Stonewielder (28 page)

‘If we even reach them,’ added the disembodied voice of Wess.

Len just pursed his lips, obviously displeased by Wess’ comment. Looking troubled, Yana said nothing as well. Suth searched their faces; there was something here. Something he was missing.

It was Pyke who broke the silence. Laughing, he pointed at Suth. ‘Dumbass Dal Hon! Better learn to swim before we get there. ’Cause none of you are even going to see the shore. No Malazan ship has reached Korelri in over twenty years.’

‘Shut the Hood up, Pyke,’ Len snarled. But he didn’t deny the man’s claim. No one did.

*    *    *

The snow was slashing almost diagonal in the chill wind streaming over the forward crenellations of the Stormwall here next to the Tower of Stars. Lord Protector Hiam watched the fat flakes stick like ash to his cloak. They glowed against the dark blue weave then melted with an almost audible hiss. Below, the heavy waves coming in from the strait heaved sullenly against the base of the wall. Their scum of slush and ice grated like the massed teeth of a thousand demons of the deep.
Which was a poetic image not too far from the truth, if a touch overused by all the singers and bards
. The numbness in his fingertips told Hiam what this weather presaged. The season of storms was upon them. From this evening onward the iron braziers and torchpoles all along the curtain walls and watchtowers would stay lit day and night against the arrival of the enemy, the alien wave-borne demon Riders.

But not their
only
enemy
.

They
were coming. The mindless expansionists from the north. Hiam stamped the iron heel of his spear to the stone flagging and continued his informal tour of the wall. Word had come from the Roolian priesthood of the Lady: a marshalling of all troops, the nation lumbering to a war footing. Columns marching east to
the Skolati frontier. And word from their agents among the Mare ports: all available vessels being stocked and readied.
What could these invaders possibly want here in this – and it had to be said – rather impoverished and frankly out-of-the-way region?

As Chosen officers and regular soldiers appeared out of the driven snow before the Lord Protector each hastily saluted, spear crossing chest. Hiam answered, offering a reassuring word, or a chiding joke where his instincts told him it would not be taken ill.
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?

A great dark knot of men and equipment loomed ahead through the blizzard. Though it was morning, clouds as low and thick as smoke lent the day the twilight pall of evening. Next to a wall-mounted giant crossbow scorpion, a work crew stood gathered, blowing on hands and stamping feet and peering out over the lip of the most outward machicolations. The cart of a movable winch rested with them, rope extending out and down.

Hiam waited while word of his presence spread through nudges and glances. Their blue jupons over leathers marked them as sworn apprentice engineers, not a compulsory work crew. They saluted, arm across chest. Hiam acknowledged then indicated the rope. ‘Fishing for Riders already?’

Grins all around. ‘It’s Master Stimins, sir,’ one answered. ‘We’ve been checking repairs all up and down the wall these last days.’

Hiam peered over the edge; the rope disappeared into bottomless swirling white. ‘Rather late in the season …’

Another salute. ‘Yes, sir.’ Tis.’

Hiam set a wry grin at his lips. ‘Our Master Stimins is afraid of nothing, hey? He’d push aside the Riders themselves to inspect a crack, yes?’

A few chuckles of appreciation answered, all of which Hiam thought a touch forced. He motioned to the winch. ‘Let him know he has to come up.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Hiam set his gaze northward into the churning slate grey where sky and sea melded into one brooding curtain. What could be so pressing? The time for repairs had long passed … though, Lady knew, they never had enough. Each summer it seemed all they could manage was to shore up the worst of the damage, let alone begin a course of rebuilding. His thoughts touched upon, but refused to pursue, the logical consequences of years of such makeshift repair: degradation, decay. Creeping structural weakness—

The clatter of the winch’s iron teeth interrupted the Lord Protector’s reverie. He watched the rope as it played in. It continued for some time. By all the false infernal gods, that was a
lot
of yardage. Was the man testing the water? The fool! Didn’t he know advance scouts had sometimes been spotted this early?

One particularly ugly snarl in the rope caught Hiam’s eye. Was that a
splice?
The man was trusting his life to a spliced rope? He could only shake his head. For all the man’s many faults, a lack of courage was not one.

Eventually a great yelling and spluttering reached them from below the machicolations. ‘I said I’m not done yet, you damned whoresons! Listen to me! Would you – oh, just help me up!’

A hand in fingerless gloves appeared, scrabbled at the stone ledge. The crew leaned over the edge to drag the man up. ‘Lady damn you all!’ he snarled, straightening, and pushing them away. He was shuddering with cold. ‘I’ll let
you
know—’ He caught sight of Hiam, clamped shut his lips.

‘A word please, Master Engineer.’

Mouth still set, the old man fumbled with the buckles of his harness. His hands were too numb and an apprentice untied them for him. He shouldered himself out of the leather strapping. ‘Take the winch to th’ fourteenth tower,’ he told the crew. ‘Wai’ for me there.’

The crew began packing the equipment. Hiam motioned for Stimins to follow him aside. When they were a distance off he asked: ‘Why are you still carrying out inspections, Toral? You’ve got that crew wondering.’

The old man was kneading and blowing on his hands. A shudder took his spider-like frame. Behind his grey beard his lips were blue. He was looking off into the distance, his mind clearly elsewhere. ‘We’re just behind, tha’s all.’

‘We’re behind every year. That’s no excuse. You’re checking something. What is it?’

‘Just … some old research.’

‘Does it have to do with what we spoke of …’ Hiam stepped closer, lowered his voice despite the moan of surf and wind. ‘The degradation?’

The Master Engineer was staring off into the middle distance once more, his lined face almost wistful. ‘Yes … That is, no. It bears upon it.’

Hiam fought down the urge to take hold of the man. What had so shaken him? ‘What is it? Tell me. I order you to tell me.’

But Stimins just glanced over, studying him, his rheumy eyes swimming, and then his lips twisted up into a grotesque attempt at a reassuring smile. Hiam was shocked to see in that expression the same face he turned to his own subordinates when they asked about undermanned patrols and empty seats at the messes. ‘Do not worry, sir,’ the old man said. ‘You’ve enough to concern yourself with.’

And he walked away to disappear into the driving snow, leaving Hiam alone to stare into that churning white that seemed to be consuming the wall while he spun on his own small island of stone and all he could think was … the fourteenth tower. Ice Tower. The lowest point in all the leagues of Stormwall.

It is said that the Priestess came alone out of the icy fastness of the Southern Emptiness, wearing only rags, her feet bare, leaving behind a path of blood. Yet all whom she met, priest and lay alike, bowed to the fire of her gaze. It has also been said that with the wave of a hand she flattened a Jourilan keep outside Pon-Ruo where the local priest of Our Lady the Saviour denounced her. This last rumour is not true. For she demands nothing, not even recognition; asks not a thing of anyone. All who would follow her must do so of their own volition. And do not be deluded. They do so. In their scores.

Prison Writings
Dust Ebbed, apostate
Dourkan

O
N A ROCKY SHORE JUST EAST OF THE CITY OF EBON THE CAMP
fires of the city’s outcasts and destitute flicker like the myriad lights of that great fortress and urban sprawl itself. At one such driftwood fire sit two old men and three old women, the women layered in threadbare shawls and skirts, the men in old finery, much patched and frayed.

One of the women rocked and sang tunelessly under her breath as she knitted. She cast a sly glance aside from beneath her ropy grey hair. ‘I see you there, Carfin,’ she crooned. ‘No sneaking up on ol’ Nebras!’

A shadow detached itself from the surrounding gloom, straightened long and tall. ‘I was not sneaking,’ a voice answered, as deep and slow as the surf licking almost to the fire’s edge. ‘I merely walk quietly.’ This fellow emerged from the night as a tall narrow-limbed
man in dark shirt and trousers, both a patchwork of mending. He sat far back from the fire.

‘We are six,’ the second woman announced, and she jerked back a quick drink from a silver flask that then disappeared into her shawl.

‘We are indeed, Sister Gosh …’ one of the men answered, standing. He raised his gaze to the night sky, a hand going to his patchy goatee. Nebras rolled her eyes; the other man hung his head. ‘The stars are in alignment to allow our convening. The Goddess Below waits yet, breath held. Master of Chains searches without success. We, the High and Mighty Synod of Stygg Theurgists, Witches and Warlocks—’

‘Such as we are …’ muttered Nebras, not pausing in her knitting.

‘—are hereby come to order. Totsin Jurth the Third presiding as senior member. Now, first item of business. Sister Gosh, will you bless our assemblage?’

The silver flask disappeared once again into the shawl. Sister Gosh sat straighter, rearranged the folds of her layered wraps. She raised one crooked finger and squinted an eye. ‘Let’s see. Yes. May the Lady not track us down or sniff us out. May she not catch us in her grasping hands to stuff us down her greedy throat. May she not suck the marrow from our bones, nor boil our blood in the heat of her eternal hunger until our eyeballs pop and our tongues burst aflame.’ She eyed Totsin. ‘How was that?’

Totsin’s grey brows had risen quite high. ‘Well … yes. Thank you, Sister Gosh. Quite adequate, if rather visceral.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now, second order of business. Absent members. What news of Sister Prentall?’

‘Caught by the witch-hunters and delivered to the Lady,’ announced the third woman.

‘Ah.’ Totsin glared at Sister Gosh, who mouthed
I didn’t know!
‘Thank you, Sister Esa. Any other news? What of Brother Blackleg?’

‘Dead,’ said the other man, now staring deep into the fire, his chin in his hands.

‘Ah. Not … the Lady … ?’

‘No. His liver.’

‘Ah. I’d thought him indestructible.’

‘As did he, obviously,’ the man observed laconically.

Totsin nodded, wiped his hands on his greasy trousers. ‘Very well.

Sad news. We are diminished greatly. Yet night turns inexorably, and winter comes. We needs must consider the future and what is to be our course of action given the proliferation of signs and portents confronting us …’ Nebras had drawn up her shawls tightly and raised a hand. Totsin blinked at her. ‘Ah, yes … Sister Nebras?’

‘As you say, Totsin. The wanderings of the Holds wait for no one – like the tide. And it is strangely high this night. Let us be on our way then.’

‘But … we have yet to decide …’

‘Very good, Totsin,’ cut in Sister Gosh. ‘I vote we decide. Carfin?’

The lanky man far from the fire pushed back his hanging black hair, clasped his frayed jerkin. ‘I abstain.’

‘Abstain?’ Sister Gosh snapped. ‘You came all this way just to abstain? Why didn’t you just stay in your mouldy cave?’

‘It is not a cave – it is a subterranean domicile.’

‘Perhaps we could—’ began Totsin.

‘And you’re an obtuse ingrate.’

‘Hag.’

‘Eunuch.’

‘If we could just—’

‘Actually, eunuch isn’t the technically correct word—’

‘I see something!’ the fellow staring into the fire announced.

Sister Gosh sat up, as did Totsin. Even Carfin drew closer. ‘What is it, Jool?’ Sister Esa whispered.

The man thrust out a clawed hand. ‘The tiles!’

Sister Nebras drew a pouch from her quilts, upended it into the man’s hand. He slashed his other hand through the fire, casting burning embers aside to reveal the steaming sands beneath. ‘Fire, Night, Earth, Light, Seas, Life, Death. All are gathered now for this coming season at the Stormwall.’ Jool cast the tiles across the steaming sands. ‘I see conflagration.’

‘Well … it is a fire,’ Totsin whispered to Carfin.

A glare from Sister Nebras silenced him.

Jool studied the spread of the small wood and ivory tablets. ‘All paths lead to destruction now. There is no escape for anyone. This season will see the grasp of the Lady tightened beyond all release. Or shattered beyond repair.’