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

  Enguf bobbed his head again. ‘Oh yes. Quite, ah, acceptable.’

  ‘Excellent.’ The Blue Shield commander gestured an invitation towards the stairs. ‘Shall we?’

  Jute was not one for heights. He kept his gaze raised to the top where the stairs ended at a landing of planks. Each wobble and groan of the wood made his heart hammer, and his hands were slick upon the worn timbers. Tyvar led while Cartheron came last. Jute knew the old Malazan officer was falling behind, but he couldn’t force himself to turn to look back. ‘Are you with us, sir?’ he called.

  After a long silence the man’s weak answer came drifting up with the wind: ‘Fucking stairs.’

  Eventually, far beyond the length of time Jute thought it should take them, they reached the creaking and trembling landing atop the last switchback. Jute forced his numb wobbling legs to continue on to the exposed granite of the promontory itself.

  From this vantage he had an excellent view of the site. The first thing he noted was that he’d been too harsh in his earlier impression: what the main tower lacked in height, it more than made up for in sheer bulk. And although it did possess only three storeys, these were three very tall storeys. It rose a stone’s throw from him at the rear of an enclosed bailey that was a gently falling slope of trampled grass, beaten dirt, and exposed rock. A quite tall wall of what looked like piled shards of slate and other rock encircled it, forming a broad arc touching the cliff on both sides. Beyond the wall rose many plumes of white smoke – presumably the campfires of the besieging outlanders.

  The bailey itself was currently jammed with humanity. They lay under awnings and tents, walked about, or just sat. He realized that here was where a good portion of the locals had fled.

  Cartheron arrived, puffing and panting. He was rubbing his chest and wincing. ‘I’ve lost my appetite for all this running around,’ he grumbled to Jute.

  Next to them, Tyvar drew a great breath of air, nodding to himself. ‘Stone. All stone. A strong defensive position,’ he said approvingly.

  ‘Let’s go meet the local tin-pot tyrant,’ Cartheron said, and started forward.

  The locals stopped them before they reached the tower. They weren’t soldiers, but they obviously knew how to handle their spears and axes. Jute thought them rather negligent in not having a guard atop the stairs. But then he reflected on the nature of those stairs, and decided that maybe they were right in not expecting any horde to come charging up that way.

  ‘May we have an audience with your ruler?’ Tyvar boomed out. He held his hands far out from his sides. ‘We have come to negotiate.’

  ‘Your weapons,’ one of the local spearmen commanded. ‘You cannot speak with King Ronal while armed.’

  Tyvar was all broad smiles and cheerfulness. ‘Of course.’ He unbuckled his belt and handed over his sword.

  Jute looked to his own waist. All he carried was his eating dirk. This he offered, but a spearman just scowled at him as if he were a fool. Cartheron, it appeared, wasn’t armed at all. They were escorted round the fat girth of the tower.

  Jute’s wonder at the construction of the edifice grew as he saw that the walls consisted of mammoth roughly dressed fieldstones that were clearly far too huge for any man, or gang of men, to raise. Who could have built using such immense rocks? Their techniques must have been far more sophisticated than this crude result.

  The main entrance disturbed him further. An open portal it was, without a door. Visibly narrower towards the top than the base. And its top! Jute stared as he walked beneath: a titanic single rock lintel longer than any man.

  Within, it was dark. Very dark. Its builders, it seemed, considered windows a luxury. Fires burning in braziers and torches in wall sconces provided what little light there was. The main floor was mostly all one great chamber. Spearmen and women crowded it. Straw was thick upon the stone-flagged floor. Dogs chased one another among the forest of legs. The guards parted for them while their escort urged them onward. Towards the far end of the chamber, the last file of guards grudgingly parted to reveal a long table of coarse-hewn timbers and a seated row of what Jute assumed to be the local dignitaries. The one at the centre wore a simple crown that was nothing more than a ring of bronze atop his long unkempt brown hair. This was fortunate, as otherwise Jute would have had no clue that this was the king. The man was small, and possessed the manic stare of a terrified predatory animal.

  ‘What do you foreigners want?’ this fellow demanded. ‘You capture the vessels blocking the harbour and you expect a reward?’ He waved them off. ‘Take them and good riddance to you!’

  Tyvar bowed. ‘Greetings, King Ronal. My name is Tyvar Gendarian and these are my travelling companions, captains Cartheron Crust and Jute Hernan. Please be assured, we expect no reward at all. In fact, we are here to offer our swords in your service. I command two hundred mercenaries, while these captains offer their vessels.’

  Jute marvelled at Tyvar’s diplomacy and patience. He’d imagined that any man in his position would be unable to swallow such insults, yet the discourtesies merely brushed off the man as if he really did not give a damn about any of it. He was also rather taken aback to hear that he was offering the service of the Silver Dawn.

  The king, and Jute wondered whether the man really was, or whether he merely chose to style himself one, snorted his disdain, or tried to, as one of his eyes kept twitching. He turned his head to peer at the men and women seated along the table. These were all quick to emulate his disapproval, with shakes of their heads and pursed lips.

  ‘First,’ he began, addressing Tyvar, ‘the title is King Ronal the Bastard. And second, what do you expect for this service? Gold, no doubt. Well, you’ll get none of it. If you think I will allow a crowd of armed foreigners into my fortress, you’re a fool!’ He waved Tyvar off. ‘I’m not hiring outlanders. Take your ships and go!’

  At the far end of the table a skinny old woman cleared her throat and the king shot her an annoyed glance. ‘If I may, my king,’ she began, and Jute recognized an unmistakable high imperial accent, ‘I will countenance these mercenaries … if I may.’

  King Ronal slouched back in his chair. He picked at the carcass of a bird before him. ‘An outlander would vouch for fellow outlanders…’ he mused, rather petulantly. Then, peering from Jute to Cartheron, he straightened. ‘Ah, my apologies. Please know Malle of Gris, an adviser who has proved her value and trustworthiness. She is empowered to speak for the distant Malazan Empire, whose name we are not ignorant of. Her emperor offers his support. He would not see a fellow monarch driven from his lands. And understandably so.’ He tore apart the remains of the bird. ‘Very well. You have liberated the waterfront. It is yours to hold. Remain there. No more than ten of your number may enter Mantle at any one time.’

  Tyvar bowed again, even deeper. ‘My thanks, my king. We will defend the harbour to the death. You can be assured—’

  King Ronal flicked his greasy fingers. ‘Yes, yes. You may go now.’

  Still bowed, Tyvar backed away. Jute followed his lead, backing away, facing forward, until the many spearmen closed the gap before him. He, Cartheron and Tyvar then turned and walked away.

  Outside, Tyvar took a great breath of the cool mountain air and brushed his hands together as if to say: and that is that.

  Cartheron let out a heavy sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. He muttered, perhaps to himself, ‘For this I quit drinking?’

  Tyvar set his wide fists to his waist, turned, and regarded them over the tangle of his russet beard. There was an almost mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘Well … let us at least study the competition.’ He started across the bailey. Jute and Cartheron hurried to keep up.

  The stones of the wall enclosing the bailey proved as titanic as those of the tower. On the inside, the wall rose some two man-heights, or about half a rod in measure. Tyvar bounded up one of the earthwork ramps inside the wall. His mere presence seemed to bring into existence a path between the many spearmen and women crowding the way. Follow
ing more slowly, Jute and Cartheron had to weave through the scowling and suspicious northerners.

  When Jute gained the wall he found that it was coarse indeed, archaic even; the huge flat stones merely lay atop one another without shaping or chiselling. At least a wooden catwalk ran behind – a later addition, perhaps. Outside the wall, a deep ditch doubled its height to any attacker. A cold wind buffeted him. The chilled air descended off the Salt range, visible above the rising forested foothills.

  Beyond the ditch lay the sprawling encampment of the besieging outlanders – his countrymen included. The modest houses of Mantle town, mere shacks and huts, had long been occupied. Tents sprawled in an arc beyond, from cliff edge to cliff edge, in a broad semicircle. Multiple cook-fires sent up thin tendrils of smoke that were swiftly brushed to the south, out over the Sea of Gold. The besiegers sat about the fires, warming themselves, talking and joking. Snatches of laughter reached him, carried by the wind. Jute added up an estimate of just under three thousand. He turned round and studied those within – all of whom were armed – and came up with some five hundred. The usual ratio necessary to take a well-defended position is at least three to one. The attackers outnumbered such figures by far, yet so far they had failed to take the keep. That told him that these defenders were not the usual sort. The way each carried a spear or sword told him that they’d all lived their entire lives fighting already.

  ‘Who commands this rabble?’ Tyvar asked a northern woman who stood nearby, leaning on a spear.

  The woman looked him up and down – Jute noted that she was almost as tall as Tyvar himself – and said, ‘I know not nor do I care.’ She pointedly turned away.

  ‘Perhaps I may be of assistance…’

  Jute turned as he again recognized the accent that belonged in the imperial capital at Unta. It was indeed the wiry old woman from the king’s table. He offered her an Untan bow, which brought a smile to her thin pinched mouth, and she offered her hand, which he brushed with his lips.

  ‘Very gracious of you, Captain Jute Hernan of Falar,’ she said.

  Tvyar imitated Jute’s gesture, though he invested it with far more grace. ‘I am honoured, Tyvar Gendarian,’ the woman, Malle, said, with obvious feeling. Then she turned to Cartheron.

  ‘Malle,’ Cartheron said. ‘Good to see you again. Been a while.’

  She nodded. ‘Crust. Glad you made it.’

  ‘It weren’t easy, I tell you.’

  Jute looked between the two. Well, well. Here’s a turn-up, as his wife would say.

  ‘Thank you for your help.’

  ‘So, can I go now?’ Cartheron asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I was promised I’d be cut loose after this,’ the man growled in the closest note to anger Jute had heard from him.

  ‘You will,’ Malle assured him.

  His answer was a dubious scowl. Malle turned to Tyvar. ‘The only leader out there is a retired Letherii military officer named Teal. However, new soldiers and veterans are arriving all the time.’

  ‘I thank you,’ he replied. ‘You are uncommonly well informed.’

  Her smile turned thin, almost acerbic. ‘That is my business. Also, I have in my hire two ex-cadre mages who are pledged to the defence.’

  Jute shot Cartheron a glance, the obvious inference being Lady Orosenn. The old Malazan commander shook his head.

  Tyvar no doubt caught the look, as did Malle, probably. He peered about, then lowered his head. ‘We need not worry on that front,’ he assured her.

  Malle raised an expressive brow. She glanced back to the bay. ‘The fourth ship? A mage?’

  Tyvar nodded. ‘She has granted me permission to speak of her. However, she prefers to remain … anonymous.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, commander.’ She inclined her head fractionally. ‘If that is all, I can be found at the main table … where I busy myself listening to all of Ronal’s relatives’ offers to support them against him.’

  Tyvar drew himself straight and bowed once more. ‘Affairs of statehood. I quite understand. Until later, madam.’

  Jute quickly sketched a bow.

  Cartheron merely raised his chin in a lazy see-you-later farewell. After she was gone, he turned to Jute. ‘About that lady there…’

  ‘Don’t get in her way – yes, I gathered that.’

  Cartheron gave a very serious nod. ‘You’re a quick study.’ He turned to Tyvar and crossed his arms. ‘So … what do you think?’

  ‘I think that if these defenders can hold on, then this rabble will just wander off.’ He pulled at his beard thoughtfully. ‘That is, unless someone out there can give the besiegers some sort of spine.’

  ‘Riches – loot – are a great motivator,’ Cartheron supplied.

  Jute frowned his confusion at that. ‘How do you know there are any riches here?’

  Cartheron gave him a look that, back in the tent in Wrongway, he’d given one of his crew who’d asked a particularly stupid question. ‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said, as if explaining something to some new recruit. ‘What matters is what someone out there tells them.’

  Jute felt his brows rising. ‘Ah. I see.’ Such a ploy as actually lying – deliberately or innocently – to one’s people hadn’t even occurred to him. However, if it got the job done … well, never mind, hey?

  ‘And you, Tyvar?’ Cartheron continued. ‘Is this your fight?’

  The big man frowned at the question. ‘I do not know. Here is a battle. Yet … we’ve been forbidden from participating. I feel that this is not it. However, best remain hopeful, eh?’ And he slapped Cartheron on the back, almost toppling him from the wall.

  For his part, Jute did not like being the object of so many hostile and evaluative eyes as he stood there exposed upon the defences. ‘Perhaps we should retire?’ he offered. Cartheron and Tyvar agreed, and they descended the beaten dirt rampart.

  * * *

  They crossed to the cliffs, and, in despair, Jute realized he’d have to descend the damned stairs in order to return to the Dawn. Only that could possibly have convinced him to set foot once more on the rickety construction. He managed it, but he had his eyes closed for most of the descent.

  Back on board, he immediately went to Ieleen. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘they’re under siege. But they don’t want our help.’

  Her hands resting on her walking stick, she nodded her understanding. ‘They’re proud. This is their land. They don’t want us here.’

  ‘However,’ Jute added, ‘Tyvar pledged our support … and our vessels.’

  She tilted her head in thought. ‘Perhaps in case evacuation is necessary.’

  Jute rubbed his chin; he hadn’t thought of that. Where in the world would they take them? ‘No. I don’t think so. But good point.’

  ‘So we wait.’

  ‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And, dearest … about this woman, Giana…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Now, you know there’s nothing there – really, there isn’t.’

  His wife gave a low throaty chuckle and shook her head. ‘Oh, I know that’s so.’

  For some reason Jute felt rather piqued. ‘Why would that be so?’

  ‘Because she has eyes for our master-at-arms.’

  Now he was confused. ‘But she’s…’

  His wife was nodding. ‘Yes, dearest. She most certainly is.’

  * * *

  Badlands refused to rest, and quickly shook off any help from Fisher. He led the bard and Jethiss north, and he did so in utter silence, without a glance to either of them. For his part, Fisher eased into the role of returning to the land of his youth. He’d grown up on the Myrni Holding, just to the east. They had taken in his mother, who was of the ancient Fanyar Hold, long pushed out of her homeland. As such, a half-blood, he came to find that he was welcome in neither world. And so he had renounced his place among the Myrni, swearing never to return, and went to find his way in the world.

  Yet return he had, from time to time. The last being so
me three decades ago – in the wider world he’d found that those of Iceblood descent lived a far greater allotment of years.

  Each time he returned he’d encountered the same festering blood-feuds and vendettas, the same blind hatreds and stupid bigotries, and each time he’d vowed never to return again.

  Yet here he was once more. For the last time, he suspected, as he had seen this same tragic story of invasion and obliteration play out before in many lands. Any subsistence society, even one that is small-scale horticultural, cannot possibly compete against the invasion of a full-scale agricultural society. The inequity in numbers is simply too great. The locals find themselves swamped every time. If not in one generation, then in two or three. Such has been the story for every region of human migration and settlement. Even regions that boast of themselves as ‘pure’ or ‘native’ stand upon the bones of forgotten predecessors.

  But he was a bard – he could not forget, nor would he.

  Now the same inexorable story had finally reached his homeland. Long though the region might have withstood this process, it had finally arrived on its shores. And here he would witness the playing out of its final chapter – and upon his own people, as the fates would have it.

  Poetic, that. Something for him, as a bard, to relish.

  Walking the pine and birch forest, he reflected that the singing of this song would wring his heart.

  * * *

  Badlands led them onward through rough untrammelled forest and up steep valleys to a slope so high that snow still lingered in the shadows behind boulders and fallen logs. Here they found the Lost Greathall.