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

  ‘Second,’ she breathed, almost reverent. ‘Second. Never had I ever imagined …’

  Awareness suddenly flooded his gaze, but not before she glimpsed something naked and utterly unguarded that drove her eyes away. Horror. Horror and soul-lashing pain.

  ‘I … live,’ he uttered, wonder in his voice.

  ‘Yes. You live.’

  ‘Not … today, then.’

  ‘No. Not today.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then.’ He eased a hand from his side, releasing at the same time a hiss of suppressed pain. Horul glimpsed a penetrating thrust. His despairing smile made her turn her mask away again.

  ‘Second!’

  ‘Bind it, Horul,’ he managed through clenched lips. ‘Bind it tight.’

  Now that the last of the crowd of councillors, aristocrats and court functionaries had all long since fled, the Great Hall was quiet. Scorch and Leff stood watch leaning up against the rear of one of the fat columns that ran along a wall. All was hushed now; the pounding had faded away. Only the laboured breathing and occasional muted sobs of that miserable Mouthpiece broke the silence of the hall. But listening, his head cocked, Leff could make out the distant clash of fighting.

  Scorch turned to him, even more anxious and confused than usual. Then he sent a meaningful glance to a nearby exit. Leff shook his head. Scorch glared, demanding an explanation.

  His voice as low as possible, Leff whispered: ‘You don’t really think anyone’s gonna get through all them Seguleh, do ya?’

  Scorch’s expressive brows rose and he gave a great show of the light dawning. He winked. ‘Right. What now?’

  Leff hefted his crossbow. ‘Well, now we gotta guard, don’t we? Up to us. Last line o’ defence and such.’

  Scorch nodded towards the hall. ‘Maybe we should, y’ know, take a look … ?’

  ‘Right. You go ahead.’

  ‘Me?’ Scorch ducked his head. He whispered sotto voce: ‘Why me? You go – you’re senior ’n’ all.’

  ‘No I ain’t. Equals we are. Same rank.’ He urged Scorch out. ‘G’wan.’

  Cursing under his breath, Scorch edged around the column. He stepped out, leaning to peer at the throne. ‘Still there,’ he whispered. ‘Hasn’t moved a muscle.’

  ‘Fine. Good. All’s …’ Leff’s voice faded away as he peered closely at Scorch. ‘Wait a minute. What’s that?’

  ‘What’s what?’

  In the doorway, Palla ducked flying stone chips from an errant throw. She waved aside the obscuring smoke to study the blasted grounds dotted with fallen, and the Moranth squares pushing for the walls. Then she scanned the night sky, now empty of quorls.

  ‘I believe that is all of them,’ she called to Shun, the Eighteenth.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I cannot be certain. Perhaps a thousand.’

  ‘Then we have won. These last few we will finish off.’

  ‘Still, they have taken too many with them.’

  ‘It was their gamble. They—’

  A dull brown blade smeared in gore erupted from the Eighteenth’s chest and was withdrawn almost before Palla had registered that it was there. She leapt backwards an instant before it slashed again, striking shards of stone from where she had just been standing. As Shun fell a walking horror was revealed behind him in the doorway: carious face of dried sinew and skull brown with age, broken remnants of hide and bone armour, limbs of bare bone strung with ligaments and creaking flesh, legs oddly mismatched.

  Ancestors give me strength! Imass!

  ‘Attend!’ Palla shouted, backing away as she parried sweep after sweep of the wide flint sword.

  Three others of the Hundredth charged. Blows rocked the Imass in a flurry of bone chips, sliced rotten hide and bits of cured flesh, and still it came on. A downward sweep taken full on the edge of one Seguleh’s sword shattered the blade and knocked the bearer to crash against a wall and slump unconscious.

  Still Palla yielded ground one hard-fought step at a time. Each overbearing attack she slipped as obliquely as she dared, feeling her blade shudder and flex on the cusp of failing in her hands. Another of the Hundredth lunged close as the creature appeared to waver, but the Imass snatched the youth’s arm and propelled him into a pillar to smack wetly and fall.

  ‘It’s not you I want,’ it ground out. ‘Stand aside.’

  The third Hundredth took the opportunity to leap swinging a great blow to the creature’s neck. The blade chopped but caught. The half fleshless skull atop canted but did not topple. Palla halted her own lunge as the Imass seized the lad under the chin and lifted him from the floor it knocked the blade from its neck.

  How can I save the poor lad? What could I possibly …

  Inspiration came. Palla offered the long deep bow of the ancient form, hands out from her sides. Then she struck the most traditional of the ready stances.

  ‘Your challenge is accepted.’

  The Imass stilled. A second later it tossed the lad through an open doorway, where he landed amid furniture. ‘What is your rank?’

  ‘Sixth.’

  ‘Sixth? I met the First. Long ages ago. Then I wouldn’t have dared face any of the champions. Let us see how things proceed – now that I have had ample time to practise.’ It grasped the naked flint tang of its sword in both bone and sinew hands, and advanced.

  The whirling storms that scattered Ebbin’s consciousness to the furthest corners of his mind had receded. And all his memories came crashing in at once, bringing with them the horrifying awareness of all that had happened caused by him. The one small stone he dislodged and the avalanche it precipitated. And so he wept. Arms wrapped around his head he sobbed, abject.

  You see, the voice whispered within his mind, The favour I do you? Ignorance is a blessing.

  Stung, Ebbin moved to scuttle off on all fours.

  In his mind a hand clutched his neck. The monstrosity straddled him, gold mask turned to study the roiling clouds. ‘Let me go!’ Ebbin pleaded. ‘You’re finished!’

  ‘Nay. I have won. The Moranth are defeated. They cannot touch me.’

  ‘Your attack failed!’

  ‘True,’ the creature allowed. ‘That was … impetuous. But live and learn, yes, scholar? I will bide my time.’

  ‘No – you are lost. You’re revealed for what you are.’

  ‘And what is that, dear scholar?’

  ‘A monster nightmare of our childhood.’

  The hand released his neck. The Tyrant stepped away from him. Mocking laughter rose from behind the graven gold oval. The embossed lips seemed to drip it. ‘Oh, scholar. If you only knew.’ The mask snapped away. ‘Enemies gather … but not the one I was expecting. Of course, the same may be said for me. We will continue this discussion later, scholar.’

  The figure swirled away, but Ebbin’s awareness remained. He groaned and held his head once more.

  ‘There. That thing. In your crossbow.’

  Scorch lifted the weapon to take a look. ‘What? Nothing.’

  ‘No – the …’ Exasperated, Leff stepped out to tap the stock. ‘Look at that bolt. Where’d you get that?’

  Scorch stared. His mouth opened in amazement. ‘Would you look at that!’

  Leff cuffed him. ‘Keep it down,’ he hissed, fierce. ‘Where’d you get it? You holding out on me?’

  ‘I ain’t never seen it afore in all my life! I promise.’

  ‘You stole it, didn’t ya?’

  ‘What? Never.’

  ‘Well – we need to give it back. Got our position to think about. Can’t be wavin’ stolen goods about.’

  Unnoticed, the Legate stood to step down from his throne. He stopped before it, hands clasped behind his back.

  Leff grabbed the stock. ‘Look at that thing. All engraved. Wax on the head, too – real fancy, that. Gotta give it back.’

  ‘No – let go. Don’t …’ Scorch knocked one of Leff’s hands aside. Leff tried twisting the weapon from his partner’s grip.

  ‘Just cooperate! Let m
e …’

  ‘Watch it!’ Scorch hissed. ‘Don’t …’

  The crossbow fired, jerking in their four hands.

  The bolt slammed into the Legate, who spun round with the force of the impact.

  Four eyes swivelled to see the Legate straightening. He touched at the feathered end of the bolt where it stood from his ribs. The mask turned their way. A hand stretched out to them.

  Scorch and Leff looked at one another, eyes hugely wide at the enormity of the accident. And at the magnitude of their immediate danger.

  ‘Fire!’ they yelled in unison and Leff levelled his crossbow, noticing in passing that an identical bolt sat snugly in the channel of his stock. He aimed and fired while Scorch slipped a foot through the stirrup of his weapon and yanked ferociously.

  Leff’s bolt threw the Legate back another step. His knees appeared to weaken briefly as he staggered. Yet he came on. Smoke streamed from the two wounds.

  ‘Fire!’ Leff bawled again and Scorch levelled his weapon. The third bolt struck true, thumping the Legate backwards a good few weaving steps.

  Leff reached into the sack at his side and was briefly surprised to see that every single one of the bolts he possessed had intricately engraved blackened shafts and gleaming iron heads encased in wax. None of this stopped him from frantically reloading.

  ‘He’s still comin’ for us!’ Scorch yelled, nearly bursting into tears.

  ‘Fire ’em all!’ Leff howled.

  Lady Envy left a second-storey terrace overlooking the front battlegrounds. Tapping her fingertips together she crossed the abandoned darkened office. So, an Imass. Never cared for them. Smelly unkempt things always leaving bits of themselves lying about. She cocked her head, thinking. Been ages since I destroyed one of them.

  She remembered impertinences recently suffered from one Imass in particular and her mouth hardened. Yes … too long by far.

  She headed for the stairs.

  Yet something whispered from the dark drew her to a pause. A presence. Someone’s there. In the shadows. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Envy.’

  The barest whisper from the night.

  She raised her defences. Her Warren crackled, sending papers flying and bursting into flame around her. ‘Who’s there! I demand that you show yourself!’

  ‘Still afraid of the dark, Envy?’

  That voice! So familiar. Who? ‘Who are you?’ she called, tentative now, a hand at her throat.

  ‘With reason!’

  A flash of munitions lit the room, and in a freeze-frame instant revealed a tall man all in black. Face, eyes and hair all black. Envy backed away, her hand at her mouth, and gasped choking and stammering, ‘Father … !’

  And she fainted dead away.

  One of the Moranth guarding Galene gestured, pointing through the woods, and Torvald joined in squinting at the nearest building corner. There one of the mages had been standing – the hunched, oddly proportioned one – and now while they watched he was down on all fours attempting to get up, clutching at his chest.

  ‘There! Look there!’ Torvald hissed. He almost reached out for the Moranth Silver. ‘Something’s happening.’

  The red tube still in her gauntleted fist, Galene shifted her attention.

  The mage managed to straighten but fell backwards against the wall. Panting, in obvious agony, he hugged his chest as if he would burst. Then he disappeared.

  ‘There!’ Torvald exclaimed. ‘See that! We’ve won!’

  ‘Contain yourself, Councillor,’ Galene said. She gestured to one of her guards. ‘Check in with the wing commanders. What’s going on?’

  The Black trooper ran off through the woods.

  Up hall after hall they duelled. The heavy flint sword was blur in the hands of the tireless Imass. Palla retreated step by step, yielding, slipping all blows, leaving countless gashes across the fleshless ribs and skull and hacking apart rotting furs. She struck for the joints, hoping to sever ligaments and cripple the creature, not knowing if it was even possible.

  But she was tiring. Her reactions were slowing. The weakness of complete exhaustion now stood between what she wanted to do and what she could. She knew she would fall; it was merely a question of when and how.

  It came unseen in the form of a closing feint from the creature, a stunning elbow to her temple and a choking grip on her neck. Blinking, Palla found herself staring into two empty eye sockets where only a low glow simmered, like distant campfires.

  ‘You would have beaten me, Sixth,’ the Imass growled, slamming her into a stone door and releasing her to fall, ‘had I been alive.’

  The Imass walked on.

  Rallick watched from a window high up in the Great Hall while the two guards hammered bolt after bolt into the Legate. Then he watched them throw down their crossbows and run. Amazingly, the creature still stood. It must have fifteen bolts in it yet it remained upright. It leaned now bracing itself with one arm against a pillar.

  Rallick raised the coiled fine silk rope ready to toss it down when out of the shadows came that shuffling servant, the Mouthpiece, and he knelt flat once more. The fellow came edging out the way a mouse might circle a crippled cat.

  ‘You are done!’ the Mouthpiece yelled, a fist raised. Then he flinched. ‘How can you say that? It is over! It is!’ The fellow was frantic with emotion, weeping uncontrollably. He backed away. ‘Flee? Me? Go? Why? Why would they kill me? I have done nothing! Nothing!’

  Then he jumped as if seeing something terrifying. His hands flew to his throat and chest. ‘No!’ he breathed, appalled. ‘No – they wouldn’t. They mustn’t! Dear Soliel succour me … no!’

  He fled from the chamber.

  After a moment the Legate straightened from the pillar. The mask lowered as he seemed to inspect the many crossbow bolts studding his torso and the thin wisps of smoke arising from each wound. What could only be described as a muted chuckle shook him. The creature gestured to himself as if to say: yet here I am! And he laughed on and on behind the gold mask.

  Rallick eased away from the open window ledge and pulled himself up to the roof again. Crouching, he brushed the tips of his fingers over his lips for a time, eyes narrowed, and came to a decision. He stuffed the coil of rope down his shirt and padded off along the roof, heading for the maze of mismatched gables and slopes of the complex.

  Down in the Great Hall the main doors opened. The Legate turned to face them then rocked backwards, obviously shocked. An Imass strode within. The Legate backed away, hands raised. The Imass closed with astonishing speed on its oddly shaped legs, clasped hold of the Legate and raised its flint sword.

  ‘Now I take your head, Jaghut,’ it growled.

  Then it stilled, hands falling. What dried muscle and flesh remained on its ravaged visage twisted as it frowned its uncertainty. It lowered its fleshless mien to the gold mask as if inspecting the workmanship. A low rumble shook the sinews and bone of its torso. It’s jaws shifted in something like disgust. ‘Faugh! Human!’ It threw the Legate down and stalked from the chamber.

  At the doors it met Palla, staggering towards the throne room, but it passed on ignoring her and Palla paid it no attention as its broad flint weapon was now tucked into the twisted hair rope it wore as a belt. She took in the crossbow-bolt-studded form of the Legate lying supine on the floor, and fled.

  After a time the Legate managed to roll on to his side and lever himself upright. He staggered for the doors, one heavy step at a time. All the while his crossbow-bolt lanced chest convulsed in what may have been silent laughter.

  The doors to the Great Hall slammed shut. The Legate pulled up short. He turned in a slow weaving and shuffling circle to scan the chamber.

  Kruppe stepped out from behind the nearest pillar. He slicked back his oiled hair and adjusted his frilled shirt cuffs and crimson waistcoat. Then he made a great show of waving a handkerchief in a rather too elaborate courtier’s bow. ‘Never did Kruppe imagine he would be called to court!’

  The Legate lung
ed for him.

  Kruppe twisted and narrowly avoided one grasping hand. ‘Come, then, Legate. Let us dance again!’ Another catching hand swung, missing a sleeve by a breath. Kruppe dodged aside. ‘Nearly!’ he encouraged. ‘Come. This way.’ He waved the handkerchief. ‘It strikes Kruppe that the problem with masks is one of seeing clearly.’

  The Legate snapped out a clawed hand; cloth tore as Kruppe backed away. ‘Oh my!’

  ‘Pay-dirt!’ Spindle announced, sitting back from where he’d cleared a patch of dirt from the bottom of the pit. Fisher crouched down. It was a mud-smeared flat white surface. Together they cleared as wide a space as possible.

  ‘Hurry, my friends,’ called one of their protectors from above. Spindle glanced up to see the man’s gold and silver teeth bright against his face in a gleaming smile. ‘We are attracting too much attention.’

  ‘What? You? Attract attention?’

  But the man was gone and the rapid clash of swordplay sounded from all sides of the pit. Spindle caught Fisher’s eye and nodded to the bottles.

  Together they uncorked two and upended them. Neither was prepared for the reaction that instantly engulfed them.

  Palla met Jan at the main entrance. She groaned inwardly at his blood-spattered condition. Upon catching sight of her he demanded: ‘What has happened? Where is this Imass?’

  Palla waved her battered state aside. ‘It is gone. It killed the Legate.’

  ‘What? He is dead?’

  ‘Or near it.’

  ‘Why would it …’ The Second turned away to the grounds; Palla thought he moved awkwardly, as if stiff. ‘Recall everyone. Retreat to the inner halls.’

  Palla bowed. ‘As you order.’ She ran for the open doors.

  Jan turned a puzzled glance up the wide entrance foyer, and headed for the Great Hall.