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

  He found Stalker, Fisher, Jethiss and Cal-Brinn assembled there. All appeared to have taken wounds of greater or lesser severity. Cal-Brinn was crouched, a hand above his head against the heat and drifting embers. ‘They are expecting us!’ he shouted over the conflagration battering them with its yammering fury.

  ‘We can’t wait!’ Stalker answered.

  ‘I know!’

  The wool surcoat of one of the Avowed standing guard nearby suddenly burst aflame. The man calmly yanked it over his head and tossed it aside.

  ‘I will try to raise my Warren,’ Cal-Brinn called out. ‘It may be too much – you might have to carry me!’

  ‘No!’ Jethiss pushed forward. ‘Allow me. I managed this once before…’

  Kyle remembered Coots falling and the darkness descending – yes, he’d somehow summoned sorcery before.

  The man stood utterly still, concentrating, Kyle imagined. Everyone, meanwhile, danced and batted at embers of burning hay and wood that came drifting down to sting flesh and singe hair. Yet Jethiss did not stir, even when embers touched upon him, sending up wisps of smoke to join the black clouds churning about them.

  Kyle came to despair: they’d be consumed before anything manifested! He wiped coals from the mail of his sleeves and his gloves smoked. Perhaps it was his dimming vision then, but the light changed. The blinding incandescence of the inferno seemed to brighten even more as black streams of night snaked away over the bared bloodied ground. He’d banished the darkness?

  Barely audible over the thunder just above their heads came shouts of panic from out beyond the earthworks. Jethiss turned to them, gesturing outwards. ‘It is done.’

  Cal-Brinn raised an arm, signing, and the Avowed converged. Coughing almost uncontrollably, Kyle joined the rush over the mound. He did not know what to expect out beyond the defences but complete chaos and confusion was not it. The Letherii lines had disintegrated. Soldiers ran all about, falling, flailing, batting at twisting ribbons of dark that twined about them like snakes.

  Cal-Brinn gestured and the remaining Avowed formed a perimeter round their small party and they quickly pushed through to the forest beyond. Few blows were exchanged, though arrows did fly their way from distant portions of the ranks far from their point of escape. Kyle did a hasty count and came up with twelve of the Guard. They’d lost four in the defence.

  They jogged on. No one suggested a halt, despite pronounced limps and ragged breaths. At length, Cal raised his fist and the party staggered to a stop. Kyle leaned over, hands on his knees, gasping. Some collapsed to the ground. Despite his dizzying exhaustion, he turned to study their rear. He found a glow through the trees in the valley below that betrayed the Greathall. He glimpsed no torches in the woods between. Perhaps Marshal Teal was content in having driven them off. Groaning, straightening his back, he crossed to where Stalker and Cal-Brinn spoke in low tones.

  ‘You need not come,’ Stalker was saying. ‘You’ve done enough.’

  ‘We would see you safe,’ Cal answered, his tone firm.

  ‘We will be safe in the heights.’

  ‘What was that?’ Fisher demanded, straightening from examining the wounded side of an Avowed.

  Stalker drew his fingers down his moustache, his lips tightening. ‘We’re heading to the heights. Any survivors from the other Holdings will have made their way there.’

  Fisher waved his arm in a broad arc. ‘Strike east or west. All directions are open. Head for the coast. Escape this region!’

  ‘But avoid the spine of the Bone range,’ Badlands muttered.

  Through this Stalker was shaking his head. ‘No, Fisher. We can’t avoid it any longer. It’s our legacy – and yours too, lad,’ he added, speaking to Kyle. ‘We share the blood.’

  ‘What of it?’ Badlands asked.

  Stalker began cleaning his blade on a handful of moss. ‘I mean it’s coming to a head – isn’t it, Fish? What do you say?’

  The bard drew breath to speak, but checked himself. Kyle almost thought his expression fearful before he suddenly turned away.

  ‘Speak, damn you!’ Stalker yelled. ‘Or hold your tongue from this point onward!’

  The bard suddenly swung round, his lips clenched so tight as to be almost white.

  From the edge of his vision, Kyle caught Jethiss stepping out of the dark. The Andii had his hands raised, open. ‘We are all of us run ragged. Our blood is high. Perhaps now is not the time…’

  But Fisher had drawn himself up straight and with both hands pushed back his long, sweaty grey-streaked hair. ‘You would have me speak, would you? Very well. All I have are suspicions, hints, lines from old sagas, but what I dread may be very real. I fear both what lies ahead and what lies behind. And for the life of me, I cannot say which is the lesser of the two! Omtose Phellack is stirring. And why? What could raise its ire? Badlands,’ he demanded, pointing, ‘I spoke of this before and you dismissed it – who is the old enemy?’

  The Lost brother’s brow wrinkled in confusion at first, but then understanding came and he snorted his scorn. ‘You can’t be serious, man!’

  ‘I fear it!’ Fisher answered, insistent. ‘And we are leading them on higher!’ He turned to Stalker. ‘And what sleeps in the heights?’

  Stalker scowled in obvious rejection of the bard’s words. He turned away and raised his head to the heights gleaming silvery-blue through breaks in the forest’s canopy. He was quiet for a time as he smoothed his long drooping moustache. ‘You’re letting your imagination get the better of you – jumping at maybes and phantasms.’ Yet his tone told Kyle that he was half convinced. ‘We’d better talk this over with the others.’ As if struck by a thought, he faced Jethiss. ‘My thanks for getting us out of there.’

  The Andii inclined his head a fraction. ‘No – it is I who should thank you.’ He glanced to Fisher. ‘Calling upon whatever it is in me that allows this manipulation has jogged free more of my memories. I believe I now know why I am here.’

  Strangely, instead of being pleased, as Kyle had thought he would be, the bard actually appeared wary. He offered a subdued, ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jethiss turned to Kyle. ‘Our people once had a champion who carried a blade that guarded us. Now we are without such a protector. I believe I have been sent to remedy that lack. I believe I have been sent for a sword.’

  Kyle could not help but close his fist on the grip of the white blade. All eyes, he noted, now rested upon him. He felt his breath whisper away in an unmanning clutch of dread.

  Jethiss frowned then, studying his face in puzzlement, then his brows rose and for an instant a strange expression crossed his face. What to Kyle appeared a wince of hurt. He waved a hand. ‘Do not worry, friend Kyle, I would never – that is, your weapon is safe.’

  ‘Then where,’ the bard asked into the lengthening silence, ‘do you believe you will find this weapon?’

  The Andii’s alien night-black eyes released Kyle to shift to Fisher. ‘In the north.’

  Kyle found himself blinking and weaving slightly as he dropped his sweat-slick hand from the sword. Only now did he note how both Stalker and Badlands flanked him, while Cal-Brinn had eased away, closer to the Avowed now quiet and watchful across the copse of woods.

  ‘A desperate option,’ Fisher remarked, rather dryly. ‘Do you think it wise?’

  ‘I think it necessary.’ And the Andii walked off into the woods, heading upland.

  Kyle and the remaining three exchanged silent looks. We are of the blood, he realized. As Stalker said, I, too, have a stake here.

  ‘So what do we do?’ Badlands growled, and adjusted the blood-soaked cloth round his upper arm.

  ‘I do not know,’ Fisher answered. ‘I’m not even sure we could stop him if we wished.’

  ‘Is he – you know … him?’

  The bard shook his head in frustration. ‘I do not believe so. He appears so different. But then…’

  ‘Yes? What?’ Stalker prompted, irritated by the bard’s habit of withholding h
is thoughts.

  Fisher raised his shoulders in a helpless shrug. ‘He was a shapeshifter.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful,’ Badlands snarled, and he let out a breath like a fart. ‘That’s a big help.’ He waved Cal-Brinn over, calling, ‘Let’s put more room between us ’n’ them Letherii bastards, shall we?’

  * * *

  Reuth started up from his bunk in a panic. It was dark and all he could see were Storval’s hands reaching for his throat from the night. He blinked away the ghost-memory from his nightmares. He remembered that he was safe now, on board the Silver Dawn, in the care of a blind Falaran pilot and her husband, the ship’s captain. He had a sudden sense of the solid presence of his uncle, Tulan, wrapped in his bear-hide cloak, smelling of grease, and tears came to his eyes. He was gone, and the crew that betrayed him was now part of the invader army camped outside the walls of Mantle, high on its cliff-side perch.

  Though it was long before dawn he knew he’d never get back to sleep, so he swung his feet over to the cold boards of the cabin and dressed. The air was surprisingly chill and he shivered as he pulled on his woollen outer shirt and vest. Last, he drew on his goatskin shoes, slipped each leather thong over its horn toggle, and stood to stamp his feet on the boards to bring warmth to them. Indeed, so cold was the night air that he drew on the extra cloak he’d been given and clasped it at his shoulder with its round bronze brooch.

  Ducking his head, he opened the door and stepped out of what was the cabin of the captain and his wife – the only private cabin on board the vessel. He remembered, vaguely, being moved here. He drew in a long breath of the chill air and nearly coughed, so harsh was it. His lungs felt frozen. To the south, the night sky was dark and clear, the stars glimmering brightly. But thick black clouds choked the sky overhead and further north. They crowded so low as to cut off the heights of the Salt range.

  ‘Felt it too, yes?’ murmured the rough voice of his caregiver, the ship’s pilot, Ieleen.

  He turned to the tiller arm where she sat, long-stemmed pipe in mouth, hands clasping a short walking stick. ‘Felt what?’

  ‘The change.’ She took hold of the pipe and gestured. ‘All these days the wind has been coming out of the south, bringing warmth and the spring.’ She pointed the stem north. ‘But now the air is coming down from the mountains, bringing an unnatural cold.’ Her eyes, milky blind, somehow found his. ‘Ever felt the like?’

  Being of Mare, Reuth had to admit that he had. So dreadful was the similarity he was reluctant to give it voice. As if saying it would somehow lend it solidity. ‘The false winter of the Stormriders,’ he finally admitted, hunching and shivering.

  ‘Aye. Your Stormriders. The ignorant speak of the winters of the Stormriders and the Jaghut as if they are the same thing. But that is not so. The Riders are alien. Not of this world. Indeed, some argue that in their original form they were of the frigid black gaps between the worlds – but that cannot be decided. No, this cold is more familiar, is it not? We’ve faced it before, or at least our ancestors have.’ She drew on the pipe in a loud hiss and popping of whatever strange leaf she burned. ‘This crew is of Falar, and south of our lands are mountains capped by a great ice-field. The Fenn range, we call it. It, too, is a place where the old races yet hold out. Giants and Jaghut – the Fenn and the Thelomen-kind. We both know this cold, yes? It is the breath of the Jaghut winter blowing down our necks.’

  Reuth shivered again. ‘But it’s spring.’

  The old woman’s snow-white orbs gleamed in the yellow glow of the pipe-embers. ‘It was. I fear spring’s been cancelled. As has summer.’

  ‘That’s impossible!’

  ‘Not at all. It’s happened before. Many times. In many regions.’

  ‘Greetings, Silver Dawn!’ a gruff voice called from the dock. ‘Permission to come aboard?’

  Reuth glanced to Ieleen then shook himself, remembering her blindness. ‘What should I do?’ he whispered.

  She waved him onward. ‘Give him permission, lad!’

  He hurried to the side. It was a barrel-shaped fellow he recognized as a Genabackan. ‘Granted,’ he answered.

  The big fellow came puffing up the gangplank. He was all smiles behind his greying beard. ‘Morning! Morning. And a damned frosty one too! Cold enough to freeze the tits from a—’ He caught sight of Ieleen and clamped his lips shut. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

  But she just smiled indulgently as she drew on the pipe then exhaled a great gout of blue smoke. ‘Look at us three,’ she murmured, choosing to ignore her own handicap. ‘A Falaran pilot, a Genabackan mariner, and a Mare navigator. We three smell it. Us with the knack of sensing the currents of sea and air. Yes, Enguf?’

  The Genabackan was nodding as he stroked his beard. ‘Aye. The wind’s changed. It’s strong out of the north now. Not a good sign for us.’

  ‘I agree,’ Ieleen said around the stem of the pipe. ‘We must be ready. We may have to slip anchor in a rush.’

  The Genabackan pirate cocked a brow. ‘Think you so? Unsettling news. The lads and lasses won’t like that.’

  ‘They sound miserable already.’

  Enguf winced and dragged his fingers through his beard. ‘Aye. This whole venture’s been nothing but one disaster after another. I’ve had to put down three, ah … spirited debates regarding my leadership.’

  Ieleen laughed with the pipe stem clamped between her teeth. ‘Look at it this way. You might be the only ship to return to the Confederacy. You can tell whatever stories you damned well please, then.’

  Enguf laughed uproariously and slapped Reuth’s shoulder. The fellow rather reminded him of his uncle. ‘And I shall!’ he promised. ‘You can be damned certain of that!’ He straightened. ‘I’ll keep your words in mind. Always prudent to weigh the words of a Falaran sea-witch. Until later, then.’ He clomped off to the gangway.

  Reuth’s eyes had grown large at the man’s words. A sea-witch! Growing up in Mare, he’d heard nothing but ghastly stories of such sorceresses. Human sacrifices, eating babies, drinking blood! Every wicked practice imaginable! Swallowing to wet his throat, he ventured, ‘He called you a sea-witch.’

  The old woman’s blind hoarfrost-white orbs swung to directly meet his own. Her wrinkled lips rose in a slow smile that seemed to promise she knew all he was thinking.

  ‘It’s just a term of affection,’ she said.

  * * *

  Mist sensed the approach of yet more newcomers. She was pacing before her throne, hands clasped behind her back, wondering on the mystery of this untimely chill flowing down from the north like an unwelcome breath. Had these pathetic invaders caused more trouble than she’d imagined?

  Who, she wondered, would dare approach now in the mid-day? None of the horns had sounded announcing landing vessels – and she was certain none of her people would neglect that. Still, in the past, some parties had arrived overland, harrowing though the passage might be. She turned to the rear of the great meeting hall, calling, ‘Anger! Wrath! Rouse yourselves, you sodden wineskins! We have unannounced guests.’ Deep basso grumblings answered her from the dark.

  She sat on the throne, arranged the long trailing tag-ends of her gown, and summoned her sorcery. It was a melding she had crafted over the centuries of her innate access to Omtose Phellack and such lesser portals to power as were available in these southern lands.

  Shadows moved in the light streaming in through the open way, out beyond the entrance hall. The flickering light pulled her gaze and she paused, bemused by what she sensed there. Something unfamiliar, yet also teasingly recognizable … like something she had sensed recently. Something she hadn’t liked.

  Her magery now swirled about her in gossamer filaments and ribbons, spreading out to enmesh the entire hall in readiness. She turned her attention to the figures now entering the hall and the twitching tag-ends of coalesced fog, together with the scarves of vapour, all flinched as one.

  Creatures out of legend. The threat so long predicted she’d long since laughed it away. The unrel
enting, undying hunters. The Army of Dust and Bone.

  The lead figure wore a cloak of stiff hide on which only a few sad patches of what was once perhaps white fur still remained. The eyeless head of the beast rode atop a mummified mien hardly any better preserved. A forest of bear claws rattled and clattered at his hollow chest. Ragged tattered pelts and skins wrapped a torso of flesh hard to differentiate from the leathers. A blade of pale brown flint, its grip wrapped in a leather strip, rode at a belt of woven leather.

  The next one was in even worse shape, could that be possible. She, for Mist intuited that the dried cadaver had been female, had obviously been driven through by many savage blows. The cured leather of her hides hung in shreds. Wide tannin-stained cheekbones seemed to elongate the empty orbits of the eyes. Upper canines glinted copper-sheathed.

  Behind these two leaders more of the undying entered, spreading out across the hall. Bony feet slid and clacked on the stone flags of the floor, dry hides brushed and rubbed. Mist imagined she could almost hear their joints creak and grate as the hoary ancients swung their heads to regard her.

  She found that a sea of dark empty sockets casts a heavy weight.

  She remembered who she was – her lineage – and loosed her grip on the armrests of her throne. She raised her chin, defiant even in the face of these foretold avengers, and worked to force the usual disdain into her voice. ‘What is it you wish, accursed ones?’

  ‘You know what we have come for,’ the lead undying answered – its voice was as the desiccated brushing of dead twigs across stone.

  ‘Then you have travelled far for nothing, as you shall not leave this hall.’

  ‘We shall see.’ He lifted a gnarled mangled hand of sinew and ligament-wound bone to his fellows.

  ‘A moment,’ Mist called, ‘if you would.’