Night of Knives

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Then Hood’s Own Paths cracked open upon them.

  Smelling the blood of a champion who’d stood for as long as any could remember, Surgen, his remaining escort, and the regulars lunged in upon them. Quillion and Hilt fought fanatically as the Sword attempted to retreat as a unit. But only Dassem could match Surgen, and so Quillion fell to the twin swords of the anointed and Holy-patroned champion.

  Temper bellowed for relief but his voice was lost in the defenders’ frenzied shouts. Dassem struggled, head hanging, staggering. Neither Temper nor any of his remaining brothers could spare an instant’s concentration to help steady him. It tortured Temper to feel the man stumble against his back as they withdrew, pace by pace, over the uneven ground.

  What had struck him? Temper wondered, blazing with fury. Who could have reached him? How could it be that on this day, at this hour, the Y’Ghatan soldier-citizenry defeated Malazan professionals? What gave them the backbone?

  Surrounded, they struggled to retreat. Temper could only shield-bash continuously, slashing any hands that grabbed at the sharpened iron edges of his shield. For a moment, the five of them surfaced intact like a wave-tossed piece of wreckage. Then they were four: he, Dassem, Point and Ferrule. They held for heartbeats longer until Surgen broached the crowd like a bear scattering a pack of dogs. Though apparently injured near to death, Dassem still easily parried and dropped the regulars. Point moved to intercept Surgen while Temper and Ferrule fended off the encircling mob.

  And still the Malazan regulars had yet to push through. Point faced Surgen. Temper saw little of the duel – he was too busy staving off Seven City infantry throwing themselves against him in a desperate bid to bear him down. Glimpses convinced him of Point’s brilliance: the man outdid himself, lasting more exchanges than Temper believed possible against a patroned champion. Temper bellowed again for the Malazan regulars; short of friendly forces sweeping over and rescuing them, he knew each would die in turn under Surgen’s blades.

  Point fell. Temper roared in rage as Point had fought beautifully; there was no justice in his defeat. He used that searing fury to break into the gap. Of the duel that followed, he never forgot Surgen’s hot eyes fixed at a point past his shoulder . . . on a crippled Dassem just beyond reach.

  Sensing the end was near, the Seven City regulars drew back to give Surgen room. He pressed forward confidently, contemptuously even, and that made Temper all the more stubborn. The blows rained down. He simply hunched low like a shack in an avalanche, determined to remain, no matter what was thrown at him.

  Surgen punished him for his temerity. Yet, Temper hung on. Surgen was incredibly skilled, almost as strong as Temper, and far quicker. Facing the champion’s ferocious eyes, his mouth open as if already tasting Dassem’s blood, Temper abandoned any hope of surviving. He gave himself up as dead already and determined to remain standing merely long enough to deny Surgen the satisfaction of victory. He parried the man, using his bull strength to bear Surgen back whenever possible. Thrust through the stomach, Temper merely grunted and swung for Surgen’s head. But such was warrior’s speed that Surgen simply snapped back his head, taking only a cut across the bridge of his nose. Surgen pulled away then for an instant, stunned Temper hoped, for he could no longer see clearly through the pink mist of sweat and blood fogging his eyes.

  He waited, gasping in air, still giving ground while Ferrule, bellowing, thrust everywhere, surrendering to blind battle lust. Dassem staggered, parrying like a drunk, yet still able to defend himself against the common soldiery.

  Surgen howled holy outrage and lunged at Temper again. The attacking blade was a blur. Temper could only wait to see what the man intended for the damage was done: he could feel his life leaking down his legs in a warm wet tide. His shield shattered under Surgen’s punishment and Temper released his sword, grappling the man’s wrist. The champion spat into his face, ‘Die! Die!’

  Temper smiled blearily at him. ‘Fast as I’m able, friend.’

  Enraged, Surgen swung at him again, fought to tear loose his arm, but no one, not even Dassem himself, could break Temper’s iron grip.

  Surgen glared past him: his eyes widened; he yelled incoherently. Temper, his vision blackening, felt his grip weaken. Surgen wrenched free, backed away. A tide of Malazan regulars swept over them. Arms took Temper and lifted him from the field. He let himself go then into that darkness, knowing he’d won his last battle – that once again he’d stood long enough . . .

  Temper waited for the old nightmare to end. He always woke after that moment, his heart hammering, short of breath. But this time the darkness didn’t come. Surgen still tore at him, workmanlike, as if butchering a slab of meat. And now, instead of a gilded bronze helm, he wore a grey hood. The certainty of death clutched Temper’s throat. The hooded form leaned over him, smothered him in a different sort of darkness. Temper couldn’t breathe. Death pressed down upon him like a vast weight, crushing his ribs, heavier, till he felt nothing of himself was left. Still he struggled to fight. If only to twitch a finger, to spit into the face inside that hood.

  Temper inhaled. Cold air jarred his teeth. His chest expanded, fell, rose again. Light returned to his vision, blurred at first then clearing: once more he watched clouds massed before the frigid stars of a night sky.

  Someone spoke from beyond his vision, saying dryly: ‘You’re a very stubborn man.’

  Groaning, he turned his head. A man hooded in ash-pale robes sat above him on a stone block. Temper wet his lips, croaked, ‘Who in Fener’s own shit are you?’

  ‘I would ask you the same question but believe I have my answer.’ The man hefted an object: Temper’s helmet. He turned it in his gloved hands as if critiquing the workmanship.

  Temper moaned, let his head fall back.

  ‘My people saw your duel with Rood. They were impressed. They, ah, intervened and fetched you here.’

  Temper experimentally raised his right arm. He studied the hand, rubbed his eyes. ‘Rood?’

  ‘The Hound of Shadow. You surprised him. Too much easy prey recently, I should think.’

  Temper attempted to sit up, groaned again. He wondered: how does one intervene against a demon like that?

  ‘I had them heal you – after I saw this.’ He tapped the helmet. ‘A very unusual design.’

  The helmet thumped onto his stomach. With a gasp, Temper sat up.

  The man stood. ‘You should get rid of it. Too distinctive.’

  Temper grimaced. ‘It’s the only damned one I’ve got. And the question still stands: who are you?’

  The man ignored him. He studied something in the distance then waved him up. ‘Time is short. Suffice it to say that we have a common enemy in the Claws.’

  Temper grunted at that. He carefully pushed himself upright. He examined his arms and wondered at the flesh made whole beneath the broken iron links and shredded leather under-padding. Forced healing of this magnitude stunned him. It was unheard of. He should be prostrate in shock, his body convinced he was crippled, if not dead. What had they done to him? At his side lay all his weapons and both gauntlets, one mangled and in tatters. He re-girt himself, hissing and wincing at limbs stiff and numb, shocking jolts of pain from every joint. The man merely watched, his face disguised in darkness.

  They stood in Mossy Tors, a glade the town had encroached on as it grew inland. Temper spotted others, male or female, clothed in the same shapeless robes standing guard among the birch copses and jumbled stones. ‘Well, whoever you are,’ he grudgingly admitted, ‘you’re out in force.’

  ‘Yes. This night is ours. We control the island two or three nights every century’

  Temper tried to get a glimpse into the shadows within the man’s hood. There was something very odd about his accent. But it was as if the cowl was empty. That shook him: too reminiscent of the Claws . . . and his dream.

  Another figure approached, almost identical to the first, and the two spoke. Their hoods nearly touched as they bent together. Both stood unnaturally ta
ll and slim within their robes, and they conversed in a foreign lilting language that made Temper uneasy. He’d encountered a lot of languages in his travels, but this was not like any of them. That, the healing, the undeniable fact that they must’ve done something to yank him free of the hound, and the man’s claim that they ruled this night, put Temper in mind of what he’d heard of the cult that worshipped Shadow. A sect steeped in sorcery and patron to assassins. And evidently, an organization hunted by the Claws. That made sense. Professional rivalry, he supposed. He recalled another organization of assassins, started up by Dancer at the inception of the Empire: the Talons. Surly’s Claws, so it was said, began later as a pale imitation of that secret society. He’d also heard murmurs that since Kellanved and Dancer’s absence, Surly’s organization had moved to fill the void. That people loyal to the old guard had been disappearing. He’d never considered himself particularly loyal to Kellanved or Dancer; it was Dassem he’d refused to betray that day at Y’Ghatan. He’d survived, gone underground. Watching these two, he wondered if they too had served, though sure as Hood he’d never ask. He cleared his throat. The one who’d addressed him earlier turned to examine him. ‘Come.’ He waved for Temper to follow and abruptly started across the stone-littered meadow.

  Surprised, Temper stood frozen until two others in the same shapeless garb approached from either side. The slimmer of the pair walked with an arrogant, cocky swagger that made Temper want to slap him. Scorch marks marred his robes at the front of and along the edge of his hood as if the fabric had been dropped in a fire. The stockier one motioned him to move on ahead with a hand that was hairy and wide-knuckled like a blacksmith’s or a strangler’s.

  He was led to a rise overlooking the east quarter of the old town. ‘What do you see?’ the one who’d woken him asked.

  Temper hesitated. What did the man want from him? Then, reluctantly, he scanned the quarter. Fog, thick as low clouds, clung to roofs and snaked through the streets. It seemed to converge around the general block of the Hanged Man Inn-and the neighbouring Deadhouse as well.

  Staring now, he could just make out lights, an eerie blue-green nimbus that sometimes accompanied manipulation of the Warrens. How many times had he witnessed that same glow burst, spirit-like, over battles? And how many times had he ducked, experiencing the same cold knot in his stomach, because here was something all his skill could not combat? Rolling up from that same quarter, like a distant blast of alchemical munitions, came a hound’s deep-chested call.

  ‘What is it?’ Temper asked.

  ‘Some say a door,’ the man told him, his tone thoughtful. ‘An entrance to the realm of Shadow. And he who passes through, commands that Warren as a King. A stunning possibility, yes?’

  Temper gave a knowing nod. ‘So that’s what all this is about. You’re going for it.’

  A silken laugh whispered from within the hood. ‘No, not I . . . I haven’t near the power. And it is too well defended. The hounds are only the first of its guardians. But another might try before dawn, and for that we are readying.’

  ‘And what’s that to me?’

  ‘You could help.’

  He nodded again, this time with scorn. ‘And if I refuse?’

  The hood regarded him and he stared back, trying to find the man’s eyes in the darkness. The silence grew in length and discomfort. Temper rubbed the scar crossing his chin.

  ‘Then you may go,’ the man said.

  Temper scoffed. ‘What? Just like that?’

  ‘Yes, just like that. Two of my people will escort you to wherever you wish.’ He pointed past Temper.

  Glancing to one side, Temper saw his earlier guards waiting nearby, at a length of mossy wall. ‘Anywhere?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’m going to take you up on that.’

  ‘Fare you well, soldier,’ and the man gave a salute at his chest, the old sign of the Imperial Sceptre.

  Temper dropped his hand from the scar that slashed down his cheek to his chin. ‘I don’t suppose you want to know what I think about your chances.’

  The hood cocked to one side. ‘Don’t be foolish, Temper.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose so. My thanks for the healing.’

  The hood inclined a goodbye. Temper backed off a few steps, as if worried that at the last moment they might change their minds, then started for Riverwalk. His two escorts fell into step behind him.

  All the way up Riverwalk, Temper’s back itched as if he were under the Twin’s regard. He couldn’t shake the suspicion that these two had been sent along to leave him dead in a ditch. Stupid of course: they could have simply left him for the hound. But the old habit of a healthy paranoia wouldn’t leave him alone.

  Finally, it became too much and he abruptly stopped and turned. Back about ten paces, the pair stopped as well. The slim one struck a pose, crossing his arms as if bored by the whole thing. The stocky one waved him on.

  ‘Nothing to say for yourselves, eh?’ Temper taunted, but then resumed his walk. The damned prophecy of the Return, he told himself, that was what all this was really about. Not this Shadow gateway bullshit. They’d gathered for him tonight. For Kellanved to return and claim the throne of Empire. It was still his after all. And Temper had to admit it was hard to swallow that he’d just disappear to let Surly – or anyone – usurp it. If he was yet alive, that is.

  Pure blind bullshit. Or in this case, hound shit. Come dawn, their predicted millennium would fail to appear and they’d fade away, like so many cults before them. Temper had never been a religious man himself. The old standby patron gods of soldiers, Togg and Fener, had always been more than enough for him. The rest of that dusty theology just made his head numb: Old versus New; the rise and fall of Houses of influence; the eternal hunt for Ascension. Still, it was troublesome to see someone as clearly sharp and organized as that robed fellow swallowing it all.

  He turned north onto Grinner’s March. Rampart Way rose into view through the mist, making Temper smile. That, and the thought that he now had a ship-load of questions for Corinn when he found her. He counted on getting answers from her. Hood’s bones, she owed him an explanation. I saw, she’d told him; seen the breaking of the Sword. Why? To shock him into cooperating? He sent a short prayer to Togg that somehow she’d managed to escape all this.

  As he laid a hand on the cold granite wall of Rampart Way, he turned to his two escorts. They’d stopped a few paces back, side by side.

  ‘What? Not coming?’

  The slim one’s hood rose as he peered up at the Hold. ‘You’ll find only death there tonight.’

  Temper wanted to laugh that off, but the man’s words sent a chill up his spine. He waved them away. ‘Maybe. Run back to your master and let him know where I went.’

  ‘He knows.’

  Temper watched them. They remained motionless. He stared back for a time longer, then, snorting his impatience, started up the steps.

  Grumbling, Temper strode up the wet stones. What a pack of moonstruck fools! As if there was anything to all that charlatan cant about a Return. It was damned embarrassing, that was what it was. A bunch of spoiled aristos probably. None of whom had ever shed a drop of blood in the fields. Never saw Kellanved murder thousands when he brought down a city wall, or his pet T’lan Imass warriors slaughtering entire towns. Good riddance to that wither-legged Dal Honese elder and spook of a partner, Dancer! In his career Temper had met and fought a lot of men and could honestly say: none scared him as much as those two did.

  Dassem spoke of the Emperor rarely, but when he had, it was always with the greatest care and wariness. He had told one story of entering a dark command tent during the Delanss pacifications to inform Kellanved of the dispersal of the troops. While the two spoke an aid brought a lit lantern into the shadowed tent and Dassem discovered himself alone. Later, he learned from Admiral Nok that on that day the Emperor had been at sea, on board the Twisted. Dassem said this was characteristic of the old man: no one should ever be certain where Kellanved
stood – in anything . . . or on anything.

  Temper had seen him now and then, distantly, during marshalling of the troops: a small black man with gnarled limbs and short grey hair. Or so the pretence. At first glance he looked like nothing more than a withered-up old gnome. Yet one look from him could be enough to drive anyone away as if struck, or if wished, crush them to their knees. Temper had to give him that much.

  But Dassem, Sword of the Empire, he had looked out for the men. By the Queen, the army literally worshipped him! All those others – Surly and the rest – knew it too, even then. He’d seen it in their eyes the times he’d accompanied Dassem to briefings. Surly and the other lackeys knew only the rule of fear. But Dassem, with praise here, or a chiding word there, could capture a man’s heart. And he led from the front; in every battle. Soldiers shoved each other aside just for the chance to fight near him.

  At a switchback Temper paused. The night closed in on him, black, hollow, and surprisingly cold – a chill that seemed to broach his soul. Downhill, the fog obscured the slopes and hung over the town. Icy rain brushed him and he wiped at his face. Damn, it was raw! His bones ached. What time was it now? Four bells or five? He couldn’t remember hearing the mole lighthouse for some time now. Gods, he was weary. Leaning against the wall, he wondered just what it was he hoped to accomplish. He stared out into the lazy wisps of mist and the strangely dull stars, and he remembered that other night. The night close to a year ago when he and Dassem died.

  He’d awakened in an infirmary field tent. An officer’s facility, small and empty, unlike the ones they stuffed with regulars while the overflow simply stacked up outside. Ferrule sat beside him on a travel chest, as short and hairy and vicious-looking as ever. He wore a thick leather vest over a cloth jerkin. Two dark shapes stood at the closed flaps: Claws.