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

  ‘Gathering your— The enemy is upon us! Now is the time to act. Surely…’

  But the ancient shook his head. He crossed his legs, rested his elbows on his knees. ‘These invaders, these pathetic seekers after gold and riches … they are not the true enemy. It is for others that I am preparing.’

  ‘Who—’

  Buri silenced him with a raised hand. ‘What must be done is clear.’

  And Orman believed he knew exactly what the ancient meant. He hung his head. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know what you must do.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You must return and challenge Lotji for possession of Svalthbrul.’

  Orman, his head lowered, nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very good.’ Buri rose smoothly, towered over Orman. ‘I will show you the swiftest descent.’

  * * *

  At the base of a looming cliff of ice, Orman waved to Buri, a nearly indistinguishable shape amid the cornices and curves of snow above. Then the ancient was gone. Nearby, a waterfall pounded the bare rocks and gravel. The stream wound into a forest of spruce and pine. Orman followed it.

  Jogging downslope, only now did he wonder about Buri’s use of ‘little brother’. He decided the giant must have meant it affectionately. Perhaps for his dedication to young Jass.

  And he felt it again. That strange tightness across his chest. That feeling of belonging that he knew when Jass had held out his hand. He realized then that it was for the sake of this feeling alone that he now scrambled down through the evergreen forest for Lotji.

  * * *

  The Lost brothers led Fisher and Jethiss north-east, round the forested north shores of the Sea of Gold. Having grown up in this region, Fisher was much surprised when their path brought them pushing through virgin forest to suddenly enter overgrown fields, or discover the rotting log remnants of abandoned homesteads. Some obviously dated from years long gone; others appeared to have been hacked from the woods only a few seasons ago. When he’d left to travel the world, this shore had been uninhabited. But then, that had been a long time ago.

  On the third day, they emerged from a copse of mature ghost-white birch to see cleared fields, trampled and ragged, and a log homestead, sod-roofed. Coots reached the homestead first, and, receiving no reply to his call, pushed open the wooden door and went in. Almost immediately he came outside again and stood against the wall, his arms crossed as if hugging himself.

  ‘What is it?’ Fisher asked.

  ‘Lowlander family,’ Coots answered, his voice faint. He dropped his gaze, let go a long breath. Fisher passed him. ‘You needn’t go in…’ the Iceblood called. Fisher ignored him.

  Within, he found the corpses of two boys, both hacked to death by axes. On a simple bed nearby lay a woman he presumed was their mother, naked, beaten to death. She had been badly abused before finally being strangled. The dark of that tiny cabin closed in upon Fisher then and he backed away as if being physically pushed. Outside, in the cool air, he found that he could breathe once more. He raised his gaze to the sky for a time, blinking. She had been repeatedly raped while her own sons lay dying next to her … He shook his head as if to force the image from his mind.

  ‘Who was it?’ he finally asked, and it hurt to speak.

  Coots shrugged. ‘Raiders.’ He motioned to the rearing peaks of the Salt range. ‘They’ll push north…’

  Fisher felt his blood run cold. ‘We can’t let that happen.’ He moved to pass Coots, but the man caught his sleeve.

  ‘Those’re just stories, Fish. Tales we bloods tell when the fires die down and the Greathall darkens. There ain’t none of them Forkrul left – if there ever was.’

  Fisher yanked his arm free. ‘No.’ He glanced away to the plume of clouds; the highest peaks flew like banners. ‘I have been there, Coots. I’ve seen the caves. We can’t risk it.’ An old line came to him and he recited:

  ‘Abiding they wait in caverns of stone

  Ruthless in innocence,

  Children of Earth,

  Bearers of justice

  Sharper than swords.’

  Coots shot a glance to his brother, who stood cradling his jaw. He pinched his gold earring, rubbed it thoughtfully. ‘Well,’ he grudgingly allowed, ‘they won’t get through our cousins, will they?’

  ‘There’s a damned lot of them.’ Fisher waved Coots onward.

  * * *

  That dusk they were ready to stop for the night when the glow of flames shone through the forest far higher up the slope, while white smoke climbed into the purpling sky.

  Fisher looked to Badlands. ‘Same ones, you think?’

  ‘Or others. Makes no difference.’

  ‘We should take a look.’

  Badlands shrugged. ‘They’re lowlanders.’

  ‘We’ll go,’ Coots said from where he’d been working on starting a fire. He straightened, brushed his hands, and headed off.

  Jethiss came to stand close to Fisher. He murmured, low, ‘What if…’

  Fisher nodded curtly. ‘Yes, I know. I know … But we must see.’

  They followed the brothers into the deep shadows of the forest. Coots and Badlands were, of course, master woodsmen and moved in utter silence from cover to cover. Fisher had once possessed the talent, but too long from the wilds had dulled his skills. Jethiss, however, was in no way hampered by the dark and he showed Fisher the way.

  They came to the scene of a siege. Flames pillared into the dark behind a tall palisade of logs topped by a barrier of hung antlers. Archers lined the walls. They fired down upon a gang of raiders who jeered and answered the fire from the dark.

  The sight of the antlers jogged a memory within Fisher and he recalled the name of a small settlement far to the east: the Keep of the Antlers.

  From within the palisade came the scream of a woman – a terrified hopeless shriek of someone burning alive. Fisher bolted upright. Gods, women and children burning?

  Yells of surprise tore from the night, followed by the ringing of iron. A man howled, wounded. Cursing, Fisher lunged forward, Jethiss with him. He drew as he ran. Jethiss, far surer of his way, outstripped him, and he followed. A bolt or arrow cut the air near him; he could not tell from which direction it came.

  Four shapes charged Jethiss from the dark. The Andii met them at a full run. He ducked, spun, kicked one man down, took the top of the last’s head off in a wide swing. Fisher arrived to find all four dead or crippled. He eyed the Andii, amazed. ‘That was—’

  But the Andii was off again. A bellow from the dark announced Coots. More iron rang and clashed. Curses and orders sounded out from a knot of men Jethiss was now closing upon. A line of raiders set shields as he came. The Andii jumped at the last instant, planted his feet square upon one shield, and knocked its owner backwards. He fell within the knot and the line broke apart as the men turned for him. Fisher arrived and hacked down one fellow in an inelegant two-handed blow. Then all was the chaos of churning groups of men and women in the dark, some running, some closing upon him.

  He fought using strong hacking blows that knocked aside shields and parrying swords – this was not a battle for the finer points of swordmanship. An axeman charged him, his two-handed double-edged weapon held high to split him in half. Arrows flashed between them, shot from both sides. Fisher sidestepped the blow then swung in to take the man at the back of his neck, severing his spine.

  He spun then, turning to all sides. He recognized Genabackans together with a mishmash of others. Some looked like nothing more than casual bandits, while others were armed and armoured as mercenaries.

  One of these, in thick layered leathers and iron helmet, charged him now, shield-bashing him. He took the blow but tripped, falling on to his back. The man raised his shortsword then coughed, hunching. Staring up at what he thought was his death, Fisher saw a dark wet arrowhead standing from the man’s chest. The fellow toppled on to him.

  Fisher heaved the man off. Close now, face to face, he realized that the raider was of Lether
. Stunned, he forgot the roaring and stamping feet surrounding him. Great Burn, no. Was this Teal’s work? Was the marshal somewhere among this force? Was … Malle? But no – they’d gone to such pains to remain friendly. Other adventurers from Lether must have arrived, surely.

  Feet scuffed the dirt nearby and he started, twisting around. Jethiss stood over him scanning the dark. ‘You are hurt?’

  Fisher climbed to his feet. ‘No.’ He peered around: the raiders were decamping, leaving dead and wounded to lie where they fell. Badlands came racing into sight as he chased after them into the woods. Fisher nodded to Jethiss. ‘You are good with those blades.’

  The Andii was in no way flattered. He glanced away, troubled. ‘Not that I wish to be.’

  Coots approached the main gate where the archers crowded, backlit by the burning keep. ‘Hello there!’ he shouted. ‘We’ve run them off! You can—’

  ‘Bastard Iceblood!’ someone shouted.

  Bowfire sounded. Coots grunted and stepped backwards as if absorbing several blows.

  Fisher charged for him, yelling, ‘No!’

  ‘Hey now,’ Coots slurred, almost chidingly, ‘that’s no way—’ More blows rocked the man. He half spun, fell to one knee. ‘That’s…’ The archers fired almost continuously now. Arrow after arrow punched into Coots. ‘Hey … now…’ he said, sounding very disappointed. He tumbled backwards.

  A scream sounded from the woods. A harrowing call that raised Fisher’s hair in its elemental rage and hurt. Arrows whisked past Fisher as he was almost upon Coots. ‘Take his head!’ someone shouted from the palisade. ‘Take that Iceblood’s head!’

  Then something knocked Fisher over and absolute black night fell upon him. ‘Iceblood magic!’ someone yelled, real terror choking his voice. Fisher climbed to his feet completely blind. He extended his arms to feel into the blackness. He could see nothing, though he could feel the heat and hear the roar and crackle of the huge fire just a stone’s throw from him. A hand took his arm from the dark and he jerked away despite knowing who it must be.

  ‘This way,’ Jethiss said from the wall of ink.

  ‘You have him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Badlands?’

  ‘He ran into the woods howling like a madman.’

  Arrows thudded around them as the archers fired blind. They cursed and yelled from atop the palisade. ‘Let’s go from here,’ Fisher said.

  ‘Yes.’ Something brushed Fisher’s arm. He felt at it and found a pair of moccasined feet. Coots’. He took hold of one. Jethiss led him on through the blackness.

  They walked for some time. Jethiss coached Fisher through brush and over rocks. The slope climbed. The roar of the burning fort diminished to a distant murmur. It occurred to Fisher that to sustain such a large aura of elemental dark, Kurald Galain, must cost its summoner great effort, yet Jethiss betrayed no strain in his voice or breathing. Perhaps such raisings were natural for the Andii. He wondered, though.

  Eventually, their pace slowed. Fisher bumped Jethiss, who had stopped. ‘I can go no further,’ the Andii murmured, his voice husky.

  ‘You have done a miracle, Jethiss. Saved us for certain. They would have pursued. Tried to take our heads.’

  ‘There is a tree here,’ he said. ‘There is a view over the lowlands.’

  Like a passing deep shadow, the absolute black faded away. The sunshine glare of mid-day stabbed at Fisher’s eyes. He winced and shaded his gaze, peered around.

  They had climbed far into the forested slopes above the Sea of Gold. Below, it glimmered now in the sunlight with an amber-like shine – hence its name, perhaps. Jethiss sat heavily, arms draped over his knees, his head sunk, utterly spent. He’d set Coots in the nook of thick roots at the base of an old knotted spruce. The body faced downslope; Fisher thought it appropriate. ‘Have you belts or rope?’ he asked.

  ‘I have my weapon belt.’

  ‘Keep that.’

  ‘No. Take it. I have no more use for it.’

  Fisher shook his head. ‘You’ll still need to defend yourself.’

  The Andii lifted and dropped his broad shoulders. ‘I broke the knives.’

  ‘You broke them?’ Fisher marvelled. Wickan knives were a finger thick at the hilts. Thinking of weapons, he realized he’d lost his own as well. He pulled off his belt. Jethiss offered his own. Using both, he secured Coots’ body to the tree, tying him under his arms and across his chest. Something told him to leave the multitude of arrows still residing there and so he did so, careful not to snap one shaft.

  Jethiss watched. Fisher took Coots’ long-knives and pressed them into his stiffening fingers, then laid his hands in his lap. He stood back to examine the corpse – still so broad and huge, seemingly full of life, as if asleep.

  He cleared his throat, raised his head and began to chant: ‘I name these twinned long-knives the Wolf Fangs. Let it be known they did not betray their bearer. I name any hand that takes them without due respect or honour cursed to see all hands raised against them. Cursed to lose all honour and respect. Cursed to fall as crow carrion.’

  ‘This do I so too vow,’ Jethiss added, his voice cracking.

  ‘Coots of the Lost clan,’ Fisher sang now:

  ‘Loyal brother, mighty in wrath.

  Mighty in wrestling, mighty in laughter.

  Far-reiver, beloved companion.

  You are lost to us, and Lost you shall remain for ever.

  None shall undo this till these mountains are ground to the sea.’

  He lowered his head. ‘So ends my honour song of Coots of the Lost clan.’

  After a long silence, Jethiss motioned down the rocky slope. ‘Look there.’

  Fisher turned. A figure had emerged from the treeline. Staggering, falling, it made its agonizing way up the rocks, mostly on all fours, crawling over the stones, pulling itself up.

  It was Badlands. His leathers were torn. His limbs bled from countless cuts. His face was a glistening mask of mud and blood and tears. He crawled on, weeping, sobbing, right past Fisher’s and Jethiss’s boots till he came upon one of Coots’ moccasined feet and this he grasped as if drowning. He pressed his face to it and gave a heartbreaking groan that drove Fisher to look away. This was not for him to see. This was the private grieving of family.

  He touched Jethiss’s arm and together they walked off down the gently falling rock slope. The light gathered its amber colour. The shadows of the trees lengthened. Fisher turned to Jethiss. ‘You broke those Wickan knives…’ Jethiss nodded. Fisher eyed him speculatively. ‘Mane of Chaos – does this name mean anything to you?’

  The Andii tilted his head, considering. He shook it. ‘No. Should it?’

  ‘It is another name for Anomander Rake. Is that name familiar?’

  The man turned his face to regard him directly. There was a wariness in his dark eyes now. ‘There’s something…’ The eyes became alarmed. ‘Are you saying … that I might be…’

  Fisher shook his head. ‘I don’t know. His hair was white, though. But…’ He took a heavy breath as if steeling himself. ‘They say he gave himself to Mother Dark. To elemental night. And if he did … is it not possible that perhaps it, or she, gave him back…’

  ‘Yet he had white hair.’

  ‘True. A mark of the Eleint, the ancient songs say. The chaotic touch of T’iam. Those Elder songs also say that Mother Dark never accepted the gift of Chaos. She would not take it in, and so he would return without it…’

  Jethiss lowered his gaze. ‘I cannot say. I do remember something…’ He shook his head.

  ‘Yes? What?’

  ‘Something about a gate. I remember a gate. An opening on to … something. And battle and pain. Then suffocating as if drowning. And last of all, I remember something about a sword…’ He shook his head again. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. I should not pry.’ Fisher set his hands to his thighs. ‘Should we see?’

  Jethiss nodded. They walked up the rock slope. Badlands stood
now, facing his brother, his hands clasped before him. They came and stood just behind. ‘I’m sorry,’ Fisher said.

  Badlands turned to them, but he kept his gaze downcast and for that Fisher was grateful, for he didn’t think he could bear what might lie in the man’s gaze. His face still glistened with tears, though the blood of countless gouges and scratches had dried and cracked. He moved to step past them, as if to descend the slope. Alarmed, Fisher asked, ‘Where are you going?’

  Still refusing to raise his eyes, he croaked, ‘To kill them all.’

  ‘No you’re not.’

  Badlands halted. ‘Don’t stand in my way, Fish.’

  ‘I am only reminding you of your duty.’

  ‘Oh? An’ what is that?’

  ‘Your duty to your family. Stalker needs you now. Your other sisters and brothers and cousins will need you even more.’

  Badlands barked a harsh laugh, startling Fisher. He raised his gaze, and though Fisher had readied himself, the fires of desolation burning there made him flinch.

  Jethiss had stepped aside as if to make room. Now he slowly moved to Badlands’ rear.

  ‘You don’t know nothing,’ Badlands growled and Fisher heard the abandonment of utter feyness in the words.

  ‘What do I not know?’

  ‘Outta my way, Fish.’

  ‘Go to your family, Badlands.’

  ‘Don’t make me—’

  Jethiss grasped the man round the middle and lifted him from the ground. Fisher lunged in and snatched a knife from Badlands’ belt, reversed it and smacked it across the man’s temple. Badlands fell limp in Jethiss’s arms. The Andii gently lowered him to the ground.

  Fisher stood hands on hips, staring down at the big fellow. Of course, if the brother had truly wanted to be rid of them he could have easily won through. He could have drawn upon them. Neither of them was armed, after all. He sighed and looked to Jethiss. ‘My turn.’

  * * *

  The north coast of the Sea of Gold was a graveyard of broken ships. Some lay half sunk just offshore, a mere few leagues beyond the mouth of the channel up from the Dread Sea, their crews only able to coax a last few leagues of distance out of their tortured vessels. Others lay on their sides on the mud flats between ice floes. Stranded crews and passengers waved and called to them amid great piles of cargo.