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 clenched, pale lips parted. ‘Carr has command,’ she hissed through clamped teeth.

  ‘You still command,’ Ivanr said. ‘You will always command.’

  ‘Ivanr …’ she said, peering around, straining.

  He knelt at her side. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I must be seen tomorrow! I must … no matter what!’ Ivanr looked to the bonecutter, who shook his head. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Martal,’ he answered, simply to quiet her. ‘I understand.’

  She eased back, letting go a taut breath. ‘Tell him I tried. I tried my best. I would so like to have seen him again.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My old commander. Tell him that, won’t you?’

  Ivanr could not answer. Her old commander! The Malazan … Greymane! ‘Yes,’ he managed, clearing his throat, hardly able to speak.

  ‘That’s enough,’ the bonecutter said. ‘Everyone out.’

  Straightening outside the tent, it took all the strength Ivanr possessed to fix upon his face an expression of resolve, even one of firm optimism. He entered the gathered crowd, which parted before him. He squeezed shoulders, set hands on bowed heads, and answered their questions and worries: yes, she was wounded but she was recovering. She would lead them tomorrow. Never fear. Tomorrow they would finish the Imperials. The Black Queen would see them through again.

  Yet he hardly heard his words or saw their faces. Instead Martal’s parting words haunted him. Her old commander … Greymane. The Betrayer … Stonewielder. Tell him she had tried … Tried what? I thought she’d been fighting for us! Yet what if all this time she’d been serving his command? And he was now back! But no – that was too incredible, too far-fetched. More likely she saw herself as remaining loyal to his … what? His … intent. Perhaps that was it. She’d been honouring his intent. And that – according to the Lady’s priesthood – nothing less than the annihilation of their faith itself.

  But Beneth chose her! He chose her. A neat dovetailing of purpose? Nothing more? Perhaps so.

  Still, he was shaken.

  That night sleep would not come. He lay restless until, giving up and rising, he threw a long loose jerkin over his shirt and trousers and went to a gap in his tent flap to stare out at the night. Overcast, as usual, the winter clouds scudding so low as to be almost within reach, yet stubbornly yielding none of their snow. Occasionally stars winked through openings only to disappear. Torches of pickets upon the walls flickered orange and red. The smell of an army in the field wafted over him: wet leather, unwashed bodies, the stink of privies too close for comfort.

  ‘She’s dead,’ a man’s voice whispered behind him.

  He started, tensing. The fellow was an old man in dirty torn shirt, vest and dark trousers, bearded, with wild grey-shot hair. His eyes seemed to glow in the gloom of the tent. ‘Dead?’ Ivanr asked, his throat dry, even though he knew.

  The man gestured him back in with a crook of a finger. ‘First Beneth, now Martal. Leaving … you.’

  Ivanr considered rolling backwards, a feint to the right …

  Deep crimson flame alighted on the man’s hand and he bared yellowed teeth in a knowing smile. Ivanr let the flap close. ‘You are a mage. The Lady doesn’t usually permit such things …’

  ‘Special dispensation for those who cleave to the path of the righteous.’

  ‘Which would be … ?’

  The smile twisted into a sneer. ‘Save your sophistry for the sheep outside.’ He gestured and a vice clamped itself round Ivanr’s body. Invisible bonds tightened like rope in a crushing agony. He could not breathe, could not shout. His vision darkened.

  Then relief as the bonds dissipated, seeming to shred. Ivanr drew a shuddering breath. Blinking, he saw the mage frowning, uncertain.

  ‘There is some sort of passive protection upon you,’ he muttered. ‘How …’ His eyes widened and he glanced about in sudden alarm. ‘No …’

  The tent flap was thrust aside and an old woman entered – if anything she appeared even older than Sister Gosh. She was lean and wiry, dark as aged leather, her wiry hair up in a tight bun. The man bowed, his tongue wetting his lips. ‘Sister Esa.’

  The old woman, Sister Esa apparently, was pulling the gloves from her hands. ‘I was hoping you would come, Totsin.’

  Totsin edged around the tent as if searching for a way out. ‘Now … Sister Esa … let’s not jump to conclusions.’

  The old woman’s gloves came off, revealing hands twisted like claws, long nails broken and thick like talons and black with dirt. She gave a strange gurgling hiss and her lips drew back over teeth now black as well, and needle sharp. Ivanr flinched away, horrified. Soletaken? She launched herself upon Totsin.

  The two wrestled in silence, the woman straining to set her claws or teeth into the man, he holding her wrists, head twisting aside. They fought, gasping and panting. The woman’s hands and teeth edged ever closer to the man’s flesh until she shuddered suddenly, her back arching in anguish. She fell to the floor, spasms twisting her limbs. The old man straightened his clothes and spat upon her.

  ‘The Lady is with me, Esa. And now she has you …’

  Ivanr leapt to his pallet and spun, his shortsword in hand, to slash Totsin. Incredibly, the man flicked his head aside, the blade merely gashing across his face. He clamped a hand to his head. Blood welled between the fingers. Ivanr closed, but searing pain bit into one ankle and he fell: the old woman had him.

  ‘I leave you to the Lady,’ Totsin gasped, rage and agony in his voice. He disappeared in a moil of greyness that enveloped him then vanished, leaving Ivanr alone with Sister Esa. He almost called for help, but caught himself – gods, if this got out it would terrify everyone!

  The hand clenched, its talons cutting into his flesh and grating the bone. The head rose, eyes rolled back all white. The hair on Ivanr’s neck stirred as a voice gurgled from the throat: ‘Embrace me, Ivanr, and I will forgive you …’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and brought the blade down through the neck.

  Some time later steps in the tent roused him and he leapt up, shortsword readied. It was Sister Gosh, pipe in mouth, staring down at the wrapped corpse of Sister Esa. A sudden fury took him that only now did she appear. ‘Where were you?’ he demanded. ‘Together you might’ve taken him!’

  She shook her head. ‘I told her not to step in. We can’t fight the Lady.’

  Ivanr fell back on to his pallet, exhausted. ‘Well, he got away.’

  She let out a lungful of smoke. ‘I think we’ll meet yet.’

  ‘And then what?’

  She drew hard on the pipe and its embers blazed. She peered at him from deep within the crow’s feet wrinkles at her eyes. ‘Then we’ll see.’

  Ivanr grunted at the predictable, maddening opaqueness. He hung his arms over his knees. ‘So … is she really gone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he …’

  ‘No. The wound.’

  He grunted again, accepting that. In other lands, he knew, such wounds could be treated by healers with access to Warrens. But here, the Lady denied all. That alone was more than enough reason for her destruction. How many needless deaths all these ages … ? ‘Well,’ he said, gazing at the dirt floor, ‘I don’t know if we’ll last tomorrow.’

  ‘Keep them fighting, Ivanr. You’re here to do more than defeat these Imperials. More eyes than you know of are on this confrontation. The walls of Ring city are within sight. You have to show that these nobles can be stood up to. That there’s a chance.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘We’ll see. Tomorrow.’

  He gestured to the decapitated corpse. ‘And her?’

  ‘Have some men you trust take her off and bury her. Now, before dawn.’

  He nodded. ‘And you?’

  Sister Gosh had crossed to the flap. ‘I don’t know. I’ll do what I can. Before, I said we may not meet again. Now I’m even more sure of that. Good luck to you.’

  ‘An
d to you.’

  She ducked from the tent. Ivanr lay down again to try to steal some rest before dawn.

  After Shell and her partner, Tollen, the Malazan Sixth Army veteran, had stood short stints at various posts along the wall, two Korelri Chosen came for them. They were in holding cells, separated. The Stormguard didn’t seem to know what to do with Shell, being female, and so they emptied out a pen for her private use. Personally, she thought it was more for their sensibilities than hers. She could squat to relieve herself just as easily anywhere – it was they who seemed all shirty about it.

  The two were fettered again and led off along one of the maze of corridors that ran like a rat’s nest within the Stormwall. It was a long walk, much farther than any previous one, and took up more than the day. Deep into the evening they were tugged up stairs to exit a minor tower – the kind that only bore numbers – in this case, Tower Fourteen. From here they walked into the punishing frigid wind and sleeting snow. They’d been given tattered old cloaks, and Shell retied the rags she had wrapped over her sandalled feet and up over her legs, her head and neck, and finally her hands as well.

  The wall climbed before them, high above the shore below, more of a connecting corridor than a working part of the Stormwall. At the crest of the pass it fell steeply in lethal sets of stone stairs to a section that looked to span a narrow inlet. Snow flurried in Shell’s face as she hunched, scrabbling with her numb fingers for holds and grips to help herself down. Tollen descended facing the stairs, almost flat on all fours. Waves pounded below, reverberating like thunder. Riders drove those waves. She recognized the pitch of their force, their enmity.

  The descent levelled to a smoother grade. Shell now made out a wide marshalling walkway more ice-choked than any she’d seen so far. It even seemed broached in courses of frozen rivers of ice. Stone blocks cluttered the walk, as did canted broken tripods. Ropes lay unusable beneath layers of ice. They passed a work gang where labourers hammered at a block to free it from its sheath of ice. One armed guard, a hired mercenary judging from his heavy armour, stood watch.

  The two Korelri escorted them to a tower so layered in bluetinted ice running in flows down its sides that it appeared as if the water had been poured. A single narrow doorway gave access to inner chambers where braziers burned, giving light and heat to close, damp rooms. Workers squatted, eating; bedrolls over straw crowded the wet stone floors. Down a narrow circular staircase they came to cells, more holding pens. Their fetters were struck and Shell was pushed into one, Tollen another.

  Shell sat on the straw-littered raised stone slab she supposed was the bed and leaned back against the wall, only to flinch away – the stones were glacial and glittered with ice. Across the narrow corridor the opposite cell was occupied by a squat fellow in ring armour over leathers, rags at his feet and hands, his hair unkempt and growing a beard, leaning back asleep. He was much the worse for wear, but Shell would recognize Blues anywhere.

  She whistled a call and one eye cracked open; he sat up, staring. Shell signed: A Malazan soldier with me. Any news?

  Lazar is here. Fingers?

  Don’t know. I met someone who knows Bars.

  Who?

  Shell spelt: Jemain.

  Blues shrugged. Don’t know him.

  Said he’d get back to me.

  A second shrug. We’ll see.

  Shell said aloud: ‘How is it here?’

  ‘Damned desperate. Too many Riders, not enough guards.’

  ‘Losing people?’

  ‘Losing workers.’

  ‘What’re they doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘This is Ice Tower,’ a new voice answered: Tollen. ‘Always rough here. Looks like the waves are really cresting now.’

  ‘Get some rest, damn you!’ someone barked. ‘You’ll need it.’

  Shell lay back, hugged herself. Whoever that was, he was right. Best think of what was to come. Don’t let yourself get caught unprepared. And that accent … another damned Malazan?

  Come the dawn, the nightshift of guards came trooping down the stairs exhausted, soaked through and shivering. A new shift was pulled together; neither Shell nor Blues was selected. ‘How long you been here?’ she asked.

  ‘Only a few days.’

  ‘How many of us prisoners are there here?’

  Blues cocked his head, signed: Thinking of breaking out?

  Can’t stay for ever.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Blues answered aloud. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether we should interfere …’

  Shell stared at the man. A shiver took her; good gods, that Blues should be uneasy about this …

  She jumped as a guard appeared to unlock her cell. He motioned her out.

  ‘Good luck,’ Blues called. ‘Guard yourself.’

  She gave him a nod. Sword out, the man forced her ahead up the circular staircase. At the top four regular guards covered her with cocked crossbows. Weapons cluttered the far wall. ‘Take your pick,’ one invited her, grinning. She eyed the spears and two-handed swords, but decided on a more conservative approach and selected sword and shield.

  The guard motioned her to the door. ‘Let’s go.’

  The door led to the corridor that exited the tower. Outside, the guard pointed to the right and they crossed the walkway, hunched, heads turned away from the punishing, cutting wind. They came to a work crew struggling with a tripod and block and tackle. The guard motioned Shell to the outer ice-entombed machicolations here. He hammered at the ice to expose an iron ring and shackled her to it. Waves pounded, soaking them with spray that shocked her though she’d felt its teeth before. Another defender squatted off to the right. He appeared to be an old man, wearing nothing but rags, his long hair and beard grey-shot and matted. Who was this fossil?

  ‘Hey, grandfather,’ she called, cupping her hands at her mouth. ‘What are you doing here?’

  The haggard head barely edged over to glance. She caught a glimpse of a gaunt, skeletal face as it turned away. The sight of that seeming death mask made her shudder.

  A great bell-like resonance sounded then from the waters of the inlet. That was new. Some sort of extra effort here? Maybe they think this is their chance. She strained to penetrate the blowing snow. Far out, the surface of the waters seemed to bulge, swelling. That’s a lot of water – and it’s headed for a very narrow gap! Shell braced herself. Behind, the workers scrambled for cover. A block the size of a cart hung suspended from the tackle. Raising the wall from the rear, working towards the front.

  Glancing back Shell caught the old fellow staring at her. He quickly glanced away. The tall bulge rolled inexorably down upon them. Like a tidal bore. Only generated by the Riders. Shell edged forward as far as she dared, peered over and down. They looked to have only some three fathoms of freeboard here. That surge could overtop them! Feeling a rising panic she glanced about, but no one appeared unduly alarmed. Queen preserve her! This was what they fought here!

  The old man straightened, his arms loose at his sides. He appeared completely unarmed.

  Shell edged back: the ice-webbed surge was almost upon them. She reached behind with one foot, sought a knob or irregularity to brace, found one.

  The surge struck the wall; or rather, it began rising up the side of the wall. Shell’s footing rocked backwards beneath her as if fluid itself. The water came on and on, swelling with Shell’s own dread until it washed up over the top and swept her feet out from under her. Frigid glacial waters flowed over her. The shock almost took the life from her, but she straightened, braced against the flow, gasping in air, throwing her head back, to face a Stormrider standing atop the wall. The entity, wearing armour like shells sewn into a coat, thrust at her. She took the blow on her shield, swung a clumsy counter that the rider sidestepped. It circled, attempting to force her to put her back to the inlet. She dodged to forestall that. She shield-bashed but lacked the raw power to drive the Rider back. It slashed at a leg and she dodged back. It glanced behind her but she refused to look. Then it simp
ly sank down into the receding waters to wash away in the flow. Shell was left standing, panting, her flesh in an agony of cold. She risked a quick glance behind: the tripod and block were gone, swept clean off the wall.

  A loud high-pitched report, as of iron tearing, sounded from her right and she looked over: the old guy’s post was empty. Where—

  Hands took her throat from behind, lifted her from her feet.

  ‘I knew I recognized you!’ someone snarled. ‘Skinner sent you, didn’t he?’

  With a despairing, almost bizarre feeling that this wasn’t really happening, Shell recognized the voice. ‘Bars!’ she gasped.

  ‘No torc, I see,’ he hissed. ‘Going to wait for a wave then take me down while I’m busy, yes? Then off to your Warren. Looks like you missed your chance. Now … where is he?’

  ‘No – you don’t—’

  Bars’ frigid hands, like two wedges of ice, throttled her. ‘Raise your Warren and I’ll tear your head off. Now … where is he!’

  ‘Who?’ she managed, stealing a breath.

  ‘Quit stalling! Skinner! Damn his betraying soul!’

  Deceiving gods! Oponn, you have outdone yourself! Skinner! He was renegade now. His attempt to usurp K’azz failed and he was forced out – disavowed. And Bars thinks he’s sent me! Shell drew upon all the strength those of the Avowed possess and yanked Bars’ own hands a fraction apart while her legs kicked uselessly. ‘Blues is with me!’ she gasped before those iron fingers cinched like vices to cut off her breath utterly. Stars flashed in her vision and a roaring drowned out all sounds.

  She came to lying in frigid water. A Korelri Chosen held a spear levelled at Bars while a regular guard helped her up. ‘What is this?’ the Korelri demanded.

  ‘An old grudge,’ Shell croaked, rubbing her neck.

  ‘You are both finished then?’