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

  Far too long.

  When the Lasana’s turn came and the volunteering squads were called to ready themselves for the next morning, the 17th was one of five named. Pyke was furious. Below decks he first pinned Lard: ‘Was you, wasn’t it? You Hood-damned fat fool.’ Lard waved the man away. He turned on Dim next: ‘Or you – dimwit?’

  Dim just looked confused.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Yana from nearby. ‘Look to your kit.’

  ‘My kit? My kit! There’s no way I’m turning out for this! No way. You lot are the fools.’ And he stormed off.

  ‘Good riddance,’ Lard called after him, and aside, to Dim: ‘Was it you?’

  Dim blinked at the man. ‘Was it me what?’

  Lard caught Suth’s eye and raised his glance to the timbers above. ‘Never mind.’

  Every soul on board the Lasana jammed the decks that morning. The sailors hung in the rigging, arms crossed under their chins. It was overcast, and a strong cold wind was blowing off the Strait of Storms. Two squads of Moranth Blue marines had come over by launch. The five Malazan squads had the stern deck to ready themselves while amidships was being cleared. The sergeants huddled together to draw lots to determine order. The 17th picked second. When Goss came back with the news Suth leaned close to his ear.

  ‘Swap for last.’

  Goss eyed him. ‘What if they don’t want no swap?’

  ‘Tell them we need time, we’re short, whatever you must.’

  The sergeant grunted his agreement; you could say they were short. Faro, Pyke and Wess hadn’t shown. And it was clear from their usual plain leather jerkins that Len and Keri weren’t planning on fighting.

  Yana joined them. She stood even taller and broader in her full shirt of thick padded scale, boots, broadsword at her wide leather belt, full helm under one arm. ‘Minimum is five,’ Goss said, as he rubbed his jaw and eyed the squads readying their arms. ‘If we can’t field five, we’re out.’

  ‘Where’s Pyke?’ Suth asked.

  Goss’ jaws clenched. ‘Out. Says he fell down a companionway ladder. Twisted his knee.’

  ‘Dead-weight useless shit,’ Yana snarled. ‘We don’t need him. We have five with you anyway.’

  ‘No sergeants. Just regulars.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘And Wess?’ Suth asked.

  ‘I think he’s around here somewhere,’ Yana answered.

  ‘Dig him up – I’ll see what I can swing.’

  Suth searched the crowds nearby. When he returned Goss was back. The sun was warming the decking and the wind had picked up. The sailors were busy trimming the canvas to steady the ship. ‘We’re fourth,’ Goss said.

  ‘Good.’

  The sergeant eyed him; he brushed his fingers over his greying bristles. ‘You want to watch them fight …’

  ‘And they’ll be tired.’

  Goss laughed. ‘Don’t count on that.’ He watched Suth again, a small tight smile pulling at his lips. ‘It was you, hey? Put our name in. I thought maybe Yana did it just to get Pyke’s goat.’

  ‘I’m bored.’

  The sergeant leaned his elbows on the railing. ‘Well, you won’t be real soon.’

  Suth motioned to the two squads of Moranth marines waiting amidships. The plates of their head-to-toe armour had taken on the iron-blue of the clouds, or were reflecting it. They were readying large oval shields and the weapons they’d brought: some sort of wooden shortswords. ‘They’re that good?’

  ‘These could be among their best. Veterans of years of warfare. I’ve even heard it said that alone among the Genabackan peoples the Moranth will fight the Seguleh. And it’s the Blues who meet them at sea. They’re good all right.’

  Dim pushed through the crowd, shepherding along a mussed and irritated-looking Wess. ‘Here he is.’

  ‘Where’d you find him?’ Suth asked.

  Dim’s thick brows clenched in their usual expression of befuddlement. ‘In a hammock, of course.’

  Wess stuck his hands into his belt and lifted his chin amidships. ‘What’s all this?’

  Goss shook his head in awed disbelief. ‘Just get kitted up,’ he said.

  The 11th was first up. Everyone had to use the wooden weapons the Moranth provided. While they were no doubt dull-edged Suth imagined you could still easily maim someone with the vicious things. He, Yana, Lard and Dim watched; Wess lay down on his jack of banded armour and promptly went back to sleep, or pretended to. Len stood with Goss next to Suth. One of the Moranth squads squared off against the 11th’s picked troopers, three male and three female heavy infantry. The captain of the Lasana ordered the start by giving the nod to a trumpeter.

  It was over far more swiftly than Suth’s worst fears. Not because of any weakness in the 11th. Rather, it was because of a terrible tactical choice: they decided to take the fight to the Moranth. When the trumpeter blew his blast the troopers charged.

  Their rush was magnificent. A great shattering roar went up from the assembled men and women of the 4th Company and the Lasana seemed to shudder. Even Suth felt the hair on his neck rise and he mouthed his encouragement: Yes! Get ’em!

  But they charged as individuals, shields unlocked. The Blues held easily and picked them off one by one. It was a brutal and efficient lesson in what a disciplined wall of shields can accomplish. Suth was especially sobered; less than six months ago that individual bellowing all-out attack would have been his. And he would have gone down just as swiftly. Having had the discipline of holding the line beaten into him, he now understood something neither he nor his brothers and sisters growing up on the Dal Honese plains could puzzle out. How was it that man for man, or woman for woman, no Kanese or Talian was a match for the Dal Hon warrior, yet years ago their tribal armies crashed like surf against the Malazan legion? How could that be? Poor generalship had been the judgement against the chieftains of their grandfather’s time.

  Now he knew better. For the warrior fights as one, while the soldier fights all as one. No single warrior, no matter how skilled, can defeat ten, or fifty. Or in this case, five. But he, Suth, could defeat two … if he could just count on his fellows to hold long enough. Yana and Lard would hold, he believed. But Dim – the big man was just too good-natured, nothing ever seemed to rouse him. While Wess … all the gods of the plains … how many campaigns had the man slept through?

  The 6th was up next. No dash and thrust for them. Seven rectangular Malazan-issue heavy-infantry shields lined and locked. The Moranth squads traded out. The trumpeter loosed a blast. Two shieldwalls carefully edged towards one other across the decking. Shouting went up; running odds on the match – three to one against the 6th.

  ‘A good lesson here,’ said Len at Suth’s side.

  ‘A good many,’ Suth answered absently, a finger brushing his lips, intent on the Blues’ swordplay, the shields grating and sliding along each other.

  ‘Including the hardest of all …’ Puzzled, Suth glanced to the man, who lifted his chin to the other selected four from the squad. ‘Trust.’

  Suth almost snorted, dismissing the ridiculous claim, but caught himself. Trust. Yes, he could see that … yes, he could trust Yana. But a useless fool like Wess, or Dim? How could he possibly trust them? That would take … And his shoulders slumped. Mocking gods … it would take trust.

  So. He was stuck with them. Was this the canny old saboteur’s lesson? He caught the man’s eye and nodded, then turned to his squadmates. If I am stuck with them, then if I just complain or am sullen or resentful I am no better than Pyke. The obvious step, then, is if I want the squad to work, it is up to me to do everything I can to make it work.

  ‘I want an edge,’ Lard demanded, his gaze fixed on the fight below. A groan sounded from all around as a trooper fell, screaming and clutching at his gut.

  Suth considered. At least if Lard broke the centre wouldn’t be compromised. He shrugged. ‘Fine with me.’

  Yana nodded.

  ‘What about me?’ asked Dim.

  ‘Yana and
I will flank you.’

  The big man brightened like a child. ‘That’s great!’

  Suth and Yana shared a look: either she or he would have the best chance of recovering when he went down.

  ‘Wess!’ Yana bellowed. ‘You have one edge!’

  A muted grumble answered her.

  Soon after the first trooper fell the Malazan line disintegrated and the infantrymen lowered their arms as it was clear they’d been overborne. The Moranth disengaged and saluted.

  The 20th was next. If the 4th Company had a heavy elite the 20th was the closest thing to it. The men and women were all veterans, none unblooded recruits. They formed up and waited, silent. The trumpet blew and they charged, taking everyone, including the Moranth, by utter surprise.

  This was no disorganized rush. Shields remained locked and smashed as a line into the unprepared Blues. The Moranth fell back nearly to the ship’s side. A roar erupted such as never before. Troopers of the 4th jumped up and down, buffeting one another; the sailors shook the rigging.

  Even Goss managed a full smile and muttered, ‘Nicely done.’ But he added aside to Suth, ‘They won’t fall for that again.’

  After some fierce swordplay the Blues righted themselves, leaning away from being pressed into the side. Step by step they began edging round to circle back to the mid-deck. Cannily, the 20th matched the sidelong shift of shieldwall to abut against the mainmast. Both squads chose to use the mainmast to anchor their flank and now the fight shifted to the opposite flank. Whoever could turn that would win.

  Though the weapons were blunted wood, blood now flowed on to the decking. Suth winced at the thought of the force it would take to break skin. With a great heave the Blues turned the open flank, bringing down that trooper. Unlike the 6th, however, the 20th formed a square of four and grimly fought on. The men and women of the 4th Company, quietened by the turning of the flank, now gained their voices, shouting their encouragement.

  But the engagement was long past any question; it was just a matter of time. The 20th shrank to a triangle of three, then the remaining two back to back, and finally the last cut down by thrusts from all sides.

  ‘Well, we’re up,’ said Goss into the silence following that brutal demonstration. Sailors came out and wiped the decking. The Moranth squads changed out. Suth and his squad pushed their way down to the midships.

  They broke through to the cleared decking and though Suth had faced uncounted duels and matches, he found his mouth dry, his heart racing. He saw Wess tuck a ball of something into his cheek. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Resin of d’bayang poppy, and kaff leaves. Deadens pain. Want some?’

  Suth didn’t bother hiding his distaste. ‘Gods, no. I don’t want to be doped.’

  ‘You’ll want some later. Believe me, we’re in for some pain.’

  Suth just grunted; he couldn’t dispute that. He turned to the rest of the squad. ‘If it looks like we’re going to lose a flank, form square.’

  Lard laughed at that. ‘Yeah. A square of five. Ha!’

  ‘Just do it.’

  ‘Who made you—’

  ‘Do it,’ cut in Yana.

  Lard subsided, looked to tightening his shield strap. Suth adjusted his helmet.

  ‘Ready?’ Ship’s Captain Rafall called down.

  Yana pulled on her tall full helm, clashed her wood sword against her broad infantry shield. ‘Ready!’

  The Blues squad readied their shields.

  Five, Suth saw. One for one. And an idea came to him. ‘Yana, Lard – concentrate on your man on the end. We’ll take up the slack.’

  ‘Two against one, aye,’ Yana answered.

  The trumpet blew.

  There was no time for strategy after that. Suth could only focus on hammering his right, hoping to cover for Dim, who should be covering for Yana. He only hoped Wess wouldn’t go down right away. The hardened tip of a wood shortsword jabbed for him like a viper. The Blue opposite bashed his shield like an anvil, hoping to overbear him. And he nearly succeeded, for this type of fighting was new to Suth. A great shout went up over the pounding of blood in his ears, the gasping breaths. He caught out of the corner of his eye the sight of Wess calmly and methodically edging aside the Blue’s thrusting shortsword, his moves precise and efficient, almost lazy. He’s conserving his strength! Gods! To think he’d doubted the man.

  Dim, on his right, was too slow and awkward with his shield and was absorbing terrible punishment from the blunt-edged thrusts. But he didn’t go down. Too dumb to fall! It probably didn’t even occur to the man as a possibility. A starry hammer-blow to his head was Suth’s last clear impression and chagrin came with the realization that it was he who had lost his focus.

  An uncertain amount of time later his surroundings unblurred and stopped spinning. He was standing; someone had his arm. He shook his head. ‘Okay … I’m okay.’

  Goss’s face appeared close, squinting into his. ‘You took quite a shot.’

  Suth touched a gloved hand to his forehead, hissed at the pain. The fingers came away wet with blood. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Lard and Yana teamed up. Took down two Blues.’

  ‘So we won!’

  ‘Naw. You lost. But you did better than most of the others. Congratulations.’

  Troopers of the 4th came now, clapping him on the back and shoulders. Lard’s coarse laugh sounded above everyone’s voices. The Blues, Suth saw, were calmly readying for the next fight. All unharmed? And then, after this, off to the next ship and the next set of duels? By the Great Witch! It was inhuman.

  He looked over and almost groaned: Wess was steadying him. Wess, of all people! The man let him go while giving him a sceptical eye, gauging his stability. ‘Told you so,’ he said, and spat out the ball of leaves and resin. Then he crossed his arms over his shield and leaned against it, apparently not even winded.

  Oponn’s laughter! It just went to show you never could tell.

  The 2nd went last. They acquitted themselves well, forming square immediately and offering a stubborn defence that held out the longest against the Blues’ steady pressure. Over the next few days word came of what squads were tapped to ship over to the Blues’ vessels. Of the five on the Lasana, three were asked: the 20th, the 2nd, and their own 17th. Of the two passed over, it occurred to Suth that each displayed one possible unforgivable failing: one did not fight as a unit, while the other did not fight to the end. It was a worrying lesson. It suggested to Suth that the Blues were expecting a ferocious confrontation where quarter would not be asked for, or given.

  Banging at the front entrance to his house woke Bakune. It was past the mid-night. His housekeeper came to his bedroom door sobbing about ruffians and thieves. He ordered her to the kitchen. He felt quite calm, which was a surprise. He’d known he’d been living on borrowed time since all his files and records had been confiscated.

  Would it be treason or heresy? Or did it really matter? Of course it didn’t.

  Steeling himself, he left his rooms and descended the stairs to the front. He opened the door and blinked, uncertain. No troop of the Watch; no Guardians of the Faith from the Abbey; just one dumpy figure in a cloak dripping with wet snow who pushed him aside and slammed the door.

  The figure threw back his hood to reveal himself as Karien’el.

  Bakune could not keep from arching a brow. ‘I knew you’d be coming for me, but I didn’t think you’d come yourself.’

  Weaving, Karien’el waved the comment aside. ‘Screw that.’ He was drunk, perhaps gloriously so, his nose a bulbous wreck of broken vessels, a web of flushed angry veins across his cheeks. ‘I’ve come to say my goodbyes, my friend. Do you have any wine or something stronger in this wretched house?’

  ‘So, someone is coming to take me, then?’

  Karien looked confused for a moment, then chuckled. ‘Lady, no, my friend. I am the one going away. My just rewards, I suppose. Now, let’s have a toast to the old days.’ He headed for the parlour like an old visitor, when in f
act Bakune could not remember ever allowing the man into his home.

  Sighing, Karien’el thumped into a chair, glass of Styggian wine in hand, while Bakune teased the embers of the banked fire back to life. What could the Watch captain want here? Hadn’t he already destroyed his life? Perhaps he’d come to ask him to do the honourable thing.

  ‘You are going away then?’ he asked stiffly.

  ‘Yes. Haven’t you heard? No, I suppose you wouldn’t have.’

  Bakune eyed him, uncertain.

  ‘The Lady and all these foreign gods as well, man!’ Karien growled. He tossed back the wine. ‘You remain a fool. But an honest one – which is why I’m here.’

  Bakune did not answer. Pursing his lips, he prodded the wood with a poker; it seemed the man had come to talk and he had best allow him to unburden himself then send him on his way.

  ‘The Malazans, man. They’re leaving. Marching away tomorrow. All the garrison.’

  Bakune almost dropped the poker. ‘Lady—That is … that’s unbelievable. ’

  Karien’el slyly tapped the side of his nose. ‘Part of my job is to know things, Assessor. And I’ve been hearing rumours of the massing of troops in the east, and a summoning of the Mare fleet.’

  ‘The Skolati … ?’

  ‘No, man! Not the useless Skolati.’ He struggled to lever himself from the chair, gave up, and waved the empty glass. Bakune brought the carafe and poured.

  ‘No, not the Skolati. Mare doesn’t push out every hull that will float for the Lady-damned Skolati!’

  Kneeling, Bakune returned to the strengthening fire. The house was freezing; it was an early winter. ‘Then … who?’

  ‘Exactly. So … who?’

  Examining the fire, Bakune shrugged. ‘I assure you, Karien – I have no idea.’

  The man cradled the glass against the round expanse of his gut like a sacred chalice. He hung his head and rolled it slowly from side to side. ‘All the gods real or unreal, cursed or blessed … Must I do everything for you, Assessor? I have wrapped it all up nice and tidy. Can you not make the leap?’