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

  Scarza bent and dug up a handful of clotted mud and ash. ‘This one.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’ He felt his tattered robe and shirt. They were damp. He touched the back of his head where only bristles of hair remained. ‘All I remember is that flash. Like the world ending. Golden light.’ He did not mention that when they were running he thought he saw another bright gleam of light. It had come from the western horizon and had flashed a vivid emerald green.

  He glanced up to the sky, squinting. The Visitor still glowed there, fat and monstrous, like a gibbous moon behind the thick churning black clouds. He pushed himself to his feet. There was no sense hanging about here. Nothing to eat or drink; they would only weaken – better to do that on the march. He struggled past Scarza who watched him go, his face falling into a deepening frown.

  ‘You are in such a hurry to die?’

  ‘Live or die, it matters not.’

  Scarza called, ‘There is nothing left of him!’

  Jatal halted, peered back. ‘No. He still lives. I am sure.’

  The half-Trell rose, rubbing his jowls, and followed. ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I am.’

  * * *

  They walked a nightmare landscape of blasted jungle and sludge-choked streams. Everywhere lay the flash-seared fallen trunks. Ash smothered everything. It still fell from the roiling clouds in great flurries that cloaked the distances. Jatal tore off a strip of cloth and tied it over his nose and mouth. It was like the sandstorms they sometimes endured in their homeland. Scarza merely tramped on, uncomplaining, brushing the powdery layer from his arms.

  The trees, Jatal saw, had all been flattened in one direction – roughly angled from the southeast – the point of impact, he realized. If the demon were to be found anywhere, he imagined, it would be there. He started following the line marked by the fallen trunks.

  ‘And if we find him?’ Scarza asked much later that day. ‘What then? I wanted to kill him. But now I’m tired of it. I’d rather just have a drink.’

  Jatal ached with thirst as well, and he hungered. Such urges, however, were mere demands of the flesh – brute expectations of continued existence. An expectation he did not share. Sometimes he fancied he could see her face in the swirling clouds of ash. She was smiling down upon him.

  Soon, my love. Soon. I shall give myself to you.

  * * *

  Saeng started awake from a strange dream; a sensation of drowning, oddly enough. Not since she was a child had she dreamed of drowning. Yet it hadn’t been water she’d been slipping into – it had been a strange glowing liquid more like molten gold or some other white-hot metal.

  Aside from the nightmare of that struggle, she felt physically rested, renewed even. Better than she had since leaving home. She stirred and opened her eyes: she lay in what she recognized as the temple grounds. Dirt covered everything, and over that lay a pillowy layer of ash. White drifting flakes still fell in a light snow. All was eerily silent. Her ears rang with the quiet after the constant cacophony of the jungle.

  She tried to stand and reached out to steady herself. Her hand rested on a hump next to her that felt familiar. She brushed the ash and dirt away to reveal Hanu’s gleaming mosaic of inlaid armour. She rushed to clear his helmed head.

  ‘Hanu!’

  She listened, her breathing heavy, but he did not answer.

  ‘Hanu – speak to me!’ she sent to his thoughts.

  Still he was silent. She ran a hand down his chest to find a sticky layer of congealed ash and dirt. Her hand came away smeared.

  Oh, Hanu … I’m so sorry …

  She gently lowered her head to his side and wept.

  After that she slept again for a time. When she awakened once more she kissed his helm on its forehead and pushed herself up. She’d been wrapped in a loose cloak, and this she adjusted as best she could. She remembered, vaguely, that there had been others as well – the Thaumaturg mage, Pon-lor. She looked back to the main temple: it had collapsed into a heap of cut stone blocks. So, he too. I am sorry, Thaumaturg. I misjudged you.

  She turned away to trace her route back. Her sandalled feet pushed through the thick blanket of ash. The pale flakes dusted her robes, hair and eyelashes. Soon, she came to a trail through the heaped layers. She followed it to one of the colonnaded walks of the temple complex that led to a hall and an arched opening facing west. The arch was tilted rather alarmingly, and the stone floor was uneven, the stones having been pushed up here and there. Sitting in the threshold of the pointed arch, facing away, was a familiar figure: the Thaumaturg himself.

  ‘Pon-lor!’ she called.

  He did not respond. She came up behind him. Still he did not move. Close now, above and behind him, she believed she saw why. The entire left side of his head was a misshapen mess of weeping fluids caked and crusted in blood and dusted in ash.

  Slowly, she came round him to stand before him. His eyes were open but no recognition lit them. Indeed, nothing inhabited them. They stared sightlessly, inanimate, like painted orbs on a statue. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his chest. He breathed still, and his heart beat. But he was no longer present. She had seen such things before in her village. Severe fevers had left their victims like this. Then, the only answer had been the mercy of a swift gentle death.

  Something she could not bring herself to do. Yet what could she do? She couldn’t just walk away. She sat down next to him, took his cold unresponsive hand in hers, and thought about it.

  She looked to the west as well. What had drawn him here? Some atavistic memory or urge? What had he been searching for, or looking at?

  Far off, the dense black clouds had dispersed. Only much higher, thinner clouds remained. The light pale ash was falling from these. It was late afternoon; the sun was now on its way down into the west. Its heat passed through the intervening high cloud cover to press against her face. The Visitor was still present, of course. But diminishing now. On its way back to wherever it had come from. Its baleful glow was nowhere as strong as it had been just days ago. Close by rode the moon as well. A pale smear hardly visible through the thin clouds. Soon, things would return to normal and it would be the brightest object in the night-time sky once again.

  And then she knew just what she could do.

  She stood in the archway and raised a hand. She formed a circle with her fingers and thumb that she held up to the moon where it hung in the sky. She raised her power and it came smoothly now, naturally, as if somehow melded with her as it had never been before.

  And she sent a summons, casting it afar, urging: ‘Come.’

  * * *

  A poke to his shoulder awoke Murk. The first thing he noted was the worst headache in recent memory. He squeezed his head in his arms and groaned. Through slit eyes he peered about: he was lying against a tree, a light dusting of ash covering him and everything. Peering down at him was Sweetly. The twig stood straight out from his clamped shut mouth. The scout jerked his head to indicate he was wanted and in what direction.

  Some things, it seemed, remained just the same.

  Stretching and rubbing his brow, Murk walked across a litter of fallen branches. Aside, a confab of some sort was shaping up. Yusen together with Burastan faced the mercenary leader K’azz and his second, a short wiry woman he knew by reputation as Shimmer.

  How similar yet utterly dissimilar the men were. Both pretending to be mercenaries, yet remaining far from it. Allies, they remained a mere sword’s edge from sworn blood enemies: Malazans versus Crimson Guard.

  Yusen nodded a greeting to Murk. K’azz eyed him guardedly.

  ‘We’ve decided on a reconnoitre,’ Yusen said. ‘Are you and your partner up for it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’re good.’

  ‘Okay. Have a look see and report back.’

  Murk jerked his assent, gave a shallow nod to K’azz, and went to find Sour.

  Together, they headed out of camp. Sour, it appeared, was in no better shape than he. The remnants of dried blood c
aked his face and he winced whenever the sunlight reached him.

  ‘Why us?’ he complained, his voice low. ‘Why not one o’ them fancy-pants Crimson Guard mages? Why should we be the ones to have to stick our necks out?’

  Murk shrugged as he walked along. ‘Musta been some kind of negotiation. A gesture of trust from K’azz, maybe. I don’t know exactly.’

  His partner slouched along next to him with his awkward crablike gait. ‘Oh, we’re the famous Crimson Guard,’ he minced. ‘We’re too fancy to do any work.’

  Murk burst out laughing and had to stop walking. Sour’s brows clenched together in puzzlement. ‘Wazzat?’

  Still chuckling, Murk waved it aside. ‘Nothing. C’mon. It’s just nice to know that things have returned to normal round here.’

  Clear of the mound, they came across a broad squat tree that offered good cover from the sun. Murk picked a spot in the deepest shadow. Sour sat down with his back to a root. Murk crossed his legs and pressed his fingers together on his lap. ‘So,’ he said. ‘That was one amazing blowup.’

  ‘Sure was,’ his partner agreed, his bulging eyes edging aside.

  ‘Gonna ’fess up?’

  ‘’Fess up to what?’

  ‘You knew who that was all along – didn’t you?’

  Sour blushed furiously, clearing his throat. ‘Wasn’t for me to say. She wanted to be all ’nonymous. So I played along.’

  ‘Well … you could have told your partner.’

  ‘Sorry. I was afraid she’d turn me into something.’

  ‘You already are something, Sour.’

  ‘Hunh?’ His partner scrunched up his wrinkled face in puzzlement.

  Murk sighed. ‘Never mind. Let’s have a look.’

  Murk gently raised his Warren while tensed for an overt objection, or counter-gesture, from any other quarter. Sensing nothing, he slipped his awareness off a distance to the nearest deep shadow. Here he waited until he felt Sour’s awareness keeping watch on him. Then he set off searching the grounds of Jakal Viharn.

  The blast had knocked down many trees, but not all. The thinner, younger ones remained standing, albeit stripped of most of their branches. As for the many ruins dotting the grounds, well, to Murk they all looked pretty much the same: ruined.

  He searched for some time, finding nothing. The place was empty, abandoned. The blast had driven off all the wildlife: the birds, the monkeys, even the deer he’d spotted foraging among the brush here and there. As for those half-creatures, call them what you would, none remained that he could find.

  His poking about brought him down to the river where a number of ruins lay as little more than foundation lines, canted stupas and sturdy bell-shaped hollow cells or sculptures. Here he spotted someone he’d never seen before: a big hefty-looking fellow with long hair tied back with a clasp. He was sitting on the ground, legs crossed, thick arms draped over his knees. His gaze was resting aside and upwards, regarding someone or something. Murk shifted his point of view among the shadows until he could see what the man was studying.

  It was a woman seated on a step before a broken heap of stones that might’ve been an altar at one time. She wore long loose white robes, her limbs were long and slim, and her black hair was cut quite short. As he saw her, so too did her gaze move to sharpen on him. She waved him forward and his heart lurched as a panicked tightening across his chest crushed it. Shit! One’s still here. But which?

  She waved again – yet not so imperiously as he imagined Ardata might have. He emerged from the shadows to start across the open grounds between. The giant fellow surged to his feet.

  ‘It is all right, Nagal,’ the woman said. Murk could not identify her by her voice; she sounded like neither of the Azathanai. The man, Nagal, edged protectively closer to the woman.

  Murk halted a few paces distant and bowed. ‘Whom do I have the honour of addressing?’

  ‘Your manners should be a lesson to your master, mage of Meanas. But I am afraid there is little hope in that arena.’

  Murk remained bowed, his eyes downcast, waiting.

  A sigh escaped the woman. ‘Very well.’ Her robes brushed as she leaned forward. ‘Shall I let you into a secret, Murken Warrow, mage of Shadow?’

  Murk swallowed with difficulty. He wanted no secrets of the Azathanai. ‘I seek no boon,’ he answered softly.

  ‘That is good. I see these last few lessons have not been lost upon you. No, no boon. Just a confession.’ She lowered her voice even further. ‘The truth is … not even I know for certain.’

  ‘It’s T’riss,’ Sour’s voice whispered in Murk’s ear.

  Murk raised his gaze. The Azathanai was peering beyond him, a playful smile at her lips. ‘Greetings, Sour. You are well informed. As I would expect.’

  ‘And the other?’ Murk enquired slowly, ‘if I may ask?’

  ‘She has withdrawn. Released all that she ought to have released ages ago. And who knows, perhaps she will learn to accept all she ought to have accepted all these ages. She no longer manifests a presence directly here in the mundane. As for the future,’ she gave a small shrug, ‘who can say?’

  ‘A goddess in truth,’ Murk murmured.

  ‘Precisely. Together with all that comes with it – desired or not.’

  ‘And yourself?’ Murk asked, emboldened enough to lift a brow.

  The woman’s smile broadened and she spread her arms. ‘Myself? I am merely an Enchantress. Nothing more. Now,’ she waved them off, ‘go get your superiors. I will speak with them.’

  * * *

  A small contingent was brought together. K’azz selected his lieutenant, Shimmer, together with two mages, Gwynn and Lor. Yusen brought Burastan, Murk and Sour. The girl came as well, accompanied by the swordswoman whom she clung to and wouldn’t be parted from.

  The party made its way across the grounds of Jakal Viharn. A fine white ash dusted everything like snow. It fell as a thin drifting sleet. The utter silence was almost a shock to Murk. Even their footsteps were smothered. It was as if they walked in another world, he imagined.

  T’riss, if indeed it was she, awaited them as before. Murk noted that upon seeing the big man, Nagal, K’azz and party paused in recognition. He came to them before they reached the Enchantress.

  ‘Nagal,’ K’azz greeted him. ‘I am sorry about Rutana.’

  The giant nodded, frowning. He gazed down at his wide hands, clenched as if yet ready to grasp some foe. ‘Even after what he did she still would not allow me…’ His voice thickened until he could not continue and he lowered his head even further. ‘I was so angered. I ran…’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  The man nodded and walked away, his head lowered as he examined his knotted hands. K’azz turned to the Enchantress, who urged everyone forward. The girl ran ahead only to come to an abrupt halt as if shocked or uncertain. The Enchantress rose and embraced her. ‘We will speak later, Lek. We have much to catch up.’ She raised her gaze to the swordswoman. ‘You too, Ina. After this.’

  The swordswoman, Ina, nodded, and wrapped her one arm around the girl to lead her away. They walked a distance and sat together on the tumbled blocks of a fallen wall.

  Murk watched them go feeling an ache in his own chest. Both wounded. Doesn’t it make sense they should seek each other out? The girl’s vulnerability made him think of Celeste. Gone now, as well. He hoped she was not unhappy with her choice.

  ‘Captain Yusen,’ the Enchantress began sharply. ‘I understand you have a request of me.’

  ‘I do. We request transport out of Jacuruku.’

  T’riss waved an assent. ‘I will send you anywhere you wish to go. No doubt you will want time to discuss this with your troops.’

  ‘Of course. Our thanks.’ He gestured for Burastan and Murk and Sour to move off.

  ‘Before you go, however,’ the Enchantress continued, ‘I possess some information that might bear upon your choice.’

  Yusen turned back, his gaze tightening. ‘Yes?’

  ‘In Are
n, Seven Cities. Since the killing of the Fist last year, there has been an investigation. It seems that his plans to usurp imperial authority have been uncovered, together with his murder of several officers who would not cooperate. His death diverted civil unrest that would have cost the lives of thousands. I believe the price upon the head of his killer, together with his fugitive followers, has been rescinded.’

  Yusen remained utterly still. His gaze shifted to Burastan, whose eyes had grown huge. ‘We will need time to discuss this,’ he managed, his voice thick.

  ‘Of course.’

  Yusen and Burastan bowed and walked away. Murk watched them go. What do you know? I would never have guessed. But I did wonder. Sour and I sniffed something there.

  The Enchantress turned to K’azz and after their gazes met for a moment Murk was surprised to see that it was she who lowered her eyes. After a long silence, she spoke down to her hands clasped on her lap: ‘Do not ask that of me.’

  ‘Then where, Enchantress?’ The man’s voice was brittle with suppressed emotion. ‘Where must I go for my answer?’

  ‘There is only one place left.’ She spoke very slowly, as if reconsidering. ‘But there is great danger. Not just to you…’

  ‘I am asking for knowledge, Enchantress. Surely you would not be one to withhold that?’

  Her answering smile was cold. Yet she tilted her head, granting the point. ‘Very well. In only one place can you find your answers, K’azz … Assail. Only there.’

  The mercenary commander received the news as if he’d been half expecting it. He nodded to himself as she spoke. ‘My thanks, Enchantress.’

  ‘Let us hope your thanks do not turn to curses.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I also offer you transport back to Stratem.’

  ‘That would be most welcome,’ the mercenary commander answered, sounding very relieved.

  ‘I am sure.’

  He bowed, as did his lieutenant, Shimmer, and the mages. The Enchantress turned to Murk and Sour. ‘Now … what can I do for you two?’

  ‘As I said,’ Murk answered, clearing his throat. ‘I seek no gift.’

  ‘Yes. However,’ and she rose to lean close to him, ‘I can offer you this.’ And she brushed his cheek with her lips. Murk’s knees went numb and he staggered, utterly shocked.