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

  ‘Getting better.’

  ‘Good.’ He gestured proudly back to the horses. ‘You can ride, can you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked to Dorrin. The lad nodded vigorous assent. ‘Yes we can.’

  ‘Good. We Silent People do not. These are yours, then.’

  ‘Ah, may I ask … how did they come into your possession?’

  The old man was untroubled by the question. ‘Foreigners bring them from their houses that float. They land them and try to ride through our lands – but they still do not escape our blades.’

  Kyle blew out a breath. ‘I see. Well … we thank you for the gifts. They will aid us greatly.’

  ‘Very good. Farewell, then. Remember us to the ancients. Prove your worth and bring honour to us all.’

  Kyle inclined his head. ‘I will try. Farewell.’

  The old man walked away. Lyan already had a hand on the neck of the biggest of the three, a broad roan. ‘That one’s mine,’ Kyle called.

  ‘No she ain’t. I’m heavier than you in my armour, so she’s mine.’

  Kyle just shook his head. He wasn’t about to argue with her over that subject.

  * * *

  Aiken was out hunting birds when he saw the smoky ochre cloud to the south. A storm, but one unlike any he’d seen before. He shouldered his bow and ran for the village.

  When he arrived many of the elders were already out peering to the south. They were quiet, and to Aiken they appeared strangely troubled by a mere storm. He found his mother standing before their hide and pole hut. ‘A storm!’ he announced, excited. He’d always enjoyed storms: the lightning and thunder of gods battling overhead.

  ‘I see, little grub,’ she answered distractedly, her gaze still to the south. ‘Get inside.’

  ‘But Mama!’ She clenched his arm and thrust him within. ‘Mama!’

  A warband ran past the hut, led by Hroth Far-seer. They ran with their knives in their hands.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked, now wondering if perhaps he should be afraid.

  ‘Stay within,’ his mother barked. She pulled her blades from her belt, and ran.

  A rumbling and crackling reached him, as of thunder, and a dark wall burst over the hut obscuring almost all the light. Dust washed within, choking him. Of course! A dust-storm! He’d seen one of these before. But what was there to fear? Save the animals wandering lost?

  Footfalls sounded all about, sifting and thumping. He heard the crack and grating of weapons clashing, gasped breaths, hisses of pain, and the grunt of mortal blows taken. He stared out of the opening, now an ochre curtain of shifting and gusting dust. Blurred shapes ran past, wrestled, duelled.

  He recognized the outline of his own, and was chilled by the hoary shapes they battled: cloaked in wind-blown rags, skeleton thin, some bearing armour of animal bones.

  The demons of his people’s legends. The demons of dust. Come for them at last, as their oldest myths warned.

  Then he screamed as a shape darkened the doorway. His mother burst within. Her head was bloodied, her hide trousers slit at the leg, streaming blood. She scanned the hut, her eyes wild, found him, took his arm and thrust him amid piled hides and blankets.

  Tears streamed down her face. ‘Quiet, love,’ she croaked, hoarse.

  ‘Mama – what…?’

  ‘Quiet now as a woodlouse, yes?’

  She pressed her hand over his face, left behind a smear of warm blood, pulled the hides over his head.

  Through a gap in the layered hides he watched her feet as she crossed to the doorway. From her stance he could see she was crouched, blades ready. The feet shifted, scuffing. He heard blades clash and scrape, heard his mother growl and gasp. The feet shifted anew, weakly. Blood came running down one leg. Something hissed through the air and his mother’s feet tilted and she fell.

  New feet entered the hut. Inhuman. Earth-brown bone and sinew in tatters of thick leather hide. The skins were yanked aside and he stared up at a demon face of bone, dark empty sockets, and naked amber teeth. Riding atop the head of patchy hair was another skull of some sort of gigantic horned beast.

  ‘This one?’ the demon asked someone outside.

  ‘Nay – the scent is too thin. Come, they are fleeing.’

  This demon thrust him back into the hides, stalked from the hut, was swallowed by the swirling dust. Aiken crawled to his mother. She lay staring sightlessly skyward, thrust through the chest. He rested his head upon her breast and, weeping, gently closed her staring eyes.

  * * *

  Three days later a lone rider came galloping up from the south. Aiken happened to be with the mourners that day. He’d brought flowers to his mother where she lay on her tall raised bier, exposed to the sun’s kiss and the wind’s embrace. Others were out as well, his neighbours, cousins, and aunts. Those who’d survived the demons’ attack.

  Everyone snatched up their weapons, of course. Even Aiken, as warriors were few now.

  But it was an old woman. She threw herself from her lathered mount and ran to them. Her hunting leathers were dust-caked. Bead necklaces rattled about her neck. Her hair was a thick tangled nest.

  ‘How many?’ she gasped; she clutched a thin weathered hand to her throat. Aiken thought her a maddened survivor from another village.

  ‘A full third of our people,’ answered Jalia, Aiken’s great-aunt. Then she hissed, flinching from the newcomer. She pointed to her waist. Aiken glanced there and saw that the knives thrust through the old woman’s leather belt were of nut-brown stone, knapped, the grip leather-wrapped.

  ‘Demon weapons…’ Jalia snarled, and she went for her own daggers.

  The ground erupted around them. Bone arms yanked clear of the dirt. Skulls denuded of flesh burst free. Aiken backed away, terrified yet fascinated. Jalia thrust for the woman but a demon stepped up between them, taking her arm and tossing her aside.

  ‘Do not harm them!’ the old woman bellowed. Then her wild gaze found Aiken and she yelled to him: ‘Go! Run!’

  Aiken turned and fled.

  * * *

  Silverfox, alone but for the dead, stood quivering. She wiped her hands down her thighs. She felt intensely cold, on the verge of collapse. She studied the funeral biers all about. The custom of these lands. And how many new? Some forty? From this village alone? She closed her eyes and staggered, righted herself, headed back to her mount.

  Pran Chole came to her side. ‘You must rest.’

  ‘They are close, Pran.’

  ‘True. A few days ahead. They flee you, Silverfox.’

  ‘Then I must continue to press. Push them along. They won’t have time … time to kill everyone, will they?’ Gaining her mount, she took hold of the saddle to steady herself. ‘Who were these people, Pran?’

  ‘These clans name themselves the People of the Yellow Grass.’

  She pressed her forehead to the saddle. The leather was warm and damp with sweat. ‘It is all my fault … all this. My fault.’

  ‘By no measure.’

  ‘If I had pressed harder for the release…’

  ‘We refused you, Summoner.’

  She nodded wearily, her eyes closed. She tried to raise her leg to mount, failed. ‘Who … who is north of us?’

  Pran turned his dark empty sockets to the north. ‘A far larger confederation of clans.’

  She nodded once more, exhausted. ‘A third here, Pran. A full third! Next it will be half. Then two-thirds. Then, to the very north. None there shall be spared. Who are these next clans?’

  ‘They name themselves the People of the Wind.’

  With a grunt of effort, Silverfox managed to mount. She twined her fists in the reins. ‘I must warn them. And Pran,’ she added, ‘find me another horse.’ She kneed her mount and it kicked away, obeying her though exhausted itself.

  * * *

  Pran Chole stood for a time watching the Summoner ride off. Tolb Bell’al joined him. Tatters of the Ifayle’s hide shirt flapped in the wind revealing curves of age-stained ribs. Patches of
long hair blew and whipped. ‘She will not rest,’ Pran breathed.

  ‘Just as we,’ Tolb answered.

  ‘What should be done?’

  ‘We will continue to sustain the horse.’

  ‘We are cruel.’

  ‘The need is cruel.’ Tolb’s voice was no louder than the murmuring wind. ‘Lanas Tog must not reach the mountains.’ He turned to face Pran directly. ‘At any cost. In this we are in complete agreement, yes?’

  Pran’s ravaged visage of dried and withered flesh, bared nostrils and yellowed teeth turned slightly to follow Silverfox’s retreat. ‘Agreed,’ he breathed. Tolb knew the ancient man Pran had once been well enough to feel the clenching dread of that admission. He knew the Summoner was as precious to his friend as his own child. Indeed, were they not all their own children?

  And what would a parent not do to secure the future of their own?

  Indeed, what not?

  CHAPTER VI

  Reuth kept a wary eye out when Tulan ordered the Lady’s Luck in to land a party to search for water and provisions. This northern coast had proved singularly unpromising; long stretches of black gravel beaches, hillsides of low brush, and bare smooth stone highlands. But provisions and water were low, and so Tulan dropped anchor in a bay and lowered a launch carrying a landing party under Storval.

  That was four days ago. Four days since the party was last seen walking inland to be lost behind the lazy curve of a coastal rise. Short trees – large bushes, really – provided the main greenery of this coast. That and lichens and moss. Far inland, on the clearest of days, a distant range of gleaming mountain tops could just be seen. From his research Reuth alone knew their names: the Salt range, east and west. Or, on some charts: the Blood Mountains. Their destination.

  Why then did he dread the sight of them?

  On the morning of the fifth day – the last day Tulan said he would wait for them – the crewman atop the mast called out a sighting. Reuth ran to the side. Two figures came shambling into sight. Limping, running, helping each other along. They heaved the launch out and struggled over its side as it rose and fell in the surge.

  ‘Only two,’ Reuth breathed and Tulan shot him an angry glare. Reuth realized, belatedly, that everyone had seen this but that only he had been foolish enough to say it aloud. It was as Tulan said. Too long in the dusty halls bent over manuscripts and not enough time spent among sailors. Well, after this voyage, he would have spent more than enough time at sea.

  That is, should they ever get home.

  The two managed to ready the oars and steady the nose of the launch to point it out to the bay. Reuth glanced away to scan the beaches of rolled gravel for signs of pursuit, but saw none. Where were the attackers? Surely these two couldn’t have outrun them. Yet no followers betrayed themselves amid the ash-hued naked rock.

  Then movement on the nearest hilltop caught his attention. Figures came walking out into the open to stand atop the domed rock. Tall and slim, wearing tanned hide jerkins and trousers. They carried long spears, or javelins. Long brownish hair blew unbound in the winds.

  Crewmen spotted them and shouted, pointing.

  Tulan just grunted and muttered something about ‘damned natives’.

  The launch reached them. Lines were thrown, attached to it. The two climbed up a rope ladder. It was Storval and Galip. Both carried flesh wounds, cuts and slashes.

  ‘The others?’ Tulan demanded.

  Storval just shook his head, still winded, breathing heavily. He dropped two fat skins of water to the deck.

  ‘This wouldn’t have happened if you’d had Kyle with you,’ Reuth told Storval.

  The first mate turned on him, his face flushed, enraged, his hand going to the dirk at his side. Tulan slapped the man’s hand aside, grasped Reuth’s arm and dragged him off. ‘You’re supposed to be a smart lad,’ he hissed. ‘So think before you open your damned hole.’

  Reuth peered past his uncle to the first mate. ‘Well … it’s true.’ And he walked away.

  He leaned on his elbows over the side while Tulan bellowed to get the crew moving for departure. Sailors readied the running rigging. Arms crossed on the railing, Reuth eyed the figures on the shore, who still had not moved. Seeing us off. The Barren Shore, he knew, was one name for this stretch of the northern coast. Fitting. Another name was the Plain of Ghosts.

  He decided he did not want to discover whether or not that appellation was accurate.

  Some charts he’d studied had included an inlet in the northern coast that led to rivers and a settlement. A fortress named Taken. But on this coast, on these lands of Assail, Reuth decided not to lead the ship to a fortress with the name of Taken. No, not in these lands. He hoped instead that they would find water before then – some unnamed stream or trickle – anything.

  Again, while he daydreamed, his thoughts went to Kyle, as they often did. He must have made it to shore. He’d seemed completely confident that he could. And ashore, he must have headed north. If anyone could make it, he could. Perhaps of all of them he would be the only one to succeed.

  Wouldn’t that be an irony? And the probable truth, too, given how the gods seemed to relish irony, reversals, and fitting unanticipated rewards for deeds both good and evil. And on that account, Reuth believed they had earned what they had so far received – the very real possibility of an ugly anonymous death on some desolate shore like this.

  It had been wrong of them to turn on Whiteblade like that. His uncle should have thought further ahead. Given the dangers, they would have been so much more secure with him among their crew. Reuth did not think much of their chances now. And that was fitting. For he too had known it was wrong, yet he’d shrunk from drawing a blade and standing with his friend.

  He was a coward, and he deserved whatever shameful death the gods had set astride the path of his life.

  He heard Tulan come stomping up behind him. ‘Are there no rivers marked on this shore?’ he demanded.

  Reuth turned round and peered calmly up at his uncle. ‘We’re bound to come across a stream eventually,’ he assured him.

  Tulan cocked an eye beneath his tangled bushy brows, as if troubled by the answer in some vague manner that he could not pin down. Then he snorted and lumbered off, muttering darkly beneath his breath.

  Reuth returned to contemplating the iron-grey waters. Yes, eventually they would find water. Or they would not. It did not matter. Eventually, just as certainly, they would meet their end.

  And there was nothing any of them could do about it.

  * * *

  Shortly after the Silver Dawn set sail, leading the convoy of four ships into the Sea of Dread, Ieleen became ill. She refused to go below and would not budge from her seat behind the tiller. She sat all day leaning forward, knuckles white on her walking stick, her head bowed, pressing against her hands.

  The times Jute had come to urge her to go below and lie down she’d snarled tersely and he’d backed away. They’d been under sail for six days now, although for the majority of the last day the description ‘under sail’ had no longer been accurate. The canvas hung limp. Only the barest of chill breaths brushed Jute’s neck. He ordered the crew to the rowing benches and they carried on.

  But he was worried. He’d never seen Ieleen like this. It was as though she was being crushed beneath a terrible weight. Towards evening he went to her once more. He bent over her, but dared not touch her – she didn’t like to be touched when she was casting ahead. ‘Lass…’ he whispered. ‘Where away?’ She seemed to flinch. Her body beneath its layers of shawls shuddered as if in the grip of an ague. ‘What is it, lass?’

  ‘I can’t…’ she whispered. Her voice was thick with sorrow. Leaning closer, he saw that the planking of the deck beneath her head was wet. A teardrop fell even as he watched.

  ‘Rest, dearest,’ he urged. ‘Gather your strength.’

  ‘I haven’t the strength,’ she answered all in a gasp. ‘I can’t see us through!’

  ‘It’s all right, la
ss. Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll feel better.’

  ‘No!’ She drew a great shuddering breath. ‘Makes no difference. It’s too late. I can’t see ahead. And … I’m afraid … I can’t…’ She choked then on her words, collected herself, and continued, huskily, ‘I can’t see behind.’

  Jute straightened. He studied the southern horizon out past the following three vessels. Then he glanced to the north. The flat horizons appeared identical. A thickening sea mist obscured both. The waters were uniformly calm. Not even the winds gave any hint of which direction was which. If they were to be turned round in the night, how was anyone to know? Other than studying the night sky, of course. But should this fog close in about them …

  He knelt to her once more. ‘What am I to do, love?’

  ‘Just keep going,’ she answered curtly. ‘Try to chart us a course tonight.’

  ‘Aye. Tonight. You just hold on then, dearest. Hold on till then.’

  He paced to the bows. He might have reassured Ieleen but he held little hope. How could they escape if they had no heading? They’d oar in circles until they ran out of water and provisions and that would be the end of them.

  Later that afternoon a launch came aside the Dawn and Cartheron himself climbed aboard. The old man peered about the deck and nodded to himself, evidently approving of what he saw. Jute greeted him. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’

  ‘A word, captain, if I may,’ and he lifted his chin to indicate the cabin.

  Jute swept an arm to invite him onward. ‘This way.’

  Inside, the Malazan captain glanced about the cabin as if searching for something. ‘You wouldn’t still have that bottle I handed over, or such like, would you?’

  ‘In fact I do.’ Jute produced the bottle and two tiny glasses.

  Cartheron frowned at the small glass but shrugged and held it out.

  ‘And what can I do for you, captain?’

  Cartheron tossed back the liquor and held out the glass again. ‘I was just hoping that you knew where you were headed. Because we sure as Mael’s own bowels don’t.’

  Jute studied the clear fluid in his glass. ‘I won’t dissemble. My … pilot … has been having trouble in that regard. But tonight we hope to get a heading from the stars.’