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

  Time to go. Greymane yanked but his hands, sunk in past his wrists, would not give.

  He yanked again, pushing off with his legs, but his hands and wrists were caught in the exposed granite bedrock.

  He snapped a gaze to the flood rushing down the retaining field. Far along the curve of the curtain wall a watchtower, some five storeys tall, toppled achingly slowly, looking like a child’s toy so far in the distance. The top courses of the curtain, undermined, now gave way in a series of puzzle-pieces. They tumbled, an avalanche of gargantuan stones, into the exposed gap beneath. He had a momentary glimpse of the Stormwall’s interior architecture as the fallen walls revealed its outer casework of dressed stone blocks on either side of a driven fill of rubble.

  The wall was breached entirely now, through to the bay beyond.

  Greymane yanked again, frantic, but his limbs would not budge. He stared down at his hands, trapped in the raw living stone, and only then did the beautiful poetry of it dawn upon him and he threw back his head to laugh aloud. Oh ye gods, you have outdone yourselves! Laugh at the fool mortal, for only now do I see it. Stonewielder indeed! Yes. You scheming bastards and bitches!

  ‘Damn you all to Hood’s deepest pits!’

  The foaming flood struck him. His feet were swept from under him; he was trapped under the raging flow. Branches and other driven trash smashed into him and he could hold his breath no longer. The air burst from his searing lungs in a froth of bubbles.

  He never drew another.

  As his consciousness faded he thought he felt hands grasp him there beneath the surface. He did not know if it was his delirious fancy or not, or what it might mean, for all went to dark then and he allowed himself release without regret, without anger, without expectation of anything.

  The waters of the Ocean of Storms, risen far above ancient levels, tideswollen, driven by the sorceries of the Stormriders, poured through the gap in a burgeoning flood. The course gouged its way south, always seeking low ground. Entire swaths of forest were swept aside as the flash flood raced downhill, gathering ever greater momentum as it went. Farmhouses, fields, roads, stone walls, all disappeared as this sudden new river scoured a widening channel down to the bedrock of the island.

  A chance subtle rise in the landscape spared the fortress city of Storm. Its citizens had just picked themselves up from a rare earth tremor. Many had walked out into the streets to peer at the new cracks in the cobbled roads and arcing-down walls. They heard the distant roar and went to the walls to watch astonished as to the east a new channel thundered past as a true waterfall. And, for a time, the city was entirely cut off from the rest of Korel. These citizens later swore to catching glimpses amid the flow of brilliant sapphire flashes and gliding ominous dark shapes.

  Racing far more swiftly than the fastest charger, the churning waters crashed through the last forested reach of land to pour over, then entirely grind away, the shore beaches and sand cliffs down into Crooked Strait. Here the waters melded into the narrow strait, ever rising, forming from shore to shore a great swelling hump of water coursing to the east and to the west. The wavefront climbed higher than the topgallant of the tallest vessel. Entire fishing hamlets disappeared without a ripple beneath this heaving peak more than five fathoms deep. It raced faster than any ship or messenger. It overtook fleeing vessels, submerged low-lying forested islands. Left behind in its passing lay an entirely new coastline, resculpted and washed clean.

  Deep in thought, Hiam climbed the narrow circular stairs of Ice Tower. Chosen hurried up and down, pausing to salute, which he answered absently. This tremor; could it really be as bad as the Malazan seems to think? Every mage who practises his or her witchery eventually goes mad – that is the most obvious explanation. Everyone, he imagined, must be thinking of those mystical prophecies: the earth cracking open to swallow the wall. But this was no supernatural event; it was just an earth tremor, common enough in many regions of the world. Unprecedented events were unfolding, yes, but that was no reason for panic.

  Reaching the communication chamber he adjusted the flame to burn its highest then bashed open the west shutters. The frigid wind sliced into the chamber again but this time it did not snuff the flame. He lowered the metal sleeve, dug up a scoopful of the flaring dust and tossed it on to the flame. The dust burst into a hissing white glare that made him flinch away, covering his face. Hunched, head turned away, he worked the sleeve up and down, signalling the tower on top of the western pass.

  Wind Tower: report.

  Wind Tower was the westernmost of the main fortresses.

  He waited. The request had to travel the entire length of the wall then back again. The answer came much more swiftly than he had anticipated; it seemed this tremor had put everyone on edge.

  Wind Tower not responding.

  That was the Tower of Ruel’s Tears, its eastern neighbour.

  Tossing more dust on to the flame, Hiam signed: Status?

  After a time the answer came: Ruel’s Tears not responding.

  That was the Great Tower north of Elri, their main fortress on the Stormwall.

  Disbelieving, Hiam threw more dust on to the flame, signed: Status! Status!

  A long silence during which the wind moaned and gusted, seeming to mock him. Then, mystifyingly, from the neighbouring tower, the Tower of Stars: Pray!

  Hiam threw himself to the western window, stared through the eternal blowing snow to the high pass where the glow of the guard tower shone like a beacon in the overcast gloom. While he watched, it was snuffed into darkness, and something billowed around it: something like a blizzard cascading down the pass along the wall, driving for this last reach of the wall and Ice Tower. Hiam clenched the window: Lady, what was this? A true catastrophe such as struck ages ago? Was this truly the end? Lady, what have we done that you should turn your face from us so?

  Lady, forgive us …

  The avalanche struck like a wall of white. Hiam was thrown to the floor, which bucked and hammered him. Enormous crackling fractured his hearing and he understood that the gargantuan shelves of blue-black ice that sheathed the tower were breaking off its sides. Further blows rocked and shuddered the tower as these shards, the size of wagons, came thundering down to slam bursting on to the top of the wall.

  The quake passed quickly, the last of the shudders reverberating off into the distance like a passing storm, or rockfall. Unwilling to believe it was actually over, Hiam gingerly picked himself from the floor. He went to the window and peered out, half expecting a vista of ruination, but what he saw filled him with admiration and awe.

  We still stand! The wall is intact!

  Magnificent ancestors, you have not striven in vain! Lady, we have taken the worst and endured! Is this your message? If so, I am ashamed. How pathetic my faith.

  Certainly, the damage was horrific. The worst of his imaginings … but nothing like a fracture or failure. Outer machicolations had fallen away; rear buildings had collapsed, coursework along the upper reaches appeared misaligned; cracks worked down the wall of the tower. But this was all merely cosmetic: the basic structural curve of the curtain wall appeared sound. Beyond that curve, however, the waters of the bay appeared unusually disturbed: great counter-waves slammed back and forth, and froth and spume jetted straight up in a clash of forces far out in the bay.

  I’ll need to inspect the damage. He ran for the stairs, but before he got two full turns down he found the way jammed by fallen rubble. He stared at the barrier, almost uncomprehending. No! Not now! Not when I’m needed most! He threw himself at the great stone blocks, heaving, pulling.

  Lady, no! Please! I beg you to forgive me!

  Deep under Ice Tower in the holding cells Shell stood pressed up hard against a glacial wall. That first tremor had terrified her. Here she was far below a stone tower on an ancient crumbling wall perched above a cliff over a sea! And now, though she dared not raise her Warren, she could feel it twitching, pulling at her. Something was happening. Something shattering.
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  A contingent came filing down from standing the wall. Shell saw Blues among them. The man had a hand to his forehead, wincing. A regular guardsman urged him on with a poke of his sword. Seemingly without effort Blues yanked the blade from the man’s hand then clouted him on the side of his head and he fell senseless. The file of prisoners shuffled to a halt, completely uncertain what to do. Blues leaned against a wall, blinking and shaking his shaggy head.

  ‘You sense it?’ Shell called.

  ‘Sense it!’ the man groaned. ‘Gods! My head’s gonna explode. I’ve not felt this since Genabackis when we faced the Warlord … In fact, I would’ve sworn it was impossible …’

  ‘What?’

  The man stared about, suddenly panicked. ‘Everyone, take cover! Get into doorways!

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Quiet! Listen!’ The man backed into a cell doorway, gripped the edges.

  Shell tried to still her breathing. She felt her Warren crackling with energy at her fingertips – just as during the worst magery engagements! Enormous power has been unleashed!

  Then she heard it: a rumbling seeming to arise from beneath her feet. The wall struck her, slamming her across the cell into the sleeping ledge. Stone shrieked, grinding and hammering. Dust and dirt rained down, choking her breath and blinding her while the floor bashed her. She was going to die crushed like a beetle!

  Eventually, though it seemed to last an eternity, the rumbling and up-and-down shaking passed away. Ominous groanings, creakings, and the cries of wounded filled the silence. The door to her cell burst into the chamber, iron bars rattling.

  ‘Shell!’ Hands pulled her up: it was Blues, the side of his head a dust-coated smear of blood. ‘Are you all right?’

  She brushed at the pulverized rock dusting her clothes. ‘Yes … yes! I think so. Who else is here? Lazar?’

  ‘He’s up top last I saw. What about Bars? Corlo?’

  ‘They took him up the tower. Corlo … I can’t say.’

  Blues helped her out. ‘Let’s see who’s here.’

  Together they dug out all who could stand. They found a good many Malazan veterans, including Tollen. But no sign of Jemain or Corlo. For Bars’ sake she hoped they hadn’t been buried under tons of stone.

  The Malazans formed into a party, headed by Tollen. They scavenged all the weapons they could find. ‘We’re heading up!’ Tollen called to Shell.

  ‘We should all go together,’ Blues said.

  Tollen spat. ‘This tower won’t stand for ever. Gotta go.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Shell called.

  Tollen raised a hand in what might be taken as an abbreviated version of the Guard salute, then nodded his party up the stairs.

  ‘One quick peep is all it would take to make sure no one’s left,’ she told Blues.

  He frowned a negative. ‘Too early for that yet. No lower levels?’

  ‘Yes, but no prisoners down there.’

  ‘The infirmary then – where’s that?’

  She nodded, suddenly certain. ‘Yes! The infirmary! Jemain is sure to be there.’

  ‘All right.’ Blues searched around and came up with two sticks, each about the length of his forearm. With these he headed up the stairs. Shell followed, unarmed as yet.

  Fighting soon sounded from above. They passed three floors to find the way blocked by the Malazans. Tollen pushed his way down to them, spat again. ‘Blasted Stormguard’s blocking the way.’

  ‘Overbear them,’ Blues said. ‘What’s the matter with you marines? ’

  Tollen snorted, then drawled, ‘There’s just the one.’

  ‘One?’ Blues pushed past the bear of a fellow. ‘Let me through.’

  Tollen offered Shell a wink. ‘This I gotta see. The Lady’s Grace is on this one … He won’t go down.’

  ‘The Lady’s Grace? What’s that?’

  Tollen eyed her sidelong. ‘You’ll see.’

  Shell followed. She had to walk over four dead Malazans, each bearing ferocious impalement wounds. They’d reached the main guardroom that allowed access to the surface. A lone Korelri Stormguard blocked the way amid the rubble, spear held upright at rest position, arms wrapped under his cloak. It was an older man, his short hair pepper-grey, his face savagely scarred. But what was most strange was the faint blue aura that played like a flame about the man and his spear. Energies raised over him – and so strong as to be visible even without her Warren.

  ‘Form up to stand the wall, prisoner,’ he told Blues.

  ‘Shit!’ Tollen murmured behind her. ‘Now I know him. Wall Marshal Quint. The one Chosen we didn’t want to meet.’

  Blues advanced into the room. He held his two sticks straight down, angled slightly outwards from his body. ‘Let us pass and we’ll make no trouble.’

  Quint’s scarred face twisted in an almost otherworldly contempt. ‘Pass? You can pass all right. You’re needed to stand the wall. The Riders are stirring. Now’s your chance to serve the Lady.’

  Indeed, the waves were hammering the wall, but even Shell, new as she was to the place, could hear the difference: the arrhythmia of their pounding, and the relative weakness. It was as if they were drawing off – but it was far too early for that.

  ‘We decline the honour of dying for your Lady,’ Blues said.

  The man levelled the spear. ‘Why? You’re going to die anyway.’ And he thrust. Blues blocked the spear with his crossed sticks and lashed out, kicking the man back. He grunted, recovering instantly, to drive Blues back with a series of short thrusts. Shell was startled: Blues was their mercenary company’s weapon-master; no one could stand before him. Certainly, there were those who could outlast him or overbear him, such as Bars or Lazar, or Skinner, for that matter, but in technique and ability with any weapon the man was peerless among them.

  They duelled in this manner for a time, neither able to penetrate the other’s guard. Shell watched, her amazement growing moment by moment. Who were these Stormguard? Obviously, she saw now, their reputation was not overblown.

  Snarling his disgust, the Chosen, Quint, stepped back to point his spear. ‘You’ve talent, I’ll grant you that. A shame you refuse to put it to the proper use. But now we’re done. Let’s see how you like a touch of the Lady’s Wrath.’

  The aura that played about the man intensified at his hands, flaring to a brilliant glow. Shell had no time to call out a warning before it shot like a lance from the spearhead to strike Blues full in the chest. He staggered back, the aura dancing about him, sizzling. He smacked backwards into a wall with a sickening crunch that brought down another rain of dust from the roof, but he did not fall.

  Quint gazed at him, utterly astonished. ‘How is this? You live?’

  Blues wiped blood from his cheek and mouth and shook himself like a dog. ‘I felt something like that before, Wall Marshal. On another continent, and from another supposed god. I seem to have built up a tolerance.’

  Quint struck a ready stance. ‘Then we’ll just have to settle this the old-fashioned way.’

  Blues sighed, shook his head. ‘No. I don’t have time for this.’ He raised his arms and Shell saw his D’riss Warren come to him, the Warren of Earth and Stone. He thrust his arms out, sending an answering blast of power that struck the Wall Marshal and knocked him flying backwards to crash through the heavy panelled door and tumble out on to the cluttered, ice-strewn wall.

  Tollen let go a low whistle that Shell seconded: yes, it’s easy to forget that the man is also one of the Guard’s strongest mages. She stepped through the wreckage to Blues’ side. ‘Decided to test the waters, did you?’

  Blues gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘I guess the Lady’s too busy to care so much right now.’

  The Malazans and other prisoners pressed forward. ‘Let’s go,’ Tollen called.

  Outside, enormous shards of shattered ice choked the walk. Gouges had been taken out of the sides and entire buildings were gone – having slid off the rear, or collapsed. A great crack ran down the side of the tower, the
dressed stone blocks shattered. A howling wind rampaged through the debris, driving pulverized ice into Shell’s face. As they stood peering for a way through the carnage, a figure straightened amid the shattered wreckage, throwing off slivers of broken ice: Wall Marshal Quint.

  ‘Won’t this guy stay down?’ Blues grumbled.

  ‘Now you know how it feels,’ Tollen complained.

  Blues caught Shell’s eye. ‘Let’s see if he can swim …’ He was gesturing to raise his Warren anew when a blast of power erupted between him and Shell, tossing them both aside. Shell had a momentary glimpse of the waters foaming and lashing next to the wall before slamming down with a bone-snapping impact against stone.

  When Ussü returned to his chambers he found the door open, his two aides fled. Very well. Good help and all that … The Crimson Guard Avowed, Bars, lay as before. Ussü tested the pins and lengths of chain, giving each a yank. Strong still.

  The real blast was on its way. Where to sit it out? The chamber boasted a sturdy desk built of thick timbers. Beneath this? Too undignified. He went to the doorway, blocked the door open, pressed himself up against one jamb. Have to do.

  He heard it just before it struck. How appropriate, he judged, that it should come rumbling like the avalanche and landslide that it was. Then a jolt threw him from the doorway and he tumbled about the hall like a doll kicked by the floor. Bone-juddering fractures announced the calving of huge shards from the tower’s sheath of ice. A crack shot through the roof, beams exploding. Pulverized rock showered down upon him.

  As the shaking stilled, he stirred, groaning, shook dust from his hair. He staggered like a drunk to his room through the fallen rubble of the hall. Within, he found an icy wind cutting about the chamber; the falling ice had torn the shutters from the window. His subject lay stretched over the thick table as before, arms and legs pinioned. Ussü pressed his ear to the man’s naked chest, ignored the ugly gaping wound oozing blood.