear wall of an impromptu horse corral.

  Pure Laseen. Vicious and efficient. A floor dusted in Otataral and she in the centre. The dust negates th
e magics of any entering, levelling the field. As to the fight that followed, well, she had been mistress of the Claw after all. And the pavilion’s thick cloth walls disguised the fates of all who entered from those who waited without. How many have fallen within? Five? Ten? And by dawn how many? How many would Cowl send before entering himself? And when he did…the vaunted Avowed High Mage would find himself crippled – as would that mystery female mage who’d got the drop on him before. Yet Cowl duelled Dancer in his time. It was a pairing I’d almost step within to watch.

  Almost.

  It appeared that for the meantime Laseen had things well in hand. Perhaps there was time for a tour of the field fishing for targets of opportunity. Yes, perhaps so. And he ought to gather a feel for the engagement – in case the situation was such that discreet withdrawal was called for. Warren raised, half within natural shadow and half within Meanas, Possum jogged unchallenged on to the field.

  What he found appalled him. Never had he witnessed such indiscriminate slaughter. Hanging curtains of Mockra drifted about, perhaps bringing to those it covered a crushing demoralization, or certitude of defeat. Thyr-induced walls of flames stalked the already burnt embers of the ravaged grassland. Skirmishers huddled in defensive knots firing on all who approached. Malazan regulars were digging in, forming shieldwalls against attack from roving bands of Crimson Guardsmen. Smoke wreathed all amid the dark. As far as he could make out things had descended into little more than chaos, murder and mayhem in which anything that moved was a target.

  An enormous eruption of munitions battered his ears and buffeted him. He ran for the nearest vantage. The explosions rippled on in an incessant crashing that seemed to grow and grow in waves, climbing into a continuous roar. He reached the top of a modest hill to see down the slope toward the cliff to the Idryn valley. There, the Moranth Gold phalanx had been met by a Crimson Guard force ludicrously small by comparison. But it was not the mundane attack that captivated and horrified: the phalanx was under assault by ritual battle magics. A tornado of Serc squatted over the unit plucking up Moranth into its gyring maw. There they twisted, doll-like, limbs flailing, some being swept down to bowl over entire ranks. There they collided and, sometimes, erupted, disappearing in clouds of burst flesh and fragmented armour. Hood refuse this! This was not war. This was slaughter. And the thought clenched his chest, almost stopping his heart: they have no mages!