Next week, Tor Books are due to publish the latest book in the epic and fan-favourite Malazan series. Forge of the High Mage by Ian C. Esslemont is the fourth book in the Path to Ascendancy cycle, and it’ll arrive on shelves on April 9th. To celebrate the release, the publisher has provided CR with an excerpt (the Prologue) to share with our readers. First, though, here’s the synopsis:
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…
*
Prologue
The island of Kynarl rises from the olive-green waters of Walk Sea near to the centre of a ring of similar such isles. It possesses its old palace where kings and queens of ancient times once ruled, together with the usual temples and holy shrines dedicated to the region’s multiplicity of gods, goddesses, demi-god champions, local noted spirits and honoured ancestors. It is most famous, however, for housing the greatest library in all Falar, and even beyond. A collection rivalled perhaps only by the assemblage of scrolls and elder knowledge rumoured to exist in far Darujhistan.
The fourth, and last, time the priests of Mael arrived at the library to make their demands, its chief curator and archivist was a woman named Leanara of Curaca. Flanked by her staff of sectional librarians, apprentices, copyists and sub-archivists, she met the delegation upon the marble steps to the institution’s colonnaded main entrance.
It was a pleasant day, the breeze light but constant. Good sailing weather, as any Falaran would note. The delegation wore the deep blue robes of their order, servants of the ancient sea god Mael, whom they held pre-eminent among the many sundry sea gods and goddesses – the patron and guardian of all Falar itself.
Leanara was clad in plain linen tunic and trousers, the chain and single gold key of her office about her neck. She bowed to the priest leading the delegation, who answered the bow courteously enough. ‘M’lady,’ this one began, ‘we are come for the scrolls of Old Falar.’
‘Then I wonder why you came at all,’ she answered. ‘Our resolve remains as it always has.’
Behind his thick oiled and curled beard the priest smiled thinly. ‘The gesture must be made. You must be given every chance.’
‘Every chance?’
The priest opened his arms, perhaps to encompass the island. ‘Think of the welfare of all these innocents.’
Leanara pressed a hand to her chest, her mouth hardening. ‘So. Threats again. You think you can win your way through threats? I thought here among these isles we no longer tolerated tyrants.’
‘Yet you tolerate lies – and would have your way by spreading them.’
Now she smiled, amused. ‘Let knowledge spread and let the people weigh its merits, and decide for themselves.’
He shook his head, apparently regretful. ‘Falsehoods. Deception. A deliberate campaign of defaming.’
‘Let the people decide! Let these ancient records be read! If it is false that your cult – this Jhistal – is a distortion and abuse of the true, older worship of Mael, then you have nothing to fear.’
The priest stepped closer to the Chief Librarian and whispered, his voice low and tight, ‘It is one thing to flirt with defiance – it is wholly another to endanger everyone who lives upon this isle with your selfish ambition and wilfulness.’
She stared, shocked, searching his face, then hissed, ‘You would not dare…’
He drew himself straight, smoothing his raiment. ‘Do not try us, Chief Librarian. You have five days to hand over the scrolls.’ Turning, he waved off his delegation and they marched away in a fluttering of sea-blue robes.
Leanara looked to her staff; all eyed her in varying degrees of dread.
‘They really wouldn’t do such a thing… would they?’ stammered the youngest of the sub-archivists.
‘No,’ she assured the lad. She gestured to the columned front of the library. ‘Lose all this knowledge? No. That would earn the condemnation of everyone.’
They, however, did not appear entirely convinced.
Over the next days, she noted how the streets and main markets of the town appeared unusually empty. House fronts stood boarded up, and she overheard talk of people meaning to head off-island for a time – to visit relatives, or to travel.
The priests of the Jhistal, it seemed, had made their intentions public.
But then of course they would, she told herself. How else to put pressure upon her and the library? In the streets, those citizens she knew, instead of greeting her, now looked away, or through her, as if she no longer existed.
Or was already dead.
She kept to the halls of the library after that. Of her staff, only four now remained, two being the young sub-archivists.
She met the dawn of the fifth day on the steps of the library once more. She was expecting another visit from the delegation: they, having made their point, would no doubt arrive demanding delivery. Yet fear also gnawed upon her; the stories of this… Jhistal. A monster, an immense beast from the depths that crushes cities and swallows entire fleets.
Folktales surely! None living can claim to have seen this thing! And the cult was cynically exploiting these old tales. No wonder they feared exposure so much.
She waited, but still no one appeared. Indeed, a deathly quiet seemed to hang over the town below – from here a collection of red-tiled roofs – as if it were entirely abandoned.
Her two sub-archivists – last of her staff now remaining – came jogging up the road and climbed the stairs to her side. ‘It’s empty,’ one told her, wonder in his voice. ‘There are none there.’
Her brows rose in astonishment. It seemed she hadn’t given due consideration to the powers of fear and ignorance, or of superstition.
‘What’s that?’ the older of the two asked, her shock of bright red hair a mass about her face. She was pointing out past the bright harbour below, to the open seas beyond.
Leanara squinted at the shimmering green waters – the sea appeared different. Higher? Closer? An unusually large wave?
Sudden, mouth-drying dread gripped her then and she almost staggered. Swallowing, she looked to her two young apprentices. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, ‘it seems those with power will do anything to hold on to it after all. I underestimated the depths of their selfishness and greed.’
The sub-archivists exchanged secretive looks. ‘It’s all right, m’lady,’ said the girl, ‘we took precautions. We locked the scrolls in a bronze chest and sealed the lid with lead.’
She rested her hands upon their shoulders. ‘Well done, my young archivists.’
They watched, silent now, for there was no time to run or panic, as the sea continued to rise. It towered, far taller than the roofs of the town below – taller even than the peaked stone roof of the library – and she knew then just what this Jhistal was.
Not some eldritch beast summoned from the depths. Not some rampaging monster.
A simple wave. An immense mountain of water, leagues high, it seemed to her.
The tales of its enormous destructive power now made sense. Pity she would not live to record her observations. She turned to her two apprentices once more. ‘I am so very sorry—’
Their answer was lost as the gargantuan wave swallowed the shore in a mind-numbing concatenation of power. The town disappeared under its skirts while its rearing head was lost above.
The island! was Leanara’s last thought. It will sweep the entire island clean! Then she knew no more.
*
Ian C. Esslemont’s Forge of the High Mage is due to be published on April 9th, by Tor Books. It is published in the UK by Penguin.
Civilian Reader 