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

  A tendril of smoke climbed into the air. He blew, lightly, teasing the tiny ember to life. It caught and soon he had a proper fire blazing. And just in time, as thunder crashed overhead and the night’s rain came pattering down upon him. He used larger branches to push the fire in towards the shallow cave’s mouth. Here he sat under the cover of the curved wall of pressed litter, cross-legged, his back to the dirt, the fire just before him. Vines hung about him, running now with the rain. The petals of a clinging orchid brushed his hair like the lightest of kisses.

  He pushed a bulb on to a stick and extended it over the fire.

  Tomorrow. He mustn’t lose the trail. She must come to see reason tomorrow. How many days did she think she could just wander blindly about? It was ridiculous. Worse, it was the petulance of a child who would not admit she was wrong.

  After he ate, he eased himself into the position of recuperation, hands on his lap, fingertips touching to channel his energy, and closed his eyes.

  Late in the night, a huge hunting cat approached. It lay on its stomach hidden among the cover at the bottom of the hillock. Through slit eyes Pon-lor watched the flames reflected in its luminous pupils. After a time a noise sounded from the night: a crash as of wood breaking. The cat chuffed a cough and eased itself to its feet. Long curved fangs caught the light as it turned and glided away.

  The crash was followed by another, and another, each closer. Soon an even more massive beast came lumbering up on to the slope of the hillock. It walked on two legs but was barely humanoid. Colossal, it was, with tough plated skin the hue of ash. Its legs were thick trunks ending in great splayed feet. Its head was a hairless stump. Two tiny eyes no larger than pinheads regarded him from atop a mouth that sported broken and misaligned jutting teeth.

  ‘Who are you,’ it boomed, ‘to light a fire here in the depths of Himatan?’

  Wisdom of the ancients, what was this thing? One of the Night-Queen’s monstrosities, of course. But beast, man, or other? Was it, as his teachers insisted in the Thaumaturg Academy, the degenerate offspring of centuries of indiscriminate miscegenation – or, perhaps, as he was beginning to suspect, the product of a lineage of survivors adapted and attuned to this region’s peculiar demands?

  ‘Someone who would dare to do so,’ Pon-lor shouted down. ‘Think you on that.’

  In what Pon-lor took as a hideous attempt at a grin, the creature’s lips drew back even further from its forest of jutting teeth. It waved him down with a trunk-like arm. ‘I believe you are a poor lost fellow. Come here and let us discuss this. You can even bring your bright licking friend.’

  ‘The rules of the jungle dictate that I decline your kind invitation. Especially when we have not been introduced.’

  The thick ledge of brow above its eyes rose in surprise. ‘You do not know who I am? Easily put to rest.’ It thumped its chest. ‘I am Anmathana. Earth-shaker!’

  ‘Good for you. I am Pon-lor, master of flesh.’

  The monster frowned as if bemused. ‘Master of flesh? Ah, I see you are one of those invaders. Come down and I will show you the way, little lost magus.’

  ‘Thank you but I am quite comfortable here. Do not trouble yourself.’

  ‘No? You will not descend? This is not a difficulty. I will come up.’ He raised a sledge-like foot and jammed it into the slope. He grabbed hold of a nearby tree but in a groaning crash the entire thing tore out of the ground. He angrily threw aside the trunk, began kicking his next foothold.

  Unease took hold of Pon-lor’s chest but he strove to keep his voice level. He focused his concentration upon the creature. ‘How can you climb when you are so short of breath?’ he called.

  Anmathana paused, reared his bullet-head. ‘What’s that? Short of breath? I am not—’ He pressed a spatulate hand to his chest, frowned.

  ‘Your lungs are full of tiny globes, my friend,’ Pon-lor said. ‘These distil the life-essence from the air when you inhale. But they cannot do so when they are full of fluid.’

  The giant coughed, his eyes rolling wildly. ‘What—’ he managed, gurgling and choking. He clutched at his throat.

  ‘Retreat and you will breathe again!’

  Glaring impotent rage, Anmathana took one step backwards.

  ‘Very good. Keep going.’

  He took another step, fell to one knee, his chest working. Pon-lor eased his concentration. The creature drew a ragged hoarse breath. He raised his blunt head. ‘I will crush you for this,’ he gasped.

  ‘It is foolish to be angry with some one or thing for merely defending itself.’

  Anmathana waved a snarling dismissal, turned and stamped off into the jungle. Pon-lor heard the diminishing reports of fists smashing like battering rams into trees as it went.

  After a time the jungle was quiet again – as quiet as it ever was as the calls of night hunters rose once more to the moon, insects hissed and chirped, and bats flitted overhead.

  ‘Well done!’ another voice called, this one from above. Pon-lor scanned the darkened treetops. ‘Can’t have the fellow dragging us all down, can we?’ Pon-lor spotted the source: a blob of night, all shaggy round the edge, at the notch of a thick branch.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Varakapi is the name.’

  ‘Brother to our friend?’

  ‘Only very distantly,’ the creature answered, not at all amused. ‘I have been watching you.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘To pose a question.’

  ‘Oh?’ Pon-lor heightened his concentration once more, though he sensed nothing inimical for the moment. ‘And that is?’

  ‘What is Himatan?’

  Pon-lor blinked, rather startled by such simplicity. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yes. That is all. You could say the question is nothing – yet everything.’

  ‘How very … philosophical,’ Pon-lor answered drily.

  ‘As a trained Thaumaturg, I thought you would appreciate that.’

  Pon-lor narrowed his gaze upon the shaggy blotch. Long pointed elbows stuck out. The shape reminded him of a huge ape or monkey. ‘And the purpose behind this question?’

  ‘It is for you to muse upon. I hope you will find in it fertile ground for speculation.’

  Frowning now, Pon-lor turned his attention to the dying fire. He pushed more of the dry brush in upon it. Speculation? What speculation could such a question evoke? When he looked up once more the beast was gone. Well. That is one thing Himatan is: very odd. One might find oneself nearly pushed into a monster’s mouth at one moment, then challenged to philosophical debate at the next! He hoped this was the last of his visitors; he’d been planning to get some rest. Leaning back, he shut his eyes. He tried to calm his mind, but the simple plain question kept circling there round and round.

  What is Himatan?

  * * *

  Okay, Murken Warrow, it’s time to get a grip on the situation. Everyone’s countin’ on us to get their puckered sphincters out of here. And who am I lookin’ at to pull that off? Fuckin’ useless Sour! We’re sunk. Absolutely had it. Might as well slit our own throats.

  ‘So, Mage – what now?’

  Murk flinched, almost tottering over from where he crouched studying the jungle. He peered up, squinting in the blinding sunlight, to Burastan glowering down. He straightened and as he did so darkness gathered in his vision. Gotta get some food in me. ‘What do you mean?’ His answer sounded defensive even to his ears.

  The tall Seven Cities woman rolled her eyes. ‘Which way now?’

  ‘East.’

  Burastan leaned forward to bring her sweaty grimed face closer to his. Speaking very slowly, she asked: ‘Which way east?’

  Murk looked away. He swallowed though no spit would come. ‘Have to talk that over with the scouts.’

  ‘You do that.’

  ‘If you’re all done…’

  She waved him away. He went to find the scouts – and Sour.

  These days the Thyr mage was spending all his time with the scouts.
Murk had come across him actually teaching them how to pick flowers! Could you believe it? And these hardened veterans of Seven Cities and the Quon Insurgency campaigns. Murk couldn’t credit it. When did this happen?

  It all started going haywire after they spent time with Oroth-en and his people. Sour took to it like a fish to water an’ now he’s runnin’ around wearing leaves and preachin’ all this living off the land crap. Well, as far as Murk was concerned it was all going to end badly for them. A pig can’t be a tiger no matter how hard it tries, as his old pa used to say.

  He found his goggle-eyed partner showing a plant to four scouts. He was explaining something about the roots being edible at one time of year, the leaves at another, and the berries fine so long as you boiled them.

  ‘Boil them in what?’ Murk asked.

  His partner blinked up at him, one bulging eye higher than the other. ‘Well … you could use a helmet, I s’pose. If you had to. Fill it with water and drop in heated stones.’

  ‘An’ who’s going to do that?’

  The fellow shrugged. ‘Better than starvin’.’

  Was it really, though? Eating grasshoppers and beetles and such? There was no way he’d do that.

  Sour nodded to the scouts and they melted away among the broad drooping leaves. Droplets of rainwater pelted down in loud explosions all round them.

  ‘Which way?’ Murk asked.

  ‘I’m thinkin’ on it.’

  ‘Thinking,’ Murk repeated sceptically. ‘You’re thinking. Well … time’s passing, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  Murk studied him. There was something new about the man – beyond the natural colouring and dirt powders he’d painted himself in. He wore leather sandals that appeared to have been cut from someone’s cast-off armour. His only other covering was a loin wrap of ratty old cloth. The paints had smeared and faded and become mixed with sweat to a smooth layer over his limbs, chest and face. His hair was a greasy mat that was so muddy he looked as if he’d stuck his head into a hole in the ground.

  Murk gestured helplessly to the man’s head. ‘What’s with all this…?’

  Sour blinked at him, innocently. ‘This?’

  Murk flapped his hands. ‘The hair – the mud!’

  The mage’s brows shot up. ‘Ah! Keeps away the crabs and lice an’ scalp-rot ’n’ such.’

  ‘An’ all this crap you’ve smeared yourself in? Can’t be healthy.’

  The man shrank, examined his hands. ‘Well … the dirt keeps the bugs off. No bites from the chiggers or flies or midges or mites. The layer keeps the sun off too, so no sunburn. An’ it helps keep you cool so that keeps down on the sweating too.’ He tapped a dirty finger to his chin. His nails were blackened and broken from all the digging he’d been doing. ‘That’s about it.’

  Murk kept his scowl. ‘Well … you smell like a damned privy.’

  Sour snapped his fingers. ‘That’s right! Yeah, an’ the animals can’t smell you so it’s easer to hunt. You smell just like the jungle … you see?’

  Murk glared his hardest. ‘You smell all right. I can attest to that!’ He waved his hand in front of his nose.

  Sour’s face fell. He kicked at the ground, his shoulders hunching. ‘Sorry. But … you know … you could maybe … it keeps the bugs off.’

  Murk just glared. ‘Which way?’

  Sour rubbed a hand on his head, smearing his hair all about. He winced as if contemplating something painful. ‘Don’t know. Can’t choose! There’re so many choices – so many ways things could go south round here. Don’cha sense it all?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Shadow’s no help.’ Murk glared now at the gloom of the thick brush. ‘It’s like all its attention’s elsewhere, you know? It’s like the shadows are all standing still, afraid to move.’

  Sour was nodding eagerly. ‘Yeah! I know what you mean.’ He pointed to the lurid jade star that was the Visitor clearly visible in the full daylight. ‘It’s that. It’s so close now. I feel like it’s hangin’ right over my head. Like it was gonna fall right—’ He covered his mouth and staggered as if punched, his eyes huge above his hand. ‘Burn forgive us!’ he murmured into his fingers.

  Murk had seen his partner like this before and each time it had saved a lot of lives during the campaign in north Genabackis. ‘What is it?’ he asked, reaching out to steady him, then pulling his hand away as he remembered he had no shirt. ‘What’d you see?’

  Sour was gazing off into the distance. ‘It could happen,’ he breathed, awed by what he’d glimpsed.

  ‘What?’

  Sour’s gaze snapped to him as if just noticing he was there. He edged close and lowered his voice. ‘There’s a chance it could fall right here on us,’ he whispered. ‘I saw it.’

  Murk immediately glanced about to see if anyone was within hearing. ‘Don’t start talk like that.’

  ‘I know,’ Sour answered, fierce. ‘But it’s real.’

  ‘We have to run this by the captain.’

  Sour blinked, quite startled. ‘Really? I thought you was just gonna tell me to shut the Abyss up.’

  Murk glanced back towards camp and froze. ‘Naw,’ he murmured, ‘if there’s a chance…’ He tilted his head in that direction and Sour glanced over, grunted.

  Burastan was headed their way. She halted, set her fists on her hips – wide and muscular ones beneath her tattered and frayed trousers that Murk didn’t mind resting his eyes on. She gave them a withering glare up and down. ‘What’re you two whispering on about like a couple of kids?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Murk replied, all airily. The woman’s presence quite tied Sour’s tongue.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t try that mysterious mage act on me. I know you’re nothing but a village wart-healer.’

  ‘Got any?’

  She frowned warily. ‘What?’

  ‘Warts.’

  Her lips tightened to colourless and her hand went to the wire-wrapped grip of her curved Seven Cities blade. ‘You’re wanted,’ she hissed through rigid jaws.

  ‘Okay,’ Murk answered.

  ‘Not you,’ she snarled, dismissing him. She raised her chin to Sour. ‘You.’

  Sour pointed to his own chest in disbelief. ‘Me?’

  She rolled her eyes once more. ‘Yeah you – gods help us. C’mon.’

  Burastan led them to a trooper leaning up against a tree, one unshod foot crossed over the other. ‘He can’t walk,’ she told them.

  Sour knelt before the man. He unceremoniously took hold of an ankle to study one foot. The man tensed in pain. Sour waved Murk in for a closer look. He indicated the sole. ‘See?’

  The skin of the sole was an angry engorged red. The skin was covered in blisters and was peeling in thick layers as if it had been boiled. ‘What happened?’ Murk asked.

  ‘Poisonous plant.’ He regarded the man, shook his head. ‘Walked round in your bare feet, didn’t you?’

  ‘Just to take a piss,’ the man answered, his voice whip tight.

  ‘Well don’t – walk round in bare feet, I mean. Ever. Until you know what plants to touch and which to stay away from.’

  ‘How am I to know that? We’re surrounded by damned plants everywhere!’

  ‘Then keep your sandals on.’

  The trooper gestured helplessly. ‘The damned things is all rotted away and won’t stay on, will they!’

  ‘Watch your tone, Manat,’ Burastan growled.

  Murk looked to the scowling woman, rather bemused by this defence of Sour. Order among the ranks, he supposed. Sour just bobbed his head. ‘Fair enough.’ He tapped a knuckle to the trooper’s hauberk of layered leather bands. ‘Cut that up for sandals and tie them on.’

  The infantryman, Manat, stared at Sour as if he’d gone mad. ‘Cut up good armour to make sandals?’ he repeated in wonder, too stunned by the idea to be scornful. He sent an entreating look to Burastan. ‘I’ll keep my armour, thank you very much.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Sour rummaged in the large shoulder bag at his side
. He drew out a flattened and bruised blossom of large sky-blue petals. The blue orchid that he had been going on about for days now. He took the trooper’s hand and pressed the flower into it. ‘There you go. You won’t be attacked now. Not unless you stick your finger into a leopard’s eye, or somethin’ dumb like that.’

  Manat shot another look of disbelief to Burastan. He pointed to Sour. ‘What fucking mumbo-jumbo is this?’

  The lieutenant lunged forward to lean over the man. ‘You’ll fucking do what you’re told,’ she hissed, ‘or I’ll cut the skin from your damned feet and make you walk point! Am I understood?’

  Manat shrank under the lieutenant’s fury. ‘Okay – sir. If you say so. But … I’m not walkin’ anywhere right now.’

  ‘I’ll go get something for that,’ Sour said. ‘Don’t you worry. There’s an easy cure for that – you just have ta know where to look, that’s all.’

  Manat’s brows rose. ‘Really? You c’n cure this? Man – you do that and I’ll eat your Burn-damned flowers.’

  Sour straightened, laughing. ‘Don’t eat that one. Wear it next to your skin. In your shirt, maybe. And when you see a fresh one, pick it and replace the old one. Yes?’

  The trooper studied the flattened blossom, still dubious. ‘If you say so … sir.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll have a look. You rest here.’ Sour looked to Murk as if seeking his permission, or approval. Murk waved him towards the woods; Sour grinned and headed off. Murk followed. Burastan also came along.

  Some distance into the dense undergrowth of a grove of young bamboo, Burastan cleared her throat to call a halt. Sour turned to her; Murk found himself standing aligned with the lieutenant, facing his partner, arms crossed.