Stonewielder (Novels of the Malazan Empire, #3)

by Ian C. Esslemont

The figure took a great sucking breath. ‘Outlander,’ it boomed, ‘you have come to settle the land. I welcome you and offer my protection.’ The Goddess gestured with a gnarled and twisted hand to the block at her feet. ‘Take this most precious sarcophagus. Within rests flesh of my flesh. Carry it along the coast. Trace a path. Mark it and build there a great wall. A barrier. Defend it that behind it you may rest protected from those enemies from the sea who seek to ravage this land. Do you accept this my gift to you and all your people?’

Bored with hanging around, Stalker, Coots and Badlands had said their goodbyes and shipped out on a vessel heading west. Kyle’s guardian spirit, or haunt, seemed to have also drifted off: Stoop, the ghost of a dead Crimson Guardsman, one of the Avowed, those who swore a binding vow to oppose the Malazan Empire so long as it should endure. And that vow, which granted them so much, extended life and strength, also bound them in death, chaining them to the world. But over the months he too had faded away, returning, perhaps, to his dead brethren. Kyle had thought he saw a kind of disappointment in the haunt’s eyes when it appeared that last time to say farewell.

He shrugged, his gaze hooded. ‘My mother said her people were of the Red-Rock tribe of the Thoul-Alai. That is all I know.’ The Priestess’s voice hardened in sudden outrage. ‘Your people were of the Toblakai, Ivanr! Blessed of the children of the Great Mother! Some of you survive, isolated, in pockets here and there, despite the best efforts of all those who have stolen your lands.’

The man turned his head to glare one-eyed. ‘Don’t be trite. One night I climbed down the cliffs to the edge of the Ocean of Storm and waited – you try that one night. Eventually, some showed up. They speak Korelri … there’s irony for you. Anyway, we talked. They claimed they weren’t the enemy at all. I pointed out that attacking the Stormwall for generations tended to give the appearance. They said the Korelri were denying them access to their own territory and blocking some kind of ancient obligation, or holy pilgrimage … or some such thing.’ He cleared his throat, waved a hand. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t really make it all out.’ Kyle got the impression there was more to it, but apparently this was all the other would say – for now.

‘So, that name I’d heard for you – Stonewielder.’ ‘Yeah. A few called me that before I was arrested by Malazan High Command.’ ‘But … I thought you were in command of Malazan forces in Korel.’ ‘Military, yes. The marines and regulars. But there was a civilian authority. A governor. Hemel. Hemel ’Et Kelal. A Bloorian nobleman. Never did know what happened to the man. Anyway, he and a gang of minor officers denounced me for treating with the Riders … and that was that.’

To hide her irritation at that familiar high-handedness, Kiska looked away, to where sacks of some sort of dried leaves sat slumped and threadbare. ‘It is no longer for you to say, Agayla. I was Tayschrenn’s bodyguard for a decade. I travelled with him to negotiate treaties. Met an ambassador sent from Anomander Rake himself. I have visited Darujhistan where we met a delegation of ex-Free City mages. I now know you for a talented practitioner in your own way, Agayla. At least here on this island. But this is a very small island. And these are larger matters.’

Leaving, she noticed an old man squatting against a stone wall across the way; his great thick arms hung over his knees, and a white thatching of scars criss-crossed his bald pate. The man’s gaze followed her as she left. She thought he looked vaguely familiar: probably from her youth on the island.

Temper

She’d heard that this woman walked with Anomander generations ago. Yet was she not the greatest enchantress of the age? She could appear as she wished and this was her choice; it was up to her, Kiska, to take from it what she would.

Queen of Dreams

‘Do I know you?’ he asked, struck by a sudden vague recollection. ‘No, Assessor. You most certainly do not know me. This way …’

‘Look here. The Great Mother Goddess. She has had countless names, though Lady is not one.’ The hand moved to another. ‘The Great Sky-Father this one is called, though Light is his aspect. Here, the Great Deceiver would push forward – not realizing that to succeed would spell his dissolution. Here, the Beast of War stirs again – what shall be the final shape of its rising? Here, the Dark Hoarder of Souls. He has my friend now – may both of them come to know peace. And here, the newcomer, the Broken God, watching and scheming from afar.’ Bakune recognized these ancient names and titles from his research into the indigenous peoples of the archipelago – all their old animistic spirits of earth, air, and night. All vaguely similar in character to the foreign Malazan faiths, of which, presumably, they were distant relatives. All the old pagan beliefs that had multiplied indiscriminately before the arrival of the Blessed Lady and the one true faith.

They halted before their commander. Yes, commander, now. Yeull ’ul Taith. Overlord. High Fist, after a fashion. First went Greymane – ousted on account of his outrageous leanings. Then that Imperialappointed governor – what had his name been? Found dead. Then Fist Udara – but her suicide had appeared genuine. And now Yeull – clinging on like a man gripping a plank in a storm. Terrified of betrayal. Yet hanging on just the same, even more terrified of letting go.

Could the priests have been right all along? They said there was only one thing here in these lands that could attract any foreign power: the faith of the Blessed Lady. That these Malazans had come to crush the true religion. It seemed inconceivable. But why else come? He could think of no other explanation. Surely these Malazans had lands enough all over the world. All that blood and treasure expended. And for what? One measly island the inhabitants of which were so self-centred, so self-deluded, that they actually named their island a continent?

‘My friend,’ Hagen rumbled, ‘the land south of the Ice Wastes is Toblakai land.’

As they shuffled to the nearest tower, Hagen leaned down to Corlo, who dragged along behind. ‘Very impressive. Your man reminds me of the fellow who was Champion before me – though he has not the man’s elegance. He was Malazan too. They called him Traveller. Do you know him?’ Corlo shook his head, hardly listening, feeling that he would vomit with self-loathing. ‘No. I don’t know anyone named Traveller.’

Kyle stared from man to man, unable to find the words. The two commanders exchanged amused looks. Finally Kyle waved his disgust. ‘Lunatics – both of you!’ He stormed out. Bowing, Devaleth followed. Alone, the two were quiet for a time; Nok accepted a glass from Greymane. ‘Your Adjunct,’ Nok said, savouring the drink. ‘Are you sure the lad is up to the job?’ Greymane swallowed, then frowned over his answer, considering how to reply. Eventually he cleared his throat. ‘Nok … I tell you this in all trust. Kyle is from Assail.’ The old Admiral straightened, his eyes widening. ‘That is impossible. ’ ‘I was with the Crimson Guard when it slunk its way wide south of Assail lands. Kyle was recruited then. He’d come down from the north.’ ‘There’s so much I would ask … What of the Imass?’ But the High Fist was shaking his head. ‘No. He’s just a tribesman. He knows nothing of wars or fighting further north. Although …’ and here the High Fist looked away, thoughtful, ‘there were three lads – friends of his – I believe they knew more of what was going on up north. They kept damned mum about it all, understandably.’ Nok raised his glass. ‘One mystery at a time then.’ Greymane answered the salute. ‘Yes. A slow fighting retreat, yes? Give us all the time you can, Admiral.’ The old man smoothed his white moustache, grinning. His eyes, deep in their nest of wrinkles, flashed an almost fey anticipation. He extended a hand. ‘Until we meet again on the west coast.’ Laughing, Greymane took the ...

‘Because I believe there is a chance you will meet the Guardian. I say this because he has spoken to you once and so may again, for he seldom does anything without a reason. And so, should you meet him, ask him this for myself and for my people, the fishers of Ixpcotlet – why did he do nothing? Why did he not intervene? We are very confused and disappointed by this.’ Kiska faced Least Branch directly, gazing almost straight up. ‘If I meet him I will ask. This I swear.’

But now change had struck. What the daemons described as a ‘Whorl’ had opened on to Shadow and drained an entire lake, obliterating their aeons-old way of life. That Whorl sounded suspiciously like the rift that had swallowed Tayschrenn. It even touched on to Chaos, or so Least Branch claimed.

For an instant Kiska believed she’d seen him somewhere before. Then the man peered about, confused. ‘I see no fish …’

Bakune stared at the man. Ipshank? Where had he heard that name before? Of course! Renegade! One of the highest of the Lady’s hierarchy to throw off her worship. That was during the first invasion. The animal tattooing … turned to one of the foreign gods then. Now I begin to understand.

‘Enough foolishness, Ipshank. I renew my offer. Be my Destriant. The power you will wield will be unlimited. Join me! I have found my High Mage. And my Mortal Sword – or should I say Spear? He awaits my enemies on the Stormwall. Together we will sweep these invaders from our shores.’ ‘I am sorry, m’lady, but it is too late for that. They are here now. Banith is defenceless. You must withdraw.’ ‘Withdraw? Leave? This is mine!’ The building shook beneath another blow. The floor bounced, shifting the strewn wreckage, and glass shattered all along the walls. A candelabrum fell to explode in shards. Something wet struck Bakune and he turned his head, blinking and squinting. It was an arm. The arm led to the robed body of the Abbot Starvann Arl. The priest had been right: he would not see Bakune. For no legs emerged from beneath those wet stained robes, and upon his bearded face, frozen surprise. Stunned astonishment. You thought you could control her, didn’t you? And perhaps, over time, you came to think you were in charge. You came to think that she truly was just a child. You poor deluded fool. ‘No? You will not go? Very well.’ Sandals slapped the wet sticky floor. Gentle arms lifted Bakune. ‘Stay then, if you must. Those inhuman Moranth are coming. I leave you to them. Best of luck … I hear they have no blood within their armour.’ ‘No! How dare you! I order you to stop!’ Bakune watched the chapel swing around him as he was carried to the doors. ‘Goodbye. I can’t imagine what...

Bakune had been studying the man’s face – one quite thin and long for someone supposedly fat. ‘You’re Boneyman, aren’t you?’ The man grabbed at his great mane of bushy hair, patting it. ‘What’s that? Boneyman? Ridiculous!’ He cleared his throat and peered around. Lowering his voice, he asked, ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a hammer and chisel, would you?’ ‘No. Why?’ ‘No reason! None at all.’ He examined the long spear, its wide thick blade, and rubbed his chin. ‘Hmm. Well, while no one is looking, I shall sneak away unnoticed! Here I go, stealthily, like a very shadow.’ And the man clumped off down the hall. Farewell, Manask. Best of luck with whatever mad plan it is you’ve concocted.

She limped over to Jheval, found him sitting up, a fold of cloth pressed to his face dripping blood in his lap. She helped him up. He bent his head back and groaned. ‘Fucking broke my face! Shame about the old guy,’ he added. Kiska nodded. ‘Yes. Poor fellow. He was harmless enough. Did you see the hound?’ He nodded behind the cloth pressed to his face. ‘Yes. I know a fellow who’d love to tackle that thing.’

To all appearances it might as well have been black glass. Kiska thought that if you were to reconstruct the pieces they would form a crystal-like length of about an arm’s span. The priest let the shard fall. ‘This is very bad.’ Jheval snorted, straightening. Kiska asked, ‘What is it?’ ‘A kind of prison. Very ancient. Perhaps from before the shattering of this Realm. It was forged to contain some thing for all eternity. But Chaos has eaten at it, weakened it, and the entity contained within has burst free.’

He also recalled overhearing Goss mutter something while eyeing the young man: ‘Damned Crimson Guard,’ he’d said, as if it were a curse. Crimson Guard? Some here claimed seeing them at the Battle of the Crossroads, where the new Emperor was victorious, but Suth wasn’t sure he credited stories like that. Surely they were long gone by now … In any case, he was fully prepared to follow this one’s orders.

The Adjunct struck a ready stance, weapons raised. ‘Greetings, Outlander,’ a woman’s voice whispered, jarringly sweet in tone, yet coiling with venom. ‘The stink of that sorceress bitch is upon you. Where came you by this blade of yours? Was it a gift … from her?’ Suth could barely stand: the voice itself hammered at him like blows. It gnawed at his thoughts like acid. The lashing flames drew closer yet the Adjunct did not retreat. ‘Who are you, man? What land are you from? There is a strangeness in your blood. I smell it. Perhaps … I should taste it …’ Suth shouted a useless warning as high above a lash of flames whipped up to come slashing down. The Adjunct did not wait for it. He rolled forward into the pillar, swinging his bright blade two-handed across the maelstrom. A blast like an eruption of Moranth munitions blew Suth backwards off his feet. He rolled tumbling to strike the stones at the base of the outcrop and lay dazed.

She thought then of the grey blade the man had once carried. Said to have been a weapon of great power. It was responsible for his name in these lands: Stonewielder. And that name a curse. What had happened to it? No one spoke of it, and she’d yet to see anything more than a common blade at the man’s side. He must have lost it during all the intervening years.

Devaleth thanked the squad that had carried in the Adjunct, yet wasted no time in hurrying them out. Closing the flaps, she turned to the young man lying on the pallet. It was far worse than she’d imagined. She cut away the leather and cloth around savage bites in thigh and arm – already they festered. A compound of leaves steeped in a tincture that cleaned wounds went on those. As to his mind – she pressed a hand to his hot brow and reached out, ever so tentatively, to his thoughts, then yanked her hand away as if stung. Chaos and confusion, yes, but not shattered. Astounding. His mind ought to be irrevocably crushed – so much so that it would be a mercy to let him slip away. Perhaps it was because the man was no mage. No talent, as they said among these Malazans. Not cursed, as she’d say herself. Yet … something else. Something deeper, more troubling. Her brow furrowing, she bent closer to the man’s eyes. Reaching, she lifted one lid with a finger then flinched away. Ancient One protect her! For an instant … but no. Impossible. It must have been the light. That could not have been an amber glow.

‘We are here to investigate this manifestation, the Whorl.’ ‘Whorl? We name him the Devourer.’ ‘Him?’ Kiska echoed. ‘Him – someone? But how can it be sentient?’ The commander pulled off her visored helmet and shook out sweaty matted blonde hair. Her features were blunt and heavy, her jaw square, her brow-ridges thick. The eyes captured Kiska’s attention: gold flecked the irises, which shone almost mauve. ‘It is summoned and sustained by a powerful magus,’ she said. ‘And it has broached the borders of Kurald Liosan – among many others.’ Kiska hoped her face betrayed no reaction. A powerful mage. Tayschrenn. Yet … malevolent? Perhaps he has been driven mad

The guard’s gauntleted fist went to his sword. ‘You will show respect. She chose not to honour you with her titles but you should know she is Jayashul ’Od Lossica. She Who Brings the Dawn. Daughter of our Lord Liossercal.’ Kiska stared at the tent flap. Burn’s own blood. The daughter of Osserc, Lord of the Sky. Never did she think she would ever be in such company. Jheval, she noted, had gone almost green at the news; the name meant a great deal to him. Exactly what, she wondered if she would ever discover. For his part, Warran clasped his chin in one hand and mused aloud: ‘The fellow does seem to have a lot of daughters.’

Admiral Nok, she’d heard, was not present as the man had famously sworn a vow never to set foot on land again.

‘Yes, Martal,’ he answered, simply to quiet her. ‘I understand.’ She eased back, letting go a taut breath. ‘Tell him I tried. I tried my best. I would so like to have seen him again.’ ‘Who?’ ‘My old commander. Tell him that, won’t you?’ Ivanr could not answer. Her old commander! The Malazan … Greymane! ‘Yes,’ he managed, clearing his throat, hardly able to speak.

Bars’ frigid hands, like two wedges of ice, throttled her. ‘Raise your Warren and I’ll tear your head off. Now … where is he!’ ‘Who?’ she managed, stealing a breath. ‘Quit stalling! Skinner! Damn his betraying soul!’ Deceiving gods! Oponn, you have outdone yourself! Skinner! He was renegade now. His attempt to usurp K’azz failed and he was forced out – disavowed. And Bars thinks he’s sent me!

The priest took out a skin of water, tossed it to Rillish. ‘Let me tell you a story, Fist. An old story whose particulars I have spent most of my life tracking down. Legends of this region tell of the three most precious relics of the Lady – the Holy Trilogy. Three sacred icons housed in chests. One, according to tradition, was lost in the great sinkhole, the Ring, far back during the attacks of the Stormriders. The greatest, as most know, was reportedly used to bless and sanctify the foundations of the wall itself. After which it was hidden away by the Korelri Stormguard. Most consider it to be housed in the great tower on Remnant Isle, the Sky Tower, guarded by hundreds of Stormguard. And they would be right. ‘The third was the most difficult. After eliminating countless holy shrines, sacred cairns, monasteries and temples, I narrowed down its location to here, the great Cloister of Banith. It has since been moved – and I know where.’

Greymane turned to her. ‘My thanks. You didn’t have to …’ She waved that aside. ‘I understand. It’s time we made the hard choices. And I understand now why you pushed everyone away. Your friend Kyle. Us. All of us.’ He winced at that. ‘Speak to him for me, won’t you? I … I couldn’t tell him.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And give my apologies to Rillish. He proved himself. He deserved better.’ ‘I will.’ ‘Good. My thanks.’ He started up the beach, turned back. ‘Tomorrow. You’ll have till tomorrow. Get everyone into the hills – and see Nok through this. It’s up to you.’ ‘Yes. I’d say good luck, but I can’t bring myself to. I’m sorry.’ The High Fist nodded. ‘Goodbye. Good luck to you.’ And he bowed his head in a kind of salute. Devaleth watched till he disappeared into the forest of this unremarkable length of coast. A forest soon to be swept utterly away should the man succeed – which isn’t guaranteed, either. She summoned Ruse and returned to the Warren.

Leoman straightened, inclined his head in obeisance. ‘Greetings, Yathengar. Faladan, priest of Ehrlitan. The Seven bless us.’ The man, Yathengar, pushed Kiska away. He took an uncertain step, his gaze furrowed. ‘Leoman? In truth? Leoman – Champion of Sha’ik?’ He clasped Leoman’s shoulders and laughed. ‘The Seven Gods are not so easily swept aside, yes? How they must have schemed to bring us together! We shall return, you and I. All Seven Cities will rise aflamed! You shall be my general. We will destroy them.’ Leoman bowed again. ‘I am yours to command.’

Incredibly, the subject was still conscious. Just half an arm’s length away the eyes blazed at him like promises of Hood’s own vengeance. Ussü pulled his gaze away: he’d brushed the heart. It was time to summon his Warren. He reached out, mentally, opening himself to the wash of energies, and was seized by a torrent that nearly threw him off the body. Gods! What lay behind such might? There was something here – some mystery beyond this Crimson Guard. They’d touched something. Something dormant, or hidden, with this vow of theirs. No matter. There lay future researches. For now, the task at hand. Ha! At hand! In hand, perhaps. Where was Greymane – the Betrayer – Stonewielder?

‘Who named him Stonewielder?’ the Malazan demanded, almost frenzied. Hiam felt his jaws clenching. ‘We do not discuss that,’ he ground out. ‘Who! Dammit, I must know.’ Master Engineer Stimins caught Hiam’s gaze, cocked a brow. Hiam gave him curt assent. ‘There are locals on these islands. Indigenous tribals who survive here and there, such as in the Screaming range. They first named him Stonewielder. There are long-standing predictions of the wall’s destruction. As old as the wall itself. They claimed he fit them. The stone’s revenge against the wall – that sort of nonsense.’

The wall was breached entirely now, through to the bay beyond. Greymane yanked again, frantic, but his limbs would not budge. He stared down at his hands, trapped in the raw living stone, and only then did the beautiful poetry of it dawn upon him and he threw back his head to laugh aloud. Oh ye gods, you have outdone yourselves! Laugh at the fool mortal, for only now do I see it. Stonewielder indeed! Yes. You scheming bastards and bitches! ‘Damn you all to Hood’s deepest pits!’ The foaming flood struck him. His feet were swept from under him; he was trapped under the raging flow. Branches and other driven trash smashed into him and he could hold his breath no longer. The air burst from his searing lungs in a froth of bubbles. He never drew another. As his consciousness faded he thought he felt hands grasp him there beneath the surface. He did not know if it was his delirious fancy or not, or what it might mean, for all went to dark then and he allowed himself release without regret, without anger, without expectation of anything.

Swallowing, Fingers managed a faint ‘Yes.’ Then he cried out a yell, his vision blackening, as the big man yanked on his right hand. ‘You want this off, yes?’ Fingers could only hiss, ‘Yes.’ ‘Very well. All others are dead, as far as I can see. Only we two survive here. I am leaving. But before I go, remember, I, Hagen of the Toblakai, rescued you.’ Fingers nodded. Yes, certainly, Hagen, yes. Whoever.

He crossed to a gaping window, stared out at the snow-flecked night without seeing it. He knew what to do. What was one more death? He would die – but not for her. No. Most certainly not for her. Hiam climbed up on to the windowsill and threw himself from the tower, to tumble down into the heaving white-capped waters below.

Someone was kneeling with her and a wet cloth was pressed to her brow. The coolness and the gentleness of the gesture revived her immensely. She dared slit open one eye: it was the old Admiral, Nok. ‘How did you know that would help?’ she ground through her clenched teeth. ‘A mage named Tattersail told me – long ago.’ She grunted – of course. This man has seen them all.

Skinner! From her Warren the man’s aura had appeared even stronger than the last time. As for the chest … the quickest snatched glimpse of the astounding potency carried within still left glowing afterimages in her vision. ‘What damned Warren was that?’ Bars snarled from where he lay. ‘The Crippled God’s,’ Shell said. ‘Skinner’s thrown in with him. The Dragons Deck readers claim that the Fallen God has made him King of his new house, the House of Chains.’

He reached to his neck to pull out a frayed leather strap and a small amber stone that he rubbed between thumb and forefinger. The words of that last Fistian priest returned to him: Who protects you? It is of the earth! Could it be true? Another old fallen friend still with him? The amber stone had come from Ereko, a giant like these Toblakai and Tarthinoe – in fact he’d claimed to be of the race that was their ancestors. And he’d claimed the very earth as his mother. Perhaps he was with him in more than memory

Kyle

Yes, he’d look up his friends, Stalker and his cousins. They’d come from the lands north of his birth plains. A land of mountains and forests. A land the elders of his clan named … Assail.