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

  Galene uncrossed her arms. Her armour gleamed mirror-like in the gathering light. ‘There can be no challenge between us, First.’

  He gave the slightest dip of his head in salute. ‘Very good. We will leave by the Worry Town gate. Notify your forces.’

  Galene saluted. ‘Done. First …’ she called as he turned away.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am … relieved.’

  The man bowed briefly again. ‘As am I.’

  Torvald watched them go. Wondrous gods! Was that it then? Done? Finished? Wordless, suddenly exhausted, he watched Galene exchange the red baton for one of gold. This she held skyward and twisted. Some sort of munition shot from it, launched into the still deep-blue sky where it burst into a sizzling amber flame. Torvald watched it drift like a burning flower, smoking and popping.

  To the west of Darujhistan Captain Fal-ej nudged Fist K’ess who looked then nudged Ambassador Aragan who jerked, blinking, and squinted to the city. He then turned to Attaché Torn.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A signal.’

  Aragan bit back a sharp reply; instead he examined the quorls filling the fields around them. Hours ago they’d swooped down and landed in order to conserve their strength and wait out the night. None stirred now. No orders were shouted to mount.

  ‘Which?’ he asked, dread choking in his throat.

  Torn turned his helmed head to Aragan. ‘It is the call to stand down. It seems, Ambassador, that the Elect has met with some sort of victory.’

  Victory? Against nearly a hundred Seguleh? He didn’t think that possible. But then, they would hardly have surrendered, would they? ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now?’ Torn indicated the quorls, now readying, rising to flight, all unburdened, carrying only single riders. ‘The assault group will be extracted. And then we shall have a report.’

  Aragan watched the quorls lifting off and flitting away, making for the glow and drifting smoke over Darujhistan. Twin wakes followed some passing low over flooded fields nearby. And what a report that will be …

  Not far off Sergeant Little nudged her squad awake to motion to the disappearing quorls. ‘Looks like a pick-up,’ she said. ‘Must be what those officer types call ‘a cessation of hostilities’.’

  ‘Sounds so pretty when you say it, Little,’ one trooper called out.

  ‘Music to my ears,’ Bendan murmured, half awake. ‘We gonna move out?’

  Little shifted where she lay on one elbow. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘We’ll pull back to Pale,’ Bone opined while he picked at his teeth. ‘Re-garrison. Won’t they be happy to see us.’

  ‘Pale! That pit,’ someone grumbled. ‘Nothing there.’

  ‘Don’t matter,’ Bendan sighed. ‘All the same to us.’

  Little eyed him where he lay with an arm over his face. ‘That’s right, trooper. All the same to us.’

  CHAPTER XXI

  And did we not know the sweetest lassitude there

  bathed in such silken glow?

  How sad we must part, for the stars command

  and none can forestall their turning upon the great

  immutable orbs

  Love Songs of the Cinnamon Wastes

  SINCE SHE HAD THE DAWN WATCH BLEND MADE AN EARLY BREAKFAST of fried rashers, eggs, the butt-end of a loaf of heavy black bread and a pot of herb tea, and sat down near the front to eat.

  The smell of cooking roused Picker, who was asleep on a bench. She sat up and rolled her neck to get the kinks out. ‘Save me some tea.’

  ‘Course.’

  Picker groaned, rubbing her face where she sat. ‘You know – I really expected something last night under cover of all that mayhem.’

  ‘Me too. Haven’t heard from Spin or Fisher neither.’

  ‘True. Can’t believe those Moranth dropped in to take on the Seguleh.’

  ‘Must’ve had munitions up the you-know-what.’

  Blend washed down a mouthful of bread then set down her cup. ‘You hear somethin’?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Out front …’ She pushed back her chair.

  The barrier at the door exploded inward with an eruption of flung splinters and boards. The heavy oak table upended to hold up heaped benches slid backwards, grating on the stone floor. Blend tripped on her chair. Picker threw aside the table before her and made for the bar.

  A giant fought to force his way through the shattered timbers of the door.

  Blend drew her long-knives and closed in a leap, arms drawn back to thrust. Both weapons hit home in the armoured giant’s chest. One rebounded while the other shattered into fragments. A sweep of one thick arm knocked her flying backwards.

  Picker fired a crossbow from the bar but the bolt glanced off the creature’s inlaid armour. It stepped forward, pushing back the heaped benches and broken timbers. Blend ran for the kitchen. Picker reloaded. Duiker appeared from the hall then ducked away.

  Picker fired again but the second bolt rebounded from the creature’s closed full helm. She threw down the crossbow and headed out from behind the bar.

  The giant batted aside benches and took another step. Blend came in from the kitchen; she carried their massive log-splitting axe. This she raised over her head in both hands and ran across the room loosing a blood-searing war howl. The axe crashed home against the creature’s chest and flew free of Blend’s hands. A great shower of stone chips clattered to the floor and the thing lumbered a heavy single step backwards. A crack now showed in its broad chest armour.

  ‘It ain’t human!’ Blend yelled.

  From the hall Duiker appeared carrying a great two-handed broadsword. He shook it free of the sheath and advanced. Blend searched for the axe. Picker lifted one of the benches and swung it at the thing in an attempt to beat it back. It groped clumsily for the bench.

  The broadsword hacked stone chips from arms and torso, yet still it advanced. It appeared to be making straight for the stairs down to the cellars. Picker hammered at it using the bench as a battering ram while Blend and Duiker chopped at the limbs. Nearing the top of the stairs it managed to get hold of the haft of the axe to wrench it from Blend’s hands. It snapped the thick haft in two and tossed the pieces aside.

  ‘Spindle’s munition!’ Picker suddenly yelled.

  ‘Right!’ Blend dodged one awkward grab to run for the bar.

  Both Duiker and Picker gripped the bench and fended the thing off by butting it in the chest. Blend reappeared behind it, cut off. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Dive!’ Picker yelled.

  She hugged the munition, hunched, then threw herself forward, sliding between the thing’s wide braced legs and almost tumbled down the stairs. Duiker stopped her. The thing took its first step on to the cellar steps. The three looked at each other, their close quarters. ‘Now what?’ Picker asked again.

  ‘I don’t—’ Duiker began, and then a skeletal hand grasped his shoulder and shoved him aside. A file of undead Seguleh came climbing the stairs, unsheathing their swords. Duiker, Picker, and Blend slid down along the walls, dodging the swinging weapons.

  The guardians, or whatever they were, held the giant off for a time. Their weapons hacked great gouges out of its armour, which appeared to be layered plates of solid stone or fired clay. Its finish of inlaid multicoloured stones had long been scraped and bashed away. Yet it was destroying them; the clumsy stone hands grasped arms to wrench them from sockets; closed over heads to crush skulls like blood-fruit. The guardians were falling one by one. Their torn limbs and mangled bodies cluttered the stairs.

  Down in the darkness of the first cellar level the three eyed one another. Duiker motioned to the cusser in Blood’s hands. She nodded.

  They waited until the last of the pickled Seguleh fell. Duiker took a torch, then he and Picker lay down on the much narrower rough stone staircase leading down to the lowest cellar – the one they never used. From the top of this staircase Blend watched for the giant to make its appearance.

  Its heavy leaden step
s announced it. Each shook the stone beneath them. It turned the corner of the landing. Blend yelled, ‘Munitions!’ and threw, then jumped for the stairs.

  They heard the cusser crack like a dropped pot. Then the giant took another step.

  Duiker cursed under his breath.

  ‘How do you like that!’ Blend snarled. ‘It really was a dud!’

  Another step sounded and the rock beneath them creaked as if under immense pressure.

  ‘Now what?’ Picker whispered, fierce.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Duiker said.

  Picker climbed to her feet. ‘Damn right.’

  They scrambled up into the upper cellar only to find that the giant had reached the narrow aisle that led through barrels stacked ceiling tall. They were cut off.

  ‘Shit!’ Picker exploded, and she reached for her sheaths only to find them empty. ‘Now what?’

  Exhausted, Duiker wiped his hot slick face. ‘We back up. It might widen out down below.’

  ‘That’s a plan,’ Blend growled and she motioned them back.

  The stairs were uneven, roughly hewn and overgrown with mould – even something that felt like a kind of moss or thick lichen. Duiker hoped the thing might lose its footing and come tumbling down in a heap of wreckage. Then he thought – lichen? Growing on these cut stone stairs? Then that would mean … Burn preserve them … thousands of years!

  The stairs lost definition until Duiker found himself sliding backwards down nothing more than a stone chute. Roots hung, clawing their hair. It had become hotter and far more humid.

  ‘We ain’t never come this low,’ Picker whispered, hushed. ‘I don’t know if I can go down any more!’

  Duiker, leading the backwards descent, came up against a hard flat surface. In the dimming light of the torch he could just make out a rough-hewn granite slab. ‘End of the way,’ he called. ‘Looks like the entrance to a tomb.’

  In the gloom Picker punched a dirt wall. ‘Fener take it! I can’t fucking believe it. What a goddamned place to die. Break it down!’

  ‘No! I think that’s what it’s here to do,’ Duiker said. ‘If we all charged it and hit it high we might trip it up. One of us might get by.’ He glimpsed movement up the narrow tunnel. ‘Here it comes.’ He jabbed the end of the torch high into a wall. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘I’ll lead,’ Picker growled, and turned sideways, hunching a shoulder.

  They ran back up the sloped tunnel. Picker and Blend let out bellowing war howls as they went. They jumped up at the last instant to smash into the creature’s battered chest only to tumble together at its stone feet. It rocked backwards but did not fall.

  Lying in a heap before it they peered up, bruised and puzzled. It remained immobile, like the statue it perhaps had been in truth. A sudden sharp crack split the air like the eruption of a flawed pot in a kiln and an arm fell off it to thump on to them then roll down the tunnel floor, bursting into shards. The other arm split and fell too, bursting like a pot.

  They all scrambled up and backed away. A great crack shot in a jagged diagonal across its torso and the halves slid in opposite directions to crash into countless shards. Its lower torso and legs fell forward, shattering as well.

  The flickering torch revealed standing behind the wreckage a man with long straight greying hair wearing a dirty threadbare shirt and trousers. A young woman hovered close behind him, all in dark clothes and carrying a stave. Blend took one look at the man, gaped, then went for her empty sheaths once more. ‘Fucking Tayschrenn!’

  Picker snatched a dirk from her belt.

  ‘Hold!’ Duiker bellowed. He pushed forward, and a strange sort of half-smile touched the newcomer’s lips.

  ‘Duiker,’ he said. ‘If there was one man I did not expect to run into right now, that would be you.’

  The old Imperial Historian looked him up and down. ‘It is you,’ he breathed, amazed. ‘Yet not – you look different.’

  ‘We grow older. Things change. You are right … I am not the man I was.’

  Picker snorted at that. ‘What do you want?’ She raised her chin in defiance. ‘We’re retired. It’s all official now. On the books.’

  The High Mage shook his head, frowning now. ‘I understand your anger and suspicion, Bridgeburner. You have every right to it. All I can say is that I’m sorry for what happened. I regret it greatly.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Picker echoed, derisive. ‘You’re sorry?’

  Tayschrenn glanced over his shoulder. ‘Let’s back up, Kiska.’

  In the cellar the three still warily eyed the High Mage. ‘What are you doing here?’ Duiker asked.

  The High Mage motioned to the tunnel. ‘I’ve come to attempt something long overdue. Something that should have been done years ago.’

  Picker and Blend shared puzzled glances. Duiker eyed the tunnel then his gaze shifted back to Tayschrenn. He pulled at his black and grey beard. ‘If I’m right in what you’re suggesting, then I think no one has ever been strong enough – or willing enough – to risk it. If you fail you’ll probably be destroyed.’

  At that the young woman at Tayschrenn’s side started her surprise and turned a savage glare on him. ‘What’s this?’ she hissed.

  The High Mage raised a hand for quiet.

  ‘No! I’ll not be hushed. You never said anything about this.’

  Duiker caught Blend’s eye and motioned to the stairs. She nudged Picker and they started up.

  Alone now, Tayschrenn took Kiska’s shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. But it has to be this way. This is something only I can do.’

  Kiska wrenched free of his hands. She stamped the butt of the stave to the cobbled floor in a crashing report. ‘For this I drag you from the ends of the earth? So you can throw your life away on some damned fool attempt – at what?’

  The High Mage leaned back against a barrel. He eyed the darkness as if studying something hidden deep within its depths. ‘Think, Kiska. Think of all those who nudged and manipulated and plain lied to bring you and me here to this place at this time.’ He raised a finger, ‘Your Aunt Agayla for one. The Enchantress. That priest of Shadow you mentioned – so Shadowthrone himself schemed for this. Even D’rek has given me her blessing. And so it must be.’

  She threw out her arms. ‘Oh, certainly! Better you than they, yes? Why haven’t they stepped up if it is all so vital?’

  He pressed his hands together before his lips and studied her over them. ‘It is hard, I know. But right now at this moment all those I just mentioned, and many others, are utterly enmeshed in a struggle that spans the world. All their strength is already committed in a confrontation manifesting across countless fronts. And K’rul may fail. Wounded, poisoned, weakened – the effort may prove beyond her. That we cannot allow to happen.’

  ‘But why you?’

  He crooked a chiding smile. ‘Tell me, Kiska. If Maker were here – what would he do?’

  She drew a great shuddering breath, then her shoulders fell. ‘He would do his job,’ she granted, looking away, her lips clenched tight.

  ‘Very good.’ He crossed to her and touched his lips to her brow. ‘Kiska – you saved me and you have made me whole. For this I will always be grateful.’ He caught her gaze and held it. ‘But now it is your turn. Be whole. Live now not for me or any other. But for yourself. ’

  Her answer was hardly audible. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very good. Farewell. And, my thanks.’ He walked away down the tunnel.

  Upstairs Blend gave a great shout of surprise and Picker and Duiker ran up to find the wrecked K’rul’s bar crowded. Antsy and Spindle were there, as was Fisher, plus three huge fellows, shields leaning up against their table, busy emptying tall tankards of ale.

  Antsy shouted from the bar, ‘Did you see …’

  Picker crossed to the bar and gave a sombre nod. ‘Yeah. We saw ’im.’

  ‘Just about crapped my pants, I tell you,’ Antsy muttered.

  ‘I need a drink.’ She fished behind the bar to pull out a bottle, eyed him
up and down. ‘So, you’re back. You look awful. No big bags o’ gems?’

  He ducked his head, glowering. ‘The go-down, get-rich, comeback plan got upended. Long fucking story. At least I didn’t die.’

  Picker snorted a laugh. ‘Same old Antsy. Who’re these huge bastards?’

  ‘Old friends of Fisher.’ He lowered his voice, ‘Not too pleased to see ’em, though.’

  ‘No kiddin’?’

  Spindle came to the bar and poured a glass from Picker’s bottle.

  ‘So what was all this trouble in the city anyway?’ Antsy asked him.

  ‘Long story,’ Spindle grumbled. He leaned back against the bar. ‘Just my stupid luck too. I come here to avoid all the trouble down south, then this happens!’ He studied the glass, took a sip. ‘I’m headin’ back south.’

  Careful slow steps sounded from the rear, crackling and shifting through the broken stone and wood. All eyes turned to the noise and conversation died down to a heavy silence.

  The young woman came up from below. She wore a once stylish dark shirt under leathers that were tattered, scraped and grimed. Her long black hair hung unwashed and mussed but pretty oval features did much to make up for all that. She held her stave crossways, a touch defensive, and peered around at everyone, her eyes puffy as if she had been crying. She wiped her face. ‘This supposed to be a bar, then?’ she asked of the room in general.

  ‘Yeah …’ Blend admitted guardedly.

  ‘Got any wine? I could use a glass.’

  Blend nodded. ‘Take a seat.’

  ‘Who’s the gal?’ Spindle asked, his voice low.

  ‘She’s a Claw,’ Picker murmured.

  Spindle choked on his drink.

  Studious Lock was in the kitchen experimentally poking at a burlap bag of potatoes and thinking to himself: Dear Unknowable Ancients … They eat these growths? A crash sounded from the main chambers, followed by furniture breaking, gasping, flailing limbs thumping the floor, and a man’s roar of outraged pain.