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

  It was raining that afternoon, a cold downpour from clouds so low one might as well name them fog. Dense overgrown woods surrounded the hall. Any fields that might have once been cultivated around it had long since fallen back to the woods’ encroachment. One ancient white spruce, as fat about as his arm-span, grew next to its moss-covered log walls. Its roof was a tangle of live growing brush and grasses. Its front entrance gaped open. Rainwater pooled on beaten bare earth.

  Badlands tramped onward up the huge length of the hall. Birds flew overhead to perch on murky rafters. A long table stood across the far rear wall. Embers glowed within a massive stone hearth and in this flickering orange light a single occupant sat at the table’s centre, a conical helmet next to him, a bowl before him.

  Badlands halted and ducked his head. ‘Stalker,’ he murmured.

  Stalker Lost pushed himself back from the table, brushed his long hanging moustache, and eyed his brother with a gaze that seemed to glow brighter than the embers. ‘How’d it happen?’ he grated.

  Badlands flinched beneath the harsh glare. ‘Arrow fire.’

  Stalker simply shook his head. ‘Damned fool.’

  Fisher stepped forward. ‘He saved the people in Antler Fort.’

  The Lost’s narrowed hazel gaze shifted. ‘This doesn’t involve you, Fisher.’

  ‘It involves all of us, I fear.’

  Stalker grunted at that, picked up his wooden spoon, and ate another mouthful. ‘Yeah, well. You got a point there.’ He raised his voice, shouting, ‘Ain’t that so, Cal?’

  Badlands, Fisher and Jethiss turned. Figures had entered the hall behind them. Two men and a woman. The lead figure was very dark, of Dal Hon extraction, Fisher recognized. Older, his kinked hair greying, in leather armour stained a deep blood red; the rainwater that dripped from him appeared almost as dark as blood itself. The other two wore banded armour, with shields at their backs, longswords at their sides. The tattered remains of a red cloth tabard hung from the woman and upon it Fisher could just make out an undulating line of silver.

  His breath eased from him in a long exhalation of wonder and he turned to Stalker. ‘These are Crimson Guard.’

  Stalker nodded, eyeing his brother. ‘Yeah. Funny that, hey? We was joined up for a time with the Guard. Then I come home and who do I find out in the woods? Cal’s troop here. All hands raised against ’em. Fighting everyone on all sides. So I offer them a place so long as they pledge to defend the Holding. And there you are.’ He raised a hand to Badlands. ‘We got us hearthguards.’

  Fisher turned to the one he assumed to be Cal. ‘Why did you remain, then? You could’ve made the coast.’

  The wiry old Dal Hon looked him up and down. ‘That’s our business.’

  Stalker chuckled while he ate. ‘Same old answer. Cal here claims the Guard has a stake here in this region. Though what he means by that I got no idea. Still…’ He brushed his moustache again. ‘We do keep running into each other, don’t we? It’s like fate, maybe, hey?’ And he laughed.

  He motioned for Fisher to sit. ‘Welcome. And you are?’

  Fisher almost jumped – so quiet had his companion been, he’d almost forgotten his presence.

  ‘Jethiss,’ the Andii said.

  Stalker nodded, his gaze lazy. ‘Can’t say as we’ve ever had an Andii visit these parts. What brings you here?’

  ‘As you said. Fate.’

  Stalker snorted a laugh. He spooned up a last portion from the bowl. ‘Guess I asked for that. Anyway, sit, everyone. Eat. We have boiled mountain goat. I recommend it as it’s all there is.’

  Badlands scooped up a bowlful and sat heavily to lean hunched over the table. Fisher spooned out a portion and offered it to Jethiss, who shook his head. He sat with it instead. The Crimson Guard bowed and exited – as hearthguards they could not sit with the Icebloods and their guests in the Greathall. They would eat later at the hirelings’ table.

  Stalker watched his brother for a time, then turned to Fisher. He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, you missed all the action. Had us a regular old-fashioned dust-up over on Bain lands. Broke and scattered the lowlanders’ army. Jaochim Sayer thinks that’s them dealt with.’

  Fisher thought over the Lost’s words while he chewed on the tough tasteless meat. He swallowed with some difficulty. ‘But not you,’ he offered.

  ‘No. I’ve been abroad. That was just a first incursion. They’ll be back. And in greater numbers.’

  Fisher was much relieved; he’d feared the man believed himself unassailable here in his northern Greathall. He nodded his agreement. ‘You cannot hold out for ever.’

  ‘No. We can’t.’

  ‘Then … you will abandon the hall? Head to the coast?’

  Stalker shook his lean hound’s head. ‘No.’

  ‘But you just agreed…’

  ‘Yeah. That’s true.’

  Fisher thrust himself from the table. ‘Don’t be a fool, man!’

  Badlands half rose from his seat, glaring. Stalker gently urged him down, then studied Fisher with his pale hazel gaze – the yellow of sun-dried grasses, Fisher thought.

  ‘You’re a guest in my Holding,’ he said. ‘That’s enough for now.’ Fisher bit his tongue and jerked his head in assent. ‘Anyways…’ and the man went to a barrel and drew a glass of what looked like red wine. ‘There’s news to relate.’ He offered the glass to Fisher, who took it wonderingly. Stalker caught his gaze and motioned to the barrel. ‘That? Ah, raiding them outlanders.’ He drew another and offered it to Jethiss, who accepted it with a bow of his head. He took one for himself. He did not offer one to Badlands and neither did his brother move to collect one; the man just sat, now, elbows on the table, his head lowered.

  ‘News is,’ Stalker began again, ‘that Svalthbrul has been taken up by Bregin’s son, Orman.’

  Fisher sat back in wonder. ‘Bregin? That Sayer hearthguard lad?’

  Stalker nodded, his brows raised. ‘And that’s not all. Orman used it to slay Lotji.’

  Fisher blew out a long breath. ‘So much bad blood there.’

  ‘Aye. Blood-feud back generations. But…’ and Stalker raised his chipped glass of wine as if in salute. ‘The outlanders burned Bain Greathall to the ground and the last of the Bains are gone.’

  Astonished, Fisher matched the gesture, as did Jethiss. ‘Farewell, honoured foe,’ he murmured, and they all drank, all but Badlands.

  His head lowered, Badlands growled into his knotted fists: ‘Sing us a song, bard.’

  Fisher was quite taken aback; it had been a long time since he’d been in service to a patron – though his last, Lady Envy, used to test him that way, as if hoping to catch him out. He shook his head. ‘I am not in the mood, truly. I would not wish to do a disservice.’

  Badlands slammed a fist to the table, upsetting Stalker’s glass and making the bowls jump. ‘Sing!’

  Fisher, luckily, was cradling his glass on his lap, and he tossed the last of it back, sucking his teeth. Jethiss, he noted, was watching him closely now. He nodded a slow thoughtful assent and cast his gaze to the massive log rafters cloaked in the gloom above. Birds flew about them and guano streaked them white. Then he looked to the far entrance and saw how the wind drove the rain within where it pooled on the dirt floor. He noted the rotting straw kicked about the ground, the mere four of them huddled about the dying embers of the broad hearth before them, and he sang.

  ‘Here, all possessions wrought by our hands are fleeting

  Here, we are passing. Our kind is fleeting

  Those who come after us shall peer at ruins

  And wonder what giants these were from long ago

  Only twisted tales shall remain.’

  Badlands lurched from the bench and staggered off into the dark. Stalker regarded the bard for some time. The man’s eyes did indeed seem to glow brighter than the embers. He finished the dregs of his wine, stood. ‘Don’t forget to add how stubborn and foolish we were.’ He followed his brother to disappear into the darkness a
t the rear of the hall.

  ‘I should,’ Fisher muttered to himself.

  ‘I understand them,’ Jethiss offered, surprising Fisher.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ He appeared almost embarrassed. ‘I don’t know why. I just feel the same way.’

  ‘Perhaps the Andii share something of their – our – way of thinking.’

  ‘Perhaps so.’ Jethiss rose, refreshed their glasses. ‘So, what shall we do?’

  ‘What of your … quest?’

  The Andii clasped the glass in both hands. ‘I believe I was sent in this direction for a reason. I do not know the reason, but you mentioned someone, or something, in the north that might provide an answer. What is it?’

  Fisher shook his head. He considered taking up his glass, but reconsidered and left his hands crossed on the table. ‘I will not speak of them.’

  ‘Then they are there. Thank you.’

  Fisher bit his lip. Gods! He was a bard! The stories he could tell of the Forkrul! But he took up the glass and drank instead. ‘I will not encourage you in this.’

  ‘Neither do you dissuade me.’

  ‘That is not for me to decide. Each of us possesses a Wyrd – a fate – and nothing we do can undo it.’

  Jethiss thought about this while the birds roosted overhead, cooing and fluffing their feathers, and the rain pattered, hissing. He answered, musingly, ‘You think everything is foreordained?’

  ‘No. I believe we follow our natures. That our natures determine the choices we make. In short … we do it to ourselves. There is no one else to blame.’

  ‘Not even the gods?’

  Fisher threw back the last of his wine, sucked his teeth. ‘The gods are determined by our natures. But if you decide to quibble them down to nothing more than mere causation – then why have them at all?’

  ‘Things happen regardless?’

  ‘It is a logical deduction.’

  The Andii nodded, sleepily. ‘I suppose some other justification would have to be found, then, for their existence.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Jethiss pushed himself to his feet. ‘Well, there you have it. The world’s troubles sorted out over a cask of wine.’

  Fisher smiled fondly. ‘A nightly ritual.’

  ‘I am off to find some bedding.’

  ‘Good night.’

  Fisher sat alone in the amber glow of the dying embers. He listened to the rain pattering and wished the night would whisper an answer to the quandary he faced. To survive, these Icebloods – we Icebloods – must retreat north, ever higher. Yet, if the legends and tales were to be believed, a peril far greater than any human invasion slumbered there. A threat to all, no matter what breed or kind.

  What was he to do? He listened again, intently, but the night seemed only to sigh. He answered the whisper with a sigh of his own.

  * * *

  Wrapped in a ragged dirty cloak with its hood raised, Kyle entered the sprawling besiegers’ camp. He carried a battered shortsword at his side, dirks at his belt and the white blade in leathers and firmly tucked in his shirt. No one challenged him as he came walking in from the west, no picket or posted guard, and this alone convinced him that this mob was doomed to failure.

  It was a bright and lingering twilight, the sky a beautiful shade of purple. He stopped where a gang of fortune-hunters, now soldiers – of a kind – lingered beneath the awning of a tent. ‘I’m looking for the Shieldmaiden,’ he said.

  ‘Who isn’t?’ answered one, and took hold of an imaginary set of hips before him. ‘This time of night, hey?’ Kyle ignored him and continued east, as the man’s gaze had flicked in that direction when he’d spoken. ‘Hey!’ the fellow called. ‘Where’re you from?’

  ‘Cordafin,’ he called back.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  Kyle kept walking. How the fuck should I know? I just made it up.

  He continued round the broad arc of the camp. There were enough of them, he decided. But they had to be kicked into shape. Was Lyan the one to do it? He found one larger tent, a possible command tent. It at least was guarded, and almost entirely by Genabackans. This convinced him. As he’d thought; they’d recognized her. He approached the guards before the closed flap.

  ‘I’d like to speak to the Shieldmaiden.’

  The guards, two burly veterans, exchanged annoyed looks. ‘You can’t just saunter up and meet a commander,’ one said. ‘You look like a veteran, you should know that. Chain of command. Who’s your sergeant?’

  Inwardly, Kyle cursed. ‘I just arrived.’

  ‘Thought she’d welcome you personally?’ another commented with a sneer.

  ‘You know her or something?’ the first demanded.

  ‘We’ve … met.’

  ‘When?’

  Kyle licked his lips. This was rapidly degenerating and now he couldn’t just walk away. ‘On the … the passage in.’

  The first grunted. ‘Congratulations. That’s nice.’ He straightened, pointed off. ‘You just arrived? See that big house, the one with two storeys?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want to join, you go sign up there.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’

  ‘You Malazan?’ the second asked.

  Kyle managed a scowl. ‘What d’you mean, Malazan? I’m from Jasston.’

  ‘Jasston? Where the Abyss is that?’

  ‘Korel.’

  This second guard grunted, only slightly mollified. ‘There’s a guy here from Theft. You know Theft?’

  Kyle struggled to appear indifferent, shrugged. ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘’Cause you don’t look nothing like him.’

  Kyle gave a negligent wave then ended the gesture by tucking his hand into his shirt where he took hold of the grip of the white blade. ‘That’s because Theftians look like rats.’

  The guard blinked, then they all broke into huge guffaws. Kyle allowed himself a tight grin. After the guards stopped chortling the first looked to him and frowned. ‘Well? Why’re you still here? Go sign your papers.’

  Kyle gave a curt nod, then forced himself to amble off. As he walked away, he heard one say, ‘That Theftian did kinda look like a rat…’

  He took care to walk in the direction of the two-storey frame and plaster daub house for a time, then, when he was certain he must be out of sight, he cut to the south and lost himself amid a maze of pitched tents. He had no intention of signing anything. So far no one had pointed him out directly as having quite a resemblance to the southern tribes of this region, but he wasn’t about to push his luck.

  He’d almost given up hope of coming up with a plan to reach Lyan, short of storming her tent, when through the crowd of armed and armoured men and women he glimpsed the slight short figure of a youth – Dorrin. The sight filled him with pleasure, and with hope; the lad would take him to Lyan. But it also twisted his throat, as the lad was walking only with the aid of a crutch. His left leg was gone below the knee.

  Kyle halted, stricken. Whatever treatment Lyan had bargained for among the convoy hadn’t been good enough to save his leg.

  It took a great deal of effort to shake off the shock of the sight. The lad was so young. But perhaps it was fortunate as he’d get used to it quickly. And it would win him credibility with the troops – a youth and already a veteran.

  Speaking of troops, he also noted the two Genabackan guards escorting the lad. Lyan was of high enough rank to rate bodyguards for her and her ‘family’. Indeed, to listen to the talk, it sounded as if she was second-in-command out here.

  Still, approaching Dorrin was his only hope of reaching her. He’d have to play it carefully and hope the lad could think on his feet. He jogged off, dodging around tents to get ahead, then waited just round the corner of a shed. When Dorrin approached, with his slow limping gait, Kyle stepped out and made a show of spotting the lad. ‘Dorrin!’ he shouted, ‘It’s me – Kyle! You remember, Kyle, yes?’

  Dorrin had frozen, gaping. His mouth actually opened in an O
as if to begin the sound of ‘Wh—’

  ‘Kyle! Yes? You remember, don’t you?’

  The guards had recovered and one was striding forward to brush Kyle aside when Dorrin reached out to him, calling, ‘Kyle! Yes! How wonderful to see you!’ The guards looked to the youth, frowning. ‘We met…’

  ‘… on the ship,’ Kyle completed.

  ‘On the ship, yes,’ Dorrin said.

  Kyle pushed forward and knelt in the mud before the youth, looked him up and down. He almost said, sorry about the leg, but caught himself in time: Whiteblade had been there, after all. So he asked, ‘What happened to your leg?’

  Dorrin looked confused for a moment, but recovered quickly. ‘Oh. I, ah, lost it. Sickness in the bone.’

  ‘I’m sorry, lad.’

  The boy shrugged. ‘It’s okay. I can still get around.’

  ‘So you can. And well, too. I assume Lyan’s here?’

  ‘Oh, yes! She would so much want to see you!’

  ‘I’m glad. Should I wait with you?’

  Dorrin peered up to one guard. ‘Can he stay with me, Turath?’

  This fellow, an older Genabackan, probably a veteran from the look of him, possibly of the Pannion wars, scratched his greying beard while glaring his ill-disguised suspicions of Kyle. After a moment of consideration – Dorrin had just handed him a very troubling poser of a problem – he reached a decision: ‘The Shieldmaiden should be informed, little sir.’

  ‘Oh! Of course,’ Dorrin answered.

  Turath jerked his chin to his fellow and the guard jogged off. Then the veteran settled his scarred hand on the grip of his shortsword and planted his feet wide right next to Dorrin. ‘We’ll wait just here,’ he said. A lazy smile of anticipation quirked his lips.

  Kyle ignored him and studied the lad. He did appear to be in good health; he was smiling, his eyes were bright, and he looked well fed. ‘Are there any others here your age?’ he asked. ‘To talk to?’

  Dorrin shook his head regretfully. ‘No. No one.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It must be hard to be all alone.’

  He brightened again. ‘But we aren’t any more! You’re here!’

  Kyle just chuckled and squeezed his shoulder, rising. He found himself looking into the veteran’s troubled gaze. The man was frowning while he scratched his beard once more, as if chasing after a thought.