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

  ‘Oh?’

  The man just gave another sidelong glance. The jaws remained clamped tight.

  Shortly afterwards the Seventh stopped to study the vista just as Yusek had herself. Sall and Lo stopped behind, patient as ever.

  ‘What is it?’ Yusek asked.

  ‘We should take the Foss Road. Go round.’

  She was outraged. ‘Go round! Whatever for?’

  It almost appeared as if the man would answer, but he bit down on the words looking as if he’d swallowed something sharp. Moving on he allowed: ‘In case of a panic.’

  In the Finnest house in the grounds of Coll’s estate two strikingly differing yet oddly matched individuals played cards. The tall iron-haired one, Raest, kept raising his shattered corpse-like face to peer into the distance, as if distracted. His partner, an Imass, held his cards steady in hands no more than ligaments wrapped around naked bone.

  ‘It is your turn, isn’t it?’ Raest said after a time.

  The Imass’s fleshless skull shifted from its fixed regard of its cards to glance up.

  ‘Turn?’ Raest said. ‘Turn, yes? I did explain that, didn’t I?’

  The skull now shifted even further, neck crackling with dry sinew, to send a long hard glance up the hall.

  Raest looked to the dim ceiling. ‘Not now,’ he said.

  The Imass stood, nearly upsetting the table. It spoke in a creaking of leather-hard flesh: ‘I smell … ice.’

  Raest waved a dismissive hand. ‘Never mind the ill-mannered neighbours …’

  The Imass stepped from the table. Raest tutted: ‘Cards …’ It peered down as if utterly unaware it held anything in its hand, it set them face down on the table and shambled off up the hall.

  Raest sat for a time, motionless, until the noise of a door slamming echoed through the house. His gaze fell on the cards opposite.

  He leaned to peer up the hall; waited a little longer. Then he reached across and lifted them.

  Ambassador Aragan flinched as a single quorl stooped their position. As it passed it waggled its wings, sending up a loud hissing and snapping of cloaks and pennants in its wake. It raced off ahead and disappeared into the darkness, making for the city. He and Fist K’ess shared taut glances. ‘Any time now.’ He rubbed the back of a hand to the bristles at his cheek, adding a low ‘Gods forgive us’.

  Fist K’ess, he saw, clutched at his neck where Aragan knew a stone representing Burn hung. Next to the Fist, his aide, Captain Fal-ej, leaned closer to whisper, ‘It is very lovely.’

  ‘You’ve never seen it?’ K’ess said, surprised.

  ‘No.’

  He cleared his throat, his voice thickening. ‘Shame, that.’

  On Aragan’s other side Attaché Torn sat awkward on his mount, his helmed head tilted upwards following the passing quorls.

  ‘Twins stand aside,’ Aragan offered.

  Torn nodded. ‘Yes. Let us hope they succeed.’

  Down the lines Bendan stood with Little, now Sergeant Little, Bone and Tarat. He twisted his aching neck where the majority of his shield’s weight hung. ‘Don’t want to see what I think we’re gonna see,’ he growled.

  Little eyed him sidelong, her gaze re-evaluating and somehow softer. ‘You’re turning into a regular pacifist, Bendan.’

  ‘Just wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, is all.’ He hawked up a mouthful of phlegm to spit.

  ‘And that is your home, yes?’ Tarat said.

  Bendan shook his head in a negative. ‘No. I’m from Maiten.’

  Masts of coastal barks and merchant cargo haulers whipped past beneath Torvald’s boots so close he thought he might loose a foot. Abruptly Galene yanked the nose of the quorl up and they climbed fiercely. Torvald hunched into his seat as if a great hand were pressing down upon his head. Then they broke over the lip of the Second Tier Wall and he had a glimpse ahead that disoriented him so thoroughly that he almost tumbled from his seat. ‘What in Oponn’s name is that?’

  ‘The Orb,’ Galene called over her shoulder. ‘The Orb of the Tyrants.’ She raised an arm, gesturing her commands in broad sweeps. ‘Ready the munitions!’

  Torvald reached both hands into the first pack and braced himself with his thighs against the juddering of the quorl.

  Spindle was sitting at a table working on his third glass of wine while he thought about the mystery of when – and how! – to use the chemicals he and Duiker had collected. The damned circle was buried and there were mages keeping an eye out! How were they possibly gonna do the deed?

  The historian himself was at the front keeping his own eye out. Picker and Blend were at the bar leaning together from opposite sides communicating in their one word sentences like the veterans who’d spent a whole lifetime campaigning together that they were. The bard had gone in for an early night.

  He was considering his fourth glass when out front passed a noise that sent a shiver down his back and set his hair stirring: swift thrumming and hissing overhead.

  He, Blend and Picker shared stunned glances.

  As one they jumped to the front, knocking aside chairs and tearing boards from a window to gape up at the night sky, knocking heads and pushing at one another. Something whipped overhead obscuring the darkness for an instant. The oh-so-familiar humming and hissing of gossamer wings whispered past.

  ‘A Hood-damned assault!’ Blend snarled.

  ‘A drop!’ Picker barked.

  ‘I’m on it,’ Spindle declared, and he punched Duiker’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go!’

  The historian sadly shook his head. ‘I’m flattered, but no – it’s a young man’s chase. Find a stronger back.’

  ‘Well, who …’ Spindle looked to Blend and Picker. They shook their heads. ‘We have our post.’

  ‘Shit!’

  Duiker edged a hand to the back and cocked a brow. Spindle’s gaze narrowed; then he smiled evilly. He ran for the rear. ‘Fisher!’ he bellowed. ‘Get out here! We’re on.’

  Torvald’s quorl now flitted over the estate district. Since reaching the city, he’d been peering all about for the gas lights but had seen hardly any. The dread gripped him that this was some sort of trap devised by these mages. Yet couldn’t it also be a fantastic blessing? It may be that someone here has shown astounding forethought. He’d like to kiss whoever it was, considering all the munitions now flying over the city. Ahead, the ‘Orb’, as Galene called it, shone with the reflected commingled light of the moon and the Scimitar. It glowed so pale he imagined that in daylight it would be white. And he could see through it as well, as if were as thin and translucent as a bubble. Galene suddenly jerked her straps, urging her mount into a series of jerking rolls and near-spins. Torvald held on for his life.

  ‘What’s that for!’ he yelled.

  His answer came as something lashed from Majesty Hill to strike a chevron of the approaching quorls. For all he could tell it looked like ripples in the air, heat ripples as over a hot road. These disturbances arced out like waves and any quorl they struck tumbled from the sky, its wings shattered like crushed dry leaves. As the creatures fell spinning Torvald suddenly realized what was about to happen. He quickly looked away, yet the glaring bright flash still dazzled his vision. A thunderous roar followed, together with a great black cloud of debris kicking skyward behind. Peering back, it looked as though a block of the waterfront district had been destroyed.

  ‘Pay attention,’ Galene snarled over the wind.

  Their mount now turned sharply, tilting almost sideways. The ghostly pale Orb swung into view. Torvald glimpsed the forested park grounds of Majesty Hill below, and saw masked figures running and one man, bent, his long pale arms malformed, gesturing to wreak such havoc among the quorl chevrons.

  ‘Ready munitions!’ Galene yelled above the screaming wind.

  Torvald pulled out the first cusser and hugged it to his chest.

  The quorl turned even more sharply now, arcing until they were riding nearly upside down. The pale lucent wall of the Orb curved directly below, a
s did a section of Majesty Hall.

  ‘Drop!’ Galene snapped.

  Torvald threw. The cusser fell tumbling and spinning. He bent backwards, following its descent. As it reached the ghostly wall of the Orb he winced, blinded, as a flash jabbed at his vision. An instant later a concussive wall of force knocked their quorl sideways, sending them spinning.

  Galene fought to regain control of her mount. They swung round, headed now for the waterfront. ‘What happened?’ she grated, turning back to confront him.

  ‘It burst early when it struck that wall or whatever it is!’

  ‘Elders damn that sorcerer!’ She reknotted her hands through the jesses, tightening them. ‘We’ll go high.’

  Behind them further bright flashes lit the night, followed closely by the rolling thunder of blast after blast. Torvald was thrown backwards as the quorl’s nose suddenly rose straight up. They climbed and climbed, arching ever backwards until Galene had put the quorl through a complete back loop and rolled to right them. They headed back for another pass.

  Torvald fought down the contents of his stomach.

  Coll rushed back into the Great Hall to find all the councillors, aristocrats, functionaries and hangers-on jammed together in a tight circle round the raised white throne where the Legate sat still as immobile as ever. From overhead came an almost constant booming, punishing everyone. Dust sifted down from the stone ceiling.

  ‘We cannot be harmed!’ the Mouthpiece yelled, his voice cracking and quavering, rather ruining the effect of his claim.

  Councillor Redda Orr pushed her way through the crowd to Coll. ‘What now?’ she shouted, and ducked at a particularly close punch of bursting pressure.

  ‘That wretched weasel Mouthpiece is right,’ he answered. ‘None of this is getting through.’

  ‘But what if the roof should fall?’

  He squinted up at the arched ceiling and saw mortar drifting down from between the stones. ‘You’re right.’ He glared about, searching for an answer. ‘The cellars! We have to get everyone down underground. ’

  A pall of silence grew over all the shouting and crying around them and Coll looked over. The Legate had stood up. ‘Lady Envy,’ the Mouthpiece said, choking and gasping. ‘Will you not demonstrate why you are the brightest jewel of this court?’

  Men and women flinched from one tall woman who remained unbowed beneath the direct regard of the Legate. She crooked her painted lips in an amused smile. Then she lightly inclined her head and sauntered to the doors. All eyes followed her lazy, seemingly unconcerned exit.

  Once Lady Envy had turned from sight the Legate gestured and the tall double doors of the Great Hall slammed shut.

  This broke whatever spell had been holding the court together. Everyone began yelling in an instant panic, running to find exits, grabbing at one another, trying make themselves understood. Over this Coll used his battlefield bellow to roar: ‘To the cellars!’

  The crowd of courtiers and councillors surged after him.

  Throughout it all the Legate calmly faced the doors, hands at his sides, immobile, gold oval cocked a touch to one side. As if expecting company.

  On the street of the weaponsmiths in the Gadrobi district, a heavyset woman sat out on the steps of a duelling school letting the cool night air brush her face while she flexed her hand and wrist, which were numb from a long practice session.

  A strange sound stilled her and she lifted her head, listening for a time. Then, dismissing the noise, she returned to rolling her wrist. She pushed back her shoulders and edged her neck from side to side, grimacing at the pain of old tight tendons.

  A blast rocked her, rattling all the nearby windows and shocking her to her feet. She glared up the street to where smoke and the orange flickering of flames climbed over the city. People screamed in their rooms; others ran out on to the street to peer about.

  From the north flashes lit the night, followed shortly by thunder as in a storm. But Stonny knew that sound for no storm. She ran inside and woke a sleeping boy who blinked up at her, confused.

  ‘Gather everyone together and come to the front now,’ she whispered, fierce.

  ‘What? Do what, Mother?’

  ‘Do it now, lad.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes! Go.’ After making certain the boy was on his way she ran to the practice hall and strapped on two weapons. Another window offered a view of the Third Tier and Majesty Hill and here she stopped, staring, her heart now hammering. Where were all the lights?

  ‘Fener’s curse,’ she whispered. Bursts of mage-fire illuminated her wide, blunt face. Then something that looked as fragile and tiny as a feather fell spinning from the sky further along in the Lakefront district and a blast rocked the school, sending her staggering back. When she returned to the window she saw that the glazing had cracked.

  She ran, yelling, ‘Harllo!’

  ‘There we go,’ murmured Fist K’ess as a burst of light flashed over the north-east. Moments later a muted rumble sounded. Aragan nodded, realized he’d been holding his breath, and eased it out. Further multiple flashes blazed, followed by an eventual continual low rumbling.

  And from the ranks came an answer. A low groan sounded up and down the lines as if every trooper felt each burst as a physical blow.

  Aragan half raised his hand.

  ‘We’ll be mobbed, sir,’ K’ess said, his voice soft. ‘They’ll blame us.’

  ‘I agree,’ Torn added.

  Aragan forced his hand down. ‘Yes. It’s just … Yes.’ He studied the flashes, all the while urging the Moranth on. Get through! Get to him, damn you. Finish it!

  K’ess watched the ambassador from the edge of his vision. Poor fellow. Hasn’t seen much direct action. Always coming in behind. Yet to his credit he has that necessary compassion for his fellow soldiers. The gesture speaks well of him.

  He remembered the taking of Pale. Been a raw captain then, of the regulars. The memory of that enfilade had yet to let him go. He’d lost so many nights to those images his hope was that no similar cataclysm erupted here. Especially after what they’ve already witnessed. Could be too much. Could break ’em. Hood, have to have a heart of flint not to feel it.

  Spindle tottered on the last section of the rising walk up Majesty Hill. He fell against a buttress, banging the crate so that bottles clanked, and winced, biting his lip. Stones clattered down around him and acrid smoke wafted past.

  Damn close, that. Fallin’ like flies everywhere, the poor bastards!

  He jerked his head to urge Fisher on. The bard straightened and jogged up.

  Getting this far had been simple; everyone had run off. And K’rul’s hill was right next to Despot’s Barbican anyway. The district was pretty much entirely abandoned. Even the streetlights were unlit. Seemed the Greyfaces had taken the night off. Damned smart of them, considering. He peered over the wall to eye the nearest forest copse. Overhead the Moranth circled and swooped. A continuous barrage fell on Majesty Hall. Yet this magical barrier, this dome or circle, pretty much invisible up close and seemingly as delicate as a soap bubble, held back an entire war of punishment.

  And Spindle knew what anchored it.

  So loud were the near-continuous eruptions of munitions that he and Fisher could not speak. He caught the bard’s eye then jerked his head to the woods and ran. Hunched, bottles banging, they jogged through the park forest. At least Spindle knew exactly where he was headed.

  He didn’t mean to slam down the crate of wine bottles but in the dark he tripped on a root and fell right on top of it. He rolled off immediately and brushed frantically at his front – which would have been a stupid thing to do if one of the bottles had broken and spilled on him. Should’ve just started yanking off the damn hauberk.

  Through the trees he could see the Moranth arcing overhead on their quorls and tossing their charges over Majesty Hall.

  Most of the cussers blew far overhead but a few landed now and then on the unprotected hilltop and shook the ground. Off to one side
a crater smoked in a reminder of what might happen to them at any moment. The bard didn’t know Malazan hand signs so Spindle was forced to wave and point. He’d found the site of their old excavation.

  He threw himself to his knees and started digging in a feverish panic. Fisher joined him.

  To make things even worse, through the trees he could see that the Seguleh were out as well. They were keeping to the doors and walls of the many buildings of the Majesty Hall complex. Waiting, watching, masks tilted upwards to follow the Moranth in their circling.

  Spindle thought he knew what they were waiting for and he prayed it wouldn’t come to that. Things would get far too crowded then.

  Best to have a hidey-hole in that case. And he dug and dug.

  Togg, things might get so desperate he might even have to raise his Warren! Gods, that it should come to that …

  Barathol was out of bed with the first burst. He peered through the slats of the shutters.

  ‘What is it?’ Scillara asked from the dark.

  A much closer blast; the house shook. A few things fell downstairs. Little Chaur set up a wail. ‘Get him,’ he said, pulling on trousers. ‘I’ll grab some food and water.’

  She stood quickly, dressing as well. ‘You’re coming with us, yes?’ she said sharply.

  He paused, glancing at her shadowed silhouette. ‘Yes. I’m coming with you.’

  Outside, it was jarringly dark. He’d never seen the streets unlit. Now it was the Scimitar’s ill-omened glow that cast shadows across the shop fronts. They joined a swelling crowd jamming the street. He peered to the east, to the higher tiers where flashes lit the night. Flames rose from much closer, however.

  Then something slashed overhead, raising shrieks of fear. It hissed arrow-straight up the road, lower than the rooftops. Moranth … attacking? Cover. It’s using the streets to hide. Hide from what?