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

  Something struck him in the chest, sloshing frigid water all down his front. ‘Take it, quick!’ someone shouted. ‘Let’s go!’

  Dazed, he grasped a small wooden barrel and passed it on. Next came a leaky leather bucket already nearly empty. One-handed, Bendan passed it up the line to the squads atop the catwalk where it was emptied over the timbers and tossed back down. The troopers worked in pairs, one emptying, one holding his shield high over them both.

  For what seemed half the night Bendan passed along a bizarre collection of barrels, large and small, leather satchels, earthenware jugs, even leather boots. Most held barely any water at all by the time they reached him, but on they went to contribute to maintaining the palisade wall. Meanwhile, behind him he caught glimpses of flaming tents and the infernos where their remaining wagons and carts had been left to burn. What few horses they’d kept were slaughtered that night – mostly out of mercy, as the encircling fires drove them insane with terror.

  Bendan’s squad was relieved before dawn. For cover they hunched under their shields at the base of the palisade. The salvos were nothing like as dense as before, but a steady fall of harassing fire was being maintained. Incredibly Hektar still carried his idiotic bright smile. Bendan was soaked and frozen, his arms and back ached as if mattocked and he hadn’t gotten a wink all night. He wanted to smack the grin from the man’s damned face.

  ‘What’s to smile about?’ he snarled.

  ‘Outrun ’em again, didn’t we?’ the man laughed. ‘They thought they’d hit on the answer but ol’ Steppan, she was one step ahead. Ha! Get that? One step.’

  ‘Yeah. Ha, real funny. Now what?’

  The sergeant raised his great rounded shoulders. ‘Whatever. We’re still in here and they’re still out there. That’s all that counts.’ He sat up straighter to yell: ‘Another day’s soldiering and another of the Emperor’s coins, ain’t that right lads?’ Laughter up and down the walls nearby answered that. ‘Now get some sleep.’

  Sleep? How could the man sleep knowing that at any instant thousands of these Rhivi tribals could come storming this pitiful wall? And laughter? How could anyone think this was funny? Still, that laughter … it had been that dark sort that if he’d heard it in a bar would’ve sent him reaching for his knife.

  Midway up the scree slope of a mountain shoulder a lone rider halted his mount to swing himself from the saddle. His boots crunching on the bare rocky talus, Torvald Nom eyed the ever-steepening valley side then rested his forehead against horses flank. Shit. Didn’t look so quite so precipitous from the foothills. Cursing the fates, he set down his pack, undid the bridle, and unbuckled the girth to let the saddle fall to the ground. He poured out the last of the feed into this hand and let the horse finish it, then gave it a slap and waved it off. He watched it make its way back down the slope heading for the valley floor, then shouldered his pack and started up the loose rocks.

  The view from the ridge revealed yet another valley in front of him and he let his head hang for a moment. Me and my stupid ideas. Still … He eyed the valley head where the talus gave way to naked rock which sloped back to a higher ridge and beyond that, far beyond that, a snow-capped peak. The Moranth occupy these high mountain valleys? What do they eat? Snow and mist? Ye gods, I’ll starve before reaching them. He started down the slope, sideways, one hand catching at rocks and low, wind-punished brush.

  Come dusk he reached the thin creek of melt that ran down the centre of the valley. It was loud amid its rocks and so cold it numbed his hand when he drank from it. He set down his pack and started searching for fuel. Night came swiftly in the upper valleys and he was surprised when the sunlight was cut off so soon in the west. All he had for kindling was dry moss and a few handfuls of duff. He took out his tinderbox and set to work.

  The fire he coaxed to life did little thaw his bones. He huddled over the smoky smudge and thought of home. Tis throwing pots – and not necessarily at him. Warm dinners from her hands. He hadn’t appreciated that as much as he should have. A lot to be said for that. Even more than warm embraces afterwards. Not that he could remember those; still, there must’ve been some, certainly. Once. Consummation of the union and all that. Winking friends and a great deal of liquor. He remembered being terrified that Rallick would show up and shove his knife into his back; which hadn’t exactly helped his performance that night either.

  Shivering, he decided he’d had enough of climbing. He could tramp from one end of this mountain range to the other and not turn them up. If they were here it was up to them to come to him. That he’d settle tomorrow. Having reached a decision on the matter, Tor gathered his blanket about himself and lay down to sleep.

  In the morning’s chill he shivered awake, stretched, emptied his bladder, and shocked himself with a splash of the frigid meltwater. He prepared for a march, but left one object out of his pack: one of the Moranth Blue globes given to him long ago when, as a much younger man, he’d saved a life. And without expectation of any payment, too. Yet the gift was offered, and it would have been gauche to reject such gratitude, wouldn’t it? At least that had been his thinking at the time.

  Now, he hefted the sapphire-blue ovoid and eyed the stream. It was a gamble; possibly a criminal waste. Yet how else to get attention quickly? If they had eyes out watching these high valleys, which he assumed they did.

  Very well. Enough dithering. The sun is up, visibility is clear. I may be throwing away a fortune – my nest-egg, so to speak. But here goes.

  He threw. The globe splashed into the streaming flow, which was hardly deep enough to cover it, and cracked against the rocks. Tor did not know what to expect, but certainly not the explosive report that echoed and re-echoed across the valley.

  At the same time, for as far as he could see, all movement in the water suddenly ceased. As did all sound. Leaning closer, he saw that the stream was frozen – frozen solid where it had eddied, splashed and curled. A monstrous icicle that ran the entire length of the valley and on for who knew how far.

  Well, that was … impressive. If this didn’t get their attention, then he had no idea what might.

  He sat leaning back against his pack and waited. Eventually, running water came trickling down from the heights over and around the streambed and the ice floe that choked it. Eventually, Tor imagined, this unnatural manifestation would melt.

  Towards mid-day, when the sun had breasted the opposite valley side, an eerie whirring noise entered the valley. Tor stood. He knew he’d heard that sound before but for the life of him he couldn’t quite place it. He peered about in growing unease. It was a sort of rhythmic humming or thumping, like a horse’s distant gallop, only infinitely faster.

  Something roared over his head, fanning up great clouds of dust, and he threw himself to the ground. The sound returned, circling around, and Tor hesitantly climbed to his feet to see one of the monstrous Moranth mounts, their quorl, settling down not far away. Its four wings fluttered in a shimmering rainbow blur. The bulbous faceted eyes regarding him seemed empty of emotion; yet perhaps they were not, as he’d heard that these beasts, like their diminutive dragonfly cousins, were carnivores.

  A Moranth dismounted from the intricately carved leather and wood double saddle that hugged the beast’s thorax. Tor was astonished to see that it was a Moranth Silver. He wondered if he should bow. The Silver and the Gold were aristocracy among the Moranth. Few ever saw them.

  But he was now an emissary, was he not? If sub-rosa. And so Tor merely inclined his head in greeting. Closer, it was actually rather difficult to look directly at the Silver. Its chitinous armour reflected the light like a perfect mirror. The effect was quite dazzling. Also engraved swirling patterns covered each plate, adding to the confusion of the shimmering.

  ‘You are Darujhistani,’ the Silver said in accented Daru. ‘What are you doing here on our border marches?’

  ‘I come as an emissary of the Legate of Darujhistan.’

  That gave the Silver pause. Its armour grated as it look
ed him up and down. ‘In truth? You come as an emissary of this … Legate. All alone. Carrying stolen Blue alchemicals.’

  Tor’s stomach seemed to loosen. ‘Stolen? Accusations? Does this pass as manners among you Moranth? I carry those items as gifts.’ Unless that Blue stole them in the first place …

  ‘Gifts? From whom? Name him or her.’

  Tor forced himself to gesture casually even though he felt as if chunks of the ice from the stream were now slithering down his back. ‘Not for you. I am here to negotiate in the name of the Legate.’

  The Silver cocked its helmed head. ‘Negotiate?’ A chuckle escaped it and from its high timbre Tor recognized that he faced a female Moranth.

  And that chuckle made him damned uncomfortable. But he’d travelled with far more intimidating presences than this Silver and so he raised his chin. ‘Yes. Negotiate. What of it?’

  The Silver answered with a wave of her own while she continued to laugh quietly. ‘Very well. Attend me and we will see what will come of these negotiations.’

  She returned to the quorl. Tor threw on his pack and followed. He stepped gingerly around the great shimmering translucent wings to reach the long thorax. The Silver had already mounted. She gestured to the rear saddle seat, pointing. ‘Use the long sheaths here for your feet,’ she shouted over the loud whirring of the twitching wings. ‘Push them down all the way. Wrap these straps around your forearms. Cinch them tight. Then hold these sunken handles here on either side.’

  Tor nodded. Right. Push down. His slid his booted foot into the leather sheath. It took his leg up to the knee. He swung his other foot over the beast’s back and down the other sheath. Like stirrups, but with broad boots attached. Sitting, he examined the mishmash of strapping before him. Which ones do I wrap?

  He’d opened his mouth to ask when the Silver snapped the jesses and the quorl leapt into the air.

  Tor found himself gaping down at the receding valley floor, his arms dangling and flailing. A hard gauntleted fist gathered up a handhold of his cloak at the neck and dragged him upright. The Silver shouted something that was lost amid the roaring hum of the wings and the rushing air. Tor quickly took hold of the handles sunk into the leather of the saddle.

  Well, whatever that had been it must have been pretty insulting.

  He was immediately frozen in the punishing constant wind. He hunched down behind the cover of the Silver’s back. The wind hurt his eyes, too, so it was through the barest slits that he watched a mountain ridge slip drunkenly beneath them as the quorl arched, turning.

  Gods … I’m going to puke all over this Silver’s back. How embarrassing.

  At the last instant Tor realized he had to but turn his head and the lashing wind would do the rest. His stomach was almost entirely empty anyway and so the gorge that came rushing up in a gagging acid heave hardly amounted to anything. As they swung over the next valley Tor sensed more than heard the Silver’s continuing laughter.

  Here Tor was surprised to see square fields of green and the shimmering of irrigation canals. The Silver guided her quorl over a walled settlement that hugged the naked rock of the valley head. Beneath him Moranth of every hue went about their work. Tor marvelled. Never had he ever heard of such a thing. No traveller that he knew of had ever penetrated the Moranth’s borders.

  The quorl began to circle in an ever narrowing spiral that brought them alighting on the broad flat roof of a tower. The Silver dismounted. Tor struggled to free his legs, feeling stiff and queasy with what seemed a curious analogue to seasickness. After much yanking he managed to release himself and staggered free of the quorl. A detachment of Moranth Black had climbed the rooftop. Tor shouldered his pack, eyeing them. The Silver gestured to the Black guards, speaking in the Moranth tongue. The Black encircled him. One motioned for him to drop his gear. Tor looked at the Silver. ‘What’s this?’

  She was already on her way to the rooftop trap door and stairs down. ‘You are to be imprisoned as a spy and a thief,’ she said over her shoulder.

  ‘What?’

  The Black gestured again, insistent.

  Tor waved the Black guard aside. ‘I’ll have you know I am an emissary!’ he called as she disappeared down the stairs.

  The Black reached for Tor’s pack. Tor shook his finger in a negative. ‘I am under the protection of the Legate.’ The guard motioned to his fellow on Tor’s left and involuntarily Tor glanced over.

  Something smashed into his head from the right and his legs lost all strength. He toppled to the flags of the roof, his last thought a self-recriminatory oldest damned cheap trick around.

  When Aman led her to his old shop Taya nearly deserted him at the door. ‘What are we doing here? Give me one minute and I’ll have all those soldiers’ heads.’

  The mage was fiddling with the door’s many locks. ‘No no, my dear. K’rul is not to be underestimated. There is a chance she may get hold of you.’ He shot her a hard glance. ‘Then we’d all be at risk.’

  She accepted the warning with a simmering growl. ‘Fine. So what are we – oh, just force it!’

  Aman looked up, horrified. ‘Certainly not!’ He opened the last lock. ‘That would invite thieves.’

  Inside, the wreckage hadn’t changed. Their steps crushed the scattered litter. ‘Now what?’ she sighed.

  ‘K’rul and her adherents have obviously planned ahead. What could possibly fend off Seguleh? Why, undead Seguleh, of course!’ He stroked his uneven chin. ‘Quite the poetic solution when one considers it.’

  Taya fanned the dusty stale air. ‘Yes, yes. There is a point? Or has your head finally cracked under all this pressure?’

  He raised one gnarled and bent finger. ‘Ah, but I’ve been planning too.’ He crossed to where the huge statue glimmered in the shadows, dominating the room like a gigantic squat pillar. He peered up at it admiringly, perhaps the way one might admire a tall son. ‘What can beat down all obstacles before it, never resting, never relenting? An automaton, yes?’

  Taya eyed it doubtfully. ‘I thought you said they weren’t automatons. ’

  Irritation twisted half Aman’s mismatched face. ‘Normally, yes. However, I’ve been making certain … ah … innovations.’ He patted the statue’s chest where the mosaic of inset precious stones flashed. ‘This one is my own project. And now it is time to set it into motion.’ He hobbled to the rear of the shop.

  Taya heard pots thumping, then a rhythmic grinding of mortar and pestle. She blew out a breath and looked to the cobwebbed ceiling. Hoary ancients! I cannot believe I am wasting my time here!

  ‘I do not understand why Father tolerates this feud of yours,’ she called.

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Just ignore them!’ she shouted. ‘Leave them barricaded in that heap of stones.’

  ‘The Warrens are a standing threat to us, my dear. Surely that must be obvious, even to you.’

  She scowled, not liking the sound of that. He emerged carrying shallow ceramic bowls containing powders, which he lined up on the counter. She watched while he upended a tall earthenware jug over the statue, straining to reach its shoulders. Some sort of thick milk-like substance dribbled down its arms and front. Taya almost asked what it was, only to reconsider at the last instant. She decided she didn’t want to know.

  ‘How long is this going to take?’

  ‘Long?’ he murmured, distracted, as he rubbed the sticky liquid into the statue’s torso and arms. ‘Oh, quite some time. Quite some time.’

  ‘Well … I’m going.’

  He turned, blinking at her. ‘Really? I thought you’d be interested.’

  ‘Well, I’m not.’

  He picked up one of the shallow ceramic bowls and dipped a finger into the powder, sighed. ‘Let it not be said I did not try … I apologize, then, for attempting to further your education. There is no need for you to remain.’

  ‘Thank you. I will be at court.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ he murmured as she yanked open the door.

  Ba
rathol had been napping in the afternoon heat when he awoke to see Scillara standing over him. ‘That greasy fat fellow is here to see you.’

  ‘Fat fellow?’

  ‘That shabby one who warms a chair at the Phoenix Inn. Count your fingers when you’re done talking with that one, I say.’

  He rose, stretching. Joints popped. He slipped an arm round her waist. ‘A breastfeeding mother is the most sensual sight to a father.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘So you keep sayin’.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Sure it is.’ She pushed him to the rear door of the row-house. ‘Try to get some more work. We’re not living off the fat of the hog here.’

  He found the man sitting at their small table, the chair pushed far back to make room for his round stomach. ‘Make yourself at home,’ Barathol said.

  ‘Why thank you! I shall and did. I could not help but also notice that your pantry possesses remarkable potential for filling … when might this be accomplished? Soon, I hope?’

  Barathol pulled out their one other chair and sat heavily. He considered for a moment and then said, ‘I do the cooking here.’

  ‘Excellent! Then I certainly am speaking to the most important person here. I would like eggs. Poached. And a roasted bird, preferably plucked beforehand. Or a roasted bird still containing its eggs. Whichever is quicker, speed being the operational consideration here. Efficiency.’ He rested his pudgy hands on his stomach, grimacing.

  Barathol crossed his arms, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. They reached halfway across their narrow main floor. ‘I cook over the forge I built in the yard.’

  The eager moon-round face fell. ‘Oh dear. How unappetizing.’ A hand flew to his mouth. ‘I can’t believe that word passed my lips. You say you actually cook over the fire? How primal. No wonder you are favoured by Burn.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing. You wouldn’t have something, though, would you?’ He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Just a smidgen of a biscuit or a cut of lamb? Roasted, on a stick? A kebab? Yes, a kebab would be nice. Forge-roasted, perhaps?’