Assail Page 50

  More than the vertigo of the ramshackle scaffolding and the blowing wind now tugged at Jute. He felt quite dizzy, and he made an effort to pull his thoughts back to himself. He pressed a hand to his aching brow. ‘I really wouldn’t know anything about such matters. I am just a modest sailor.’

  They had reached the top landing. Tyvar turned to him. ‘Perhaps that is what is needed in these uncertain times, my friend. A sailor – someone used to finding his way upon unfamiliar waters. Who knows?’ His brows crimped then, in confusion, and he faced the walls – as did Jute.

  All was now quiet, though the northern defenders still guarded the broad semicircle that was the outer walls. They leaned upon their spears and craned their necks to the main gate area. Giana came up beside Jute and frowned her uncertainty. ‘A parley?’ she ventured.

  ‘Very possibly,’ Tyvar answered and strode off across the bailey yard. Jute hurried after him.

  They were stopped and surrounded long before they reached the front gate. From the yard, Jute glimpsed so-called King Ronal the Bastard up atop the wall, wrapped in a great bear-hide cloak, crowded round by his bodyguard, apparently involved in a meeting with someone beyond.

  Tyvar motioned that he wished to witness. The northern warriors eyed one another, unsure. Taking advantage of their indecision, he simply barged up the nearest dirt ramp. Jute pressed in to follow in his considerable wake. Giana pushed forward as well.

  Along the way they passed tents and awnings raised over ranks of wounded being treated. The ramp itself was blood-spattered and littered with fallen broken accoutrement of war: shattered spear-hafts, battered shields, a hide shoe, slit and soaked in its owner’s blood.

  When Jute made the wall, he was treated to the breathtaking view of a mass of foreign besiegers, though a rather ragged and poorly armed mass. Dotted among these ranks of men – and Jute felt reluctant to name such shabby specimens soldiers – stood fully armed and armoured obvious professionals. And these all bore the same heraldry upon their shields and banded-iron hauberks: the sigil of a tower.

  Jute didn’t know the symbol. ‘What soldiers are those?’ he asked Tyvar.

  The commander was obviously wondering the same thing himself as he scratched his beard musingly. After a time, he came to a conclusion and nodded to himself. ‘Letherii,’ he murmured. ‘Some noble or trading house of the Lether Empire.’

  Lether? Jute was surprised; the Letherii were not seafarers. But then, there was gold to be had, so he really ought not to be shocked that the Letherii were involved. Jute put their numbers in the hundreds. The contingent also appeared to have two commanders, as they were the only individuals mounted. One of these raised a hand, as if for silence, though no one was talking, and announced: ‘Very good, King Ronal. Your silence is answer enough. Remain cornered here in Mantle. You can watch while we take control of all the north.’

  The speaker was a younger man in what was obviously an extremely expensive set of banded armour, inlaid and etched with intricate curling designs. His fellow commander sat tall upon his mount, boarding-pole slim, grey-haired, in much-worn leathers.

  ‘Your realm, King Ronal,’ the younger fellow continued, ‘has dwindled to a stone’s throw across. I understand that the custom here is that when the grip of the old ruler weakens, a new one arises to assert control. Who am I to argue with tradition? Sieges, by the way, are all about time. Time and suffering. We go now to take control of the goldfields – first things first, after all. Once that is done, we will return to relieve you of your suffering. Until then.’ He offered a mocking bow in farewell.

  Wrapped in his bear cloak, King Ronal the Bastard cackled a grating laugh and waved him off. ‘Go on! The Icebloods will have your heads!’

  The Lether noble was not concerned. ‘I think not. I wonder, if fact, whether there are any of them left.’ He turned his mount and cantered off, followed by his companion officer. King Ronal stormed from the wall. His bodyguard and crowd of court followers nearly tripped and fell over one another to keep from underfoot.

  Tyvar pushed towards the man’s path. King Ronal caught sight of him; indeed, it was hard to miss him as he was as broad as a haystack. The king pointed, shouting: ‘What in the name of the ancients do you want?’

  Tyvar bowed his head. ‘Once more, King Ronal, I humbly offer my—’

  The Bastard threw his spindly arms into the air. ‘Another damned foreigner making demands upon me! To the Hooded Taker’s grip with all of you!’ and he barged onward without another glance. His entourage hurried after him.

  Jute and Giana moved close to Tyvar who had remained quite still, his features controlled, but impassively so. Jute could not help but let out a growl. ‘I cannot believe such treatment. Tyvar, sir, you show astounding patience …’

  The Blue Shield commander gave a wave as if to brush that aside. ‘If dedication to something infinitely greater than oneself should teach anything, it is humility.’

  Jute remained unconvinced. ‘Well … I’m dumbfounded. Especially given the fame of your brother order the Grey Swords, and what they managed against the Pannions. This is plain stupidity!’

  Tyvar brusquely shook his head. ‘No. It is pride. We outlanders have taken his kingdom from him. Brushed his people aside. Why should he be favourably inclined towards us?’

  ‘Pride …’ Giana ground out. Something in her tone made Jute glance at her. She was scowling ferociously. ‘Just another word for stupidity …’ She was staring off towards the wall as she spoke and Jute followed her gaze to find the old Malazan woman, the emissary of that empire, staring back. Her hands were busy adjusting the folds of her black layered blouse and skirts, brushing her face, primping her tightly pulled-back hair. He realized that she and Giana were somehow communicating, and that Giana was not happy. He returned his gaze to the ex-lieutenant to find her glaring straight at him; he hurriedly looked away.

  Tyvar let out a breath, loosened his shoulders. ‘It would appear that we must yet wait a while longer.’ He invited them to follow him back to the stairs. ‘Perhaps when they get hungrier they will be more amenable to negotiation.’

  * * *

  The grit of pulverized rock crackled beneath Silverfox’s sandalled feet as she walked the subterranean chamber. With her toes she edged aside shattered wood from a chair to approach a sprawled corpse. A woman. Sliced through by the clean unmistakable cut of an Imass stone weapon. Nothing sharper, she thought, feeling very distant from it all. Even in this day and age, after all these centuries.

  Her minders, Pran and Tolb, hovered nearby, she was certain, though she couldn’t see them at the moment. Prudent, that, given what she felt rising up within her.

  She thought she’d managed to contain it all. Tamp it down, choke it off. She’d told herself she could live with all this killing. This murder. Now her numbness scared her. A new worry clawed at her stomach – was she becoming what she despised?

  Oblivion would be preferable.

  Yet … the dread within her whispered: what if not even oblivion is for you?

  She raised her gaze to the stone ceiling where colossal wild magics had gouged and scarred the root rock. She blinked to clear her vision. The stink of rotting flesh assaulted her nostrils and raised acid in her throat.

  I deserve this reek. I should live with it always. A reminder—

  No. I should not need reminding. That I would ever need reminding is … unforgivable.

  Grit crackled again as she made her way to the next corpse: an elderly man thrust through numerous times. Strong in his Jaghut blood, this one – he appeared to have ignored several mortal wounds to continue fighting – yet without the obvious strong markers of his heritage, the pronounced jaws and tusk-like teeth, the height. Without those. So did communities change over time. Look at the diversity of the peoples she knew – all from a common ancestor.

  Ancestors she walked with now, who yet appeared far from her blood with their thick robust bones, their squat build and wide jaws.

  Fli
es swarmed the dark holes that once held this one’s eyes. She was grateful that she did not have to meet his gaze, even a fixed death stare. She suspected it would be too much. She felt she was on a knife’s edge of … shattering. The faintest, most innocuous sound might send her tumbling over that edge to where she could never find herself again.

  She’d driven her flesh beyond exhaustion, beyond what it should be expected to endure. Yet that was as nothing to the agony her soul had inflicted upon itself. Could a person choke on self-loathing? She felt she was as much a walking corpse as her companions.

  Quick light steps across the littered floor swung her about: she caught a glimpse of a slip of a girl, her glaring eyes bright and wild in the gloom, her shirt and long skirting tattered and scorched, before the child launched herself upon her. Instinctively, Silverfox caught her arms and they rocked there, straining, limbs outstretched.

  No reason remained in the hatred and rage pouring from the wide eyes. The broken nails of the clawed fingers stretched for her. Protect yourself! the voice of Tattersail shouted within. Destroy her! the Thelomen bellowed.

  Yet Silverfox did not raise the powers of the magery at her command. Instead, she fought to catch those rolling eyes and said, her voice cracking: ‘Why?’

  Perhaps it was the strangeness of being addressed – or the strangeness of the question itself – but she felt the girl’s arms ease. The mouth, working and twisted, fell into a frown of disbelief.

  ‘Why …?’ the girl repeated as if testing the word. ‘Why?’ She pulled away, clasped her hands behind her back as if to restrain them there. ‘You dare ask why? You, who slew my family?’

  What could she say? The time for ‘Sorry’ was long past. Ten thousand years past. No, the gulf was too profoundly deep to be bridged by any such gesture. ‘What I mean,’ she said, ‘is why must we kill each other?’

  The girl fairly quivered in the grip of emotions no doubt as profound as those afflicting Silverfox herself. Blood-smeared and ragged, she looked like a lost waif. Silverfox had to resist the urge to reach out in an effort to soothe her.

  ‘You attacked us!’ the girl accused.

  ‘And who are we?’

  ‘You are the enemy we thought would never come. A legend. Stories to scare children. The Army of Dust and Bone.’

  So that may be the legacy of the Imass, Silverfox mused. A legend. A frightening threat from the dark night of the past. Even that, she decided, would be eminently preferable. She cleared her throat to speak as she could hardly force out the words. ‘Well … it is over. No one will threaten you now. You are in no danger.’

  The girl’s frown eased, though she remained wary, her brows clenched in worry. Then she seemed to come to a decision and her mouth twitched upwards in something like a strained mask-like smile. ‘In that case—’ she began, then jerked, her eyes bulging.

  The point of a brown flint sword punched through the front of her chest. Yet her eyes held Silverfox’s. As they dimmed, it seemed to the Summoner that they poured forth a child’s hurt at a profound betrayal, and this grief broke Silverfox’s heart. The girl slid off the blade revealing Pran Chole behind. Silverfox stared her horror at the Imass, whispered, ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Summoner … she was—’

  Silverfox threw up a hand to command his silence; the presence of Tattersail, the old Malazan mage, was now choking her in its outrage. ‘Answer this crime!’ the ghost-presence of the woman demanded.

  But no. No more retaliation. She was done with it. Done with them all. The raised hand now waved dismissal, but it was she who staggered off, lurching, almost blind. She wondered why tears would not come. Am I that hardened now? Instead, anger possessed her: a heated sizzling rage. To think they once held her pity! Chained to a ritual sworn ages ago! Unbending. Immovable. Intractable! They will not change.

  Suddenly, it was clear what she had to do. If they were incapable of change, then it was up to her to force it upon them. She was, after all, the Summoner.

  The entrance was a half-choked glare of light. She kicked her way through the rubble towards it. Her hand was still extended out behind her, daring anyone to follow.

  In the darkness behind, broken rock crackled once more as Tolb Bell’al joined Pran Chole. The latter extended his withered foot in its tattered leather remnants to press open the hands of the dead girl. A thin knife blade clattered to the stones, its edge dark with venom.

  The two exchanged a silent glance.

  ‘Shall we ever convince her of it?’ Tolb asked.

  Pran shook his head, the leather of his neck creaking. ‘Best not to bring it up again, I think.’

  Tolb nodded his agreement. ‘Perhaps so.’

  Silverfox exited the stone portal like a swimmer broaching the surface after a too-long dive. She gasped for breath, lurching, grasping at the wall for support. The waiting ranks of the Ifayle and Kron flinched from her as they sensed her rage. She stormed off, up a grass-thatched dune, to a single figure standing alone, her long black hair whipping in the wind.

  ‘I am done with them,’ Silverfox announced, coming abreast of Kilava.

  The ancient Bonecaster crossed her arms. ‘Strange how all those who meet the T’lan Imass eventually come to that conclusion. Those who survive, in any case.’

  But Silverfox could not share the woman’s detachment. ‘Tell them to keep their distance. I will go on alone in this. Meet Lanas on my own.’ She paused. ‘That is, unless you wish to witness?’

  Kilava pushed her hair from her wide face, the broad cheekbones and thick, almost brutal brow ridge. ‘I would witness.’

  CHAPTER XII

  KYLE AWOKE TO the hiss of rain and uncontrollable shudders. He was sitting upright against the trunk of a tall spruce amid needles and twisted roots. Yet even here the night’s constant misting rain had found him as it came running down the trunk. He didn’t know the north of these lands, of course, but this was the wettest and most icy spring he could remember. Straightening, he muffled a groan and stretched, then pulled his sodden leathers from his legs and back. He needed a fire to warm up, but there appeared little chance of getting one going. He settled instead for that other way to warm oneself, and set off at a jog in an easterly direction.

  Ground-hugging fogs snaked through the woods he threaded. Sodden leaf mulch and moss was silent beneath his soft-soled moccasins. Drops of the icy vapour fell from his hair to his shoulders and ran down the back of his neck. The day was dark, hardly warmer than the night. Banks of clouds obscured the heights where breaks in the tree cover allowed a view. He heard the strong pounding of run-off driving through deep ravines and chasms in the distant slopes, but could see only courses of haze that ran down from the heights like rivers themselves.

  Strange spring weather. Felt more like autumn.

  He crossed over to an easterly valley and started north. The bruises and stings from the clashes the night before – he’d jogged an entire day and night since – slowed him with cramps and a tightness round his chest. Pausing, his breath sending up great plumes of steam, he damned Lyan for a fool. She didn’t really think she’d come out on top, did she? Still, she was an experienced war commander – and how many of these Icebloods could there be left anyway? Perhaps it was worth the gamble.

  Yet what of Stalker and Badlands and Coots, should he actually find them? A possibility that appeared to be diminishing by the day. What if she and he were to meet on opposite sides? He snorted as he pushed his way through a prickly, dense patch of brush. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, y’damned idiot. Looks like you’re not going to even find any of the Losts.

  And if they had any sense, they’d all have packed up long ago, anyway.

  The next day he reached a broad, flat stream bed of washed gravel where the water chained and sheeted in a thin but icy flow, and followed the course for the morning. His feet became numb blocks of ice themselves, as did his hands, despite his effort to keep them tucked under his armpits as much as he could.

&nbs
p; He was hungry, but not unbearably so; he’d endured far worse. Mushrooms, nuts and berries filled the void for the time being. He’d snared a rabbit the night before and kept an eye out for a dry spot, with tinder enough, to build a fire to cook it. So far he’d found nothing.

  Towards mid-day, a discolouring wash came streaming down with the waters. The stain was so washed out it took him some time to identify it: thinned blood. He crouched low and continued on, splashing from the cover of one patch of tall grass to another. Slowly, bit by bit, he came across the washed-out remains of the site: tatters of torn cloth, scraps of leather. Then heavier litter: a boot, the broken wooden handle of a shovel or a spade.

  Shattered equipment lay ahead. He recognized gold-sluices and hand-held sifting frames. Amid the wreckage lay the bodies of its owners. Hands tucked in his shirt, Kyle carefully studied the remains. Unarmoured, in tattered old jerkins and trousers. A pretty ragged lot. Mostly unarmed as well; nothing larger than broad heavy knives lay in the water.

  He felt sickened. A slaughter. A damned slaughter. These prospectors didn’t stand a chance. It was obvious this lot had nothing to do with burning Greathalls, or warring against the Icebloods. Killing them solved nothing. If anything, it invited retaliation.

  Stupid. Damned stupid. Such bloodletting only made things worse. Again, the senselessness of vendetta and blood-feud reprisals and vengeance killings impressed itself upon him. Joining the Guard had opened his eyes to how self-defeating and petty these endless cycles of family or clan retribution were.

  Something shifted nearby and he straightened, damning himself. Speaking of stupid …