A riotous new novel takes readers deeper into the politics and intrigue of the New York Times bestselling Malazan Empire
After decades of warfare, Malazan forces are poised to consolidate the Quon Tali mainland. Yet it is at this moment that Emperor Kellanved orders a new, some believe foolhardy campaign: the invasion of Falar that lies far to the north . . .
And to fight on this new front, a rag-tag army raised from orphaned units and broken squads is been brought together under Fist Dujek, and joined by a similarly motley fleet under the command of the Emperor himself.
So the Malazans head north, only to encounter an unlooked-for and most unwelcome threat. Something unspeakable and born of legend has awoken and will destroy all who stand in its way. Most appalled by this is the Empire’s untested High Mage, Tayschrenn. All too aware of the true nature of this ancient horror, he fears his own inadequacies when the time comes to confront it. Yet confront it he must.
Falar itself is far from defenseless. Its priests possess a weapon rumored to be a gift from the sea god, Mael—a weapon so terrifying it has not been unleashed for centuries. But two can play at that game, for the Emperor’s flagship is also believed to be not entirely of this world.
These are turbulent, treacherous and bloody times for all caught up in the forging of an Empire and so, amongst the Ice Wastes and in the archipelago of Falar, the Malazans must face two seemingly insurmountable tests, each one potentially the origin of their destruction . . .
Please enjoy this free excerpt of Forge of the High Mage by Ian C. Esslemont, on sale 4/9/24
Chapter 1
Through driving snow a lone figure walked hunched. A long cloth-wrapped bundle just as tall as he was hung cumbrously across his back. He paused occasionally, to adjust this burden, and to shade his eyes against the howling winds to scan the white wastes surrounding him. During one such pause a great fit of coughing wrenched him and he bent even further to spit into the snow, leaving a red blossom of slush. Yet his gaze was drawn ever onwards to a single mountain crag that dominated the western horizon.
After many days the traveller reached the foothills of this lone peak – fields of naked broken rock amid the snow. Selecting one depression reasonably sheltered from the driving winds, he sat against a boulder and drew his long burden from his back. Unwrapped, it was revealed as some sort of musical instrument, a huge horn perhaps, carved from a single gigantic piece of ivory or bone. This he pressed to his lips to blow a few experimental notes, then set aside and tilted his head, as if listening for the winds to respond. With no such response forthcoming, he shrugged, held the instrument to his chest, and closed his eyes to sleep.
So did it go day after day, week after week, and month after month. The seasons did not change; no spring came to lessen the blasts of snow, for the mountain sat at the centre of a vast wasteland of icefields countless leagues across. Thus no beasts accosted the musician, and no fellow travellers appeared. Birds, however, did pass far overhead and these he watched from the corner of his eye, a humourless smile sometimes stretching his cracked lips across his large, upthrusting canines.
But then he would return to his music. And such eerie inhuman music it was – if it may be named such at all. Deep rumbling basso passages too low for any normal ear, or high trilling keening; all mixed together in constantly altering rhythms, beats and progressions. On and on, looping, rolling, changing in pitch and speed, then even repeating for a time.
And always the musician would pause to listen, as if expecting the winds to answer.
As, eventually, they did.
Something far too low for a human ear washed over the piper, making the small stones lying all about him vibrate and jump. The musician perked up, straightened, and repeated his last passage.
The answer repeated itself as well.
Now the musician clambered to his feet. Taking a huge breath, he blew a deep blast upon the instrument that went on and on, for far longer than any human lungs could possibly encompass. Finishing in a flourish, he raised his head to listen. He waited. And he waited, head cocked. After a time he frowned then critically studied the horn.
An immense concussion rocked him backwards on his feet, sent the snow all driving away, and he hunched, wincing and shaking his head. Then he slipped the instrument onto his back and set out to climb the mountain’s lower slopes.
He was searching for something, and, eventually, he found it. Through the gusting snow he spotted thin wisps of fog, or a plume of mist, high up one ice-encrusted face of the mountain. This he struggled towards, and, after a time, he reached.
A fresh crack of broken rock it was. A crevasse in the sheath of ice. Steam roiled from far within. At its edge the musician paused, raised a thumb to one up-thrusting canine to scratch it thoughtfully, and smiled, nodding to himself.
Then he slipped within, amid the billowing steam, to disappear.
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Towards the end of the pacification of the northern wilds of Nom Purge, the roving Malazan Imperial Seat settled in next to the confluence of two unnamed rivers to remain stationary for an astonishing fifteen days.
A tent city quickly developed as daily more and more Malazan cohorts arrived to guard the Emperor and his – some said bodyguard, some assassin, while others whispered him to be the true cunning and driving force behind the pair’s astonishing rise to power – Dancer.
On the fifteenth day the general of the West, Fist Choss, arrived accompanied by his staff and personal guard. Throwing the reins of his mount to a groom, he stomped into the imperial command tent to find the Emperor, Kellanved, sitting at a table heaped with a mess of maps, lists and accounts. Dancer sat aside in a camp chair, arms crossed, his legs straight out before him.
The Fist went to a side-table set with cold meats, breads and fruits. He tucked his gauntlets into his belt and nodded a greeting to Kellanved. Selecting a poultry leg, he took a bite. Round the mouthful, he demanded, ‘What’s this about you ordering Korelan relief forces north, here, to you?’
The wrinkled, aged Dal Hon mage exchanged a glance with his cohort, who tucked his hands up under his arms. ‘I’m redeploying them,’ he explained.
Choss coughed on his poultry, wiped the grease from his tangled beard. ‘Really?’ he answered, incredulous. ‘That force is badly needed to relieve those troops. They are hard-pressed, surrounded. All Korel has risen against them.’
Kellanved gave a curt wave. ‘Exactly. A lost cause. We miscalculated there. I’ll not pour more resources down that hole.’
Choss stared, his outrage obvious. ‘But the remaining troops, man! What of them?’
‘Word has been sent. They may withdraw.’
‘If they can,’ the general muttered, darkly. ‘And regardless, we can use those forces here. Dujek is still stamping out insurrections in the east, and I’m still trying to pacify the west coast. Surly is camped in Unta to keep it quiet and all the while Dal Hon threatens to explode. Not a good time to start yet another front.’
‘Dassem remains in Li Heng,’ Dancer put in, speaking softly.
Choss grunted at that, half-placated.
While they had been talking, youths in travel-stained leathers, or hooded in grey robes, silently came and went, whispering with Kellanved, sometimes delivering scrolls. They entered from a rear chamber set off by hangings – a room Choss knew possessed no other exit.
‘And where, may I ask,’ he said, ‘will this new strike force be headed?’
As Kellanved was conferring with a woman whose robes seemed to actually be smoking, Dancer answered: ‘Falar.’
The general’s thick brows rose in disbelief. He threw the half-eaten leg to the table. ‘Falar . . . Really? Why not fabled Jacuruku while you’re at it, hey?’
‘Falar is no fable,’ Dancer observed, calmly and quietly.
But the Fist was shaking his head, hands on belt. ‘No. This is madness. We’re still not completely consolidated . . .’
‘We will never be completely consolidated,’ Dancer answered. ‘We must push on. Expand. Expand or die. It’s the nature of the beast.’
‘Is Surly for this?’ Choss asked, pulling a hand down his beard. The two rulers exchanged another silent glance to which the general nodded. ‘Thought not. Then I demand a full council meeting to review this.’
Kellanved flapped his hands in frustration. ‘A full meeting? Do you have any idea how long it would take to assemble everyone?’
Choss gestured without. ‘Your troops are still arriving. We have time.’
The Dal Hon mage raised his chin, half turning away, huffing, ‘I’ll have you know I don’t need anyone’s permission.’
The Fist nodded his agreement. ‘True. However, as we have all seen over the years, everything goes so very much smoother with everyone’s cooperation.’
Kellanved wrinkled up his dark face in distaste. He glanced to Dancer. ‘What say you?’
Dancer echoed Choss’s nod. ‘I agree. We have to have everyone on board.’
The Emperor pressed his hands to his forehead, sighing. ‘Oh, very well! If you must!’ He waved the Fist out – who bowed and exited. Kellanved then snapped his fingers and a leather-clad messenger, a slim woman, emerged from the rear room. ‘Send word to everyone,’ he told her, ‘we assemble here for a full Imperial Council meet.’ The woman bowed and ducked from view. Kellanved continued to massage his forehead.
Dancer was studying the tops of his soft leather shoes. ‘Told you so,’ he murmured.
The Emperor looked to the tent ceiling, sighing anew. ‘Oh, please . . .’
Copyright © 2024 from Ian C. Esslemont
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