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

  Kyle looked away. After a time of silent waiting, he saw the guard scowl his displeasure and he glanced over to find the second man jogging up. Obviously, Turath was disappointed not to see him accompanied by ten more troopers.

  He nodded to Turath. ‘She says he can wait in their quarters.’

  Turath grunted a non-committal sound.

  Dorrin raised his trimmed tree-branch crutch. ‘This way, ah, Kyle.’

  Lyan had one of the remaining houses – only a small one-room cabin, but a structure all the same. The front of the cabin was a general meeting room and living quarters, while hung blankets separated sleeping quarters for her and for Dorrin. The guards waited outside at the door. Dorrin clumped to a chair and sat. Kyle spotted a tall earthenware jug of water and poured himself a drink. ‘Some water?’ he asked Dorrin, who shook his head.

  ‘She will be awfully pleased to see you,’ the boy said.

  Kyle smiled his thanks, but already he was beginning to see the foolishness of coming here. There’d been survivors from the fight on the Dread Sea shore. And at any turn in the encampment he could stumble on another Stormguard, or a Korel veteran. It was plain now that they had to get out as soon as possible, preferably this night.

  ‘She said we were lucky,’ Dorrin said.

  He blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘That day. When we parted. One of the ships was from the north, and they recognized her.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘But…’ and the lad lowered his voice, ‘you’re not very popular around here.’

  He raised his brows. ‘I imagine not.’

  He sat, and they waited. Dorrin was very quiet for a young lad, and still, and Kyle realized why: it was difficult for him to get around. He reflected on the few amputations he’d seen amid all the fighting he’d known – because the Crimson Guard and the Malazans had had enough trained cadre mages familiar with basic Denul magics. Not so in these wilds, obviously.

  It was late and dark when he heard the guards shift to attention outside the door. Moments later, it opened and Lyan entered. She wore her mail armour and her sword at her hip, but now a thick cloak of black and grey wolf fur hung over one shoulder. She carried her helmet in one hand and set it on a table. Her auburn hair was neatly braided and she was far cleaner than the last time he’d seen her.

  Her face, he noted, was carefully flat and composed. She nodded to him. ‘Kyle … good to see you again.’

  ‘Lyan.’

  She turned to Dorrin. ‘It is late. You should lie down.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Kyle and I have much to discuss.’

  The youth picked at the bark of his tree-branch crutch. ‘But he just got here.’

  ‘Tomorrow, Dorrin.’

  He heaved an aggrieved sigh, thumped the crutch to the dirt and eased himself from the chair. ‘Good night, then.’

  ‘Yes, Dorrin,’ Kyle said. ‘Good night.’

  The lad’s straw cot was at the very back of the cabin. After the blankets fell between them, Lyan went to the door and opened it a hand’s breadth. ‘You’re dismissed,’ she said.

  ‘Not one guard?’ enquired Turath from beyond.

  ‘I don’t think there will be a sortie this night,’ she answered, quite dryly.

  ‘Very good, commander.’

  She closed the door, bolted it, went to the table and poured two glasses of wine. She gave one to Kyle and motioned him to remain silent. The cabin possessed one window opening, next to the door, and she peeped out to make certain the guards had gone before closing the wooden shutters and pulling a muslin cloth across. She crossed to him and raised the glass.

  He smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with a raised finger. Leaning close, she whispered, ‘Are you a fool to have come here!’

  ‘I know … I know,’ he murmured back, his voice low.

  She continued, fierce, hissing, ‘There are veterans here from Korel!’

  He raised both hands, surrendering. ‘Yes. I agree. We’ll have to leave tonight.’

  ‘We?’

  He was surprised to see her confused, but then she seemed to recover and she set down the wine, her gaze lowered. When she once more met his gaze he understood; she’d taken too long to find her words. ‘Kyle … there are riches, and more, to be won here – I can’t throw all that away…’

  He set down his glass as well, fought hard to keep all expression from his face. ‘You were right.’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘I was a fool.’

  Stung, she shook her head. ‘No … it’s not that. Don’t you understand?’

  ‘Leave. Now. With me. You and Dorrin. That I understand.’

  But she took up her glass and walked away. ‘Now you are being a fool. A romantic fool.’

  He picked up his wine as well, threw it back hard and swallowed. He regarded her across the beaten earth floor. In his anger it occurred to him: was this why she still wore her armour? Hadn’t even unbuckled her sword? He murmured, ‘You’re the fool, Lyan.’

  Her face stiffened, and she inclined her head as if in farewell. ‘Thank you for saying hello to Dorrin. You mean a lot to him. For his sake, please do not get yourself killed.’

  ‘For his sake?’

  He watched her closely, saw the muscles of her jaw tighten against an answer she might have given, watched her resolutely refuse to speak.

  He crossed to the door, unbolted it and glanced out. The muddy mass of tracks and wagon-ruts that was one main way of Mantle town lay mostly empty. He turned back to give her one last look. ‘Give my apologies to Dorrin.’ And he slipped out.

  He might have imagined it, but it appeared as if she lurched towards him as he left, but it was too little and too late. So much, he decided, for what might have been between them. He now wondered whether he’d imagined it all – as a romantic fool might.

  He yanked his hood low and pulled his cloak tightly about himself, tucking his hand within his shirt to grip the white blade. He meant to head out north immediately, get out of the encampment as swiftly as possible. His route took him past a few timber houses of the old Mantle town. As he crossed in front of one entrance it burst open and out spilled a crowd of rowdy drunken outlanders in a glare of yellow lantern-light. They stumbled into him and he righted one with a quick, ‘Careful, there.’

  It was a woman, and she blinked at him, frowning, even as she clenched a fistful of his cloak. He answered the frown, puzzled. She shoved her other hand into his face, showing him the bandaged stump where a thumb would jut.

  ‘It’s that damned Whiteblade!’ she yelled.

  In answer, Kyle yanked free the blade and swept it across her neck in one swift motion. The crowd of outlanders shouted and gagged their horror as her head fell in a gout of jetting blood. He attempted to yank free but her fist still held him tight by the cloak. He chopped off that hand at the wrist.

  Other hands grabbed at him and these he severed as well. The crowd – those not clenching stumps of wrists and forearms – now scrambled to give him room. He fled north.

  But yells and alarm preceded him. Armed soldiers exited a large tent right in front of him. A few quick cuts crippled these and he pushed inside. He sliced the main centre pole, and as the heavy sailcloth tent billowed down around him he cut his way out at the rear. Now he ran.

  Calls for archers sounded all about. He tried to keep to the darker patches of the tent encampment, but more and more torches were being lit as troops crowded the ways. Ahead, across trampled fields and a creek, lay woods. He pounded for the creek. Troops from tents nearby attempted to slow him by blocking his way. The white blade severed shields, vambraces, spear hafts, and two crossbows before their handlers had finished cocking them.

  Several arrows hissed past him. One plucked his cloak, then he was tumbling down a muddy slope into a shockingly chill rushing creek. He slogged on. A tossed burning torch crashed into his back, sending him off his feet into the creek. Arrows nipped the waves about him
.

  ‘Get him!’ someone yelled from the shore.

  A new voice bellowed, commandingly, ‘Stay out of his reach! Archers, form up!’

  Kyle lurched to his feet and stumbled on. He was surprised, then, to see a thick night fog now rolling out of the forest. He couldn’t understand it, but it was a blessing and he made for it.

  ‘Damned northern giants!’ someone yelled.

  ‘Fire now!’ the commander ordered.

  Kyle dived under the swift waist-high waters. The current buffeted him and the water seemed to suck all warmth from his body. He simply attempted to stay under for as long as he could. He gripped at boulders his questing hands found in the bed, tried to bring his legs down.

  Holding his breath, he reflected that never in all his years did he imagine how much he would owe old one-handed Stoop of the Crimson Guard for all those enforced near-drownings in swimming lessons. Finally, his lungs burning, he had to come up and he pushed his face to the surface to suck in a fresh breath of air. He blinked, finding that he’d entered a world of dense swirling banners of fog. Voices shouted, sounding very far off for some reason, as if the fog muted or distorted them. He slogged onward. Gaining the far shore, he heaved his frozen stiff body up the mud and bracken to lie panting, thankful just to be out of that numbing water.

  A wide hand gathered up the cloth at his back and yanked him to his feet. ‘What are you doing here?’ a deep voice demanded. Kyle wiped water from his face and peered up at a bearded giant of a fellow in cured leather armour, a spear in his other hand.

  ‘I’m looking for the Losts.’

  The hand released him and urged him along with a push at the back. He nearly fell as his legs wobbled, numb and tingling. ‘They’re coming. We must move.’ Through the curling vapours behind, Kyle glimpsed blurred orange flames bobbing. ‘The fog and creek should delay them, but we’d best give them some room.’

  On a hunch, Kyle guessed through numb lips: ‘Are you Baran? Baran Heel?’

  ‘Yes. And you are the one my mother escorted off our Holding.’ At Kyle’s start, the fellow chuckled. ‘I saw you in the distance.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hunting.’

  Baran pushed him on. In the fog it was hard to tell their direction, but Kyle thought it north. The haze thinned as they jogged through the forest. As the night sky cleared and the land rose, he knew they were indeed headed north.

  ‘This is Bain Holding, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bain Holding is no more. It has gone the way of my mother’s, and so many others before it.’

  ‘Oh – I’m sorry.’

  ‘What is it to you? An outlander.’

  He’d never considered himself proud of where he’d come from – quite the opposite, in fact – but the accusation irritated him deeply. ‘I’m no outlander. I’m from the southern plains.’

  Baran peered back, grunted. ‘Ah. That explains much, then.’

  Kyle waited, but the fellow offered no further explanation. Much later in the night, when they reached the wooded crest of the valley, Baran turned and peered back once more. He grunted again, sounding impressed, or mystified. ‘What did you do to rile them up so?’

  Kyle struggled up the crest and squinted down and behind. Far off, torches bobbed and wove through the woods. ‘Killed a few,’ he said.

  ‘Hunh. Well, they’ve never shown much offence at murder before.’ He motioned to one side. ‘This way.’

  As they jogged, Kyle remembered Yullveig’s words. ‘Is your sister here?’ he asked. ‘Erta?’

  ‘She has returned north. I believe she came to see more sense in my father’s words.’

  ‘But you do not.’

  Baran’s large teeth flashed bright in the dark. ‘I prefer to fight to the end. I do not care if there is no grace in my leave-taking.’

  ‘Your father refuses to sink to their level. I respect him for that.’

  ‘Yet all your respect will not save his life.’

  Kyle bit his lip. That barb struck hard and true. Also, it was this man’s people and way of life being swept from the face of the earth – best not to argue the finer points of it with him.

  Baran was now leading him due east across a wide shallow valley. With dawn, he halted, pointed onward. ‘Lost Holding beyond.’

  Kyle had to wait to catch his breath before he could answer. Keeping up with Baran had taken all he had. ‘My thanks. Won’t you reconsider? Come with me? We should all gather together, present a united front.’

  The Heel flashed another grin behind his russet beard. ‘Form our own army, you mean? Speaking of sinking to their level.’ He shook his head. The wind blew his loose mane about. ‘No. That is not us. Not how we do things.’

  Kyle nodded his understanding. ‘Then, this is farewell. Thank you, Baran, for saving my life.’

  The Iceblood inclined his head in salute. ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘Good hunting.’

  Baran hiked up his spear and grinned again. ‘Indeed. Let us hope they’ve followed far further than they ought.’ He jogged off.

  Kyle watched him go until he disappeared into the woods, then turned to the east and Lost Holding hidden somewhere among the morning mists flowing down the shoulders of the Salt range.

  * * *

  She awaited them on the crest of a low hill: a single dark figure in ragged untreated hides standing slim against the purpling north sky. Tall spring grasses and blue wild flowers blew about her knees. Her black hair whipped in the contrary winds.

  Silverfox eased up from driving her lathered mount and the beast immediately halted. Foam dripped from its lips with each laboured breath. Steeling herself, she wrenched one numb leg to raise it up over the pommel of her saddle. The scraping of her raw thighs was an agony to her. She almost fell when her feet hit the ground, only managing to remain upright by grasping at the saddle’s girth-strap.

  Old, she reflected grimly. I am already old. Yet I see myself as a young woman. Perhaps everyone comes to do so, and I have simply reached the self-revelation prematurely. An achievement for a girl not yet into her twenties. But not surprising, considering I carry millennia-old awarenesses within.

  Rubbing her thighs to ease feeling back into them, she hobbled up the rise to join Kilava.

  ‘Summoner,’ the ancient Bonecaster greeted her.

  Silverfox flinched – the woman always managed to infuse such disapproval into each use. ‘Kilava.’

  Behind the woman, down a series of gently descending grassy hillsides, lay the glittering surface of a broad bay, and the body of a wider lake, or sea, beyond. Ships lay at anchor in the bay, and a camp of sorts was spread out along the shore. Smoke from fires rose into the air. Already, mounted scouts were cantering out to investigate their presence.

  ‘What is this?’ she asked Kilava.

  ‘The locals name it the Sea of Dread.’

  Studying the waters, she could well imagine why they would do so; the rigid grip of the Jaghut magics of Omtose Phellack yet lay hard upon it, though it was rotting and slipping away even as she watched. Like ice beneath the heat of a summer sun, she reflected. In this case, the end of its time here upon the land.

  ‘It is all that remains of a great ice-field that once covered all this region,’ Kilava explained. ‘One of the last remaining glacial lakes.’

  Silverfox motioned to the north, where mountains remained visible in the dusk – the unmistakable gleam of ice shone about their peaks. ‘Yet some remains.’

  Kilava did not turn to look. ‘Yes,’ she allowed. ‘High in the mountains.’

  She did not need to add … our destination.

  Silverfox sensed the presence of Pran and Tolb as they came walking up. Her Imass followers arrived to stand ranged along the crest of the hill. They were motionless but for their tattered leathers and hanging fur wraps and cloaks flapping in the wind. She watched the closing mounted scouts suddenly wheel, wrenching away, to turn and gallop back to their camp. One even fell from his
mount and ran now, arms waving, after his horse.

  ‘Where are they?’ she asked Kilava.

  ‘Close now. Very close.’

  ‘You have not spoken to them?’

  The Bonecaster shook her head, brushed her hair from her face. ‘No. They know my choice. They would attack. I might not be able to extricate myself.’

  That casual admission brought home the slenderness of their chances to Silverfox. We are too far outnumbered. She wondered, then, whether she was in truth driving them before her. Or were they merely pursuing their goal while she chased after? One and the same, perhaps. In any case, the restrictions imposed upon Tellann in this region inhibited them all.

  We walk as in the old days. Tirelessly, yes. But just the same.

  Chaos had broken out within the camp. Figures ran to the boats drawn up upon the gravel beaches, pushed them out.

  ‘And who are these?’

  Again, Kilava did not turn away to glance. ‘Outlanders. Strangers. Not a scent of the Jaghut about them.’

  Silverfox nodded her agreement. She, too, saw none of the other race in them. ‘We follow the coast north, then?’

  Kilava lowered her chin in assent.

  Silverfox drew breath to speak again, paused, then continued regardless. ‘And … did you warn many off?’

  ‘All those I could reach.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Irritation wrinkled the Bonecaster’s features. ‘As I said – I did not do so to soothe your conscience.’

  Silverfox fought to subdue her own annoyance. ‘None the less … thank you.’

  Something heavy fell to the ground behind and Silverfox turned; her mount had collapsed. Its side shuddered for a time, drawing in and out like a bellows. Then this too stilled.

  Two Imass broke ranks to jog onward down the hillside. Silverfox turned an eye on Pran Chole. ‘What is this?’

  The mummified mask that was the Bonecaster’s face remained immobile as ever. He extended a stick-thin arm of bone and hanging ligaments towards camp. ‘You have need of a horse.’