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

  Orman was not pleased by the man’s light tone. ‘You would mock me?’

  Old Bear held up a hand. ‘Not at all, lad. I am merely repeating the tale that is no doubt making the rounds of the taverns even as we speak. Boarstooth has returned to the Holdings – a tale worth the telling.’

  Orman could not be certain the man was entirely in earnest. He didn’t think any of this was worth telling at all. He picked up a branch and poked at the fire. ‘That was not what I wanted to happen.’

  Old Bear produced an apple from within his cloak. He bit down loudly and chewed while he regarded the fire. ‘I know, lad,’ he said. ‘These things rarely go the way we want them to.’

  * * *

  The next day they traced a course up the valley. The way was stony, steep, and rough. A stream had once run here, but it had long since dried up or shifted course. They came to a pond no bigger than a stone’s throw across where pines grew thick and the air was heavy with their scent. Standing in the water, as if awaiting them, was a ghost.

  Old Bear raised a hand, signalling a halt.

  The Reddin brothers moved to either side of Orman so that the three of them formed a triangle, back to back. Of Gerrun, Orman saw no sign. Run off, the faithless bastard. Best that they found out this early, he supposed.

  Old Bear approached the ghost alone. It was a woman. Tall and slim, her opaque form wavered slightly as if caught in an otherworldly wind. Orman wondered why she’d chosen to stand in the pond. She wore a thick cloak of some sort of animal hide clasped by a large round brooch, like a shield. Her hair was full and long and bunched like a mane itself. For some reason he imagined it must have been black.

  The two spoke; or at least she spoke to him. She raised an arm to point to the east. Old Bear nodded and backed away. The woman’s form wavered and disappeared.

  ‘There is a trespasser,’ the old man announced, returning to them. ‘From the east.’

  ‘A trespasser?’ Orman repeated. ‘What is that to us?’

  Old Bear studied him. ‘The Sayers will allow us to cross here, but not for free. This is their price. We must … look into things for them. Do you refuse? Would you turn back?’

  Orman looked to the Reddin brothers; they studied him, but not narrowly, not frowning. Merely coolly evaluative. He shrugged his indifference. ‘No.’

  ‘Very well. Let us go greet our visitor.’ Old Bear gestured with his spear that they should spread out and head east across the valley towards the ridge.

  ‘What of Gerrun?’ Orman asked the nearer of the Reddin brothers – he still didn’t know which was which. This one waved vaguely southwards before continuing on, unconcerned.

  Orman hefted Boarstooth. Fine. I can play that game as well. Though he had many more questions, such as what were they to do with the trespasser should they find him or her? He pushed his way through the tall grasses and brush in silence.

  Ahead, the woods thickened in a mixed forest of pine, aspen and cedar that climbed the valley’s slope. A voice called from the trees. ‘Greetings! I have come to talk! Is that a senile old bear I see with you?’ Orman halted, crouching for cover.

  Old Bear stepped out from dense brush and cocked his head to examine the woods. He shouted back: ‘Is that a young cub come to receive yet another lesson?’

  A figure emerged, tall and lanky, and loped down from among the trunks. Orman had the impression of the relaxed bounding of a wolf. The fellow closed on them, his grin exposing prominent teeth in a long jaw. Kinked brown hair blew about his head. He wore leathers that had seen hard use, and tall moccasins climbed to his knees. A longsword and two fighting dirks hung at his waist.

  He and Old Bear embraced. ‘What about that lesson then?’ Old Bear rumbled.

  ‘Your heart would burst, I fear.’

  ‘What brings you to Sayer lands?’

  The fellow glanced to Orman, or, more precisely, to the weapon in his grip. ‘News.’

  Old Bear followed the man’s glance, then gestured to where one of the Reddin brothers was closing. ‘Kasson,’ he said, then of the other, ‘Keth.’ So, it’s Keth in the sheepskin leggings, Orman told himself. Old Bear gestured to him: ‘Orman Bregin’s son. And the last one is named Gerrun.’

  ‘He must be the one trying to get behind me,’ the young man said, grinning all the more.

  Old Bear let out a long-suffering sigh, waved to the trees. ‘Get in here, Gerrun!’

  The newcomer glanced again to Boarstooth. ‘So it is true.’

  ‘Yes.’ Old Bear cleared his throat. ‘Fellows, this is Lotji Bain. He is nephew to Jorgan Bain.’

  Orman started, and tensed his grip upon Boarstooth’s haft.

  ‘I knew your father,’ Lotji told him.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes. He visited Bain Hold.’ He pointed to the spear. ‘I see that the whispers are true. Boarstooth – as you call it – has returned to the Holdings.’

  ‘You cannot challenge upon Sayer lands,’ Old Bear rumbled in warning.

  Lotji gave an easy laugh. ‘No.’ He waved Orman to him. ‘However, if you wish to step on to Bain lands I would gladly meet you.’

  ‘That is not our mission,’ Old Bear quickly cut in.

  Orman was relieved. For his part, he had no intention of accepting a challenge from anyone. Not to mention that he’d had no time to practise with the weapon.

  Lotji laughed again. It was an easy laugh, but Orman detected a strong grating of iron beneath. ‘As you wish.’ He backed away. ‘We will see one another again, I am sure, Orman Bregin’s son.’ He raised a hand in farewell. ‘Until then.’

  They watched him go. As he entered the denser growth another figure stood from cover to one side. Gerrun. Old Bear turned to Orman. He was pulling thoughtfully on his thick tangled beard. ‘Well, Orman,’ he said, low and rumbling. ‘What do you think of that?’

  ‘I think I need to practise.’

  The old man threw his head back and roared with laughter. The echoes boomed out across the valley. He slapped Orman on the back and started off once more. ‘I think we can help you with that, my lad. I truly do.’

  * * *

  Two days later they came to the high valley of the Upper Clearwater. The mountain stream ran milky with run-off from the ice-fields and snowpack above. It rushed and surged into the valley from the rock cliffs above. The valley itself was long and comparatively flat. The pale-green stream meandered among silt channels and sand bars, chaining and twisting, until it reached the bottom, where the valley dropped off through a gap in another ridge line. From there the river continued on its course until eventually, far below, it emptied into the Sea of Gold.

  It was cold here and spray seemed suspended in the air, chilling them. Snow lay in the shadows behind rocks and trees. Their feet crunched through thin layers of ice over the soil and compressed snowmelt.

  They startled an elk cow and the brothers took off in pursuit, but Gerrun called out that he would stalk it and the brothers returned. Old Bear led them to a long bare gravel bar – a stranded shoreline where the river once ran, bordered by tangled brush. The old man used his spear to push through. They walked the gravel in a crunching of stones. Old Bear paced with hands clasped on his spear behind his back. He was peering down at the rocks as if searching for a particularly pretty one. The brothers and Orman couldn’t help but glance down also.

  ‘This is it,’ Old Bear announced, gesturing to encompass the stream bed. ‘This valley. This is the richest deposit in the Sayer Holdings. A season’s gathering and sifting here will leave any man rich beyond measure – rich in coin, at any rate.’ He beckoned to Keth and pointed to the rocks with his spear. ‘Here. What do you see?’

  Keth knelt, then grunted. He rose examining something in his fingers, and indicated that Orman should hold out his hand. Grinning, he dropped something into the palm.

  It was a gold nugget, still wet and half covered in silt. It felt unnaturally heavy for its size. Like a lead sling bullet. Orman was astounded. Withou
t effort Keth had found the largest nugget he’d ever heard of. What more riches might lie hidden here?

  He blinked to see Old Bear watching him through his slit eye. The fellow cleared his throat. ‘As you’ve no doubt gathered by now, we serve the Sayers, Gerrun and I. We brought you here to offer you lads a choice.’

  He peered off across the valley, squinting. Took a great breath, planted the butt of his spear in the gravel and set both hands upon it. ‘Two paths stand before you. Here, you can collect as much gold as you wish. You can return with it to the townships and be rich men – for a time. Or you can come with me and swear your spear to the Sayers and live defending the Holding – for a time. The choice is yours.’

  The Old Bear scanned the valley and what he saw seemed to disgust him. ‘But tell me … do you wish to be a slave to gold? Do you wish to live on your knees scrabbling in the dirt like a dog? For do not fool yourselves – that is what those who are enslaved to gold must do. If not here, then elsewhere. Always chasing after it. Never possessing enough. Grasping, hoarding and fearful for what you do have. Lusting, envious and covetous of what you do not.

  ‘Or … do you wish to live as a man? Never needing more than the good sword or spear in your hand? Slave to no one or no thing? For all the Sayer require of you is your word and that you swear to live and die by it. Nothing more. For nothing more than that need be asked of a man or woman with honour.’

  Still looking away, he asked, ‘What say you?’

  Orman glanced to the brothers, who exchanged flat looks. Keth rested his hand on the worn leather-wrapped grip of his sword; Kasson let out a long breath and shifted to a more relaxed stance. Orman realized he was beginning to read the brothers. They would prefer to stay.

  He studied the broad valley. How much gold might be hidden here? Shiploads? It was enough to leave him dizzy. Yet somehow it left him unmoved as well. He examined the dull nugget. So much struggle, blood, and scheming spent by those in the towns below just to grasp the barest fistful. A lifetime’s worth of toil and sweat. Yet here it lay scattered about like so much chaff. He could only shake his head at the absurdity of it. So what if he were to descend into Mantle, or the cities beyond such as Holly or Lillin, with a great fat sack at his side? Once word got out he carried such a fortune he’d be dead within the hour. Useless. Utterly useless to him.

  The decision, he realized, had been made for him long ago. For he now understood it to be the same one his father had made.

  He tossed the nugget back to the gravel bar. ‘I would swear my spear to the Sayers – if they will have it.’

  The brothers nodded their agreement.

  A broad smile split Old Bear’s craggy features. He slapped Orman on the back with a resounding smack. ‘Good, good! I am glad. Very glad.’ He waved them onward. ‘Come, then. Let us travel higher, to the Hall of the Sayer. You will swear your fealty and we will feast and drink until we pass out.’

  * * *

  They climbed for three more days through dense forest of spruce, pine and birch, ever upwards. The lingering snow cover thickened. Orman’s breath plumed in the air. He tore a ragged piece of cloth he carried and wrapped his hands. Distant figures shadowed their advance. They were too far off and too hazy for him to be certain whether they were real or ghosts. He wondered if perhaps half the ‘ghosts’ sighted by travellers were in fact Icebloods – or the other way round.

  They ate well. Gerrun carried a haunch of venison wrapped in burlap and leather. The cold allowed it to keep for longer than usual. Old Bear pointed out plants and roots that could be boiled or cooked in the fire. They slept huddled up next to the embers and took turns keeping watch.

  Orman came to look forward to his time standing through half the night. The sky was so very clear from this extraordinary height. So high were they, and the Salt range was so very steep, that he thought he could even make out the glimmering reflection of the Sea of Gold, far to the south. He felt that he could reach up and touch the stars. It was cold, yes, but it was bracing and enlivening. He did not know how to say it exactly, but he felt strong. His senses – his hearing, his sight, even his sense of smell – all seemed keener than before.

  On the fourth night a ghost came to him. It emerged from the trees and walked straight up to him. As it came closer he felt a shiver of preternatural fear as he realized that it was certainly not human. Very tall and broad it was, even more so than the Icebloods. It wore clothes of an ancient pattern: trousers of hide, a shirt that was little more than a poncho thrown over its head and tied off with a coarse rope. Hides were similarly tied around its feet. It carried an immensely tall spear, which Orman realized was the bole of a young tree topped by a knapped dark stone that bore an eerie resemblance to the spearhead of Boarstooth.

  The figure stopped in front of him. Its hair was a great unkempt mane twisted in leather. Beads and pieces of bone hung within it. The face was long and broad, the jaw heavy. The teeth were large, the canines especially pronounced. For some time it stood regarding him in silence. Orman wondered if it could see him at all. He saw now that the figure was female, thought its hips were not broad and its chest not especially prominent.

  ‘I am come to give warning,’ she suddenly announced, startling him.

  ‘Warning?’ he managed through a dry and tight throat.

  ‘A time of change is coming,’ she continued as if he had not spoken at all. ‘Old grudges and old ways must be set aside, else none shall survive. Pass this warning on to your people.’

  My people? ‘Why me? I am not – why speak to me?’

  ‘You carry Svalthbrul.’

  Svalthbrul? Ah. He looked to Boarstooth and she nodded. ‘I am sorry,’ he began, ‘I do not know how old you are, but much has changed—’

  She looked away, to their surroundings, scanned the night sky. She shook her head. ‘The stars remain. The mountain remains. Little has changed.’

  ‘But…’ He stopped himself as she turned away and started walking.

  ‘They will come before summer,’ were her last words over her shoulder.

  * * *

  The next morning Old Bear announced that if they pushed hard, they should reach Sayer Hall that day. Orman walked in silence for much of the time. The way was steep for most of the morning; he used Boarstooth as a walking stick to aid in his climbing. Then the slope smoothed out and the forest returned.

  He gnawed on the question of whether to broach the subject of the ghostly visit with Old Bear. It seemed fantastic. Why should some ghost come to him when he was not even of the Icebloods? Surely it must have been a dream – or a delusion. Perhaps just holding such an ancient weapon brought the fancy upon him. He decided to keep quiet about it and not risk the old man’s scepticism, or mockery.

  Old Bear led them onward to a trodden path through the woods. After a time the wilderness gave way to cleared fields bearing the stubble of last year’s crops. Cows grazed here. The straight lines of what looked to be an orchard of apple trees lay on the left. Woodsmoke hung in the air. A distant figure was minding the herd – a youth, perhaps.

  Ahead, up the gentle grassy slope, rose a tall building constructed of immense tree trunks. A Greathall. Its roof was covered in faded wooden planks and a great thatch of grasses grew upon it as if it were a field itself. A crowd of ravens walked and hopped about the roof like a troop of guards. A wide dark opening dominated the front. The sun’s last amber light struck the building almost from below, so low in the west was it compared to their present height. For a dizzying moment Orman had the impression that they were somehow separate from the world far below.

  He was also struck by how familiar the farmstead seemed. Just like home. Old Bear led them on towards it, chickens scrambling outraged from his path. A woman emerged from the doorway. Her hair hung in a long black braid over one shoulder, and she wore tanned leathers. A long-knife stood tall from her belt.

  Old Bear raised an arm in greeting. She lifted her chin in response. Orman wondered where everyone was. Back
home a hall like this would have been busy with the comings and goings of family, servants and hearthguards. So far, all he’d seen had been the cowherd and this woman. Old Bear led them up the wooden stairs to the threshold.

  The woman was tall, like all Icebloods. Orman thought that some would consider her plain and mannish with her thick bones and wide shoulders, but he saw a haunting beauty in dark eyes that seemed full of secret knowledge as she, in turn, studied him.

  Old Bear bowed. ‘Vala,’ he greeted her, ‘these are the Reddin brothers, Keth and Kasson. And this is Orman Bregin’s son.’

  The woman’s eyes closed for a moment and she nodded as if she’d already known. Her dark gaze shifted to Boarstooth. ‘You carry Svalthbrul,’ she murmured, her voice deep and rich. ‘As the Eithjar – our elder guardians – whispered.’

  Orman simply nodded. ‘It comes to me from my father.’

  She closed her eyes again. ‘I know.’ She raised an arm to the broad open doorway. ‘Enter, please. You are most welcome. Warm yourselves at our poor hearth. Food and ale will be brought.’

  Before they could enter, a great pack of shaggy tall hounds came bounding out to Old Bear. Standing on their hind legs they were nearly fully as tall as he. They barked happily and licked his face while he swatted them aside. They sniffed at Orman and the Reddin brothers and nuzzled their hands as if searching for treats.

  Old Bear pushed on in. The interior proved to be one great long hall. The ceiling of log rafters stood some five man-heights above Orman’s head. Halfway up the hall’s length lay a broad circle of stones enclosing an immense hearth where a banked fire glowed. Smoke rose lazily to a hole in the roof far above. Beyond the hearth stood a long table flanked by wooden benches. Past the table, at the far end of the hall, rose a sort of platform, or dais, supporting three oversized chairs carved of wood: crude thrones of a sort, if that was the right word. Furs and hides lay draped everywhere, even underfoot. Tapestries featuring scenes of nature, trees, streams, the mountains themselves, hung on the walls. Most were dark with soot and half-rotten. What looked like bedding, rolled blankets and more furs, lay bunched up next to the walls.