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

  Something else about them troubled Orman. Then he had it: they were all dressed alike in battered banded leather armour that looked to have once been painted or enamelled a dark green, with shortswords at their sides and shields on their backs. And they climbed as a unit, not dragging out in a long straggling line. Soldiers. Veterans, probably. Not your typical fortune-hunters, though soldiers sought gold just as anyone did. Very bad news for their small band. There was no way they could take such a large party of experienced fighters. He climbed back down.

  Old Bear, however, was not impressed. ‘We’ll come at them in the night,’ he said. ‘When they’re all asleep.’

  ‘There’ll be guards!’ Orman answered hotly, hardly believing his ears.

  ‘So there will be a few guards,’ the old man answered, waving it aside. ‘We’ll rush ’em.’

  ‘Rush them?’ Orman echoed scornfully. ‘They’re soldiers! Trained for such a thing!’

  Old Bear merely turned to Jass. ‘Are we to retreat? Allow them passage?’

  The lad, who had been following all this with a serious face, now shook his head. So serious was he it somehow made Orman’s chest ache. Oh, lad, he thought, we’re asking too much of you – we really are. ‘Jaochim has laid the task on us,’ Jass said, his eyes downcast, as if unwilling to look at them or let them see what was in his gaze. ‘So we must see it through.’

  Orman groaned inwardly. Oh, lad! What other answer could you possibly give us? You’re too young to be brave enough to say no.

  Old Bear grinned his approval. ‘Aye, lad!’ He cast a severe one-eyed glare on Orman, who nodded as well. For what else could he do? Had he not sworn his loyalty?

  ‘I will watch them,’ Keth said, and started pulling off his shield.

  ‘No,’ Old Bear interrupted. ‘The Eithjar will shadow them. We can follow at a distance.’

  The Reddin brothers accepted this without further words. They sat back and started working the edges of their weapons. Orman laid Svalthbrul across his lap. These Eithjar had better be a big help, because he did not like their chances against an organized party of soldiers.

  With dusk one of the dead ancestors of the Sayers came to them and beckoned them onward. They crept forward in a line, the Reddin brothers leading, Orman following Jass, and Old Bear bringing up the rear.

  The night was very dark. The Visitor had withdrawn to a faint sea-green dot among the stars. The moon was a silver arc, while clouds bunched up from the lowlands. Orman thought it unaccountably warm for this early in the spring. Jass knelt then, raising a hand for a pause. He tilted his head as if listening to something only he could hear, then gestured for them to spread out.

  Orman edged to his left. He used Svalthbrul to part the brush and saw the glimmer of a campfire. He motioned to the Reddin brothers and signed ahead. Keth readied his bow and Kasson drew a hatchet. They all crept forward.

  Against the flickering gold glare of the flames, he made out one of the guards. The man was standing with his back to the fire and Orman mentally cursed. Damned veterans! They know every trick. He almost backed out then, feeling that they were walking into a trap – yet how could that be with the Eithjar keeping watch? A bowstring thrummed and the guard pitched backwards.

  Orman charged, Svalthbrul readied. At that moment the prone figures about the fire all threw off blankets and leapt to their feet – and not groggily, for they were armed and armoured, ready for the attack. There was no time to curse as one charged Orman directly. The man had his medium-sized round shield ready and he batted aside Orman’s thrust, but Svalthbrul was no ordinary spear as the edge of the lanceolate blade caught the copper lip of the shield and Orman used this to yank the shield aside and curve round it inward to thrust again, taking the man through his chest armour and sinking deep. Too deep. The blade would not come free as the man fell. He held on hard, twisting, forgetting for the moment the boiling charging figures around him.

  Someone shield-bashed him, knocking the breath from him and raising stars in his vision. The blow was so powerful it yanked Svalthbrul free and he turned it on the man, snapping up the haft as if it were a whip, taking him across the face so that he screamed as blood flew skyward.

  Orman backed off. He searched among the dark milling shapes for Jass. He found him being pushed backwards by an opponent, his spear held sideways across his chest. The lad’s footing became hung up on a corpse and he fell. The soldier reared over him, sword pulled back for a thrust. Orman screamed as he threw Svalthbrul. The spear pierced the man completely. He fell leaving the weapon standing from his back. Jass recovered his and backed away.

  But the Reddin brothers were surrounded, while Gerrun had gotten free somehow and was duelling with a soldier though armed only with short knives. Three more were coming for Orman. He drew his heavy fighting knives and despaired. Too many. Just too damned many.

  Then the very ground shook beneath his booted feet. A roar burst upon everyone like a blast of thunder. A massive mountain of russet shaggy fur came bowling in upon the scene, paws the size of shields swiping men left and right. Massive jaws crunched on an armoured arm and threw a soldier flying, legs and arms spinning. Another swat sent the two facing the Reddins down in a crunch of broken bones.

  The remaining soldiers broke, running. The titanic humped bear roared again and gave chase.

  And then it was quiet. Orman stood dragging in cold air, weaving on his feet. He retrieved Svalthbrul and staggered to Jass, who stood motionless, staring off where the great bear – Old Bear – could still be heard crashing through the underbrush.

  ‘Just in time,’ he gasped.

  ‘So it’s true,’ Jass murmured in amazement.

  ‘What’s true?’

  ‘The old tales. Shapeshifter. Old Bear. The last of them.’

  Orman wiped his cold slick face. ‘Or a spell, perhaps.’

  Wet coughing pulled his attention round. A soldier. Orman moved off to stand over him. The man lay peering up, his chest a crushed ruin. ‘They warned us,’ he croaked.

  Orman crouched on his haunches. ‘What’s that?’ He could barely make out the man’s foreign speech.

  ‘Them townsfolk,’ the soldier said. ‘They warned us.’ He tried to laugh, but had no air for it.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Orman asked.

  ‘Don’t matter.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Long ways away. Half-fort, Genabackis.’

  ‘You soldiers?’

  ‘Mercenaries, lad. You won this one … but I’d run … I was you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Straw hut in a flood is you, lad. Compared to what’s comin’… straw hut…’ The mercenary’s mouth fell slack and his gaze fixed. Orman pressed a hand down the man’s face to close his eyes.

  The Reddin brothers came up, Keth limping and Kasson cradling his bloodied left arm. Gerrun was hunched over the dead, rummaging through their clothes.

  Orman studied the three of them: the brothers and Jass. He motioned uphill. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘What about Old Bear?’ Jass asked.

  ‘He’ll find us.’

  ‘And these bodies?’

  ‘Leave them for the scavengers – as a warning.’

  Keth nodded. He and his brother bound their wounds then waved to Gerrun. They headed back the way they’d come.

  They could only limp a few leagues before bedding down for the night. They kept a watch just in case any of the soldiers came hunting them. Orman didn’t think that any of them would have escaped Old Bear, but it was best to be careful.

  The next day Old Bear emerged from the brush to join them. He looked himself, except perhaps the great shaggy bear hide he wore appeared a little worse for wear, hacked and slashed even more. Now, though, Orman knew he would never again look upon the man in the same way as before.

  ‘You could have told us,’ he accused him.

  The old man grinned hugely. Even his frosty bad eye seemed to glint in delight. ‘And ruin the surprise? Should’ve s
een your faces! I’m sure you soiled your breeches, Orman Bregin’s son.’

  ‘Only from your smell.’

  The old man guffawed his huge laugh. He slapped Jass’s back. ‘There you go, lad. Not so bad, hey?’

  But Jass shook his head. ‘We would’ve lost.’

  At that morose evaluation a huge weight eased from Orman’s mind. Good. The lad sees it. The victory – such as it was – hadn’t fed any false youthful cockiness. ‘I lost my duel,’ the youth said, and the pain in that admission squeezed Orman’s chest.

  ‘It’s all right, lad,’ Old Bear said. ‘Why, I’d be surprised if you won your first. That’s why we’re together. We cover one another. Next time maybe you’ll save Kasson’s life, hey?’

  Jass merely shrugged. ‘It wasn’t…’

  ‘Wasn’t what?’ Old Bear asked.

  ‘… wasn’t what I thought it’d be.’

  Over Jass’s head, Old Bear’s single eye caught Orman’s gaze and fixed there. He patted the lad’s shoulder. ‘It never is, lad. It never is what we think it’s going to be. It’s ugly, and confusing, and a blur and full of the acid of fear. Then it’s over and you don’t quite remember what happened but you’re either alive or you’re not. And there you are.’

  Orman was nodding. ‘Yes. That’s how it was for me.’

  Jass looked up at him. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were scared?’

  ‘Yes I was. Only a fool wouldn’t be.’

  The youth let go a long breath. ‘Well … I was very frightened.’

  Old Bear cuffed him again. ‘’Course you were! Only natural. First time’s always the worst – hey, Orman?’

  And Orman nodded, frowning with the memory of it. Yes, it had been.

  * * *

  The next day Gerrun announced that he ought to return to the lowlands to see what was going on. Old Bear waved him off, as did Orman and the brothers. They watched him go and Orman couldn’t help reflecting that the man was now headed down to the towns loaded with the coin and goods he’d pocketed from all those dead mercenaries. It occurred to him that perhaps Gerrun was enjoying the best of both worlds – the fine clothes and wine of the lowland towns, and the comradeship and belonging of the highlands – and he felt a hot surge of resentment towards him. Then he recalled the man’s role in hiring among the invading parties, even the armies, spying on them and guiding them to ambushes, and he decided that the fellow pretty much earned every lead penny of it.

  * * *

  They returned to the highlands. From time to time grey shapes appeared in the woods to walk alongside them. Orman found that he no longer paid their ghostly visitors any mind at all.

  He passed the time speaking to Jass and was rather embarrassed when the lad truly did treat him as an elder brother, though he was no Iceblood. He found that, indeed, there were only five living Sayers. Only these few defended the entire Holding. The bonded couple Jaochim and Yrain ruled – if that was the word for such a small clan. Of Buri, Jass confessed he had seen the man only a few times. He kept to the far north and when he visited even Jaochim bowed to him, for he was the eldest living of any clan of the Icebloods.

  When they climbed the highest valley and emerged into the fields the hounds came bounding out to greet Old Bear. They leapt up upon him, licking his face and barking. He swatted them aside and tousled their ragged pelts. In turn they pulled and gnawed upon his cloak.

  ‘They smell the bear in you,’ Jass teased.

  ‘That they do,’ he answered, grinning. ‘Ale tonight, lads!’

  Keth and Kasson shared small tight grins. Orman winked at Jass.

  They found Yrain had arrived. She and Jaochim oversaw the evening meal in two of the three raised chairs. The middle one remained empty – for Buri, Orman supposed.

  Old Bear entertained them all with the tale of his appearance in the battle. How Orman fainted dead away on the spot like an old widow and how he chased the foreign soldiers up trees, into streams, and even to the very walls of Mantle town.

  Everyone laughed as the tale went on and on, until it transformed into another tale, the story of one of their ancestors, Vesti the Odd-handed, and his journey to the tallest of the Salt range peaks. There, so he claimed, he met the matriarch of all their kind living in a tower of ice, and had his amorous advances rebuffed.

  ‘Was this Vesti older than Buri?’ Orman asked Old Bear.

  ‘He was not,’ Yrain answered, cutting off the man’s answer. Orman inclined his head, accepting this. The woman shared Jaochim’s rather distant and cold manner. Her hair was long, deep flame red, and wavy. She kept it loose about her shoulders. Her build was lean and her skin had an odd hue to it, as if she possessed a touch of colour: a pale olive. She wore leathers, old and much worn, with strings of red stones, garnets, about her neck and wrists.

  ‘Winter is the eldest of us,’ Jaochim explained.

  ‘Winter?’ Orman asked.

  Jaochim made a small gesture with one hand. ‘We call him that. When he visits he seems to bring winter with him.’ The man frowned then, eyeing Jass, who sat next to Old Bear. ‘Bring me your spear, Jass,’ he called.

  The lad rose, puzzled. He came to the platform and handed the weapon to Jaochim, who studied the iron spearhead.

  ‘This weapon has taken no life,’ Jaochim announced. He handed it back butt-first. ‘I told you to blood your spear and you return it unblooded?’

  Old Bear straightened on his bench. ‘The lad fought two of the soldiers. I saw with my own eyes…’

  ‘Yet he slew neither.’

  The old man waved a thick arm. ‘Well, I’m sure that if I hadn’t come charging in—’

  ‘It is so,’ Jass answered, lifting his chin. ‘I took no life.’

  Jaochim pointed to the front of the hall. ‘Then go. And do not return until you have taken a life in defence of our holding.’

  Orman almost stood from the bench to object, but for the heavy paw of Old Bear upon his arm. This was too harsh! Yet Jass bowed. He turned away. As he did so, Orman saw his gaze flash to his mother, Vala. She sat rigid, her lips clenched against all she might say. Her eyes sought Orman’s and he saw there a silent plea – the beseeching of a mother for her son. Aware of Jaochim’s disapproving glare, Orman allowed himself only the smallest nod. The woman eased back in her seat, her shoulders falling as she let go a pent-up breath.

  Jass gathered up his pack and headed for the wide front entrance. Orman half stood to follow but Old Bear’s great paw closed upon his arm again and yanked him down to his seat.

  ‘Let me go,’ Orman grated, his head lowered.

  ‘Not now, lad. Later.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s their way, lad.’

  ‘Their way is damned harsh.’

  ‘That it is. Now let it go.’ He filled Orman’s tankard. ‘Drink up. Celebrate. Today you’re alive, lad.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘What of it?’ Old Bear appeared horrified. ‘Why, lad. That’s everything! Live every day as if honourably facing death then celebrate if you live to see its end, hey?’

  Orman snorted, but he had to grant the point. Living without fear. Trusting wholly in one’s skill. That was something he had yet to achieve. It was an ideal. One he fell woefully short of.

  He raised the leather tankard and gulped down the ale, spilling some down his front. There! To the Abyss with everything! Damn the odds and damn these Icebloods’ rigid notion of honour. He would have none of it. He threw an arm about Old Bear’s shoulders. ‘When can I go?’ he murmured, holding his face close to the old man’s.

  Old Bear laughed and slapped his back. He answered beneath his breath: ‘With the dawn.’

  * * *

  Wrapped in old furs, Orman lay awake listening to the night. Old Bear snored terribly. Distantly, somewhere in the forest, wolves howled to the night sky. He decided he couldn’t wait any longer, never mind whether he was stepping upon Jaochim’s edicts. He threw off the hides
and dressed. Across the hall Kasson’s eyes glimmered in the firelight as he lay awake, watching. Orman thrust his heavy fighting knives into his belt and snatched up Svalthbrul. Across the way, Kasson raised a hand in farewell. He gave the brother a nod and jogged from the hall.

  Outside, he headed south. His breath plumed in the cold night air. He wrapped cloth rags about his hands as he ran, Svalthbrul clamped under an arm. Once he reached the forest and the steepening descent into the first of the lower valleys, he stopped and peered about the dark woods.

  ‘Eithjar!’ he called. ‘I am searching for Jass! Which way?’

  He waited, but no answer came. Well, I guess they don’t come when called …

  He started down the trail.

  When the sun rose above the lower ridges of the Salt range he was crossing a valley. A run-off stream churned down its middle, no deeper than his shins, but frigid as it splashed and hissed among the boulders and rocks of its naked bed. Across the stream he stamped his sodden feet to bring feeling back into them. He raised a hand to his mouth and called, ‘Which way?’ His shout echoed among the steep valley walls.

  He almost missed it then, in his impatience and disgust. A thin ash-grey shape flickering at the treeline far to the east. He frowned at the indistinct visitation, uncertain whether his eyes were playing tricks upon him. Then the shape raised an arm pointing to the east and was gone.

  Orman rubbed his gritty eyes, blinked them. Gods, the east! This high that would be … No! The little fool! Bain Holding! What could he possibly mean to …

  He set off at a run the way the shade had pointed. He smashed into the dense brush, limbs snapping and lashing. He vaulted from rock to rock. The way steepened as he approached the valley side. Ahead, past the trees, the ridgeline climbed bare and rocky. Snow yet lingered in the shadows and capped the highest shoulders. The air was frigid, yet it seemed to burn his lungs as he panted onward. And all the while, Svalthbrul’s keen knapped edge sang as it cut the cold air.

  CHAPTER VII

  Fisher Kel Tath sat in the gloom of the cave by the small sputtering fire. With his fingertips, he massaged tiny circles over his temples. ‘So let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘You wrecked on the coast while you were returning home?’