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

  Yet the lines were stirring, readying shields, regripping weapons. For the Seguleh were close now.

  Galene reached behind herself one-handed to pull the fat oblong from its pack. Ducking from the driving wind, Tor grasped it in both hands, hugging it. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘It’s murder!’

  ‘Let go, fool! The quorl weaved drunkenly. Treetops slashed by beneath, almost striking Tor’s boots. The impossible storm of wind threatened to sweep him from the saddle. ‘This is war,’ she grated. ‘Our survival!’

  ‘But they stand no chance!’

  She yanked the cusser free. ‘Then they should not have taken up the sword.’

  The quorl dived even lower now. Tor rose off his seat in the descent. Just ahead the Seguleh column was spreading out. They now appeared so close, and he was rushing in upon them at such a ferocious speed, it seemed to him that they would collide. Before him the valley head rose rocky and steep, thin streams darkening the stone wall here and there. At its foot the Malazan line stood firm in their black surcoats, shields overlapping. Tor spared one quick glance back: line after line of quorl followed, their Silver drivers hunched forward as if racing, Red and Black passengers behind cradling the fat munitions in their arms.

  Galene raised the cusser in both hands. The slashing wind snapped her flying jesses and straps about her armoured form.

  Sword in hand, Aragan turned from the panting veteran saboteur to stare down into the valley. He took in the jogging Seguleh. Then, above, the swooping Moranth. And he felt as if he would faint. Oh, Hood, no … So close … He staggered forward, threw his arms out, bellowing: ‘Take cover now! Cover!’

  Bendan felt himself bending backwards further and further as the Moranth quorl seemed to be coming straight for him personally. He saw riders throwing and dark objects tumbling through the air as the quorl tore overhead, so low it seemed he could stretch up and touch their delicate thrumming wingtips. He yanked Hektar down among the rearing piled talus – the only man still standing – and bellowed in his ear over the roaring: ‘Shield!’

  An enormous invisible wall struck Bendan, smashing him down into the rocks. His shield bashed him in the face, stunning him. Stones and dirt and thick choking clouds of dust came billowing over him and he coughed, spitting, and shaking his ringing pummelled head. Multiple blasts punished him, driving him down into the surrounding broken rocks, punching the breath from him.

  He didn’t know if he lost consciousness, but at one point he realized that it seemed to be over. He’d been waiting, tensed, curled into a ball beneath his shield for yet another concussion that never came. He dared to raise his head. Dirt and gravel tumbled from his back. He shook it from his hair and staggered up. All was obscured in hanging drifting smoke and swirling dust. He could hear nothing over the punishing ringing in his ears. He spat again, blinking, holding his chest where his ribs ached from the concussive waves that had battered him.

  A huge shape shambled upright nearby, dirt sifting from him: Hektar, arms out, blindly searching about the rocks. Bendan clasped his arm. ‘I’m here,’ he croaked.

  The Dal Hon wiped his face where a wetness had caked dirt to his mangled flesh. ‘Poor bastards,’ he was saying. ‘Poor fucking bastards.’

  It occurred to Bendan that the man was crying.

  Torvald had pressed himself to Galene’s back, one arm around her, the other clasping one of the saddle grips. He squeezed his eyes closed to miss the dizzying near vertical climb scudding over the naked rock face of the valley head. He felt the pressure wave of the multiple eruptions behind him. It was like a hand pressing him into the Moranth Silver and rushing the quorl along like a great tidal push.

  Cold wetness chilled his cheeks in the slashing wind and he knew that he was weeping. Galene shifted in the saddle and adjusted the jesses and the quorl tilted, arching backwards. It seemed that they were turning round.

  While the smoke and dust swirled and hung in curtains over the blasted slope Bendan patted Hektar’s arm. ‘It’s all right, man. They woulda done for us.’

  ‘Ain’t right,’ the sergeant was saying over and over. ‘What was done here. Ain’t right. It’s a fucking tragedy is what it is.’

  Horrified shouts sounded from the lines and Bendan turned, squinting into the clouds of settling dust. He almost fell then, his knees weakening, a hand going to his throat. ‘Oh no … Hood no … Don’t do this …’

  ‘What is it?’ Hektar demanded, peering blindly about.

  They came out of the hanging smoke and dust. Some limped, some staggered. Others stayed upright only by virtue of their swords dragging along over the rocks. Still they came onward, advancing.

  All around, troopers retreated, backing up the rising slope, edging past boulders. ‘Stop!’ Bendan shouted to one tattered figure making for him. ‘Please – stop!’

  It was a woman, one arm shattered, bone glistening white through the flesh. Her mask was broken, half gone, that side of her face a blackened red ruin. Still she raised her sword, pointing.

  Bendan backed away, a hand on Hektar’s arm.

  ‘Where is he?’ the Dal Hon whispered.

  ‘She’s on your left.’

  The Seguleh came on. A trooper scrambled down to her, hunched, sword in one hand, reaching out with the other. ‘Let’s put it down, lass,’ he urged, gently. ‘Drop your sword. It’s all over now.’

  Lunging, she slashed one-handed and he fell, eviscerated in a great gout of splashing innards. She straightened again, weaving slightly, blade pointing straight at Bendan.

  ‘Tell me when she’s close,’ Hektar ground out.

  Two more regulars charged her, swinging. Both were weeping as they attacked. She sidestepped, parrying, her sword sliding easily over the first to slash his throat then quickly blocking the other, twisting in a blur round and under his shield, taking the man’s leg off at the knee. He fell shrieking.

  It seemed to Bendan that the woman would have fallen at that moment but for leaning her weight on a stab into the crippled man’s chest. She recovered then, her mouth writhing in agony beneath its caked dirt and blood. The sword snapped up again, the point inhumanly steady.

  He let go Hektar’s arm. ‘Ready now,’ he whispered beneath his breath, crouching, shortsword raised.

  Two quick paces from the woman closed the gap. Bendan hunched even further, eyes barely peeping over his shield. Her blade slashed across the top and he flinched. Warmth ran down his nose. Behind his shield Hektar cocked his head as if listening; then he suddenly launched himself forward with a roar, throwing his arms out.

  The woman slashed and a forearm flew but the man’s enormous weight bulled her over and they fell together. Her slim blade somehow licked up between them even as they crashed among the rocks and Bendan jumped after them. He stabbed at the woman, piercing her hip, his blade grating down the pelvis bone. Lancing burning pain erupted in his leg and he glanced down to see the woman’s blade twist free from high in his thigh. Then more troopers crowded him, all thrusting, crying, cursing, weeping. He slumped down against a rock, his leg completely numb. He sat in a cold shaky sweat of pain, shock and panic.

  One of the troopers turned Hektar over to reveal the man’s chest slashed open. Pink foam blew at his mouth as he laboured to breathe. Bendan slid down to cradle the man’s head on his lap. Hektar’s wide smile returned but the teeth were bright red with blood now. ‘Got one,’ the big man smiled.

  ‘Yeah. You got one.’

  ‘All … done … now.’

  ‘Yeah, Sarge. All done now.’

  Bendan sat for a long time holding the dead man. Squad cutters came and tied off his cuts and stopped the bleeding. When they gently pulled at the corpse he batted them away. Having seen it before the healers moved off without objecting. The hot sun beat down and still Bendan rocked him. Carrion birds gathered, circling over the blasted field of kicked-up dirt and scattered torn bodies. A shadow occluded the sun over Bendan and he looked up, squinting. It was Corporal Little.

  She
crouched on her haunches at his side, rested a hand on Hektar, then looked to him.

  ‘Don’t you say it,’ he croaked. ‘Don’t you fucking say anything.’

  She looked away, blinking back tears. ‘No,’ she managed, her voice barely audible. ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Sir?’ Fist K’ess said, clearing his throat. Ambassador Aragan did not turn away from where he had stood since the attack, his gaze steady on the shattered field. K’ess himself was not insensate to the horror: the drifting smoke, the broken bodies lying in droves around craters blasted into the loose talus of the slope. He almost turned away, imagining that firestorm of blasts and the fragmented rock chips lancing like shrapnel through unprotected flesh. What disturbed him the most, however, was the silence. How eerie it was; nothing like any of the many fields of battle he’d known. No cries or moans of wounded echoed over the slopes. No calls for water. No outbursts or hopeless cursing.

  Indeed, all the murmured sounds of stricken awe, all the curses, the moans and quiet weeping sounded now around him among the Malazan troops. And he wondered; what was worse? To have died in that ill-fated charge, or to have to live now having witnessed it?

  It took a strong effort of will to tear his gaze from that appalling field of slaughter and he glanced back to Captain Fal-ej, the woman’s arm and chest bloodied and wrapped in stiff drying cloth. She signed to him to speak again. ‘Sir,’ he repeated, a touch louder. ‘The Moranth have landed. A contingent awaits.’

  The ambassador appeared to gather himself. He turned, blinking and wiping at his eyes. He cleared his throat against the back of his hand. ‘Yes. The Moranth,’ he said, his voice shaking with emotion. ‘Thank you, Fist. Let’s go and see what they want, shall we?’

  As they clambered down the rocks K’ess was surprised to see a man alongside a Moranth Silver and a battered Red. What was more, the ambassador and the Red actually embraced.

  ‘Fist K’ess, Captain Fal-ej,’ said Aragan, ‘may I introduce Torn, our attaché.’

  Torn gestured to the Silver. ‘Galene, an Elect. What you might call a priestess. And this is Torvald, Nom of Nom, member of the Darujhistan Council.’

  K’ess and Fal-ej bowed. ‘Councillor, an honour.’

  The Darujhistan aristocrat grimaced. He looked shaky and sickly pale. ‘Well, it would seem the Council has been suspended.’

  ‘None the less,’ Aragan murmured. He gestured aside to another officer, calling, ‘Captain Dreshen!’

  The young officer jogged up, bowing. Aragan held out a hand and the man dug in his shoulder bag to pull out an object about the size of a mace, wrapped in black silk. He handed it to Aragan who held it in both hands, studying it, lips pursed in thought. He looked up. ‘Attaché Torn, Councillor Nom. I believe we need to negotiate.’ He gestured towards the woods. The Moranth Red bowed.

  ‘Yes, Ambassador.’ He turned to Torvald. ‘Councillor …’

  The three walked off into the forest. Fist K’ess faced the Silver, Galene. ‘What of the prisoners?’

  The Moranth female tilted her bright helm. ‘Prisoners?’

  ‘Some of the Seguleh survived. Badly wounded, but alive. Some few threw down their swords.’

  ‘Surprising, that.’

  K’ess rubbed an arm as if cold. ‘Well – it might just have been the shock.’

  ‘Perhaps. What of it?’

  ‘Well … we could hold them until such time as they can be repatriated. ’

  ‘I doubt they will be, Fist. But, yes, if you wish. We have no interest in them.’

  ‘Very good.’ He bowed. Elect, Torn named her – one of those who guide their people?

  When the Silver had gone K’ess introduced the two captains, then eyed the woods. Negotiate? Aragan, you’ve got balls.

  Captain Fal-ej cleared her throat. ‘Fist. Forgive me … but we’re in no position to negotiate anything.’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  ‘Then … ?’

  K’ess raised his chin to the blasted field of craters and thrown dirt. ‘Look …’

  Malazan rankers were silently spreading out among the fallen torn bodies, collecting around the mangled corpses. Out came cloaks and blankets and other odds and ends to wrap the bodies. Then saboteur shovels and picks, and individual shallow graves were hacked out of the thin rocky soil. Some even took advantage of the craters the munitions had blasted to site their pits.

  Then one by one, respectful hands clenching the tied-off cloth at head and feet and sides, the bodies were laid in their graves. Only the noise of shovels clattering from stones sounded from the valley. Each pit was covered and the troopers stood still.

  K’ess wondered at their thoughts. Thank the gods that ain’t me? Damn you to Hood’s lost Abyss? Or what he himself felt as a knife point in his heart: No one should die like that. If this is war then I want no more to do with it.

  To one side the captured Seguleh, a bare handful out of the four hundred, sat or stood, unarmed, still masked, watching while their dead were buried. K’ess could not even imagine what was going through their minds.

  Clearing his throat, he turned to the officers. ‘Captain Fal-ej … I believe what Aragan is hoping to do is stop the Moranth from doing to Darujhistan what they just did here in this valley. Reducing the entire city to smoking rubble.’

  ‘By the Seven,’ Fal-ej murmured, falling back on her old faith. ‘That would be unforgivable. We cannot allow that.’

  K’ess let out a long pained breath. ‘It looks as though we no longer have much say in the matter.’

  ‘But Fist … over a half-million live there.’

  ‘Yes, Captain … Yes.’

  BOOK III

  Throne

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The contempt of the cultured elite of Darujhistan for the manners and customs of the Seguleh of the far south is well known. One Council member famously remarked that what these Seguleh fail to understand is that words are the most powerful weapons of all.

  A Seguleh informed this argument responded: ‘Then when he is silent he is useless.’

  Histories of Genabackis

  Sulerem of Mengal

  LIKE SMALL BLESSINGS MOMENTS OF CALM OCCASIONALLY DESCENDED unbidden into the punishing windstorm of Ebbin’s thoughts. During these respites he was able, at least briefly, to gather his scattered identity and reconstitute his thoughts.

  Sometimes he would find himself in a recurring dream of the gold-masked figure standing at the edge of Majesty Hill overlooking Darujhistan. Either the ancient terror allowed him to join him there in reviewing these memories, or he was simply too insignificant to matter. Each time Ebbin was unwilling to creep up to the overlook, for he knew what would confront him there: the city in flames, screams, mass murder, carnage. The fall of a civilization.

  After many of these dreams, or waking nightmares – having wandered here, or been drawn, or allowed to discover him here – Ebbin finally dared speak: ‘Why do you always come here?’

  ‘Lessons learned,’ the masked and cloaked figure answered.

  ‘You seek to avoid this.’

  ‘I seek to avoid a paradox. Escape the inescapable. I wish to complete the circle without suffering its fate.’

  ‘Each time it has ended this way.’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘So many would-be tyrants,’ Ebbin breathed, saddened.

  The graven gold face turned his way. ‘Still you do not fully understand. ’

  Emboldened, Ebbin ventured: ‘What is there to understand? You failed once, you shall fail again.’

  ‘Once? No, scholar. Evidently the truth is even more difficult for you to swallow than that. In truth, I have failed countless times.’

  ‘What?’

  The taunting secretive curve carved on the lips of the mask seemed to be verging on a full smile. ‘Each time it has been me, scholar. In truth, there has been but one Tyrant.’

  The raging winds of Ebbin’s mind crept closer. Walls of impenetrable black closing in. ‘But … that cannot b
e. What of Raest? What of him?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Raest. Too crude in his methods. I have refined and perfected his tools. Lessons learned, scholar.’

  Ebbin clenched his skull as if to hold it from flying apart. ‘Why tell me this?’

  ‘Give up, scholar. Yield. There can be but one outcome.’

  ‘No! Never. I … never.’ And he fled. Hands pressed to his skull, he ran from the ledge and laughter chased him. The laughter melded with the howling of the winds that came sweeping in to toss him spinning and flying into countless shattered fragments.

  Jan could not get used to being confronted wherever he turned by hundred of replicas in miniature of the Legate’s gold mask. The ladies of the court held theirs on long gold stems that they raised to their faces. The men’s rested on the bridges of their noses, held there by fine thread that ran behind their heads.

  Part of Jan wished to slap them all off. Just as he still could not help twitching upon meeting so many directly challenging, even haughty, stares from armed men.

  These are no longer your people, his inner voice said to him. These are no longer your ways.

  Across the court Palla, the Sixth, signed to him: Any word?

  None.

  It has been long.

  The mountains are vast.

  The Moranth have never been shy.

  True. A tentative throat-clearing at his side. Jan turned knowing who to expect: the Mouthpiece. ‘Yes?’

  ‘A word, Second.’

  They crossed to the edge of the court where a pillared colonnade stretched all along one wall. It was the favoured locale for much whispering. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Send a runner to your people in the south. Have them all relocate here to the city.’

  Jan snapped his gaze to the masked figure on his throne, hands resting lightly atop a white stone armrest to either side. ‘All?’