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 deal struck was their bounty in return for one boat, with a minimal volunteer crew, to remain behind until the spring’s turn, celebrated here by bonfires lit in the name of the Lady’s Blessing. For the rendezvous, if any, Orzu suggested a maze of isthmuses, saltwater swamps, and narrows south of the city of Elri. Blues agreed.

  Then the man said he had to go ahead to make the arrangements. He peered at them all for a time, a hand pressed to the side of his face, shaking his head, then gave a heavy sigh. ‘You are crazy, you foreigners. But fare you well. May the Old Ones guide you.’

  ‘You too,’ said Shell.

  ‘Take care of your family,’ Blues said.

  The old man pressed his hand atop his head. ‘Aya! They are so many! Such a burden. It is heavy indeed.’

  They took shelter in an isolated cove on the uninhabited south shore of Korel. It seemed the Korelri had no interest in what they named Crack, or sometimes Crooked, Strait. All their attention was reserved for the north, and the threat beyond.

  In the morning Ena accosted Shell while she ate a breakfast of fish stew. ‘What foolishness is this I hear?’

  ‘Foolishness?’ Shell answered mildly.

  ‘You giving yourselves over to the Korelri? In truth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The girl-woman made an angry gesture. ‘Stupidity! You will be killed.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Look at you. You are no warrior.’

  ‘Ena … I’ve served in a mercenary company for a very long time. You’d be surprised.’

  ‘The Riders …’

  ‘An enemy like any other. Listen, Ena. You would do whatever you must for your family, yes?’ A guarded angry nod answered that. ‘Very good. And so would I. At least grant me that dignity.’

  Again, a slow nod. ‘You do this for your people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The young woman sat and cradled her broad stomach. ‘I will stay with the boat.’

  Now it was Shell’s turn for anger. ‘You most certainly will not.’

  ‘The Korelri will not harm me.’

  ‘When are you due?’

  An indifferent shrug. ‘Soon.’

  ‘Can’t have that kind of complication.’

  ‘Babies are born all the time everywhere. It is not a complication. ’

  ‘It is if it’s not necessary.’

  Ena smiled mockingly. ‘Babies are not necessary? You have been too long in your mercenary company, I think.’

  That stopped Shell. She could not maintain her anger in the face of chiding from someone certainly younger in years, but perhaps older in other ways, than her. True. There is no stricture. It would not seem to be against the Vow. Why not, then? Time away from duties, I guess. Always something else to do. And now I am too old. Yet, am I? I took the Vow in my twenties … Strange how this had not occurred to me before. Change in company, I suppose.

  She studied the girl’s blunt profile while she looked out to sea. Straggly dirty hair, grimed face; yet sharp intelligent dark eyes. ‘Don’t stay with the boat, Ena.’

  She smiled wistfully, agreeing. ‘The Elders wouldn’t allow it anyway. ’

  ‘Good luck with your life and your child, Ena.’

  ‘And you, Shell. May the Old Ones guide you.’

  Old Ones? Shell thought about that. Which Old Ones might that be? Burn, she imagined. The Elder Gods. Hood. Mael. D’rek. Osserc? K’rul? Sister Night? That sea-cult that was probably another face of Mael, Chem’esh’el? Who knew? Something chthonic, certainly. Perhaps they should accept all the help they could get, but with the proviso this cult of the Lady presented: one should be careful of whom one accepts help from.

  The exchange took place on a military pier at the Korelri fortress named Shelter. Shell, Blues, Lazar and Fingers were led up, hands securely tied. It was overcast as usual, a grim dark day. Snow blew about them in flurries. The flat grey fortress walls and the stone pier all had a military look to them. No colour, starkly functional. A troop of guards accepted them. From his dark blue cloak and silver-chased armour, the one leading the detachment was the lone Korelri Stormguard. And he was old, grey-bearded.

  He looked them up and down, each in turn, while Orzu watched, clasping and reclasping his hands. Blues and Lazar the Chosen accepted immediately. He stopped in front of Shell.

  ‘You can fight?’ His accent reminded Shell of the rural Malazan Isle twang.

  She raised her bound wrists. ‘Untie me and find out.’

  The man ran a hand through her blonde hair, longer now than she usually kept it. ‘Perhaps you could contribute more in one of the brothels.’

  Twins’ laughter! I didn’t even think of that! Maybe I have spent too long in a mercenary company.

  And so she head-butted him.

  He lurched away, gasping his pain, a hand to his nose. Blood gushed over his mouth. The guards leapt forward, weapons sliding from sheaths. But the Stormguard raised his other hand. His eyes were black with rage, yet that rage slipped away and the mouth twisted into a grin revealing blood-stained teeth. ‘Show the Riders your spirit, woman.’

  Next he turned to Fingers. He regarded him carefully, his thin shivering frame, pale drawn face, cracked lips, sick watery eyes and running nose, and was not impressed.

  ‘I don’t want to be in the brothel either,’ Fingers said.

  ‘Show me your hands,’ the man growled.

  Fingers held them up. The Stormguard turned them over, felt the palms. Then there was a metallic click and Fingers yanked his hands away: a dull metal bracelet encircled one wrist.

  ‘That’s otataral, mage. Don’t try any of your daemon tricks.’

  Fingers’ shoulders sagged. He glared at Orzu. ‘Did you tell him? Bastard!’ He went for Orzu but the Stormguard kicked him down. Lazar lashed out, but somehow the Chosen slipped the blow.

  Shell was impressed. And he was probably assigned this duty because he was too old to stand the wall. For the first time she wondered just what they had gotten themselves into.

  The Stormguard pushed them along. ‘Pay the man, Gellin. Standard bounty.’

  ‘Standard?’ Orzu yelped. ‘But they are skilled fighters. Champion material.’

  ‘Oh yes? Then how is it you got the better of them?’

  Orzu held up his open hands. ‘Come now, Chosen sir. You are too old for such naivety. Even the greatest fighter must eat and drink. And it is so very easy for d’bayang or white nectar to find its way into such things. And as for the rest … well, then it is all so very easy.’

  The old Chosen stomped over to the guard called Gellin and took the bag of coin from him. He threw it down before Orzu, where it split amid the slush and footprints on the stone pier. The coins clattered, some sliding into the water. ‘You disgust me. Take your money and go before I run you through here and now.’

  Orzu fell to his knees, bowing and scooping up the coins. ‘Yes, honoured sir. Certainly. Yes.’

  Shell wanted to say something, but of course she couldn’t. She allowed herself one glance back: the old man was still on his knees, pocketing the coins, peering up through his hanging grey hair. He did not so much as wink.

  She remembered some of her conversations with Ena; thought of deception and false fronts. For generations this was how the Sea-Folk survived. And now we, too, have elected for that same strategy. I can only hope our own subterfuge will prove as successful.

  Devaleth found the nightly staff gatherings increasingly uncomfortable. The remaining Roolian force had held them at the bridge for four days now. Each time a push gathered yardage, or established a foothold on the opposite shore, a counterattack from elite forces, mainly the Black Moranth, pushed them back. The narrow width of the bridge was now their bottleneck. And they were stuck in it.

  Greymane’s van had arrived near dawn of the night they took the bridge, scattering the remaining Roolian forces on the east shore. Unfortunately, the forced marching had taken its toll and his troops could not break through.

  It was wi
nter, and food was scarce. What meagre supplies Greymane’s forces had carried with them were exhausted. Foraging parties ranged everywhere. Any effort to harvest fish from the Ancy was met with bow-fire from the opposite shore. Not one horse or mule remained. Some troops now boiled leather, moss and grasses. Fist Khemet’s relief column, escorting all their logistics, was still a week away.

  They had to break through soon, before they were too weak to fight at all.

  The stalemate was taking its toll on the High Fist. He obviously felt the suffering of his troops. His temper was hair-thin and increasingly it sharpened itself on one target: the Untan aristocrat, Fist Rillish. Greymane stood leaning forward on to the field table, arms out, long hair hanging down obscuring his face. Kyle sat beside him, legs out straight. Devaleth hung back close to the tent flap as if waiting for an excuse to flee. Fist Rillish stood rigid, back straight, helmet under one arm.

  ‘One more assault …’ Greymane ground out, as he had these last days.

  ‘With respect, the troops are too weak, sir,’ Rillish countered, again.

  Greymane raised his head just enough to glare at the Fist. ‘The more time passes, the weaker they are!’

  The nobleman did not flinch. ‘Yes, High Fist.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’

  Rillish drew a deep breath, pushed on. ‘That we defend.’

  ‘Defend? Defend! Defence has not gotten us this far! If we could just break through there is nothing between us and Paliss!’

  ‘Yes, High Fist. But we cannot. Therefore we should dig in, defend. Wait for Fist Khemet’s column.’

  Greymane’s bright blue gaze, almost feverish in the tent’s gloom, shifted to Kyle. ‘What do you say?’

  The Adjunct shifted uncomfortably, the chair leather creaking beneath him. He cleared his throat. ‘I am no trained officer, of course … But I have to agree with the Fist.’

  ‘It is sound, High Fist,’ Devaleth cut in.

  Without turning his head to acknowledge her, he grated, ‘I did not ask you.’

  ‘Sir!’ Rillish objected.

  The High Fist pushed himself from the table, scattering maps. He went to a sideboard and poured a drink. Tossing it back, he slammed down the glass. ‘Very well. Fist Rillish, order the troops to raise defences across the west approach to the bridge and to hunker down.’

  Rillish bowed. ‘Yes, High Fist.’ He nodded to Kyle and Devaleth, pushed aside the flap. Greymane watched him go, his mouth sour.

  Kyle stood. ‘Greymane …’

  But the High Fist threw himself into a chair, his chin sinking to his chest, arms hanging loose at his sides. ‘Not now, Kyle.’

  Devaleth edged her head to the flap; Kyle nodded reluctantly. ‘Goodnight,’ he offered.

  Greymane did not answer.

  They walked side by side in silence for a time and then Devaleth cleared her throat. ‘You have seen him like this before?’ she asked.

  Kyle’s first reaction was to deny it, but he paused, acknowledging it. ‘Yes. He can be very … emotional.’

  Devaleth nodded her agreement. ‘I believe your friend is very frightened.’

  ‘Frightened? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean just what I said, frightened. Kyle, you were not here for the first invasion. I was in training in Mare. I heard first-hand accounts. I’ve read histories of the campaign. Kyle, I think he sees it all happening to him again. That first time they were held up in Rool. Delay followed delay. Eventually, they never made it out. I think he fears it will be the same this time, like some sort of awful recurring nightmare.’

  The young plainsman turned away. To the west the Ancy flowed like a dark banner beneath overcast skies. Camp fires dotted the valley across the river. Devaleth knew that they had food and supplies. Here, the troopers hoped for snow so that they could eat it.

  ‘But it won’t happen again,’ he said, certain. ‘This time it’s different.’

  ‘Yes. We may not even make it to Rool.’

  He spun to her. ‘No. I don’t accept that. The army facing us is fragile, pressed to its limit. I can sense it.’

  She crossed her arms. Her tangled hair blew in the frigid wind and she pushed it aside. ‘So are we.’

  ‘So what are you saying, woman? Come, out with it.’ His tone almost said the word traitor.

  She held her face flat. ‘It is early yet. And speaking of fragility, is it not fragile to fall apart at the first sign of resilience in the enemy?’

  She arched one brow and turned away.

  Kyle did not answer, but looking back, Devaleth saw him still standing there, peering out over the river, presumably reflecting on her words. She was fairly confident she’d made her point, and that this young man would make the same point to his friend.

  The Army of Reform now straggled like an immense snake over the southern Jourilan plains. Ivanr no longer marched with his brigade; Lieutenant Carr had that in hand. The overcast winter skies continued to threaten rain that rarely came. Jourilan cavalry utterly surrounded them, harrying and probing, though not yet massed for a sustained charge. Ivanr didn’t think it would be long before that day came.

  In all his searching he still hadn’t found the nameless lad he had rescued. What he did find was that he was accreting a bodyguard. Slowly, day by day, more and more fighters, men and women, surrounded him in the lines or marched nearby. It annoyed him that ranks of guards should stand between him and the regular troopers, but nothing he said would deter these self-selected bodyguards. They wore plain armour and for weapons favoured either the sword or a spear haft set with a long curved single-edged blade named, simply enough, a sword-spear. Most, Ivanr noted, were sworn to the cult of Dessembrae.

  They even claimed to have frustrated two assassination attempts. ‘Frustrated?’ he’d demanded, disbelieving. ‘How?’ Their stubborn gazes sliding aside to one another told him his answer. ‘No more killing!’ he ordered and they bowed.

  This morning, just after the long train had roused itself enough to begin moving, a few of their remaining mounted scouts came galloping from the far advance. Something ahead. Ivanr scanned the horizon; hardly any Imperial cavalry in sight. Not good. If they were not here, they were all somewhere else.

  Later, during the march, word came via that soldiers’ gossip-train of word of mouth that the Jourilan cavalry had been spotted ahead. They were pulling together to the west of the army’s line of march. If the cavalry were finally forming up, then it seemed to Ivanr that Martal would have to respond – though just how she could respond still remained a mystery to him. This was the crux where most of the past uprisings and peasant rebellions had been smashed: the impact of horseflesh and the trampling and lancing of panicked civilians.

  The march continued as usual that day, however, until late afternoon, when the order came to make camp. All through the evening, bivouacking, hovering around fires, the men and women of the Army of Reform could not help gazing to the distant hillside where the bright pennants of the Imperial cavalry flew in the wind; where tall tents of white linen glowed warm and bright from within, and the occasional nicker of a horse reached them through the night.

  This façade of normality as if nothing had changed, the calm ordering of the camp, all of it infuriated Ivanr. Meeting the cavalry in open battle was exactly what the Imperials wanted; that was their game. Martal should not play it. Yet try as he might, he could not see any alternative to the failed old tactics of forming up obligingly to meet the enemy. It never worked for any of the past uprisings and peasant movements, and he could not imagine it working now.

  He could not help snorting and chuffing his frustration. He would eye the distant encampment then turn away to prowl before his tent, rubbing his jaw, thinking, the eyes of his bodyguards following him, until finally he could stand it no more and he stalked off to talk to Beneth.

  He found the old man ensconced in his tent as he always was, heaped in blankets next to a travelling hearth, his eyes covered. Even as he entered Beneth sp
oke. ‘Greetings, Ivanr.’

  Ivanr froze. ‘How did you—’ The man was blind!

  Beneth gave his wry smile. ‘Who else could shake the camp with his fury?’

  ‘I have good reason, Beneth. What is the plan—’

  ‘Of course you believe yourself fully justified,’ Beneth cut in. ‘Doesn’t certitude stand behind both sides in almost all confrontations? ’

  ‘The situation doesn’t call for philosophy, old man.’

  ‘No? Then just what does it call for?’

  Ivanr thrust a hand out to the north. ‘Withdrawal! We should keep moving as we have been. Cooperating like this only plays into their hands. And you’ll have dragged all these people to their deaths.’

  The tent flap was thrown aside and Martal came in. She wore her dark travel-stained leathers. Her hair was unkempt and sweaty from her helm. She regarded Ivanr thinly. ‘Your lack of faith is troubling, Grand Champion.’

  Again, he could not read the woman’s guarded angular face: was she serious? Or mocking? More than ever he was certain she was from foreign lands. ‘Faith? Faith in what? It’s faith that has brought us all these troubles.’

  ‘In that at least we are agreed.’ She crossed to a table, pulled off her gloves and began washing her hands in a basin.

  ‘Ivanr is worried about the morrow,’ Beneth offered.

  ‘I do not have the time to reassure every jumpy trooper,’ she said into the basin, and splashed her face.

  Reassure! Ivanr gaped, absolutely furious. How dare she! ‘I demand—’

  She turned on him. ‘You are in no position to demand anything! And your little show of pique has only unnerved everyone further. I am not used to being questioned by my subordinates, Brigade Commander. I suggest that if everyone does their job tomorrow we will have a good chance of victory. More than that, no responsible commander can promise her people.’

  ‘I can hardly do my job if I do not even know what it is.’

  The woman was drying her hands on a cloth. ‘Ivanr … you have been a champion, not a soldier. Whereas I have been a soldier all my life. Your job is now that of the soldier – to follow orders. The simplest, and the hardest, of jobs. If there is secrecy regarding plans and tactics, remember that our camp is rotten with spies. We dare not reveal anything yet.’