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 long exhaled breath took much of Ivanr’s tension with it; he found himself agreeing with this demanding woman. Secrecy for secrecy’s sake he scorned. Spies he could understand. So, the best she was willing to offer at this time was the indirect promise that something was in the works. Very well. He inclined his head in assent. ‘I’m only worried for the safety of my people.’

  ‘I know, Ivanr. Otherwise I would not even be talking to you.’

  He snorted at that. ‘Well. Thank you for your condescension.’

  Her smile was utterly cold. ‘Of course.’

  He bowed to Beneth. ‘Tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Good luck, Ivanr.’

  ‘My thanks.’

  After the tent flap fell the two within were silent for a time. Beneth inhaled to speak, but Martal forestalled him. ‘I know!’

  ‘You are too harsh.’

  ‘If he wilts then he is hardly worthy, is he?’

  ‘She chose him.’

  ‘I certainly didn’t,’ she muttered, taking a mouthful of bread.

  The old man’s expression softened. ‘You’ve been spoiled, Martal.’

  The woman was nodding her agreement as she sat among the piled blankets, sighing her exhaustion. ‘There was only ever one champion worthy of the name.’

  ‘You must let all that go. This one is no longer a champion, nor will he be required to serve as one again.’

  ‘Then why is he here?’

  The old man was silent for a time in the dark. He brought a wavering hand up to touch the cloth across his eyes. ‘I am tiring, Martal … the pressure she is bringing to bear upon us is almost unsupportable. She knows what might be coming and she is desperate—’

  The woman sprang to her feet. ‘No! No more such talk.’

  ‘Martal …’

  ‘No.’ She snatched up her gloves and a goatskin of water. ‘You are why we are here.’ She stormed out, leaving the old man alone in the gloom. He winced, pressing his fingertips into his brow.

  ‘I’m sorry, child. It has all come so late. So damned late.’

  Ivanr sat on a collapsible camp stool, glowering into the fire. He couldn’t sleep. All that had been said, that could have been said, that wasn’t said, tramped in maddening circles in his mind. Was he a good commander? He thought he was. He believed he had the best interests of his people at heart. What more could be asked? But was he a commander of this army? What had been his own opinion not so long ago? That an army was like a snake – it shouldn’t have two heads. Had he been agitating to become that extra head? Surely not! He hadn’t asked the Priestess to name him her successor! Was it his fault then that many looked to him? No, of course not.

  Was Martal threatened? Did she see him as a rival? No. That was not worthy. She’d given him the brigade for the sake of all these opportunistic gods! No, that was not it. It was him. He’d expected the treatment he’d been given as a Grand Champion, but here he was merely a new face. That was it.

  He lowered his head and clenched it in his hands. Damn the Lady! He’d behaved like some sort of aristocrat demanding privileges! He groaned. Foreign gods! Just the sort of behaviour that made him sick.

  ‘Ivanr,’ a woman said nearby. ‘Ivanr?’

  Head squeezed in both hands he croaked, ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Poor Grand Champion! Having a pout, are we?’

  ‘Who the—’ Ivanr peered up to see ragged shapeless skirts rising to the wide midriff and layered shawls of the old woman, Sister Gosh. She held a long-stemmed clay pipe in her blackened teeth, and her hair was a wild mess of grey curls. He lowered his head. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Need your help. Gotta run an errand.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘No. Has to be you. In the blood, you could say.’

  He straightened, frowning. All about the camp fire his self-appointed guards lay asleep. He eyed the woman narrowly. ‘What’s going on?’

  She drew a slim wooden box from her shawl, shook it. Something rattled within. ‘Martal wants rain. We’re gonna get her some.’ She shook the box again. ‘Skystones to bring it.’

  He snorted. ‘You don’t believe those old stories and superstitions. Stones from the sky!’

  The woman’s lips drew down, sour. She sucked heavily on the pipe, exhaling twin plumes from her nose. ‘’Struth! Like to like. Once touching, always so. These are the old truths. Long before anything. Houses or such.’

  ‘What do you need me for?’

  ‘They’ll recognize you.’

  ‘Who—’

  A tall shape emerged from the gloom: a pale fellow in ragged black clothes, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Time, Sister,’ he called.

  ‘Yes, yes!’ She urged Ivanr up. ‘Come.’

  Still he did not rise. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘A compatriot.’

  ‘What have you done to my guards?’

  Sister Gosh waved a hand impatiently. ‘Nothing. They sleep. If they awoke they would see you gone. Now come.’

  He stood, peered around at the darkness. ‘Gone? Where?’

  She headed off. ‘The land here sleeps, Ivanr. We have entered its memories. Come.’

  He followed, if only to ask more questions. ‘Memories? The past?’

  She took the pipe from her mouth, spat. ‘Not the true past, the real past. Only a memory of it. See ahead?’ She pointed the pipe.

  It was a shallow bowl in the countryside far to the east of the encampment. There, two figures awaited them, another man and a woman. The woman was petite, perhaps even older than Sister Gosh, her face as dark as ironwood, hair pulled back in a tight bun; the man was a short skinny fellow, his hair and beard a tangled mess. The man was digging at something. He called, ‘Here! Hurry!’

  It was some sort of smooth domed stone. As the fellow wiped it clean Ivanr realized it was a fisted knot of dirty ice. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Look behind you,’ the other woman invited.

  He turned, saw a distant wall of ice white and emerald blue. Horizon to horizon it stretched, shot by refractions of light. ‘What is it?’ he breathed, awed.

  ‘Do you not recognize the Great Ice Barrier?’ Sister Gosh asked, having come to his side. ‘Or the Barrier as it was, ages ago?’

  ‘Time!’ the tall one insisted again.

  ‘Yes, Carfin.’ Sister Gosh indicated the other woman: ‘Sister Esa.’ The bearded man: ‘Brother Jool.’

  With an effort, Ivanr kept his gaze from the distant icefield. So it’s true. The Barrier once covered all these lands.

  ‘The stones?’ Jool asked. Sister Gosh raised the box and it seemed to fly to him on its own. It struck his hand with a loud slap.

  ‘What is this?’ a new voice called and everyone turned, then relaxed. Another older man emerged from the gloom, bearded, in tattered finery. ‘The Synod has not convened! This has not been agreed!’

  ‘We agreed to act, Totsin,’ Sister Esa snapped.

  The newcomer drew himself up straight. ‘Ritual magic? Consorting with Elders? This exceeds all Synod procedural conventions.’

  ‘What conventions?’ Jool asked, frowning.

  ‘Time is wasting!’ Carfin called out, rising panic in his voice.

  Totsin opened his hands. ‘Well … obviously it’s understood that anything extreme would endanger us all …’

  ‘We’re pretty much all here,’ Sister Gosh observed tartly.

  ‘This will draw her!’ Totsin hissed.

  ‘That tends to happen when you actually do something.’

  ‘I want no part of it.’

  Sister Gosh peered round at everyone. ‘Ah – we didn’t invite you.’

  Totsin took hold of his chin. His brows rose high in shocked surprise. ‘I see. Well … I’ll go then.’

  ‘Yes. Go then.’

  Bowing, the man turned and walked off to disappear into the night as if stepping behind shadows.

  ‘I sense her attention!’ Brother Carfin called. ‘Prepare him!’

  ‘This pl
ace is of your kind, Ivanr,’ Sister Gosh said, facing him. ‘Toblakai is one name. Your ancestors came here to make propitiations, offerings. Like to like. Power to power. It is the old way.’ She drew a wicked-looking thin curved blade from within her shawls. ‘Give me your hand.’

  He resisted the urge to hide his hands behind his back. ‘For what?’

  ‘A small cut. Then you rub that hand over the ice. We will do the rest.’

  ‘That is it?’ he asked, dubious.

  ‘Yes.’

  He held out his left hand. She slit his palm in a swift – rather practised – flick. ‘On the ice, now!’

  ‘She comes,’ Carfin intoned, his voice catching.

  Ivanr knelt and ran his hand over the knotted lump. At first it was cold under his palm but quickly it warmed. He was shaken to see no trace of blood left behind. Something shook the ground to the north and Sister Gosh growled in her throat like a beast. He glanced over but saw nothing in the dark.

  ‘She should not have found us so easily,’ Jool said.

  ‘The tiles,’ Sister Gosh barked to him, then, ‘Carfin, Esa. Do something.’

  Something halfway between a sob and a groan escaped the tall fellow, Carfin, as he walked stiffly off. ‘Madness!’ he said to the night, his voice choking. ‘Madness.’ It seemed to Ivanr that wisps of utter darkness now spun about the man like fluttering scarves. Sister Esa knelt to gather handfuls of mud, then followed.

  Jool pressed a thin wooden tile to the ice, which hissed, steaming.

  ‘Now call your gods,’ Sister Gosh told Ivanr.

  He peered up at her, frowning. ‘What?’

  ‘Call them. Hurry!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How?’ She gaped at him, almost dropping her pipe. ‘What do you mean, how?’

  ‘I’ve never … that is … our old gods and ways are gone. Listen – you never said anything about praying or anything like that!’

  She and Jool shared a strained look. In the dark, something shook the ground again and a high-pitched keening started up. ‘Cowled one help us now,’ she muttered. ‘Look. In your mind call to your ancestors. All the way back – as far as you can reach. Do it!’

  Feeling like an utter fool, Ivanr strove to comply. He imagined his ancestors, generation before generation, all serried off into the past like an infinite regression, back as far as possible. And he called to them.

  ‘Sister Esa and Carfin have fled,’ Jool announced.

  ‘Then it’s up to me,’ Sister Gosh answered.

  ‘Good luck.’

  Ivanr opened his eyes, straightened. Jool was backing away, box held high, shaking it like a musical instrument. Sister Gosh threw the pipe away; it streamed an arc of embers as it went. She took a quick nip from a silver flask that disappeared just as swiftly into her shawls. ‘Are you with me?’ she asked Ivanr, her gaze fixed to the north.

  From the dark, a soft crying-like keening started up again.

  ‘What is it?’ Ivanr asked.

  ‘If flesh – our flesh – can be blasphemed … this would be it.’

  He grasped at his belt: he was unarmed. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Stop it from reaching the shrine. Or me. Or Jool.’

  Ivanr raised a brow. ‘Right …’

  Behind, Jool shook the box ever faster until its rattling seemed a continuous hissing. Ivanr had no idea what he was to do. ‘How do I—’

  A shape lumbered out of the dark. Its appearance almost sent Ivanr running. Very large, fully as tall as he, humanoid, yes, but more like a sculpture of flesh: pale fish-white, so obese as to seem poured of fat. And atop the heap of bulging flesh, a tiny baby’s head, hairless, mouth wet with drool, babbling and crying.

  ‘Gods!’ Ivanr cursed, wincing his disgust, his stomach rising to sour his mouth.

  Sister Gosh threw her hands down as if pushing at the ground before the thing. The topsoil beneath it was gouged apart as if by a scythe. The thing rocked backwards, keening and gibbering – in pain or fear, Ivanr could not tell. The naked ground under its feet heaved and roiled like mud. Heat coursed so intensely from the old woman that Ivanr had to step away. The thing pushed ahead once more. A colossal leg sucked free of the dirt to swing forward.

  ‘Damn the gods, she’s strong,’ Sister Gosh snarled through clenched teeth. ‘Do something!’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘All right!’ He edged up to the gash of mud. He noted that the water that fed it was melting from the knob of ancient ice. The monstrosity seemed to be ignoring him as it fought to make headway. Gingerly, he stepped into the mud. It was warm, but not uncomfortably so. He crouched, arms out, and launched himself forward to take the thing at its huge belly. Striking it was like sinking into a vat of blubber. He heaved, legs bent, straining.

  The creature did not even seem to notice him. It continued lumbering ungainly, attempting to advance. One swinging great tree trunk of an arm gave him a fearful blow to the back but he didn’t think it deliberate. All the while the creature kept up a babble that sounded eerily like an infant’s mouthings.

  Another blow cracked against Ivanr’s head, sending him face down into the mud. He rolled aside before the thing could trample him, deliberately or not. Heavy with the clinging dirt, he rose and threw himself on its back. He hooked an elbow beneath its tiny chin and squeezed as tightly as he could. So far the thing’s rolling empty eyes seemed not to have even rested upon him. But now that he had a choking grip, the head turned and wide-open eyes found him. Ivanr believed that he could have held on, could have finished the monstrosity, but at that moment words emerged from within its baby-like babble and a child’s voice begged, ‘Help me.’

  Shocked and horrified, he lost his grip and slid down the thing’s mud-slick back.

  Jool let out a shout then, the rattling of the box deafening. There was an eruption like a thunder blast directly overhead, accompanied by a blinding flash and the sound of multiple impacts thudding into the creature like sling bullets. It tottered, mewling and whimpering, and fell face forward. Ivanr lay in the mud, staring. All the gods forgive them. Had that been a child?

  He tried to sit up and realized that he was sinking. Panic seized him. The mud had his legs and arms in a grip of iron. He almost laughed hysterically as all he could think to shout was, ‘Help me!’

  Sister Gosh called something but he couldn’t make it out as the mud had his ears. He saw her pointing, her mouth moving. ‘Do something!’ was all he managed before the wet choking glop filled his mouth, stopping his breath, and the fire of complete terror burned all conscious thoughts from his mind. His last impression was of something even more crushing taking hold of him like an immense fist round his middle, and squeezing him.

  He awoke on the floor of his tent, a scream of terror echoing in his ears. The flap shot open and two of his guards bolted in, weapons bared. Ivanr peered around, blinking; the guards stared at him. He noted that water ran from them. In fact, the deafening drumming of a downpour hammered the tent’s roof. He stood to push past them and look out: sheets of rain were coursing down like a lake upended.

  He turned to the guards, who were still eyeing him, uncertain. ‘I thought I was drowning.’

  They laughed, sheathed their swords. He let them out then stood for a time at the open flap watching the rain hammer down. Wet and muddy tomorrow. So Martal had her rain as she wished. Yet surely she couldn’t have been counting on it. It was all so uncertain – she must have more than this pulled together. Or so he hoped.

  Tomorrow then. They’d all find out tomorrow. He lay back down to try to get some sleep.

  The downpour lasted all through the night. A cloudburst. As if all the month’s rain had been stopped up only to come blasting out in a single night. It was still falling so heavily in the morning that Ivanr could not make out the distant Jourilan Imperial cavalry. He pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders and squinted against the sheets of water as he made his rounds. Cold drops ran from his helmet t
o his neck and he kept his hands tucked inside his belt to warm them. The ground had become sodden and pulled at his sandals as he walked. It seemed to him that Martal had placed her cohorts too deeply, on too narrow a front. What if the lancers wheeled round them? It looked as if there was room to edge past on the right flank where the ground fell off slightly towards a copse. True, the ranks had been trained to fend off in more than one direction, but they were untested, and there could be a panic if the enemy appeared from another quarter. Or the cavalry could ignore the infantry entirely to scour the train where it had been gathered together in a camp on the far side of the trunk road. This time, however, he kept his misgivings to himself and hoped that Martal was holding Hegil Lesour ’an ’al and his remaining cavalry in reserve for just such a danger.

  He walked the lines, trailed by his bodyguard. Men and women in the ranks called to him and it took some time before he understood the shout: ‘Deliverer.’ Deliverer? When had that started? He sensed the cynical hand of Martal behind the word. He scanned the hillside where it dissolved into the grey misted rain. It seemed the deluge had delayed the Imperials. They were no doubt waiting for the worst to pass. Very well. What to do? The truth was he felt completely useless. What would be his role now? Carr had the brigade in hand; lingering there would only undermine the man’s authority. Foreign gods, where even to stand? To the rear with Martal? No, that would only make both of them uncomfortable. He should go where he could do the most good. That meant the lines; his presence might save lives among the troops, harden the unit against breaking.

  He went to find Carr.

  Scarves of fog traced their way across the field and between the cohorts, making the silent men and women seem an army of ghosts. His cloak hung heavy and sodden, though warmed now by his body heat; his feet, however, in soaked swathings and leather sandals, were clotted in mud and chilled numb.