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

  A silent pause; perhaps long enough for a shrug. ‘Not at all. Are you some sort of Imperial fanatic?’

  ‘No! I withdrew from service.’ She glared to see his eyes amused above what must be a smile hidden by his scarf. ‘I was a private bodyguard.’

  It was hard to tell, but she thought the smile disappeared. ‘Not so unalike after all, then.’

  ‘We are quite unalike, thank you,’ she sniffed, and regretted it instantly – that priggish superior tone. He just gave a low knowing chuckle and Kiska was then very glad of her scarf for it hid her flushed embarrassment.

  For all their walking the range of hills appeared no closer. The dune fields interspersed by flats of hardpan passed monotonously. They passed occasional ruins of canted pillars and shattered stone walls half buried in the sands. The emptiness struck Kiska as odd; her memories were of a much more crowded place.

  ‘We were enemies once, I suppose,’ the man said after a time, perhaps only to hear a human voice in all this silence. ‘For you were a Claw.’

  Kiska turned on him, about to demand who said so, and to deny it utterly, but then the absurdity of it all came to her and she deflated, her shoulders falling. She gave a dismissive wave and continued on. ‘How did you know? Did the Enchantress tell you?’

  ‘No. It’s in your walk. The way you move.’

  ‘Seen many, have you, up there in Seven Cities?’

  ‘I was stalked by a number of them,’ he answered, without any note of boasting.

  She glanced over, attempting to penetrate the layers of his armour, his face-masking headscarf. ‘I’m impressed.’

  It was his turn to wave the issue aside. ‘Don’t be. My friend killed most of them. He’s very good at killing. I’m not.’

  Kiska was caught off guard by this surprising claim, or confession. ‘Really? What are you good at then?’

  Now came an unmistakable broad smile behind the scarf. ‘Living.’

  Kiska almost shared the contagious smile before quickly turning away. After walking again for a while, she began, ‘Yes. I was a Claw. I trained as one. Was offered command of a Hand. But I refused. I withdrew.’

  ‘I thought they wouldn’t allow that,’ he said. ‘That they’d just kill you.’

  ‘Sometimes. If you go independent. Not if you join the regular ranks. Or, as I did, serve as a bodyguard within the Imperium.’

  ‘It must have been hard … walking away from all that …’

  ‘Not at all. It was simplicity—’ She stopped, peering aside. ‘What’s that?’

  The undulating terrain had brought a hollow into view where a large dark shape lay twisted among broken ground. Jumbled tracks led from it off to their right.

  ‘It’s not moving,’ said Jheval.

  Kiska gestured onward. ‘Let’s just keep going.’

  ‘We should at least take a look.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. This is Shadow – we mustn’t involve ourselves.’

  But Jheval was already heading down the slope. ‘Aren’t you even curious?’

  ‘This is no place for curiosity … or stupidity,’ she added under her breath, peering warily about. Yet follow she did. It was the fresh corpse of a titanic lizard beast. Upright, it would have stood twice her height. Its forearms ended in curved blades, battered and stained. Jheval was crouched by its great head. He had pulled down his face scarf.

  ‘So … this is K’Chain Che’Malle,’ he said, musing.

  ‘Yes. A warrior. One of their Kell Hunters.’

  ‘What is it doing here, I wonder.’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Whatever had happened, the beast’s death had not been easy. Great savage wounds gouged its sides and legs. Dried blood sheathed its scaled skin. Kiska noted a track close by and she knelt: an enormous paw-print wider across than the span of her hand. She straightened, rigid. ‘Jheval …’

  The sandpaper hiss of the tail shifting warned them and one forelimb scythed through the air where Jheval had been crouching. His morningstars appeared almost instantly as blurs. The beast twisted, lumbered to its clawed feet. A kind of harness of leather and metal hung from it in tattered ruins. Kiska saw there was no point in running: the thing’s stride was greater than her height. Jheval desperately gave ground in a series of clashing parries, somehow deflecting each of the Kell Hunter’s ponderous slashes. Kiska was appalled; it seemed to her that any one of those blows could have levelled a building.

  Since they could not outrun it she had to slow it down. And it seemed to be ignoring her. She lunged after the beast, long-knives drawn. A forward roll brought her within reach of its trailing leg and she slashed. A bellow of pain rewarded her, together with a blow from its tail that crushed the breath from her and sent her tumbling across the sands.

  She awoke coughing and gagging. Jheval was crouched over her, water skin raised. She wiped her face and peered about. Off in the distance a trumpet roar of pain and frustration blasted the air.

  ‘You carried me.’

  He sat heavily, out of breath. ‘No. I dragged you.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  She suddenly remembered what she’d found next to the fallen Kell Hunter and struggled to rise. ‘We have to move.’

  He pressed her down gently. ‘No, no. You crippled it. And it was too stupid to know it was dead anyway.’

  She batted his hand aside. ‘No, you fool.’ Then, failing to stand, she grabbed the hand. ‘Oh, help me up.’

  He pulled her to her feet and she hissed, cradling her side. It felt as if someone had swung a tree at her. ‘We have to go,’ she gasped. ‘They might return.’

  The man was eyeing her, suspicious. ‘Who?’

  Clutching his shoulder, she tried a step. ‘The creatures that tore that Kell Hunter apart. The hounds. The Hounds of Shadow.’

  ‘Even they could not—’

  ‘Trust me,’ she said, impatient. ‘I’ve seen them.’ She took a tentative step all on her own. ‘Now, we have to go.’

  The man was scanning the surroundings, scowling, clearly dubious. But at length he shrugged, acquiescing. ‘If you insist.’ He took her elbow to help her along.

  The corpses may have been fishermen unlucky enough to have had their boat sink, or overturn. Perhaps. They were found tangled on the shore of the tiny Isle of Skytower, a rocky outcropping at the centre of Tower Sea. Yet since the sea, and the isle, were forbidden to all by order of the Korelri Chosen, it was unlikely they had arrived by choice.

  Summoned by the watch, Tower Marshal Colberant, commander of the garrison, reluctantly climbed his way down the bare jumbled rocks of the isle’s steep shore. He was old, and frankly cared nothing for the world beyond his life’s duty overseeing this, the most isolated and secure fortress of the Korelri Chosen. Living fishermen or sailors from nearby Jasston or Dourkan barely interested him; their dead remains could hardly be worthy of his attention. But Javus, their youngest recruit to this, the most demanding and important posting achievable for all Chosen, had been very insistent. Such keenness ought to be encouraged.

  So Colberant hiked up his long cloak and steadied himself with the haft of his spear as he carefully tested each foothold among the jagged black rocks that led down to the island’s desolate shore. Desolate because within Tower Sea no fish swam, no bird nested, and no plant spread its green leaves. For here against Skytower ages ago the full fury of the demon Riders smashed winter after winter while Colberant’s ancestors fought to complete the final sections of the great Stormwall. And here even now, after so many thousands of years, the land had yet to heal and find its life again.

  Downslope, Javus waited a good man-height above the tallest of the high-water marks. At least, Colberant mused, the lad knew better than to extend an arm to help his ageing commander. Planting his spear, Colberant made a show of peering about. ‘So where are these bodies that have so spooked you, young Javus?’

  The youth smiled, already familiar with his commander’s teasing manne
r. He slipped an arm from his wrapped cloak. ‘Just there, Marshal. And it is not the corpses that are unsettling – rather the manner of their passing.’

  Colberant arched a sharp brow. ‘Oh?’ But the young Chosen, his gaze lowered, would say no more. The marshal probed the rocks and continued on a few more paces. Here he halted, then lowered himself to his haunches, both fists tight on the spear haft.

  He would not have thought them corpses had he come across them alone. Tangled lengths of sun-dried driftwood, perhaps. More than ten individuals certainly, deposited high above the highest of all the tide lines. Yet each was as browned and desiccated as if found within a cave.

  It had been many years since he, an elder among the Order of the Chosen, had heard of such things. Squatting on his aching haunches he glanced up at the heights of the black volcanic rock tower looming above them. They say the Blessed Lady spurns many and that few achieve permission to sit at her right hand. Is this a warning? Have we angered her with our weakness of late? Who was to know? Not even he, considered the most ardent in his devotion, dared guess her moods. He straightened, returned to the waiting Javus.

  He smiled his reassurance. ‘Drowned fishermen. Their boat must have overturned. No matter how many times we tell them not to enter Tower Sea, still they come.’

  The young man remained troubled. ‘With all respect, Marshal, I’ve seen drowned bodies. Those men and women have not been in the sea.’

  Colberant shrugged his indifference, began searching for a way up. ‘The sun, then, has dried them since.’

  ‘I only say, Marshal, because I am from Skolati originally …’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes … and in Fist is a similar inland sea, Fist Sea. And there on its shores we sometimes find similar … things.’

  Colberant turned to face the recruit squarely. ‘I do not find it surprising, Javus, that people should drown in either sea.’

  ‘But as I said, none of—’

  The marshal had raised a hand for silence. ‘Your diligence is to be commended … but this is a matter for the Order now. You will speak to no one regarding this.’

  Drawing himself up taut, the youth bowed curtly. ‘As you say, Marshal.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, perhaps you could show an old man the easiest path back up to the tower, yes?’

  Another stiff bow. ‘Of course, Marshal.’

  Colberant had asked for Javus’ guidance but he did not need it; he had been walking these rocks for decades. His sandalled feet sought purchase on their own as his thoughts flew far ahead. I must send word to Hiam immediately. The supply launch must be readied. Javus will wonder … but to be honoured with this posting his loyalty must already stand beyond reproach. For here in this tower, secluded from the Stormwall, guarded by four hundred most dedicated of the Chosen, are sequestered the Order’s holiest of relics. Including, so our ancient lore has it, the gift responsible for the founding of our Order, given from the hand of the Blessed Lady herself.

  All that day Ivanr knew of the army’s approach. He said nothing about it to the boy. Smoke and dust was a distant haze obscuring the higher valley. The hint of cook fires and the miasmic pong of stale human sweat and poorly cured leather made him wince; he had been a long time away from any human settlement.

  He set camp in the evening, hobbled the mounts. The boy sat, arms tight around his shins, watching, silent still.

  Not a word since leaving that pathetic village. Seeing one’s family butchered before one’s eyes might put a halt to discussion.

  Yet look at me …

  ‘Hungry?’

  No response, chin on knees, eyes big and hair unkempt.

  Ivanr cleared his throat. ‘We have bread. Meat. Preserves. Care for some cheese?’

  Nothing. A shudder from the gathering cool.

  Ivanr sighed.

  I have been alone in the mountains for a month and the one human being I choose to travel with won’t say a damned word. Serves me right, I suppose.

  He set to gathering firewood.

  While he collected the dry bracken and sticks, he called, ‘A man has only two hands, you know. Be nice to have a warm fire going by now …’

  He paused, glanced over his shoulder. The boy was watching him over his. ‘Never mind. Tricky business this, stalking twigs. Maybe when you’re older …’

  He sat facing the camp fire, finishing off the bread; the boy stared back, the tear of dried meat that Ivanr had placed in his hand still there. Ivanr was waiting for the advance scouts of the force up-valley to decide they were harmless.

  ‘Am I evil?’ the boy asked, so sudden, so unbidden, that Ivanr thought someone else had spoken from the dark.

  ‘I’m sorry, lad. What was that?’

  The earnestness of the boy’s gaze was a needle to Ivanr’s chest. ‘Am I evil?’

  ‘By all the gods true or false – no! Of course not. Who would say such a thing?’

  ‘My father did. When he gathered us all together. Ma and the little ’uns. Said we were evil in the sight of the Lady and had to die for it.’

  Ivanr stared through the fire between them. He felt his face darkening and a heart-squeezing pain. All the unholy gods. What can anyone say to that? ‘No, lad,’ he managed, fighting to keep his voice light. ‘That’s wrong. Your father was … led wrongly.’

  He heard them approaching then through the rough chaparral. Encircling – at least they got that right. As the scouts emerged from the dark – two men and two women – the boy jolted upright mouthing an inarticulate yelp. Ivanr quickly crossed to set a hand on his shoulder. Beneath his palm the lad was shivering like a colt. ‘Who are you?’ Ivanr demanded, if only because they had said nothing.

  ‘Where are you from, Thel?’ one of the women demanded.

  ‘I’ve been farming. There’s a village beneath the slope here. They’re killing everyone. We fled.’

  She studied him while the other three collected his gear and unhobbled his mount. ‘Hey! That’s my horse.’

  ‘Not any longer,’ said the woman. She was hardly older than a girl. ‘Why did you flee?’

  ‘I’ve had enough of killing.’

  That struck the woman as funny and she gave a derisive snort. ‘Then you should’ve kept to your fields, because you are now part of the Army of Reform.’

  ‘Reform? Who came up with that?’

  The woman pressed the tip of her Jourilan longsword to his chest. ‘Careful, recruit.’ The lad’s eyes were huge on the woman’s sword.

  ‘You don’t kill your recruits, do you?’

  ‘Just the spies and infiltrators.’

  ‘I’m not the type.’

  ‘No? Then what are you?’

  ‘I’m a pacifist. I’ve renounced killing.’

  Another derisive snort and the woman lowered her blade, sheathing it. She shook her head in disbelief. ‘A damned Thel pacifist. Now I’ve seen everything.’ She scanned the others. ‘We ready?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Okay. Back to camp.’ She waved Ivanr onward. ‘Beneth might want a word with you.’

  Walking through the night, a comforting arm over the lad’s shoulders, Ivanr wondered on that name, Beneth. Could it really be the same he’d heard so much of over the years? The heretic mystic of the mountains, hunted for so long. Had he now gathered to himself an army of followers? Or had refugees merely coaleesced naturally around him? The appearance of these scouts supported that theory: scruffy mismatched armour, no uniform. The possibility was troubling; he did not relish being pressed into an army of religious fanatics. He knew his history. There had been uprisings in the past, millennial movements, charismatics, schismatics, peasant rebellions. All crushed beneath the hooves of the Jourilan Imperial cavalry and the banner of the Blessed Lady.

  Late in the night they passed between pickets and reached the army encampment. Here the woman stopped him. ‘Just you.’

  The boy peered up, his brows troubled. Ivanr patted his shoulders. ‘He’s with me.’

  The
woman’s sour scowl, apparently her normal expression, eased into something like mild distaste. ‘We have a large train of followers. Refugees. Families. He can join the camp.’

  It occurred to Ivanr that from all he’d seen so far this assemblage was nothing more than one bloated congregation of refugees, but he thought it imprudent to say so at the moment. He crouched before the lad. ‘Go with this girl here. She’ll take you to a family. They’ll feed you. Take you in. Okay?’

  The boy just stared back, the crusted dried blood Ivanr couldn’t remove black in the dim torchlight. The eyes remained just as empty as before. Show something, damn you! Anything. Even fear.

  He straightened, nodded to the woman. She took the lad’s hand. ‘Is he …’ and she gestured to her head.

  Ivanr almost slapped the young scout. ‘No!’ He softened his voice. ‘He’s seen some terrible things.’

  She grunted, dubious, pulled him away. The lad went without a sound. He looked back once over a shoulder, his eyes big and gleaming in the dark. It somehow saddened Ivanr that he should go so easily and he felt a stab of pain as he wondered if perhaps he’d been forgotten already. One of the remaining scouts gestured. ‘This way.’

  The tent was large but no different from any of the others surrounding it. Guards stood before the closed flap. They searched him then waved him in. When he ducked within, the first thing that struck Ivanr was the heat, that and the bright light of a fire and numerous lamps. He stood blinking, hunched beneath the low roof.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said someone, a man. ‘You’re making me uncomfortable just looking at you.’

  Squinting, he made out scattered blankets and cushions. He sat. ‘My thanks.’

  ‘So, you are just up from the lowlands.’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘And what awaits us there?’

  ‘Chaos and bloodshed.’

  A barked laugh. ‘You were just there, weren’t you?’