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

  He made a show of heading south, keeping himself visible for some time to the lower slopes. After two days he swung east.

  In the foothills Ivanr passed barley and millet fields still unharvested despite the waning season. The rutted cart paths he followed proved oddly free of traffic, given this time of trade and readying for the coming winter.

  He did meet one riderless horse ambling carefree down to warmer climes. From the state of its matted and burr-laced coat he imagined it had been free for some time and this surprised him; horses were rare, and he with two was already a wealthy man. This runaway he did not bother tethering. Though it was friendly enough, nosing his palm for treats, it looked bloated, ill. It had probably eaten a great number of plants it shouldn’t have. Ivanr sent it on its way unmolested. As he crested a hillock his last view of the valley behind was of a vast expanse empty but for the solitary mangy horse walking north.

  Past the hillock he came to a farmstead and a hamlet nestled beyond in a forested valley. No smoke rose from the home’s cobblestone chimney. The door stood ajar into darkness. A nearby corral was empty. He considered investigating, but with a flick of the reins decided against. His mount was pushing through the tall untended grasses next to the homestead’s courtyard when a woman’s shrill scream stunned him and shocked his horse into its own panicked rearing shriek. Ivanr ended up on his back, the wind knocked from him, while both mount and spare galloped off.

  He straightened to watch the two horses making their way up the track to the hamlet, then turned to search the grasses. ‘Hello? Who’s there?’

  A second sudden shriek and an explosion of pink flesh that made him jump as a brood of piglets and its sow burst from cover. Ivanr exhaled to ease his tensed shoulders. What an eerie noise those animals make.

  He followed the brood to their old pen, its woven stick walls pushed down. But his grin slowly fell away and his chest clamped even tighter than before; jumbled and trampled bones, hair, and sinew there in the dried mud resolved itself into the remains of several adults and children, all gnawed, consumed by the pigs.

  He flinched away, his stomach rising.

  All the forgotten gods … what has happened here?

  The open house beckoned but he turned away. No, no thank you. Sometimes it is best not to know. Though the silent and still hamlet did nothing to quell his unease, he followed his mounts into town.

  No one walked the streets. Doors were barred, window shutters set. It was peaceful enough but a stink hung over the place, a whiff of charnel rot. They were waiting for him at a central dirt square. The men of the hamlet, armed with an assortment of spears, pikes, staves, wood axes, and a few swords. More of the villagers stepped out to bar his way behind.

  A young fellow in the dark robes of a priest of the Lady came forward, bowing slightly. ‘Greetings, stranger,’ he called.

  Ivanr gave his own wary greeting. ‘There are bodies in the farmstead beyond.’

  The priest appeared genuinely shocked, his hand going to his thin black goatee. ‘There are? I am very sorry to hear that.’ His gaze slid aside to narrow on one old man. ‘All the unfortunates were to have been brought together for cleansing.’

  This accused villager paled, his hollow unshaven cheeks turning even more sickly, and he bowed and fled.

  The slim priest returned his attention to Ivanr. ‘And what of you, stranger? Surely you do not follow any foreign perversions of our one true faith.’

  Ivanr gave an easy shrug. ‘Of course I have always been faithful to Our Blessed Lady.’

  The priest shared Ivanr’s easy manner. ‘Of course. So, I can assume then that you have no objection to proving your devotion through a trial of fidelity.’

  Ivanr eyed the crowd of villagers encircling him; he could easily win through, but where were his mounts? His supplies? ‘And this trial involves … ?’

  ‘Simplicity itself.’ The priest’s lips drew back hungrily over yellowed rotting teeth. ‘A red-hot iron bar is placed in your hands and you must grip it while reciting the Opening Devotional. Naturally, Our Blessed Lady who protects us all will also preserve you – should your faith be pure.’

  ‘And should it prove … insufficient?’

  The priest’s thin lips drew down in regret. ‘There has been a marked lack of purity among the flock of late.’ He gestured Ivanr to follow. ‘Come, I will show you.’

  The crowd parted before the priest, who led him to the well at the centre of the commons. The festering stink that had been sickening Ivanr now rose to a choking reek of rotting flesh that made him gag. He covered his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his forearm. The priest nodded his understanding.

  ‘Offensive, yes, but you get used to it. I know it now as the sweet scent of cleansing.’ He gestured for Ivanr to peer into the well. ‘Come. Do not be afraid. Welcome deliverance unto Our Lady.’

  Though he knew exactly what he would see, Ivanr could not help but look down the stone-lined pit. A strange fascination demanded that he bear full witness to what had occurred. Flies in a churning dark mass choked the opening. He waved them aside one-handed and edged forward. At first he saw nothing. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that the well was not nearly so deep as he’d assumed. Something filled it. The dark mass of protruding limbs, heads, and bent torsos of a mass of human bodies stuffed the well to just below its lip. Ivanr flinched away, fighting down the bile clawing at his throat.

  ‘This is monstrous!’

  ‘We are doing the Lady’s work.’ The priest raised his voice, shouting to everyone, ‘The faith must be protected! Heretical doctrine must be cleansed!’

  ‘Heresy? Who says only one god must be worshipped?’

  The priest now directed his response to the crowd: ‘And where were these so-called gods when our ancestors were being wiped from the land by the predations of the demon Riders? Where was this ancient sea god some go on about now? This god of healing? Or this earth goddess? All the multitude of others? Where were they then?’

  Yet the crowd remained silent, more cowed than enthusiastic. It seemed the priest’s fanatical zealotry did not extend to them. Their faces did not shine with the conviction of true believers. Hunger, exhaustion, and days of constant fear had clawed them into a grey pallor. It seemed to Ivanr that they possessed a sullen suspicion directed more at each other than at him. They are terrified of this man, and their own neighbours. They have woven a bitter existence of constant mutual dread spiked by explosions of bloodletting. He eyed their drawn faces, sweaty grips on makeshift spears, and fevered gazes. Could they have been browbeaten and dominated into believing anything? Following anyone?

  ‘What is this?’ Ivanr demanded and snapped out a hand to grasp the priest’s robes at his neck. The man squawked and batted at the grip. Ivanr yanked as if tearing something then raised his hand high, a small object dangling there. ‘Look!’ he bellowed. ‘Look what this man wears secretly beneath his robes!’

  The object swung on a leather thong. The token given him from the hand of the Priestess herself: the sword symbol of the cult of Dessembrae.

  Ivanr felt all eyes shift to the priest. The young man glared back, scornful. ‘Fools! How stupid can you be?’

  Wrong tack, my friend.

  Faces twisted into masks of rage as long-suppressed anger and resentment found a path to release. Too late the priest realized his position and raised a hand for pause. It was as if that hand had motioned Begin as countless spears and sharpened hafts of broken tools punched into him. Ivanr was shouldered aside, so eager was everyone for a share in the man’s death. With the shafts of their weapons they levered up the still-twitching figure and thrust him over and into the well. Standing back, they raised those wet gleaming tools and looked at one another, amazed by what they had accomplished.

  Then all those eyes shifted to him.

  Ah … the flaw in the plan.

  Squeaking of wood on wood announced the return of the old man into the square. He was pushing a wheelbarrow, a shov
el resting in it. He set down the barrow to gape at everyone.

  ‘And there’s his lackey!’ Ivanr shouted.

  With a beast-like throaty snarl the crowd went for the man. He ran, showing a good set of heels for a skinny old fellow. Ivanr found himself all alone in the square.

  Now where are my blasted horses …

  He tracked them down easily enough; fed and watered in a corral. As he led them through the hamlet complete murderous chaos raged. Neighbour slew neighbour as all past feuds, grudges, and outright hatreds erupted in an orgy of stalking and stabbing. Soothing his mounts, he passed bloodied corpses splayed across thresholds, trampled on the narrow cobbled ways, and slumped against walls. Men, women, even children.

  He reflected that there seemed no stopping once all restraint was gone. And that chute was slicked by blood.

  As a stranger, and no part of their feuds, Ivanr was ignored. Only once did he stop, and that was before a child, a young boy, standing in a doorway, blood from a gash in his head wet down his shoulder and shirt-front. The solemn regard of the youth’s deep brown eyes shook Ivanr more than all he’d seen. Stooping, he picked up the lad and set him on his spare mount. The boy did not complain; said nothing, in fact. Ivanr’s relief was palpable when they reached the cool breeze of the open pastures above the hamlet. Looking back, he saw black smoke pluming from here and there about the town.

  Complete and utter collapse. The natural consequences of religious war? Or something more? Who was to say? It was all new to these lands where the Lady had ruled unquestioned for so many generations. Perhaps the eruption was natural, given how hard the Lady and her priests had clamped down, and how long.

  He regarded the youth, who sat awkwardly, his thin legs wide, feet bare and dirty. Probably his first time on a horse. ‘What’s your name?’ But the boy just stared – not sullen, flat rather – emotionless. Am I to have no answers from you either? So be it. Spurn me as Thel half-breed, would they? Then to the Abyss with these Jourilan peoples and lands, and all their gods, new and old, with them. I am done with them.

  Ivanr turned his back. The higher slopes of the foothills beckoned, and the snow-sheathed heights of the Iceback range beyond glittered in the slanting amber light of the passing day.

  ‘It was quick – if that’s any consolation.’

  Hiam looked to his Wall Marshal, Quint. The man was staring down at the broken equipment and bodies smashed on the rocks below. The indifference on his scared face troubled Lord Protector Hiam. His callousness again. Was that why the man was passed over for command when the old Lord Protector chose? Turning away, Hiam waved to the Section Marshal, Felis, the only woman he knew of to have risen so high in the order. ‘What happened?’

  Felis saluted and drew off her helm, revealing short brown hair that grew low on her forehead, almost to her brows. ‘Witnesses say equipment failure. Old rope. I take full responsibility, of course.’

  Shameful. What would his predecessors say to see the order so reduced? ‘The builders?’

  ‘Theftian labourers. Part of their imbursement.’

  Hiam once more peered down the dizzying slope of the curtain wall. A cold wind buffeted him. He examined where the boards and ropes hung tangled, swinging before a long dark rent, a fissure in the face of the set cyclopean blocks of the wall. ‘And that break?’

  ‘Largest in these three west sections,’ Quint answered.

  He saw it in his mind’s eye: the specially sized block being lowered to the workers suspended below on their planks, where they would fit and set it. But something went wrong – the block fell, smashed through the workers to crash to the breakwater. And now there was no time to cut a new one. The frost was already upon them.

  The fiends could dig their claws into this gap to pull the wall apart.

  The answer came reflexively, as it should. He trusted his instincts. ‘We’ll set the Champion in this section.’

  Quint did not disappoint. ‘Hiam! That is, Lord Protector! The centre bears the brunt. It’s always been the champion’s post.’

  Hiam offered his deputy, the Wall Marshal, an amused smile. ‘You’re telling me things I don’t know?’

  Quint’s bright gaze shifted to the Chosen nearby. His look told Hiam: If we were alone right now … ‘They’ll read something into the change. You mustn’t underestimate them.’

  The Lord Protector’s smile broadened: that had always been his message. The Wall Marshal was obviously not above appropriating arguments. Anything to win the skirmish. ‘They might. We’ll watch their patterns, just as usual.’ The Wall Marshal was not appeased, but he did clamp his lips shut – a temporary withdrawal perhaps. The rain that had been long promised by the day’s low-hanging clouds scudding in from the north came spattering down. Hiam pulled his thick cloak higher and tighter. ‘Section Marshal Felis …’ The woman saluted. ‘My apologies that we could not provide you with adequate materiel to sufficiently defend your command. I am sorry.’

  Felis appeared stricken to the bone. ‘Sir! I take full responsibility! The inspection—’

  ‘Was more than thorough, I’m sure. No, do not blame yourself, Marshal. Please convey my regrets to the rest of the Theftian crew and commend them for their efforts.’

  The Section Marshal saluted smartly, her eyes fairly shining. ‘Yes, Lord Protector.’

  Hiam answered the salute. ‘Dismissed.’ He invited Quint onward. ‘Since we’re here, let’s have a look at the Tower of Ruel’s Tears.’

  ‘Yes, Lord Protector.’

  Wall Marshal Quint walked quietly at the side of his commander. Once more the man had shaken him by his seeming casual disregard for tradition and the hard-won wisdom of their predecessors. Was he not aware that thousands had died for the priceless knowledge of where best to place their defences and how best to deploy for every situation? Yet of course Hiam knew, perhaps better than he did himself; the man was, after all, a student of history. A reader of scrolls and books, unlike him.

  He was a man of the spear. He had but two answers for all that existence could possibly throw his way: either the butt or the blade. Nothing need be more complicated than that.

  Yet the protectorship had not come to him. Despite five seasons’ seniority. Was he not the Spear of the Wall? Was his service not storied? Now lately he wondered: was there something he lacked? Some quality unfathomable to him? On days such as this Hiam would make him think. That woman, Section Marshal Felis – a woman! Were they in truth that short of men? Yet by his words of support the Lord Protector had won her, helm to sandals. She was his now, would do anything for him. He saw it in her eyes. Hiam could do that with just a word or a glance – what was this the indefinite quality? And most important, was it what was needed by the Chosen at this time?

  Or was it the butt or the blade?

  They entered the Tower of Ruel’s Tears. Guard chambers on the first floor, beds to double as an infirmary. Up the circular stairs they came to dormitories. Chosen jumped to attention. Hiam and Quint answered their salutes.

  ‘All well here?’ Hiam asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the ranking Chosen present responded, a Wall Provost, or sergeant, by the look of him.

  Hiam pointed to a guard across the low-ceilinged room. ‘Allan, yes?’

  The guard smiled, pleased. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Ramparts of the Stars, three seasons ago. That was quite the scuffle, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Lord Protector. A cold one.’

  ‘Good to see you. Carry on.’ Hiam brought his fist to his heart in salute.

  ‘Sir!’ rang the shouted response.

  They continued up the stairway past further levels of dormitories, these empty, awaiting the arrival of the season’s contingents from abroad. Beyond these they came to an armoury jammed with racks of spears, swords, and a few sets of spare armour – boiled leather cuirasses mainly. At the walls stood barrels of the weapon of last resort: tar, pitch and rare alchemicals for a barrier of flame. Above this the stairs ended at a trapdoor to the upp
ermost chamber. Hiam pushed it open and stepped up. Quint followed.

  Here broad windows faced all directions, all closed now by sturdy wood shutters bracketed in iron. At the centre of the small open chamber stood a stone pillar topped by an iron sleeve that could be raised and lowered by a lever. Hiam bent down, examining it. ‘This was tested this summer?’

  ‘Yes. Tested and inspected.’

  ‘Good. If there is one thing we mustn’t stint on, this is it.’

  ‘Yes.’ Their communication system. An oil flame within could be made to burn exceedingly bright with the addition of certain mineral powders. Raising and lowering the sleeve allowed them to send coded messages up and down the length of the wall. Simple communiqués: attack, help, all-clear.

  Quint examined his tall commander: grey coming into the beard and in the unkempt mane of thick hair. Yet seemingly young in his mannerisms. Not an outstanding spearman, it had to be said. But there was a certain something about his eyes and expression. Quint had always felt comfortable around the man, though he rarely felt comfortable around anyone. He crossed his arms under his cloak. ‘You didn’t drag me up here to discuss our communication system.’

  A wry smile. ‘No. And direct as ever. Reassuring, Quint. You’ve been quiet of late.’ He went to the shuttered window facing north, unlatched it and stood peering out. ‘No, word has come via my ever-efficient Staff Marshal Shool of the Jourilan and Dourkan contingent. ’ He turned, leaning back against the window ledge, hands clasping the edges of his thick cloak. ‘They have been halved.’

  ‘Halved. Halved? Well, what’s the point of that? Do they want to be overrun? They might as well send no one for all the use!’