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

  And his request for an audience with this new High Fist – though he was far from relishing meeting the greatest fiend of the age. The Betrayer, Stonewielder, Greymane himself! Who would have thought it? A figure out of the old tales mothers used to scare their children.

  Now here to scare them in truth.

  So far, to his relief, his request had gone unanswered. He’d dealt with only minor officers to date, captains and lieutenants. Brusque and rigid all, but reassuringly professional in their demeanour. It was all cautiously encouraging – but then, no doubt the Sixth had also been similarly professional. In the beginning.

  And Ipshank? Where was he? Gone to ground? He missed the man’s counsel, especially now. Damn the man for disappearing when needed most.

  A knock at his door. ‘Enter.’

  Captain Hyuke of the City Watch entered, and slumped down into a chair. He brushed thoughtfully at his fat moustache. Bakune regarded him. ‘Well?’

  ‘They’re leavin’ all right. Shippin’ out for Korel. Chasin’ after the Overlord. Gonna have it out with him. It’s outta our hands now …’ He shrugged.

  As it ever was. ‘And so?’

  He continued grooming the long moustache. ‘They’ll leave some kinda small contingent behind, course …’

  Bakune glared impatiently. ‘Yes?’

  The man lifted his shoulders in a regretful hunch. ‘Well, there’ll be trouble. People will start gettin’ ideas. There’ll be ambushes, killin’. Then there’ll be retribution, arrests, executions. Things’ll escalate. It’ll be ugly.’

  Bakune pressed his fingertips to his temples. Damn all the gods! An insurrection. That was the last problem he needed right now. Just when things were settling down. He regarded his Watch captain. ‘You’ll just have to keep that from happening then, won’t you?’

  The man scratched his scalp, examined his blackened fingertips. ‘Well, that’ll put your name and mine at the top of their list, won’t it?’

  Bakune blinked. Am I not already condemned as a collaborator? Have there not already been attempts on my life? Hasn’t someone already tried to break into my house? ‘That would seem unavoidable. Unless you wish to quit? Or are you suggesting there exists an alternative?’

  The man seemed to squirm in embarrassment. He coughed into his fist. ‘Well, there is this Roolian general up in the hills … he already controls most of the south. Mosta the militia ’n’ insurgents ’n’ such swear loyalty to him. He’s offered to quash all that violence. Keep a lid on things …’

  Bakune sat back, his gaze narrowing. He did not like the direction this was headed. ‘And?’ he mouthed, already knowing the answer.

  Again, an almost apologetic shrug from Hyuke. ‘All you have to do is look the other way while he’s recruiting and resupplying ’n’ such, that’s all.’

  Bakune felt his gaze harden into an icy glare. Play both sides. How distasteful. Was he to betray his vows to uphold the laws of the land? Yet whose laws? The laws of an occupying foreign military elite? What loyalty could they demand from him? Or reasonably expect, for that matter?

  He cleared his throat. ‘And what guarantees can this general possibly offer that he will not launch any operations here in Banith? The Malazans are here, after all. I’ll not have this city become a war zone!’

  Hyuke nodded, pained. ‘Oh, that won’t happen. He gives you his sworn word. He’s busy consolidating right now anyway. Bringing order to more provinces.’

  ‘Eliminating his rivals, you mean.’

  An embarrassed shrug.

  ‘And does this Roolian general have a name, then?’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s his guarantee, you see …’

  Bakune sighed, impatient. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The general’s name is Karien’el.’

  Lord Protector Hiam met Overlord Yeull in a pavilion raised to the east of Elri. Wall Marshal Quint accompanied him, as did his aide, Shool. The encampment of the landed Roolian troops sprawled like an instant city down the shore to the very strand. Ships lay anchored off shore. Reports from the regular Korelri guard had made it clear that far more than the agreed-upon ten thousand had disembarked. Arriving, Hiam saw this to be true. It occurred to him that any other ruler would view such a landing as an invasion. But no other ruler had standing behind him the Stormwall and the absolute truth of his indispensability.

  Guards opened the heavy cloth flaps and Hiam ducked beneath them. Within, a wall of heat struck him like a fist closing on his chest. Overlord Yeull sat next to a great glowing heap of embers resting on a wide iron bowl. Next to him stood a tall slim man, grey-bearded, in pale creamy robes sashed at the waist. The Overlord stood, straightened a thick fur hide slung over his shoulders, and bowed.

  Hiam answered the bow. ‘Welcome, Overlord, to Korel.’

  ‘Lord Protector. You are most gracious to allow us to land.’

  Quint and Shool entered and Hiam introduced them. Overlord Yeull gestured to the man beside him. ‘Ussü, my chief adviser.’

  ‘I must say,’ Hiam began, ‘I was most surprised to hear that you would be accompanying your troops.’

  Yeull sat, held his hands over the embers. The man acted as if he were chilled to the bone despite the crushing heat within the tent, his layers of clothes, his fur cloak, and the sweat dripping from his sallow brow. He nodded his assent to the point. ‘I will not prevaricate, Lord Protector. I am here because the Betrayer, Stonewielder, is coming here.’

  Hiam glanced at Quint, who could not keep the scorn from his expression. ‘Really, Overlord? I rather thought you’d come here because the Betrayer had defeated you and you had nowhere else to go.’

  The man leapt from his chair, blood darkening his face. ‘How dare you! Here you are, hard pressed, with barely the numbers necessary to defend the wall, and I come offering aid – and this is how you repay me!’

  The adviser, Ussü, eased the Overlord back into his seat. He raised his hands to speak. ‘Please. Lords. Let us not quarrel. It seems to me that like any agreement both parties have something to gain and something to give. We pledge ten thousand in support of the wall – our half of a pact of mutual defence. Surely our presence is a welcome boon, yes?’

  Hiam inclined his head in acquiescence. ‘Well spoken, sir. You are welcome, Overlord. For so long as you contribute to the defence of the Stormwall, you may remain as guests in our lands.’

  ‘And should there be Malazan landings here in Korel we will defend the shores,’ said Yeull. ‘Surely, in such an event, you too would fly to the defence of your lands.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Hiam responded. No matter how unlikely.

  Ussü bowed. ‘Very good. Then we are in accord. Our thanks, Lord Protector.’

  Overlord Yeull inclined his head a fraction. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Agreed,’ supplied Hiam. ‘And now, my apologies, but duties on the wall demand my presence. I really must return.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Yeull, thinly. ‘Another time, Lord Protector.’

  Hiam bowed. ‘Another time.’

  Outside the tent, the adviser, Ussü, joined their party as they walked back to their mounts: three of the few horses the Stormguard kept for extremely vital messages. Hiam nodded to him. ‘Adviser Ussü, how may we help you?’

  The man walked with hands clasped at his back, head bowed. ‘Lord Protector, a small request.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Word has reached me of your current champion of the wall …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That he speaks Malazan, that is, Quon Talian, yet is not of the Sixth Army …’

  ‘Yes. That is so.’ They reached their horses. Roolian troops steadied them while they struggled to mount.

  ‘I wonder if I may have permission to see him? To speak to him?’

  Tightening his reins, Hiam shrugged. ‘I do not see why not. If you wish. Shool, arrange it, won’t you?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Shool answered as he fought to get his foot into the stirrup.

  Ussü helped
the aide steady his foot then bowed as they cantered off. Poor riders, these Korelri. I wonder how much support we can count on when Stonewielder arrives. Very little, no doubt. I do not see this man pulling troops from the wall. And this champion. Malazan, yet not Malazan. Bars. An unusual name. Could he be the Bars? Avowed of the Crimson Guard? Practically unkillable, these Avowed. Imagine what I could accomplish with one of them …

  Ussü returned to the command tent. He found Yeull bent over the brazier.

  ‘Lady deliver me,’ the Overlord groaned. ‘This cold is killing me.’

  ‘M’lord, when can we expect Borun and the Moranth? Soon, I should hope. Greymane may be here any day.’

  Yeull sank back into his chair. ‘What’s that? The Moranth? Ussü – no ships have been sent. Nor will they ever be sent.’

  Ussü felt as if he’d been slapped. He stared, open-mouthed. So shocked was he that he almost took the man by his collar and shook him. ‘What? I do not see—’

  Yeull roused himself, furious once more. ‘See? See? You do not see? Who are the Malazan allies in this, Ussü? Did you not see those reports?’

  ‘Yes. The Moranth, but—’

  ‘Yes! The Moranth. Exactly! They cannot be trusted. They are foreign. You cannot trust these foreigners.’

  We are foreigners, you fool! The man had just thrown away their greatest advantage! How was he to salvage this? How could he salvage it? Lady – give him strength! Ussü forced himself to move to a table where tea brewed. He took his time preparing a glass. Eventually, he cleared his throat. ‘He will land here, south of Kor?’

  ‘Yes. Of that I am certain.’

  ‘How so, may I ask?’

  The man’s voice took on a cunning, almost insinuating whisper. ‘The Lady guides me in these things, Ussü. Now go and prepare. We will meet them on the shore and they will drown in the waves.’

  Ussü knew not to dispute that tone. He bowed. ‘Very good, m’lord.’

  As they rode north, Hiam gestured Quint up beside him. The Wall Marshal awkwardly urged his mount into a faster canter. ‘So what do you think?’ Hiam asked. ‘And none of your usual smooth talk.’

  Quint spat, hands in a death’s grip on the reins. ‘A lot more than ten thousand arrived, Hiam,’ he pointed out.

  The Lord Protector laughed. ‘Is that the closest to an apology I’ll get out of you?’

  The man winced, his facial scars twitching. ‘They came all right,’ he admitted. ‘But he came with them.’

  Hiam shook his head. Poor Quint – the man apologizes then takes it away with his next breath. ‘Yes, he came. And his men will buy us the time we need till the end of the season. Then, come spring and summer, we will help reinstall him. He will only be on his throne because of us. And our price will be high. Very high. We will keep him there for ten thousand men a year … for the next ten years.’

  Quint’s brows rose as he considered this immense number. He nodded his approval. It seemed Hiam would have this ruler squirming beneath the butt of his spear. As it should be. Every ruler from Stygg to Jourilan ought to consider themselves so indebted to us. It was only right.

  ‘Sir,’ Shool said, speaking up, ‘what of this claim that the Betrayer, Stonewielder, is coming to attack us? His fleet is in Banith.’

  Hiam just shook his head. ‘Too much to hope for, I should think. Let him cripple his forces in some disastrous attempt at a landing. Then let the broken remnants limp back to Rool. It will be all that much easier to sweep them away come the spring.’

  ‘But, Stonewielder …’

  Hiam glanced back. Ah, those rumours. Damn the apocalyptic leanings of these mystics of the Lady. I, too, felt their fascination once. There had been much alarm and uncertainty then … and I yielded to Cullel, allowing him to go. How I regret that now! It was … shameful. He cleared his throat. ‘He is only one man, Shool. One man cannot undo the wall.’

  ‘Then we just have to last the season,’ Quint growled.

  Young Shool was quite shocked by this blunt admission. Hiam clenched his teeth – Quint never watched his tongue and he wished he would. This time, however, he could not bring himself to dismiss the grim forecast. Yes, Quint. We just have to last.

  The Army of Reform finally reached the muddy snow-wreathed fields on the outskirts of the walled city of Ring. It gathered up its long trailing tail of camp followers, wagons, and petty merchants, into its own informal crowded township. The circumstances reminded Ivanr forcibly of Blight. Except that Ring city was some hundred times the size of Blight and they dared not enter it for fear of drowning in its sea of citizenry. In any case, smoke plumed over its red and black tiled rooftops and towers as Reformist factions battled Loyalists for control of precincts. One tall bell tower and chapel of the Lady burned even as Ivanr watched from the hillside overlooking the walls.

  Inland, to the north, just on this side of the Lesser White River, lay the encampment of the Jourilan Imperial Army. Or rather, a tent city of thousands including the Emperor’s eldest son, rumoured to have been blessed by the Lady herself. He would lead the charge of the Jourilan aristocracy, which would sweep these rag-tag upstart peasants from the field – or so he no doubt imagined. And Ivanr could not help but half agree. This time he imagined they could not count on rain or some other miracle to deliver them, though it was overcast and cold, damned cold. The depths of the Stormrider-induced winter that tormented this region so.

  He ducked back into his tent. Martal was overseeing the disposition of the troops. He knew she would forbid it, but he intended to be there in the front line. It would hearten these citizen-soldiers to see him there. So far it looked as if the foreign woman was proceeding as before, arranging pike formations backed by archers. Ivanr pulled his robes tighter about himself and paced his tent, unable to eat. The Imperials had seen this trick already and he’d spotted their response: their own archers and infantry milled in huge numbers in that encampment.

  They would answer volley for volley. And who would win? Time, it seemed to him, was not on their side. And somewhere within that sprawling tent city was the Priestess herself. The Imperials threatened to execute her tomorrow, at dawn. What would be the army’s response? They had already lost Beneth. He would have to be there in the front lines to sense their mood, to respond, and, perhaps … to intervene.

  A sigh from behind made him spin, shortsword appearing from his robes. Sister Gosh sat cross-legged on a carpet. She arched a brow at the pointed weapon, and Ivanr sheathed it beneath his robes. The old witch looked exhausted. Her thick layered skirts and shawls were dirtier than ever and she was haggard, her hair a rat’s nest of matted dirty knots.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he growled, though he was relieved to see her.

  ‘Hiding.’

  ‘What? Hiding? Why?’

  The old woman pulled a silver flask from within her shawls, took a quick sip and sighed her pleasure. ‘Because I’m being hunted, that’s why.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t know. Some betrayer, I’m sure. There’s almost none of us left. If anyone other than I approaches you, don’t trust them, yes?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  She relaxed, letting out a long breath, and eased her shoulders. ‘Good, good.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  The woman’s gaze took on a measuring cast as she seemed to examine him. ‘The end of everything, Ivanr.’

  ‘What? The end of the world?’

  She grimaced her disgust. ‘No, no! Just change. The end of one order and the possible beginning of another. Though some do choose to see that as the end of everything, yes. In three days it will come. All I can see is that you must remember your vow, Ivanr. That is all that comes to me. Remember that.’

  ‘Well, if you say so. I will try.’

  ‘Very good.’ A spasm took the woman and she grimaced, forcing down the pain. ‘I’m sorry that I cannot be of more help, but I will be fighting my own battle – you can be sure of that.’

  ‘I unde
rstand. Will I not … see you?’

  Grunting, the woman tried to rise. Ivanr leapt to help her up. ‘Thank you. Who is to say? Perhaps we will see each other again. I do not know. But I don’t think so.’ She crossed to the tent front.

  ‘What of the battle?’

  Sister Gosh paused at the flap. ‘Trust Martal, Ivanr. Trust her. Yes?’ She arched a brow again.

  He inclined his head in assent, smiling. ‘If you say so.’

  She did not appear convinced by his contriteness, but accepted the gesture all the same. ‘Fare well, Ivanr. May all the gods guide you.’

  ‘Fare well.’

  After she left, he sat for some time, reflecting. Yes, trust Martal. Trust this foreign Malazan. That was the question, wasn’t it?

  Through the night he was woken by the noise of construction, of mattocks banging and heavy weights falling. But no alarms sounded and he eased back into sleep – it seemed Martal was constructing her siege weapons. Rather too early, he thought.

  In the morning he broke his fast with hot tea and bread. When he pushed open the tent flap he was looking at a blizzard of swirling snow, and beyond that the walls of a fortress. He stared, turned a full circle. Encompassing the entire Army of Reform camp rose plank-and-beam walls extending between the tall carriages that now reared like towers in castle battlements.

  By all the gods above and below! A fortress! The damned woman has built a fortress!

  He walked through the camp, trying not to gape. How did she do it? Reaching the nearest wall he noticed that the inner sides, backs and fronts of the carriages had been disassembled. They now stood as open-backed, two-floored archers’ platforms. Their bottom floors were almost entirely taken up by vicious-looking ballistae that appeared able to shoot multiple bolts in a fan-shaped pattern. The woman was ready for her own siege. Nodding to the troops nearby, he climbed a ladder to a narrow catwalk that ran behind the wall. Turning left and right, he peered all along the curve of the fortress.