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

  Walking back up the slope of the rise topped by Mantle, Jute noted the closing storm from the north. The cloud front had rolled down the upper heights of the Salt range and was now obscuring the vales immediately above. The constant roar of thunder shook the ground and strong winds lashed the branches. He spotted elk and deer bounding along the treeline just above the fields. Flights of birds came peeling out of the fog in ragged lines of ravens, gulls, ducks. And, apart from these, soaring higher, the outlines of prey-birds – eagles and falcons.

  Something was driving all before it. The thing Lady Orosenn spoke of. All that Jute could imagine was a sort of huge landslide or avalanche, churning its way down the slopes.

  He found Cartheron and Lady Orosenn in conversation at the wall, also looking north. Cartheron was gesturing, explaining something. ‘Am I interrupting?’ he asked, approaching up the earthen ramp.

  ‘Always welcome,’ Lady Orosenn greeted him. ‘Commander Cartheron was just explaining the geography of this location.’

  ‘Commander Cartheron?’

  ‘Considering his experience, King Voti has placed him in charge of Mantle’s defences.’

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ the man grumbled.

  ‘It is worth a great deal,’ Lady Orosenn corrected him. ‘I myself had hoped to reach the north and there kneel before my mother and beg her forgiveness. But,’ she pressed a hand to her wounded thigh, ‘it is not to be. Now we must weather the coming storm from here.’

  ‘And this storm,’ Jute now dared ask, ‘what is it exactly?’

  The Jaghut shared a glance with Cartheron. ‘You know the great ice cliffs we passed to the south?’ Jute nodded, he had seen such along many shores. ‘Like that, only moving across the land.’ Jute blew out a breath – he couldn’t even imagine what that would be like. Nothing, it seemed to him, would be spared such a grinding passage. ‘And Commander Cartheron has some ideas on this front.’

  The old Napan held his hands out over the wall as if describing an inverted V. ‘This is bedrock we’re built on. Been here for ages. This is the highest piece of land across the entire north coast. See how we’re atop a wedge that slopes down away before us and off to either side?’ Jute nodded. ‘We can use that natural rock incline.’

  ‘How so?’ Jute asked, still mystified.

  Lady Orosenn was examining the slope. Free of her headscarf and veil, her features were rather harsh, Jute thought – the jaw too square and heavy, the cheekbones too jutting. But her wide expressive eyes still held their glamour for him. They carried sceptical calculation now. ‘Why are we discussing this? You would need some sort of immense push even to get the motion going.’

  Cartheron winked. ‘Oh, I got me a big motivator.’ He looked around, found Lieutenant Jalaz where she waited nearby for orders, and waved her to him. ‘Send word to the Ragstopper. I want it brought in to shore and Orothos up here.’ Jalaz saluted and jogged off. ‘Now we wait.’ He peered round again and shouted to a nearby local spearman, ‘Hey, how about a meal? I’m starving up here.’

  A meal eventually appeared, comprising a trencher of bread, cold venison, a block of hard cheese and a leather tankard of beer. With the meal came Malle. She shot Cartheron a knowing glare and raised her chin to the cloud front descending the forested vales amid a now constant reverberating booming. ‘What’s the plan?’ she asked. She had to raise her voice to be heard above the din. ‘Do we jump into the sea?’

  ‘Might come to that,’ Cartheron agreed. Then, aside, ‘Ah! Here we are.’

  His first mate, Orothos, came walking up the dirt ramp. His shirt hung in tatters from his emaciated form, as did his trousers of canvas, which were tied up with a worn hemp rope. ‘What now?’ the mate grumbled in a manner far from respectful. ‘I’m busy bailing.’

  Cartheron ignored the tone – or possibly it meant nothing to him. ‘I want the springals and scorpions mounted on the wall here. And I want all the consignment brought up for use.’

  The first mate blinked his incredulity. ‘What? All of it?’

  ‘It’s of no use to us at the bottom of the Sea of Gold.’

  The man gaped at his captain. He spluttered, ‘But that’s our nest egg. Our retirement fund! What’re we gonna do without it?’

  ‘The king here has offered us a place. I understand I’m takin’ over as foreign adviser once Malle here leaves.’ The wiry old woman tilted her head in agreement.

  ‘If there’s anything left!’

  Cartheron finally snapped: ‘Then let’s see to it! Now do as I say!’

  The first mate glared his defiance, which Cartheron met with a scowl, and then the man slapped a hand to his forehead, spun on his heels, and slouched his way down the ramp, muttering to himself, ‘… now he drops anchor? … not Nathilog? … damned nowhere … not one tavern to be found…’

  In the silence following the mate’s departure, Malle clasped her hands and stepped up to Cartheron. ‘I, too, must express my concern. I mean – must you use all of it?’

  ‘It’s it or us, Malle. And I intend to hit it with all I got.’

  A strange smile crept up one edge of her thin lips. ‘Well … that is the old Crust I remember.’

  The ex-High Fist snorted, then gestured Lieutenant Jalaz to him. ‘Take the lads and lasses and see to the unloading.’ She saluted again, and offered a savage grin.

  * * *

  All the Malazans, including Malle’s guard, lent a hand. As the light darkened to the honey-yellow of late afternoon, four siege weapons were mounted and test shots were executed with weighted stones to measure distance. A steady train of black wooden chests came up from the Ragstopper, each sealed with a silver sigil. Lieutenant Jalaz came to Jute as he studied the chests and she pointed out the seals. ‘See the sceptre? Sign of the imperial arsenal at Unta.’ She ran a caressing hand across the wet black wood. ‘When K’azz’s Crimson Guard attacked the capital they blew the main imperial depot. All the Moranth munitions were supposed to have been lost. But look at this. A cache such as no one will ever see again.’

  ‘So this is rare – even for you Malazans.’

  The lieutenant choked down a laugh. ‘Rare? Captain … you could buy a kingdom with this.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what Cartheron aims to do with it.’

  To her credit as a one-time servant of the throne, Jalaz flinched from such frank language. ‘He sees a chance to defend an ally and he does not shrink from it.’

  Jute would not release her from his steady gaze. ‘Lieutenant, you are from Genabackis. I am from Falar. Our fathers or grandfathers were conquered by the Malazans, yet here we are. Why?’

  Giana Jalaz turned away to stare off at the massed clouds that hung overhead like a fist about to crush them. She hugged herself against the chill wind, tucking her hands under her arms. ‘When I was a child,’ she said, after a time, ‘my world was very small. Just my village and the valley we and the neighbouring villages occupied. To travel beyond it was unthinkable. You would be robbed or enslaved or killed out of hand as a stranger – an interloper. But then the Empire came and my world broadened beyond measure. I could travel from Cat in the north to Pale or even to Darujhistan if I wished … all under the aegis of the imperial sceptre. I was treated as equal, able to sign up to serve. I could hold what was mine under the law and the law held. That was what the Malazans brought. Granted, there were abuses, corruption, just as there had been under the old provincial rulers – human nature doesn’t change. But the opportunity was there. Hope was there. At least a chance.’ She lowered her gaze to him. ‘And now the new emperor is from Falar, isn’t he?’

  Jute pulled away, but not because of the rearing head of imperial politics. ‘We don’t speak of him in Falar.’

  ‘No? Why not?’

  Jute straightened from the stacked chests, glanced about. ‘You have been frank, and I thank you. That is a rare gift. I am only a ship’s captain, a small-time recovering raider. But we of the sea trade in Falar know of the old blood-cult, the Jhistal. It
s followers terrorized our islands for generations. He—’ Jute broke off as a gang of Malle’s guards arrived to carry the chests up to the top of the wall. Once they were gone, he turned back to Giana and lowered his voice: ‘You speak of limited horizons. We in Falar had squirmed in the grip of those priests for generations. To speak up was to find one’s children selected as the next sacrifices to the sea. The Malazans broke that grip and for that I will be forever grateful, despite the cost. But the new emperor … he tries to rewrite the history of it, but there are those who still dare to whisper that he came out of that hierarchy. That he was once a priest of the Jhistal. And so as long as he may rule we will never speak his name.’

  The lieutenant blew out a long ragged breath and held out her hand. He took it in a tight grip. ‘Honesty is a rare gift among strangers,’ she said with feeling.

  ‘An easy gift, since we may not see the morrow.’

  She lowered her gaze to the chest at their feet. ‘Well then … let’s get to it.’

  They each took a handle, and together they carried it up to the top of the wall.

  * * *

  Lady Orosenn was on the catwalk speaking to Voti and Malle. Beyond, up the valley, the fog appeared to be breaking up. The rumbling was not diminishing, however. Even atop the wall, Jute felt the vibrations hammering through his boots.

  ‘This is your people’s last chance,’ Lady Orosenn was saying. ‘There will be no escape once it is upon us.’

  The young king’s mouth pulled down, accentuating his long jaw. ‘We will not abandon what is ours.’

  Lady Orosenn dipped her head in acceptance. ‘Very well. I have to confess – I hold little hope.’

  Voti bowed. ‘Thank you for that frank admission. I will go to tell my council.’

  Lady Orosenn answered the bow and he descended the ramp, followed by his bodyguard of ten spears. Malle remained. She leaned against the shaking stone blocks of the wall, peering out.

  Cartheron arrived and nodded to Lieutenant Jalaz. ‘Time,’ he said. She gave a curt bob of her head. ‘You’ll need eight veterans.’

  Malle turned from the wall. ‘Riley and his boys are up for it.’

  Cartheron gave his assent.

  ‘Time for what?’ Jute asked, feeling a strange sort of growing unease.

  Lieutenant Jalaz squeezed his shoulder, grinning. ‘Wish me luck, Jute of Delanss.’ She jogged off down the ramp. Malle leaned out over the catwalk and snapped her fingers. The majority of her remaining guards rose where they’d been squatting below among the chests.

  ‘What is going on?’ Jute asked everyone.

  Cartheron shouted down, ‘Open the gates!’

  ‘Open the gates? What for?’

  But Cartheron ignored him, going to the wall to lean out, peering down. Jute went to his side. Below, the gates of bronze-sheathed timber swung open. Lieutenant Jalaz appeared, jog-trotting north at the head of a train of four munition chests, each carried by two men and piled with shovels and picks.

  ‘What is this?’ Jute demanded.

  Cartheron finally turned to him. He was rubbing a hand over his balding pate. ‘A gamble.’

  ‘A gamble? What sort of gamble?’

  ‘Orosenn assures me that all the soil and dirt ’n’ such is going to be scraped up, so no point in burying a charge. But there’s rock crevices and cracks where the bedrock comes mounding up. They’re gonna look for some of those at our maximum range. Push a few munitions down there for a little extra oomph.’

  Jute snapped his gaze to where Lieutenant Jalaz and her team were disappearing into the banners of ground fog. ‘There’s no time for that!’

  Cartheron just brushed his fingers down his jaw. ‘It’s a good throw. Worth four chests.’

  Jute could not believe such callousness. ‘Four chests! What of nine people?’

  That must have stung, as the old commander’s gaze flicked to him and he grated, his voice tight, ‘Don’t lecture me, son. They’re good people doing what they do best, so leave them to it.’ He walked off, unsteady, looking bowed. Jute moved to follow, but Malle caught his arm.

  ‘Let him go. Do not add to his pain. Nine lives, you say? Well, what of all of us?’

  ‘But—’

  The hardened old woman stopped him with a look. ‘There will always be buts, captain. The important thing is that choices be made. Now comes the hard part.’

  ‘The hard part?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her gaze shifted to the north. ‘Now we wait.’

  * * *

  The walls became crowded as the evening passed. Everyone wanted to watch, perhaps out of a kind of perverse fascination to see the end. Conversation was impossible. One had to press one’s mouth to anyone’s ear to be heard over the groaning earth, the rumbling avalanche, and the growing thunderous grinding of tons upon tons of moiling rock and earth.

  To make it worse, it was now blowing snow. The fat flakes came out of the heights, driven by a cutting wind that only grew in intensity. Far to the east and west, all along the uplands as far as Jute could see, the thinning clouds hinted at a wall of white covering the heights – an unbroken sheath of snow that was utterly featureless except where tall ridges of black rock poked through like knife-edges.

  He scanned the domed rock before the fortress where it descended to the north. The bedrock carried only low brush and dwarf trees, but it combed downward into a forest of cedar, fir, and birch. Just at the fringe of these woods was where Giana and her team were supposed to be digging. He could see no sign of them, however.

  The vibration punishing everyone’s feet was becoming almost unbearable. One of the pounded dirt ramps collapsed into a heap of soil, soundlessly it seemed, as the cacophony of the leagues-wide avalanche grinding down upon them drowned everything out.

  Squinting into the blowing snow he could make out entire swathes of forest disappearing as if swept down by an invisible hand. The enormous blocks of the wall juddered and bounced as if toys. The last screen of trees between them and the avalanche fell towards them, their crowns swinging down as if bowing in farewell. Come on! he urged Giana. Run!

  Something appeared through the curtain of snow but it was not what Jute expected. To all appearances it looked like a flood of extremely muddy water creeping up the slope of the bedrock. Sticks and detritus roiled amid the froth of the approaching tide. It took him a moment to grasp that the sticks were in fact the stripped trunks of mature trees, and that the coming tide was a churned froth of mud, silts, soil, and sand, all being scooped downslope towards them in front of a solid wall of one of the ice-tongues.

  And before this flood emerged six figures, running pell-mell for the high land and the wall.

  Jute tottered and stumbled his way down the ramp to the gates, where a team of locals waited to swing closed the twin leaves. The figures, completely mud-covered, ran on while the very earth jumped and shuddered beneath them. Now Jute counted only four.

  The quartet came barrelling in, dripping, sheathed in mud and streaks of blood, and fell to the ground, panting and gasping. King Voti’s people shut the doors. Jute and a number of Malazans stooped to the four, rubbing away muck, pulling a shattered length of wood the size of a dagger from the arm of one of them. To Jute’s immense relief Lieutenant Jalaz emerged, bruised and bloodied, from the layers of clinging muck encasing another of them.

  ‘You fool!’ he growled, though of course she could not hear. She understood, however, and shrugged weakly. He waved for her to stay where she was and tottered up the ramp.

  What he found above reminded him of what Lady Orosenn had said about there being no escape. Entire forests of tangled trees were building up amid the coursing wash of suspended soil and earth that was passing to either side of the rise. Orothos, under directions from Cartheron, had his crews blasting these logjams to pieces. Meanwhile, the roiling mass of coming earth just kept mounting higher and higher. Of the township of Mantle there remained no trace. The effect of all this was as of the worst naval engagement Jute had e
ver endured. He ran to Lady Orosenn, motioned that he wished to speak. She lowered her head. ‘What are they doing?’ he yelled.

  She made a pushing gesture. ‘Moving it along.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We don’t want it to catch and heap up.’

  ‘Why are they firing into the mud?’

  ‘We don’t know when the ice will arrive,’ she called back. ‘I suspect the leading edge to be thin. Under the muck at first.’

  After that, Jute was too hoarse to continue yelling so he merely nodded and allowed Lady Orosenn to return to studying the flow. He tried to imagine what it must be like on the shores of the Sea of Gold as all this earth and gravel and loose rock came thrusting out on to the mudflats, perhaps taking them with it. It suddenly occurred to him, horrifyingly – could the entire sea be erased? All that water heaved further south? How far away were the ships? Had they made it through the channel yet? He prayed to the gods that they had. If not, they were in for a memorable ride.

  One of the crews on the springals thrust their arms skyward, shouting soundlessly, and Jute scanned the base of the rise. Pulverized white flakes came floating down from an eruption. They momentarily painted white the foaming, shifting flow, only to be sucked beneath. Cartheron was gesturing, signing to the crews, who shifted their aim. He raised an open hand and the crews waited, hands at the releases.

  Why was he waiting, Jute wondered. Shouldn’t he be punishing the ice now that it had arrived? Perhaps he was waiting for the flow to thicken – no point in blasting the thinnest leading finger. Perhaps. Then he noticed that the commander’s gaze was fixed upon Lady Orosenn, who had a hand outstretched as if reaching for him.

  The walls rocked then, as in a true earthquake. Or perhaps a collision. Jute turned his head to the north, terrified of what he might see. There, what he’d taken earlier for a thick wall of falling snow revealed itself to be a steep upward-sweeping wing-like slope that went on and on, perhaps for leagues, up the entire lowest shoulder of the mountains: an ungraspable immensity of ice and weight and might all bearing down upon them like a war dromond striking a water beetle. He knew it to be a plain physical manifestation of ice and rock, but he couldn’t help also feeling a palpable sense of deliberate menace and ruthless will pointed directly at him – and he the size of a flea beneath it.