Assail

CHAPTER X

On his third day descending into the valleys and ridges of the Bain Holding, Orman spotted something strange in a meadow of waving tall green grasses far below: the single figure of a large man running. But ponderously, awkwardly so. And, breaking from the cover of a nearby treeline, a pursuing party of some ten men. Orman froze in his sliding descent down a steep scree slope. He shaded his one good eye. He might be mistaken, what with his different vision now, but that shambling figure practically had the appearance of a bear running on two legs.

He charged down the slope. He skittered and slid, kicked up a great fan of tumbling gravel and rocks. These he leapt in greater and greater jumps until an ankle turned on a loose rock and he joined the minor landslide as one more object making its way in the inevitable rush, rolling and tumbling, down to the rocky base. As the hissing wash of stones slowed he jumped up and cleared the mass of boulders awaiting him, rolled, and leapt up to continue running.

He drew his hatchets as he ran. He jumped fallen logs, or attempted to, as he still was not used to his differing vision and fell a few times. Standing, damning the irreversible loss, he shouldered through dense thickets then burst forth on to the meadow. The roars of battle-joy he heard from over a nearby gentle rise confirmed his suspicions, and he charged.

From the crest he saw Old Bear himself below, surrounded by spearmen. The man held a body in front of him and this he raised in both arms over his head and threw upon a spearman, then charged. The ring flinched, men backpedalling. Old Bear batted the glinting spearheads aside.

Orman was spotted and the ring eased back into a line, facing the two of them. He charged in headlong. He took one prodding spear on the notch of his bearded hatchet and yanked the haft aside, then smashed his blade into the nook where shoulder met neck and half decapitated the man. A spear thrust at him from his blind side, appearing from nowhere, and he was rocked by the surprise. He had only an instant to realize what a disadvantage he now possessed and took to bobbing his head from side to side. He successfully knocked aside two more thrusts.

Roaring with laughter now, Old Bear picked up another corpse to hurl on to the spearmen. He took a thrust in the shoulder for his trouble.

‘Stop fooling around!’ Orman yelled.

Another spearman lunged forward. Old Bear snatched the weapon from his hands and cracked the butt-end across his head, felling him. ‘Fooling around?’ he bellowed, affronted. ‘Why, you young pup!’

Three charged. Orman hurled a hatchet taking one in the chest. The remaining two Old Bear somehow managed to force to cross hafts, and these he yanked from their hands. A blow from one of his huge paws felled one; the other fled. The remaining ones also backed off then turned to flee.

Old Bear simply waved them off as he stood puffing and drawing in great lungfuls of air. He eyed Orman and a wide grin spread across his shaggy features. Then he frowned. ‘I resent your interference,’ he said, practically wheezing.

‘I saved your life, you old fool.’

Old Bear waved a dismissal over the fallen men. ‘All you did was cheat me of a great boast — should I have succeeded.’

‘Should you have succeeded,’ Orman agreed.

The grin returned and the old man opened one arm — his good arm — and Orman embraced him. Old Bear pounded his back. ‘Good to see you, y’damned fool!’ He took hold of Orman’s shoulder and pulled him away to give him a good look up and down. Orman noted the flinch as he examined his face. ‘Running off north! What do you think you could accomplish?’

‘I saw him.’

The old man’s tangled greying brows rose. Even the one over the blind milky eye. ‘Really? You met Buri? What did he say?’

What Buri said returned to Orman’s thoughts, and he half turned away. He shook his head.

Old Bear pulled a hand through his thick beard. ‘Ach — you tried, lad.’ He winced and gripped his shoulder. ‘Damned bastards tickled me.’

Orman took his arm. ‘Let’s find a stream. Clean that wound.’

Old Bear motioned to Orman’s patch as they made their way down the slope. ‘We’re practically twins now!’ he chortled.

Orman laughed as well. ‘Yes — how will they ever tell us apart? So, what’s going on? What in the name of the ancients are you doing here?’

‘Your plan was accepted, Orman. We’re working with the Losts.’

‘My plan? It wasn’t my plan. Was one of the Lost hearth-guards’ … Cal, I think.’

The old man made a face as if insulted. ‘Of course it was your plan! No dim hearthguard of the Losts could come up with a decent plan!’ He grinned anew. ‘Only the Sayers.’

Orman just snorted. Then he drew a hard breath, tensing himself. ‘Any word … on Jass?’

Old Bear lost his grin. He cleared his throat as he limped along. ‘No, lad. He’s a hostage of the Bains. They’ll keep him safe. Don’t you worry. It’s the old ways.’

‘And Lotji?’

‘He’s out there somewhere. It’s one big running battle. We’re trying to herd them together. Us ’n’ the Losts. But they just ain’t organized. Just a bunch of raiding bands, all independent.’ The man grumbled under his breath. ‘Like herding cats.’

‘Well … I’m for Lotji.’

The big man shook his head. ‘Don’t do it, lad. He’ll run you through with Svalthbrul.’

‘I’ll just have to take my chances.’

But Old Bear would not stop shaking his shaggy head. ‘No, lad. Don’t you lot there in Curl tell the old tales?’

Orman snorted his scepticism. ‘You mean that it never misses?’

‘That’s right, lad. Svalthbrul, once loosed, never misses its mark.’

He had no answer for that. Yet Buri had advised he challenge Lotji; he must know the truth of those old tales, if anyone did. And, anyway, he really had no choice in the matter. It would be confronting Lotji, or abandoning everything he believed about himself. It was no choice at all.

They found a stream and Orman cleaned and bound Bear’s shoulder. Then they headed south, down the valley. The shadows lengthened; the sun sizzled atop the ridge to the west. Twilight already pooled in the depths of this particularly steep mountain vale. Orman was considering finding a place to settle in for the night when he heard the clash of fighting echoing from the very bottom of the valley. He and Bear broke into a trot, started jogging down the forested slope.

He glimpsed figures through the trees running parallel to them. Too many to be any allies of theirs. In his rush he’d left Bear behind, and now he broke through a dense thicket of tearing brush to nearly fall into a shallow stream. Halfway across the rushing water, hunched amid gleaming wet boulders, were the Reddin brothers with Vala, Jass’s mother. Even as he watched, arrows glanced from the rocks; they were pinned down by a band of archers on the opposite shore.

Lowlanders came charging out past the line of bowmen, making for them. Bodies lay in the stream all about the hearthguards and Vala, like boulders themselves. The rushing waters coursed over them as over any other obstruction.

Orman charged out as well. He hoped that the archers on the far shore would merely take him for one of their own. Some eight attackers now engaged the brothers and Vala. The three formed a rough triangle amid the rocks. The archers held off, not wanting to hit their fellows. When Orman neared the fight he lashed out with his hatchets, chopping down through the shoulder of one attacker, then stabbing another through the ribs with the spike of his second. The brothers and Vala instantly shifted to the attack. Both brothers had their shields up and were using their swords one-handed. Vala fought with long-knives. She cut down two of the attacking men, and a woman, in swift blows that amazed Orman. Her power was such that she nearly severed a man’s leg at the thigh.

An arrow cut angrily past his head and he threw himself low in the frigid stream, on his haunches, next to Keth — or — the brother he was fairly certain was Keth.

‘I did not think I would see you again,’ Vala shouted from where she crouched.

‘I’ve come for Lotji,’ he called back.

She gave a fierce nod, answered, ‘As have I.’ Roaring gusts of laughter sounded from the forested slope above the stream and Orman shared a grin with the Reddin brothers. ‘Old Bear is keeping them busy,’ Vala said.

Keth — or was it Kasson? — directed Orman’s gaze to the stream. He peered about for a moment, uncertain, then he saw it: where the waves slapped up over the fallen bodies the water left behind a wash of sand, and amid the sifting granules tiny flecks gleamed in the fading light. It was as if someone had tossed a handful of gold dust over the corpses.

Orman could only shake his head at the poetry of it. ‘They came seeking gold …’ he said.

‘… and they found it,’ Keth finished.

The other brother motioned to Kyle’s patch. ‘The Eithjar reported you had lost your eye. They say that one who loses an eye, gains a second sight.’

Orman offered a weak smile; they were trying to cheer him up, but they all knew what a handicap he now carried in any battle.

Vala had been studying both valley slopes, and now she nodded to herself. ‘Very good. I believe we’ve drawn them in. Now it’s time to push them.’ She faced the north, upstream, and waved a hand low over the surface of the chilling water. It looked to Orman as if she were casting something out across the stream, or perhaps summoning something.

The arrow fire intensified. It seemed more of the outlanders had arrived. He dared a glance over the top of his cover; some twenty archers were now creeping out into the stream, stepping over the wet rocks, searching for sound footing.

Damn the hoary old Taker! It would be the end if they succeeded in flushing them.

Keth tapped his shoulder, inclined his head upstream. Orman squinted into the shadows of the gathering dusk. A fog was rising. It came tumbling down the stream in thick billows and rolls. And it was no normal mist or haze: Orman could hardly see through it.

Curses sounded from the archers, along with mutterings about Iceblood magics. A new party of attackers came crashing through the thick verge along the shore. Here they halted, blinking. They took in the descending wall of fog, the archers now retreating before it, and they too ran.

The treacle billows washed over them, and the shocking chill stole Orman’s breath. Stars of frost appeared on the iron of his hatchets. He felt his beard frosting over. Yet while the cold was sharp, even biting, he did not feel uncomfortable. Instead, as before, he felt refreshed, even invigorated.

They straightened. Their breath plumed in the icy fog. Vala gestured anew; she thrust her hands down the slope. She waved for them to accompany her and started slogging through the water.

Far off, disembodied in the fog, came Old Bear’s booming laughter.

‘Was that them?’ Orman asked.

‘Who?’

‘The invaders.’

Vala’s laugh was just as loud and unreserved as Old Bear’s. ‘That was a scouting party. The main body is camped to the south. We will attack on the morrow.’

Orman almost laughed himself. ‘Us? Attack? How many of them are there?’

‘Some five hundreds,’ she answered, indifferent.

‘So all ten of us have them surrounded?’

‘The Losts have hired mercenary hearthguards,’ Kasson explained in his soft voice, perhaps so quiet he never used it.

‘Must have amassed a lot of gold …’ Keth mused.

That was the most he’d heard from either of them; they seemed to get quite voluble during a fight.

‘Find a campsite and start a fire,’ Vala told them.

‘A fire?’ Orman wondered.

Vala smiled indulgently. ‘None will see it in this fog. I have no use for it — but you might wish to dry yourself.’

Her leathers were rimed with ice, yet mist drifted from her as if the Iceblood woman were afire. But Orman knew it was not heat driving those tendrils of mist; he knew that if he touched her, his hand would probably freeze. He ducked his head. ‘Thank you.’ Then he remembered he was walking with Jass’s mother — a lover of his own father — and what had happened, and he hung his head even more. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured.

‘Do not chastise yourself. The Eithjar told me of it. Your only mistake was in not understanding that Lotji is very … old-fashioned.’

‘Old-fashioned?’

She nodded; her mane of black hair was frozen in one solid slab down her back. ‘For Lotji, the old bloodfeud and vendetta remain everything. That is what drives him. These invaders, these lowlanders … he cares nothing for them.’

‘I see. So he is here for you Sayers.’

‘And you.’

The Reddin brothers had selected a copse of trees to camp in and had started gathering dry branches for a fire. The fog remained dense about them; they moved in some otherworld where shapes emerged suddenly from shifting walls of haze, and sounds returned distorted and echoing eerily.

‘Me?’

Vala’s smile appeared touched with melancholy. ‘Haven’t you seen it yet, Orman?’

He had no idea what the Iceblood woman was hinting at. ‘Seen what?’

‘We are the same, you and I. Your people and mine. We share the same ancestors from long ago.’

Orman stared, dumbfounded. Impossible, he thought. How could that possibly be? They are Icebloods!

Vala continued, her voice calm, almost wistful. ‘Your clans separated from ours long ago to make their own way in the southlands. They mixed with humans they found there. Over the generations we drifted apart. Yet not so far apart. Orman, our numbers are few, we remaining clans. Our blood is too similar. When we wish to add to our numbers we take a mate from among you lowlanders — our distant cousins. Or, sometimes, we offer a position in our families to those few who arise every generation or so who seem to fit in among us.’

She regarded him directly now. Her strange oval eyes seemed to glow amber in the shadows. ‘Such an offer was made to your father. And so … whatever should happen …’ Her gaze released him and he found he could breathe once more. ‘Well … please know that I am glad you and Jass met. Glad that you did what you could for him.’

The Iceblood woman seemed to be suggesting that nothing more could be done for her son — his half-brother. Yet Old Bear had told him not to worry. He fought to find his voice, murmured huskily, ‘We’ll get him back. I swear.’

Her half-smile simply eased into a purer sort of wistfulness and she walked away to disappear into the shifting banks of fog. Orman knelt on his haunches with Keth and Kasson, who were minding the fire. ‘Where’s Shortshanks?’

‘With them,’ said Keth — or was it Kasson? He was no longer certain he had them straight after all.

‘Sleep,’ said the other. ‘We’ll trade off watches.’

‘What of Bear?’

They shook their heads. ‘He will not come to the fire,’ said one. ‘He says he does not want to smell of smoke but I think he doesn’t like fire when he’s raising the bear.’

‘Raising the bear? So it’s not some sort of spell? He truly is a shapeshifter?’

‘Have you not heard all the old tales? It was quite common, once. Now he is the last.’

‘And the morrow? What is the plan?’

But the brothers appeared to have used up their store of words, and merely glanced to one another, shrugging.

Orman lay down on a brushed-together bed of dried leaves and needles, facing the fire, and watched the tendrils of mist rising from his drying leathers wend their way up to the surrounding billows and there mingle among them.

*

Dawn came as a diffuse pewter-grey light. The fog cover remained; if anything, it had thickened. The cold was intense. Frost glazed the blades of his hatchets and the grass blades and brush crunched underfoot. Vala motioned them on; she appeared to be able to penetrate the dense soup of haze. Orman reflected that, while she might claim they shared an ancestry, he still couldn’t see a damned thing.

They descended a dividing ridge into another valley, this one not so steep. Fog still obscured all the distances; trees stood as ghosts, boulders emerged like cave openings into darkness. Distantly, Orman could make out many voices and the jangle and ringing of equipment.

‘They are searching the fog,’ Vala snorted. ‘Fools.’ She motioned to the Reddin brothers. ‘Time to push them in. Spread out. A slow sweep down the side.’

The brothers nodded and moved off. They were readying their shields when the mist swallowed them. ‘What of us?’ he asked.

‘We will stay together. We are after the same thing.’ She motioned him off a little. He refreshed his grip on his hatchets and stepped aside until Vala became a shadow amid the haze. Then he began edging his way down the valley side.

Men and women called to each other further down the slope. Their accent was strange, yet he could understand some of the basic words. Outlanders. He considered shouting confusing orders, then decided a silent approach would be best.

The clash and grating of weapons sounded from his right, followed by the yell of a wounded man, cut short. As Orman felt his way down, a figure emerged ahead from the coursing banks of fog. It was a man shielding his gaze to peer up into the haze.

‘Who is that?’ the fellow called. ‘Name yourself!’

‘Greki,’ Orman answered.

‘Greki? Greki who?’

Still advancing, Orman said, ‘Greki … the False,’ and lunged, swinging a hatchet upwards to catch the man under his jaw, splitting it. The fellow gurgled a howl, clutching his face, and fell. Orman finished him with a cut to the back of the neck.

‘Who is that?’ someone shouted from further down among the brush. More than one came running. Orman crouched to ready himself. Fortunately, they came in a disorganized rush; stumbling upon him almost one by one. Every advantage was Orman’s as he knew that whoever appeared would be his enemy. He did not bother with the niceties but took out knees and arms — whichever was nearest — then finished with single crippling blows and moved on.

The panicked calls and clash of blows exchanged and shrieks of wounded was constant now up and down the thinly treed valley side. The fog remained so thick Orman could make out none of the battle, and neither, he knew, could the invaders. It seemed that only the Icebloods could penetrate the haze. A powerful advantage for any engagement.

He felled three more as he edged further down the slope. The last actually still held a raised crossbow as he futilely searched the fog for a target. Orman almost felt sorry for the fool.

A shape appeared next to him so close and so silently that he flinched, almost falling to the ground; the tall figure of Jaochim reared over him. The Iceblood wore mere hunting leathers, but held two long-hafted bearded axes. ‘You are falling behind,’ he growled. ‘The battle is on the valley floor. Speed is our ally. We must break them before they organize a defence.’

‘I am sorry,’ Orman stammered.

Jaochim raised one axe almost in salute. ‘Never mind.’ Then he paused, frowning. ‘Did you really meet with Buri?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said he was readying himself for the true enemy.’

The Iceblood appeared startled by that. ‘The true enemy,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Those words?’

‘Yes.’

Jaochim scanned the fog. Again he seemed to speak aloud to himself: ‘Then we are wasting our time here.’ He suddenly waved all such concerns away, a gesture that reminded Orman of Old Bear. ‘Hunh. Well, run now. Hack and run.’ Then, unaccountably, he suddenly offered a fey smile that bared his prominent canines. ‘Lotji is here.’ And he loped off, to disappear into the swirling mist.

Reminded of what he should be doing, Orman set off running pell-mell down the slope.

Figures appeared through the fog’s chiaroscuro of shadow and light. He merely slashed at them in passing. What a fool he’d been! Wasting his time among these outlying pickets and scouts! It was Lotji he wanted — and he’d cut his way through the middle of this army to find him.

Following the clashes and shouts, he tracked down the main engagement. Figures charged him but he did not pursue the duels: he slashed and ran on. He passed knots of mêlées, glimpsed the Reddin brothers, back to back, surrounded but calmly defending — he left them to it.

He burst into the ruins of a temporary camp: trampled tents, smouldering fires, scattered fallen spears and equipment. And bodies. Many bodies. All invaders as far as he could see.

He turned full circle to scan the banks of mists. This was useless. He could search until the dawn and not come across the man. Then it struck him: the one thing that would draw him in.

He lifted his hands to his mouth. ‘Lotji! I am come for you! Where are you? Coward!’ He stumbled on. ‘I challenge you!’ Rounding a half-fallen tent, he practically crashed into a band of invaders.

‘Get him!’ one screamed.

Orman yelled a war-bellow and threw himself upon them, slashing right and left. But there were far too many. He spike-thrust one in the mouth and tried to disengage while they shifted, working round to his blind side. Then one threw off his cloak on to his neighbour, knifed another, and leapt to Orman’s side: Gerrun Shortshanks. ‘Heard you yelling,’ he grinned.

Orman nodded his gratitude then turned to the remaining troop, who were edging inward, wary but determined. Gerrun startled him by charging one side. ‘Don’t wait for them!’ he yelled, taking a sword-swing on one dirk blade and kicking the man down.

Orman followed his example. It was a shifting, swirling mêlée from then on. He blocked blows with his hatchet, took out knees with counter-attacks, dodged, and shifted his head left and right, ever circling. One canny fellow kept him pinned on his blind side until he surprised him by tossing a hatchet to wind him and slow him down long enough to snatch up a fallen spear and run him through. He spun then, quickly, but not quickly enough as another invader slipped inside the spear from his left, blocking the haft to slash a blow that Orman only slipped by throwing himself backwards. He lost the spear in doing so.

The outlander closed, shortsword reversed. Orman rolled, and as he did the fellow grunted and clasped a hand to his chest. The grip of a knife stood there from his leathers. He fell to his knees, cursed impressively, and toppled.

Orman straightened, panting, his limbs quivering. He retrieved the spear. Gerrun appeared next to him. The short man grinned up at him and winked. ‘You let him get inside,’ he said.

‘I’ll try to watch for that,’ Orman allowed. His mouth was as dry as stone.

‘This way,’ Shortshanks said, and headed off. Suddenly, he stopped, and tottered back into Orman’s arms. His front was slashed open and blood and inner fluids now poured down his fine felt trousers all the way to his cured leather boots. Orman gently lowered him, dead already, to the trampled grasses. He straightened then, knowing what he would see: Lotji standing a short distance off amid the fog, leaning upon Svalthbrul.

‘It is I who must challenge you,’ the Bain said.

‘Don’t be a fool! There are hundreds of invaders! We must work together to turn them away!’

But the Bain only shook his head. He straightened, levelled Svalthbrul at Orman. ‘A challenge, once given, must be answered.’ He smiled then, and Orman was reminded of Jaochim’s smile. ‘And thankfully we are upon Bain lands.’

The knapped stone spearhead gleamed wet with blood. This close, it appeared enormous. Lotji’s arms tensed for the thrust. Orman realized he held no weapon and snatched his fighting knives from the rear of his belt. ‘Fool!’ he damned the man, fully expecting this to be his last moment.

Both he and Lotji froze then, utterly shocked by a bellowed roar bursting so close that Orman swore he felt the hot breath. An enormous black shape burst through the mist. A swatting paw the size of a shield knocked Lotji tumbling away, to disappear into the swirling scarves of haze. The beast, the size of a wagon, lumbered off in pursuit and disappeared. Orman shouted uselessly: ‘No! He has Svalthbrul!’ Cursing the old man for a fool, he gave chase.

The crashing and roars of their battle guided him. He stumbled amid the wreckage of a camp: flattened torn tents, scattered cook-fires, scattered equipment. Invaders ran straight past him in their panic to flee the duel. The trail of debris and deep pawprints torn in the soft ground led onward out of the camp to a copse of ghostly alder and birch. Orman found shattered trunks and trees that had been knocked askew and were now leaning drunkenly. The ground was torn by claws. Blood lay splashed across one fallen bole. He followed, knives readied.

The tumult subsided. Amid the coursing banners of fog, he glimpsed a huge dark figure lying across shattered trunks. Old Bear. He quickly sheathed his blades and cradled the man’s bloodied head.

‘Speak to me, old man.’

Old Bear drew a long, shuddering breath. ‘What use is a glorious duel,’ he growled, ‘when no one can see a blasted thing!’

Orman burst out a laugh. ‘Y’damned old fool!’

‘It would have been something to boast of,’ Old Bear answered, his voice far softer now. ‘Anyway,’ he swallowed, said wearily, ‘softened him up for you.’

‘Should’ve stayed out of it. It’s my fight.’

The old man attempted to rise. ‘No, no. Would’ve been … would’ve …’ He eased back, his limbs relaxing.

‘Would’ve been something for the hero songs,’ Orman finished. Old Bear just nodded his shaggy head. His remaining brown eye closed and Orman felt his massive frame sag in death. He eased the head down, stood.

It was strange, he reflected. Outland invaders were here to steal the land from his own people, yet it was one of his own who had taken everything from him. ‘I know you are there!’ he called to the mists. ‘Let us end this now.’

As if answering a draught of fresh wind, the fog thinned. Off a short distance stood Lotji. ‘I wanted you to see your end!’ he shouted. He drew back his arm and launched Svalthbrul. Orman flinched. For some reason he hadn’t expected the man to simply throw the spear. He thought he’d have a chance to engage. Some sort of fair chance.

A grating thud sounded then and Orman blinked, surprised. Instead of being thrust through as he’d expected, he found the spear Svalthbrul jutting from the ground not an arm’s length from him. Its thick haft stood quivering.

Just as he had left it, he realized. When he had given it to Lotji.

Given it. And he remembered Old Bear’s words: ‘wrested it from the dead hand of Jorgan Bain …’

Svalthbrul, it seemed, was still his.

He snatched it up. Raised his gaze to Lotji. The Bain was staring, his eyes widening now. Unaccountably, he laughed, almost in approval or resignation, and gravely saluted Orman. Then he turned and walked away to disappear into the mists.

Orman brought the cold faceted stone head of the spear to his lips and did what he knew Lotji now understood, and accepted, as his unavoidable fate. ‘Find the bastard,’ he whispered, and heaved the weapon as high as he possessed the strength to do. Svalthbrul flew from his hand, almost leaping, and vanished. He drew his fighting knives and followed the line the weapon’s passage had cleaved through the mist.

Distantly, it registered upon him that the noise and tumult of battle had faded almost completely. He stepped over the corpses of fallen outlanders. Ahead, three standing figures solidified from the haze. He heard their laboured exhausted breathing. Sensing his approach, they tensed, swords rising.

He met three soldiers, two women and one man, armoured alike in long mail coats, belted, with broad shields and helmets. Their shields featured a much battered and scraped field of dark red with some sort of wiggly line across.

‘Identify yourself,’ the man ordered.

‘Orman, hearthguard to the Sayers.’

The three relaxed. The man sheathed his longsword. ‘Jup Alat. We are with the Losts. This is Laurel and Leena. Fight’s over, I think. What can we do for you?’

He motioned onward behind them. ‘I’m tracking someone.’

The big fellow frowned. ‘No one passed us.’

‘Nevertheless. If I may?’

The three parted. ‘Certainly. If you wish.’

Orman nodded and continued on. The three stood motionless, peering after him until the coursing fog closed between them once more.

He walked until he began to suspect that he’d somehow lost the trail, or had perhaps passed where the weapon had fallen. He paused then, listening. A stream of some sort rushed and hissed a good distance off. A freshening wind shushed through tree boughs. Far off, people called to one another through the fog.

An explosive wet cough sounded to one side. Orman tightened his grip on his weapons and closed. He found Lotji standing, tottering. The spear Svalthbrul had driven through him straight up and down; its end stood above his head, the haft disappearing into one shoulder. The spearhead stood forward, almost straight down, from his pelvis. At some noise from Orman the Bain turned, slowly, in lurching steps.

His grin was a smear of blood-red. The mouth worked and out came a faint: ‘You win.’

‘I care nothing for your damned feuds. Where is he?’

‘Who?’

‘Jass! Damn you!’

‘Ah. Him.’ The man drew a shuddering breath. His eyes closed, then fluttered, blinking. It occurred to Orman that the man could not fall even if he wanted to. The haft of Svalthbrul held him rigid, tree-straight. His knees buckled and he fell straight down. Svalthbrul’s blade drove into the ground and the man moaned an agony beyond reason. His head rose, revealing that he grinned once more as if at some cosmic jest. ‘I would try the Greathall,’ he mouthed.

Enraged, Orman kicked him down. He fell and lay motionless.

Bending, Orman took hold of the wet, bloodied haft close behind the spearhead and yanked. He set one boot against the man’s thigh and yanked again. The haft came sliding free in a slither of fluids. Mist curled from the gore-slick length.

‘And what of Jass?’ Vala spoke from behind and Orman spun. She stood breathing deeply, her long-knives bloodied to the grips, her forearms splashed.

‘He said to try the Greathall.’

The news rocked the woman. Open dread filled her alien oval eyes. ‘The Greathall is more than a day south of here,’ she breathed, appalled.

Orman wasn’t certain he understood. ‘But then …’

Vala did not pause to answer. She spun and ran. He took a few faltering steps after her, calling, ‘Vala! Vala … Dammit to the Abyss.’

Twin figures came jogging up through the thinning fog: the Reddin brothers. Both appeared hale, if sliced and cut by minor wounds. Neither carried his shield, which must have been battered to pieces in the fighting. ‘Here you are,’ said one, Keth perhaps.

‘Where is Bain Greathall?’ he demanded.

‘South of here,’ answered the other.

‘South? Where?’

One brother extended an arm, gesturing downhill. ‘South.’

Orman took off at a jog. After a short time he found the brothers flanking him. ‘What is it?’ one asked.

‘Jass is at the Greathall.’

They entered a more mature forest of tall pine and birch and the ground opened up. They had left behind the localized banks of fog. Orman glimpsed other figures also fleeing south through the woods. He ignored them.

‘If there are any Bains left they will be defending the Greathall,’ one brother offered.

‘Let us hope,’ Orman muttered beneath his breath.

Through the rest of the day and into the night they alternated between walking and jogging. The sky was clear and bright. The Great Ice Bridge could clearly be seen spanning the entire inverted bowl above. It glittered from one horizon to the other. The moon, battered and blurry still from the strange fires that burst upon it years ago, was a sickle blade waxing.

They ran straight past camps of some few stragglers, or latecomers. These men and women watched them without a shouted curse, a yell, or a fired arrow. It was as if they considered them some sort of ghosts, such as the Eithjar.

Dawn’s orange light brightened behind an eastern ridge. In its glow Orman spotted the faint smudge of black smoke rising from the forest canopy below. He broke into a run.

The pall was quite distant; he had to splash through two small streams while he pushed his way through the underbrush. He heard the brothers following. He burst through to cleared fields and saw ahead the Bain Greathall, aflame. Figures surrounded it.

Orman could not be certain, but believed he howled something as he charged. Faces turned his way. He crashed into armed men and women, thrust right and left. He was now truly blind in a red mist of fury and a crushing dread. More lowlanders came closing in from surrounding the hall. The brothers joined him but instead of remaining within their cover he charged from one man or woman to the next. Some remaining rational part of him seemed to watch this and wonder whether Old Bear’s talent of ferocious shapeshifting had passed to him.

He then became aware of himself standing motionless, spellbound, exhausted, his limbs quivering, before the dark opening of the gaping entrance. The arrow-pierced corpse of an Iceblood, an old man, lay upon the stairs. Vala held the doorway. Smoke gouted out about her in a black river. Embers glowed in her hair. Her leathers were slashed over countless wounds — but that was as nothing to the agony in her wild staring eyes. Devastation had hollowed them completely. But most of all what held him breathless and fascinated was their grim and absolute despair.

He reached out to her; she flinched away as if some wild beast, turned, and ran within to disappear among the licking flames and smoke. He lunged up the stairs but hands held him back. He believe he howled and fought then froze, transfixed.

Through the billowing smoke he’d glimpsed something.

Amid the churning coils, the collapsing roof-timbers, something hung from the immense log that was the roof crossbeam. A small figure swinging ever so slightly. His leathers were curling and smoking in the intense heat. His hands were tied behind his back and he’d been thrust through the chest.

Thrust through by Svalthbrul — the weapon he now held in his hands. A burden he now knew to be wholly and inescapably cursed.

He screamed then. Bellowed to the sky. Howled on and on until something struck him and he fell, knowing nothing more.

*

He awoke in an out-building, a small hut of chinked logs. He smelled stale smoke. Svalthbrul stood leaning next to his cot. He left it there and arose to push open the door of thin wooden slats. It was late in the day. White smoke wafted from the collapsed ruins of the burnt Greathall.

Keth Reddin stood without, arms crossed. Orman nodded him a greeting.

‘The Bains are no more,’ Keth said.

‘Yes.’

‘I am sorry for the loss of your half-brother.’

‘Thank you.’

Keth nodded; he’d said what he meant to say and was finished.

Orman took a deep breath of the reviving air. ‘We must return to Sayer Hall to bring word of this … this loss.’ Keth nodded again.

The Reddin brother shifted to peer back through the open door. Orman followed his gaze. Yes. Svalthbrul. He took a hard breath to steel himself and re-entered the hut. Yes. He closed a fist upon the weapon. Though he now hated it, it was his. His burden to carry. His curse. If it could speak, he now understood it would be laughing at all the blood it had drunk, the discord and violence it had sown.

He ducked from the hut and crossed to the smouldering ruins. The brothers followed. He stood for a time facing the pile of ash and blackened logs, Svalthbrul cradled in his arms. He adjusted the patch of ragged leather he’d cut to cover his eye. He bowed to his fallen kin. There were no words to say. No tears to shed. His heart had been thrust through as irrevocably as Jass’s. He was done, finished; as burnt and ashen within as the hulk of this Greathall.

He set off north.

* * *

It had taken only one salvo from Cartheron’s springals to destroy the foremost of the vessels pursuing them. It erupted in a blast of flying timbers and cartwheeling men, and sank as if pulled from beneath. The rest of the flotilla eased up oars. Their bow-waves disappeared in a wash of dispersing foam, and Jute watched them diminish to the rear.

Another two days’ journey brought them rounding a headland to enter a broad bay, its shore one of tall rock cliffs. Jutting from these cliffs, hard up to their very edge, stood the blunt cylinder of grey rock that was the Keep at Mantle town. As they approached, he kept an eye on the structure; something about its dimensions bothered him.

He leaned on the railing next to where the ex-Malazan officer, Giana Jalaz, stood with her bare forearms over the wood, an apple in one hand. ‘I see ships,’ he commented. Indeed, the masts of some handful of vessels rose from the waves at the base of the cliff beneath the tower. ‘They are blockaded, you say?’

She took a bite, chewed. ‘So I was told,’ she answered round the mouthful. She raised the apple. ‘Good thing you brought supplies.’

‘That was not my intention, you can be sure …’ he said, but she was moving now, signing something to the other soldiers who had accompanied her. They began pulling on their armour.

Giana herself simply yanked her thin blouse over her head and tossed it to Jute. Mechanically, unthinkingly, he caught and held it; it was warm from her body. Her upper torso was wide and muscular, her breasts small and high, the areoles dark. Only then did Jute realize he was staring and spin away.

‘Hang on to that,’ she told him. ‘That’s my one good shirt.’

He stammered, ‘Of course.’

A low laugh from Ieleen made his ears heat. ‘Getting changed, are we?’ she enquired sweetly.

‘Could be a fight,’ Giana explained. He heard her armour rattle and jangle as she pulled it on. ‘Buckle me up, won’t you?’

Still with his back to the disturbing north Genabackan woman, he said, ‘Perhaps someone else …’

‘Well, seeing as I’m blind,’ Ieleen offered, ‘she might not like the result if I took a hand. Go ahead, dear. You can tell me all about it later.’ Then, even more disturbingly, the two women shared a laugh.

Jute decided that he was at a distinct disadvantage and that perhaps it would be best if he just went along with things. He turned and found the ex-Malazan officer waiting, her side to him, buckles of her hauberk presented. He set to work.

He was almost done when the woman yanked forward out of his grip. She growled, ‘What in the name of the nitwit Boles is he doing?’ Jute found the clasps again and finished up, squinting ahead: the Resolute had surged onward, sweeps flashing.

‘Charging the blockade, looks like.’

The woman turned to where the Ragstopper continued its steady pace. ‘No flags. No signalling … Cartheron’s letting them go?’

‘They pretty much do whatever they want.’

She sent him a sceptical glance. ‘You say those soldiers are Blue Shields?’

‘Aye.’

‘This I have to see. Can we close up?’

Jute considered. They could, he supposed. The Malazans would fight if it came to that — not that he was expecting any real resistance to Tyvar and his Blue Shields. He nodded, went to the stern railing, called, ‘Follow the Resolute, Buen.’

‘Aye, captain.’ His first mate started chivvying the men and women at the oars.

He asked Giana, ‘And once we are at Mantle? Then what?’

‘That’s Cartheron’s call.’

‘You must have some idea. What would you do?’

‘Me?’ She rubbed her jaw. ‘I was never staff level. Strategy’s not my strength. But seeing as that gang outside the walls wants our blood already …’ She shrugged. ‘Ever work as a mercenary, Captain Hernan?’

Mercenary? Him? He glanced back to Ieleen; she sat with her chin resting upon her walking stick. Her head was tilted as if she was listening to something faint and far off. Her expression was intent and focused, but not alarmed. ‘I’m a businessman, not a mercenary,’ he told Giana.

‘Same thing,’ she said. ‘One just cleans up better than the other.’

As they neared base, the blockade resolved into five man-o’-wars anchored in a wide semicircle, presumably just outside the range of what appeared to be two mangonels just visible atop the cliffs.

The Resolute did not pause. It pulled alongside the middle vessel, sweeps were shipped and grapnels flew to span the gap.

At his side, Giana allowed a grudging, ‘Well executed, that.’

Yet the action at the vessels could not capture Jute’s attention; something about that squat so-called fortress kept nagging at him and now he recognized what it was: the damned thing was hardly larger than a guard tower.

This was it? The fabled fortress of the north? A wretched three-storey pile of rock that wouldn’t count for more than a border keep back home in Falar?

Giana grunted a soft, ‘Damn …’

He spared the attack a glimpse: the Resolute had moved on to the next vessel to port, while the first, obviously captured, was now moving towards its brother in line on the starboard. He cleared his throat. ‘Have you been to Mantle, Lieutenant Jalaz?’

Apparently unable to tear her amazed gaze from the attack, she shook her head. ‘No. Never.’

‘Well … you’re looking at it.’

‘A coupla fellows said there’s not much to it- Gods! That’s three now.’

Jute glanced to the attack. Tyvar’s pocket army had now captured three vessels and these were all in motion, closing on the remaining two. As for the Resolute, she was hanging back, perhaps reduced to the barest skeleton crew.

The way to Mantle’s harbour, such as it might be, was now completely open. Jute leaned over the stern railing. ‘Take us in, Buen.’

‘Aye, aye. Ahead now, lads!’ the first mate roared. ‘Take up all that damned cloth!’

Jute scanned the bay. The Ragstopper was also closing; the Supplicant still held back. He wasn’t troubled by that — typical of the sorceress’s preference for staying low in the weeds.

Sweeps alone drew them in close to the bottom of the cliffs. Here awaited a meagre wharf of driven logs covered by planks that extended a few paces out over a shore of boulders and fallen rock. One low two-masted galley lay at berth here, and its crew members helped them tie off the Dawn.

The Resolute and her captured vessels of the shattered blockade looked to be dropping anchor further out. A longboat was on its way from one of them; presumably it held Tyvar himself. The Ragstopper was limping in after the Dawn.

Jute turned to his wife. ‘Going for another negotiation, dearest.’

‘Let’s hope this one goes better than the last,’ she commented.

Jute simply winced. ‘Buen,’ he called, ‘master-at-arms … guard the ship.’

‘Aye, captain,’ Letita answered in a loud shout, shooting a glance Giana’s way.

A plank was being levered into place as a gangway. Here Jute motioned, inviting Giana to join him. She shook her head. ‘Like I said, I’m not staff level.’

‘Then you will remain?’

‘Yes.’

Jute remembered his earlier alarm at the prospect of all these ex-Malazan soldiers on board his vessel — now he felt reassured. Leaning against the side next to the gangway was the khall-head Malazan Cartheron had saddled him with in Wrongway. The man was eyeing him with his typical dreamy smile, which appeared knowing but was no doubt just empty-headed. A wad of the leaf was fat in one cheek.

‘Give my regards to King Ronal,’ the fellow murmured as he passed. Jute ignored him and walked on to descend the gangway.

The fellow who met him on the dock was a fat rascal who had the look of a pirate about him. Certainly not a local; Jute pegged him as a Genabackan. Most of the fortune-hunters were from that nearby continent.

‘Hello,’ the fellow greeted him cheerily. ‘Welcome to Mantle!’

‘And you are?’

‘Name’s Enguf. Enguf the Broad they call me.’

‘Are you surrendering?’

The fellow’s thick tangled brows rose in surprise. ‘What, me? Surrender?’

‘You’re an outlander.’

‘Not at all! Well, yes … However, you are now looking at Mantle’s own navy.’

‘Since we saw the Blue Shields,’ another of the crewmen muttered, and Enguf shot him a dark glare.

The Ragstopper drew abreast of the wharf and crewmen caught tossed lines. Jute inspected the cliff, searching for a way up. A set of wooden stairs switchbacked up the sheer rock face. The prospect looked more dangerous than any sea battle.

Cartheron joined him on the wharf. Jute gave him a hard stare, said, ‘You just had to do it …’

The old Malazan officer waved his glower aside. ‘I saw I had a chance so I took it — what d’y expect?’

Jute shook his head.

The longboat arrived and Tyvar, accompanied by his second, Haagen, climbed up on to the wharf. Enguf, a Genabackan, bowed to the two. ‘An honour, sors,’ the big pirate greeted them.

‘And you are?’ Tyvar enquired.

‘Ah, Enguf, sir. Enguf the Broad.’

Tyvar grinned behind his thick beard and thumped a gauntleted hand to Haagen’s arm. ‘There’s a name well known to the Southern Confederacy.’

‘He claims to be what’s left of the Mantle navy,’ Jute explained.

Tyvar looked the man up and down and made a show of stroking his beard. ‘Is that so? Working with us, are you?’ He pounded Enguf on the arm as well. ‘Excellent!’

The pirate bobbed his head, smiling rather stiffly, and rubbed his arm.

Cartheron was squinting up the cliff face. ‘We have to climb that? Don’t think it’s worth it.’

‘Perhaps … just to be careful,’ Tyvar murmured, and unbuckled his cloak and started on his hauberk below. Enguf waved over a crewman who took up the equipment. Divested of his armour, the mercenary remained just as impressive in the sweep of his shoulders and chest. He wore a loose tunic of quilted and padded linen that hung down to his knees, and soft leather trousers beneath. Jute felt like something of a bedraggled drowned rat next to him, while poor Cartheron resembled more the dock-sweeper. ‘Rather than hold prisoners,’ Tyvar told Enguf, ‘my men will be dropping the captured crews on the shore a distance from here. Is that acceptable, captain?’ He rebuckled his belt at his waist and hung his bastardsword.

Enguf bobbed his head again. ‘Oh yes. Quite, ah, acceptable.’

‘Excellent.’ The Blue Shield commander gestured an invitation towards the stairs. ‘Shall we?’

Jute was not one for heights. He kept his gaze raised to the top where the stairs ended at a landing of planks. Each wobble and groan of the wood made his heart hammer, and his hands were slick upon the worn timbers. Tyvar led while Cartheron came last. Jute knew the old Malazan officer was falling behind, but he couldn’t force himself to turn to look back. ‘Are you with us, sir?’ he called.

After a long silence the man’s weak answer came drifting up with the wind: ‘Fucking stairs.’

Eventually, far beyond the length of time Jute thought it should take them, they reached the creaking and trembling landing atop the last switchback. Jute forced his numb wobbling legs to continue on to the exposed granite of the promontory itself.

From this vantage he had an excellent view of the site. The first thing he noted was that he’d been too harsh in his earlier impression: what the main tower lacked in height, it more than made up for in sheer bulk. And although it did possess only three storeys; they were three very tall storeys. It rose a stone’s throw from him at the rear of an enclosed bailey that was a gently falling slope of trampled grass, beaten dirt, and exposed rock. A quite tall wall of what looked like piled shards of slate and other rock encircled it, forming a broad arc touching the cliff on both sides. Beyond the wall rose many plumes of white smoke; the campfires of the besieging outlanders.

The bailey itself was currently jammed with humanity. They lay under awnings and tents, walked about, or just sat. He realized that here was where a good portion of the locals had fled.

Cartheron arrived, puffing and panting. He was rubbing his chest and wincing. ‘I’ve lost my appetite for all this running around,’ he grumbled to Jute.

Next to them, Tyvar drew a great breath of air, nodding to himself. ‘Stone. All stone. A strong defensive position,’ he said approvingly.

‘Let’s go meet the local tin-pot tyrant,’ Cartheron said, and started forward.

The locals stopped them before they reached the tower. They weren’t soldiers, but they obviously knew how to handle their spears and axes. Jute thought them rather negligent in not having a guard atop the stairs. But then he reflected on the nature of those stairs, and decided that maybe they were right in not expecting any horde to come charging up that way.

‘May we have an audience with your ruler?’ Tyvar boomed out. He held his hands far out from his sides. ‘We have come to negotiate.’

‘Your weapons,’ one of the local spearmen commanded. ‘You cannot speak with King Ronal while armed.’

Tyvar was all broad smiles and cheerfulness. ‘Of course.’ He unbuckled his belt and handed over his sword.

Jute looked to his own waist. All he carried was his eating dirk. This he offered, but a spearman just scowled at him as if he were a fool. Cartheron, it appeared, wasn’t armed at all. They were escorted round the fat girth of the tower.

Jute’s wonder at the construction of the edifice grew as he saw that the walls consisted of mammoth roughly dressed fieldstones that were clearly far too huge for any man, or gang of men, to raise. Who could have built using such immense rocks? Their techniques must have been far more sophisticated than this crude result.

The main entrance disturbed him further. An open portal it was, without a door. Visibly narrower towards the top than the base. And its top! Jute stared as he walked beneath: a titanic single rock lintel longer than any man.

Within, it was dark. Very dark. Its builders, it seemed, considered windows a luxury. Fires burning in braziers and torches in wall sconces provided what little light there was. The main floor was mostly all one great chamber. Spearmen and women crowded it. Straw was thick upon the stone-flagged floor. Dogs chased one another among the forest of legs. The guards parted for them while their escort urged them onward. Towards the far end of the chamber, the last file of guards grudgingly parted to reveal a long table of coarse-hewn timbers and a seated row of what Jute assumed to be the local dignitaries. The one at the centre wore a simple crown that was nothing more than a ring of bronze atop his long unkempt brown hair. This was fortunate, as otherwise Jute would have had no clue that this was the king. The man was small, and possessed the manic stare of a terrified predatory animal.

‘What do you foreigners want?’ this fellow demanded. ‘You capture the vessels blocking the harbour and you expect a reward?’ He waved them off. ‘Take them and good riddance to you!’

Tyvar bowed. ‘Greetings, King Ronal. My name is Tyvar Gendarian and these are my travelling companions, captains Cartheron Crust and Jute Hernan. Please be assured, we expect no reward at all. In fact, we are here to offer our swords in your service. I command two hundred mercenaries, while these captains offer their vessels.’

Jute marvelled at Tyvar’s diplomacy and patience. He’d imagined that any man in his position would be unable to swallow such insults, yet the discourtesies merely brushed off the man as if he really did not give a damn about any of it. He was also rather taken aback to hear that he was offering the service of the Silver Dawn.

The king, and Jute wondered whether the man really was, or whether he merely chose to style himself one, snorted his disdain, or tried to, as one of his eyes kept twitching. He turned his head to peer at the men and women seated along the table. These were all quick to emulate his disapproval, with shakes of their heads and pursed lips.

‘First,’ he began, addressing Tyvar, ‘the title is King Ronal the Bastard. And second, what do you expect for this service? Gold, no doubt. Well, you’ll get none of it. If you think I will allow a crowd of armed foreigners into my fortress, you’re a fool!’ He waved Tyvar off. ‘I’m not hiring outlanders. Take your ships and go!’

At the far end of the table a skinny old woman cleared her throat and the king shot her an annoyed glance. ‘If I may, my king,’ she began, and Jute recognized an unmistakable high imperial accent, ‘I will countenance these mercenaries … if I may.’

King Ronal slouched back in his chair. He picked at the carcass of a bird before him. ‘An outlander would vouch for fellow out-landers …’ he mused, rather petulantly. Then, peering from Jute to Cartheron, he straightened. ‘Ah, my apologies. Please know Malle of Gris, an adviser who has proved her value and trustworthiness. She is empowered to speak for the distant Malazan Empire, whose name we are not ignorant of. Her emperor offers his support. He would not see a fellow monarch driven from his lands. And understandably so.’ He tore apart the remains of the bird. ‘Very well. You have liberated the waterfront. It is yours to hold. Remain there. No more than ten of your number may enter Mantle at any one time.’

Tyvar bowed again, even deeper. ‘My thanks, my king. We will defend the harbour to the death. You can be assured-’

King Ronal flicked his greasy fingers. ‘Yes, yes. You may go now.’

Still bowed, Tyvar backed away. Jute followed his lead, backing away, facing forward, until the many spearmen closed the gap before him. He, Cartheron and Tyvar then turned and walked away.

Outside, Tyvar took a great breath of the cool mountain air and brushed his hands together as if to say: and that is that.

Cartheron let out a heavy sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. He muttered, perhaps to himself, ‘For this I quit drinking?’

Tyvar set his wide fists to his waist, turned, and regarded them over the tangle of his russet beard. There was an almost mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘Well … let us at least study the competition.’ He started across the bailey. Jute and Cartheron hurried to keep up.

The stones of the wall enclosing the bailey proved as titanic as those of the tower. On the inside, the wall rose some two man-heights, or about half a rod in measure. Tyvar bounded up one of the earthwork ramps inside the wall. His mere presence seemed to bring into existence a path between the many spearmen and women crowding the way. Following more slowly, Jute and Cartheron had to weave through the scowling and suspicious northerners.

When Jute gained the wall he found that it was coarse indeed, archaic even; the huge flat stones merely lay atop one another without shaping or chiselling. At least a wooden catwalk ran behind — a later addition, perhaps. Outside the wall, a deep ditch doubled its height to any attacker. A cold wind buffeted him. The chilled air descended off the Salt range visible above the rising forested foothills.

Beyond the ditch lay the sprawling encampment of the besieging outlanders — his countrymen included. The modest houses of Mantle town, mere shacks and huts, had long been occupied. Tents sprawled in an arc beyond, from cliff edge to cliff edge, in a broad semicircle. Multiple cook-fires sent up thin tendrils of smoke that were swiftly brushed to the south, out over the Sea of Gold. The besiegers sat about the fires, warming themselves, talking and joking. Snatches of laughter reached him, carried by the wind. Jute added up an estimate of just under three thousand. He turned round and studied those within — all of whom were armed — and came up with some five hundred. The usual ratio necessary to take a well-defended position is at least three to one. The attackers outnumbered such figures by far, yet so far they had failed to take the keep. That told him that these defenders were not the usual sort. The way each carried a spear or sword told him that they’d all lived their entire lives fighting already.

‘Who commands these rabble?’ Tyvar asked a northern woman who stood nearby, leaning on a spear.

The woman looked him up and down — Jute noted that she was almost as tall as Tyvar himself — and said, ‘I know not nor do I care.’ She pointedly turned away.

‘Perhaps I may be of assistance …’

Jute turned as he again recognized the accent that belonged in the imperial capital at Unta. It was indeed the wiry old woman from the king’s table. He offered her an Untan bow, which brought a smile to her thin pinched mouth, and she offered her hand, which he brushed with his lips.

‘Very gracious of you, Captain Jute Hernan of Falar,’ she said.

Tvyar imitated Jute’s gesture, though he invested it with far more grace. ‘I am honoured, Tyvar Gendarian,’ the woman, Malle, said, with obvious feeling. Then she turned to Cartheron.

‘Malle,’ Cartheron said. ‘Good to see you again. Been a while.’

She nodded. ‘Crust. Glad you made it.’

‘It weren’t easy, I tell you.’

Jute looked between the two. Well, well. Here’s a turn-up, as his wife would say.

‘Thank you for your help.’

‘So, can I go now?’ Cartheron asked.

‘Not yet.’

‘I was promised I’d be cut loose after this,’ the man growled in the closest note to anger Jute had heard from him.

‘You will,’ Malle assured him.

His answer was a dubious scowl. Malle turned to Tyvar. ‘The only leader out there is a retired Letherii military officer named Teal. However, new soldiers and veterans are arriving all the time.’

‘I thank you,’ he replied. ‘You are uncommonly well informed.’

Her smile turned thin, almost acerbic. ‘That is my business. Also, I have in my hire two ex-cadre mages who are pledged to the defence.’

Jute shot Cartheron a glance, the obvious inference being Lady Orosenn. The old Malazan commander shook his head.

Tyvar no doubt caught the look, as did Malle, probably. He peered about, then lowered his head. ‘We need not worry on that front,’ he assured her.

Malle raised an expressive brow. She glanced back to the bay. ‘The fourth ship? A mage?’

Tyvar nodded. ‘She has granted me permission to speak of her. However, she prefers to remain … anonymous.’

‘I see. Thank you, commander.’ She inclined her head fractionally. ‘If that is all, I can be found at the main table … where I busy myself listening to all of Ronal’s relatives’ offers to support them against him.’

Tyvar drew himself straight and bowed once more. ‘Affairs of statehood. I quite understand. Until later, madam.’

Jute quickly sketched a bow.

Cartheron merely raised his chin in a lazy see-you-later farewell. After she was gone, he turned to Jute. ‘About that lady there …’

‘Don’t get in her way — yes, I gathered that.’

Cartheron gave a very serious nod. ‘You’re a quick study.’ He turned to Tyvar and crossed his arms. ‘So … what do you think?’

‘I think that if these defenders can hold on, then this rabble will just wander off.’ He pulled at his beard thoughtfully. ‘That is, unless someone out there can give the besiegers some sort of spine.’

‘Riches — loot — is a great motivator,’ Cartheron supplied.

Jute frowned his confusion at that. ‘How do you know there are any riches here?’

Cartheron gave him a look that, back in the tent in Wrongway, he’d given one of his crew who’d asked a particularly stupid question. ‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said, as if explaining something to some new recruit. ‘What matters is what someone out there tells them.’

Jute felt his brows rising. ‘Ah. I see.’ Such a ploy as actually lying — deliberately or innocently — to one’s people hadn’t even occurred to him. However, if it got the job done … well, never mind, hey?

‘And you, Tyvar?’ Cartheron continued. ‘Is this your fight?’

The big man frowned at the question. ‘I do not know. Here is a battle. Yet … we’ve been forbidden from participating. I feel that this is not it. However, best remain hopeful, eh?’ And he slapped Cartheron on the back, almost toppling him from the wall.

For his part, Jute did not like being the object of so many hostile and evaluative eyes as he stood there exposed upon the defences. ‘Perhaps we should retire?’ he offered. Cartheron and Tyvar agreed, and they descended the beaten dirt rampart.

They crossed to the cliffs, and, in despair, Jute realized he’d have to descend the damned stairs in order to return to the Dawn. Only that could possibly have convinced him to set foot once more on the rickety construction. He managed it, but he had his eyes closed for most of the descent.

Back on board, he immediately went to Ieleen. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘they’re under siege. But they don’t want our help.’

Her hands resting on her walking stick, she nodded her understanding. ‘They’re proud. This is their land. They don’t want us here.’

‘However,’ Jute added, ‘Tyvar pledged our support … and our vessels.’

She tilted her head in thought. ‘Perhaps in case evacuation is necessary.’

Jute rubbed his chin; he hadn’t thought of that. Where in the world would they take them? ‘No. I don’t think so. But good point.’

‘So we wait.’

‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And, dearest … about this woman, Giana …’

‘Yes?’

‘Now, you know there’s nothing there — really, there isn’t.’

His wife gave a low throaty chuckle and shook her head. ‘Oh, I know that’s so.’

For some reason Jute felt rather piqued. ‘Why would that be so?’

‘Because she has eyes for our master-at-arms.’

Now he was confused. ‘But she’s …’

His wife was nodding. ‘Yes, dearest. She most certainly is.’

* * *

Badlands quickly shook off any help from Fisher. He led the bard and Jethiss north, and he did so in utter silence, without a glance to either of them. For his part, Fisher eased into the role of returning to the land of his youth. He’d grown up on the Myrni Holding, just to the east. They had taken in his mother, who was of the ancient Fanyar Hold, long pushed out of her homeland. As such, a half-blood, he came to find that he was welcome in neither world. And so he had renounced his place among the Myrni, swearing never to return, and went to find his way in the world.

Yet return he had, from time to time. The last being some three decades ago — in the wider world he’d found that those of Iceblood descent lived a far greater allotment of years.

Each time he returned he’d encountered the same festering blood-feuds and vendettas, the same blind hatreds and stupid bigotries, and each time he’d vowed never to return again.

Yet here he was once more. For the last time, he suspected, as he had seen this same tragic story of invasion and obliteration play out before in many lands. Any subsistence society, even one that is small-scale horticultural, cannot possibly compete against the invasion of a full-scale agricultural society. The inequity in numbers is simply too great. The locals find themselves swamped every time. If not in one generation, then in two or three. Such has been the story for every region of human migration and settlement. Even regions that boast of themselves as ‘pure’ or ‘native’ stand upon the bones of forgotten predecessors.

But he was a bard — he could not forget, nor would he.

Now the same inexorable story had finally reached his homeland. Long though the region might have withstood this historical process, it had finally arrived on its shores. And here he would witness the playing out of its final chapter — and upon his own people, as the fates would have it.

Poetic, that. Something for him, as a bard, to relish.

Walking the pine and birch forest, he reflected that the singing of this song would wring his heart.

Badlands led them onward through rough untrammelled forest and up steep valleys to a slope so high that snow still lingered in the shadows behind boulders and fallen logs. Here they found the Lost Greathall.

It was raining that afternoon; a cold downpour from clouds so low one might name them fog. Wild woods surrounded the hall. Any fields that might have once been cultivated around it had long since fallen back to the woods’ encroachment. One ancient white spruce, as fat about as his arm-span, grew next to its moss-covered log walls. Its roof was a tangle of live growing brush and grasses. Its front entrance gaped open. Rainwater pooled on beaten bare earth.

Badlands tramped onward up the huge length of the hall. Birds flew overhead to perch on murky rafters. A long table stood across the far rear wall. Embers glowed within a massive stone hearth and this flickering orange light a single occupant sat at the table’s centre, a conical helmet next to him, a bowl before him.

Badlands halted and ducked his head. ‘Stalker,’ he murmured.

Stalker Lost pushed himself back from the table, brushed his long hanging moustache, and eyed his brother with a gaze that seemed to glow brighter than the embers. ‘How’d it happen?’ he grated.

Badlands flinched beneath the harsh glare. ‘Arrow fire.’

Stalker simply shook his head. ‘Damned fool.’

Fisher stepped forward. ‘He saved the people in Antler Fort.’

The Lost’s narrowed hazel gaze shifted. ‘This doesn’t involve you, Fisher.’

‘It involves all of us, I fear.’

Stalker grunted at that, picked up his wooden spoon, and ate another mouthful. ‘Yeah, well. You got a point there.’ He raised his voice, shouting, ‘Ain’t that so, Cal?’

Badlands, Fisher and Jethiss turned. Figures had entered the hall behind them. Two men and a woman. The lead figure was very dark, of Dal Hon extraction, Fisher recognized. Older, his kinked hair greying, in leather armour stained a deep blood red; the rainwater that dripped from him appeared almost as dark as blood itself. The other two wore banded armour, with shields at their backs, longswords at their sides. The tattered remains of a red cloth tabard hung from the woman and upon it Fisher could just make out an undulating line of silver.

His breath eased from him in a long exhalation of wonder and he turned to Stalker. ‘These are Crimson Guard.’

Stalker nodded, eyeing his brother. ‘Yeah. Funny that, hey? We was joined up for a time with the Guard. Then I come home and who do I find out in the woods? Cal’s troop here. All hands raised against ’em. Fighting everyone on all sides. So I offer them a place so long as they pledge to defend the Holding. And there you are.’ He raised a hand to Badlands. ‘We got us hearthguards.’

Fisher turned to the one he assumed to be Cal. ‘Why did you remain, then? You could’ve made the coast.’

The wiry old Dal Hon looked him up and down. ‘That’s our business.’

Stalker chuckled while he ate. ‘Same old answer. Cal here claims the Guard has a stake here in this region. Though what he means by that I got no idea. Still …’ He brushed his moustache again. ‘We do keep running into each other, don’t we? It’s like fate, maybe, hey?’ And he laughed.

He motioned for Fisher to sit. ‘Welcome. And you are?’

Fisher almost jumped — so quiet had his companion been, he’d almost forgotten his presence.

‘Jethiss,’ the Andii said.

Stalker nodded, his gaze lazy. ‘Can’t say as we’ve ever had an Andii visit these parts. What brings you here?’

‘As you said. Fate.’

Stalker snorted a laugh. He spooned up a last portion from the bowl. ‘Guess I asked for that. Anyway, sit, everyone. Eat. We have boiled mountain goat. I recommend it as it’s all there is.’

Badlands scooped up a bowlful and sat heavily to lean hunched over the table. Fisher spooned out a portion and offered it to Jethiss, who shook his head. He sat with it instead. The Crimson Guard bowed and exited — as hearthguards they could not sit with the Icebloods and their guests in the Greathall. They would eat later at the hirelings’ table.

Stalker watched his brother for a time, then turned to Fisher. He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, you missed all the action. Had us a regular old-fashioned dust-up over on Bain lands. Broke and scattered the lowlanders’ army. Jaochim Sayer thinks that’s them dealt with.’

Fisher thought over the Lost’s words while he chewed on the tough tasteless meat. He swallowed with some difficulty. ‘But not you,’ he offered.

‘No. I’ve been abroad. That was just a first incursion. They’ll be back. And in greater numbers.’

Fisher was much relieved; he’d feared the man believed himself unassailable here in his northern Greathall. He nodded his agreement. ‘You cannot hold out for ever.’

‘No. We can’t.’

‘Then … you will abandon the hall? Head to the coast?’

Stalker shook his lean hound’s head. ‘No.’

‘But you just agreed …’

‘Yeah. That’s true.’

Fisher thrust himself from the table. ‘Don’t be a fool, man!’

Badlands half rose from his seat, glaring. Stalker gently urged him down, then studied Fisher with his pale hazel gaze — the yellow of sun-dried grasses, Fisher thought.

‘You’re a guest in my Holding,’ he said. ‘That’s enough for now.’ Fisher bit his tongue and jerked his head in assent. ‘Anyways …’ and the man went to a barrel and drew a glass of what looked like red wine. ‘There’s news to relate.’ He offered the glass to Fisher, who took it wonderingly. Stalker caught his gaze and motioned to the barrel. ‘That? Ah, raiding them outlanders.’ He drew another and offered it to Jethiss, who accepted it with a bow of his head. He took one for himself. He did not offer one to Badlands and neither did his brother move to collect one; the man just sat, now, elbows on the table, his head lowered.

‘News is,’ Stalker began again, ‘that Svalthbrul has been taken up by Bregin’s son, Orman.’

Fisher sat back in wonder. ‘Bregin? That Sayer hearthguard lad?’

Stalker nodded, his brows raised. ‘And that’s not all. Orman used it to slay Lotji.’

Fisher blew out a long breath. ‘So much bad blood there.’

‘Aye. Blood-feud back generations. But …’ and Stalker raised his chipped glass of wine as if in salute. ‘The outlanders burned Bain Greathall to the ground and the last of the Bains are gone.’

Astonished, Fisher matched the gesture, as did Jethiss. ‘Farewell, honoured foe,’ he murmured, and they all drank, all but Badlands.

His head lowered, Badlands growled into his knotted fists: ‘Sing us a song, bard.’

Fisher was quite taken aback; it had been a long time since he’d been in service to a patron — though his last, Lady Envy, used to test him that way, as if hoping to catch him out. He shook his head. ‘I am not in the mood, truly. I would not wish to do a disservice.’

Badlands slammed a fist to the table, upsetting Stalker’s glass and making the bowls jump. ‘Sing!’

Fisher, luckily, was cradling his glass on his lap, and he tossed the last of it back, sucking his teeth. Jethiss, he noted, was watching him closely now. He nodded a slow thoughtful assent and cast his gaze to the massive log rafters cloaked in the gloom above. Birds flew about them and guano streaked them white. Then he looked to the far entrance and saw how the wind drove the rain within where it pooled on the beaten dirt floor; he noted the rotting straw kicked about the ground, the mere four of them huddled about the dying embers of the broad hearth before them, and he sang.

‘

Badlands lurched from the bench and staggered off into the dark. Stalker regarded the bard for some time. The man’s eyes did indeed seem to glow brighter than the embers. He finished the dregs of his wine, stood. ‘Don’t forget to add how stubborn and foolish we were.’ He followed his brother to disappear into the darkness at the rear of the hall.

‘I should,’ Fisher muttered to himself.

‘I understand them,’ Jethiss offered, surprising Fisher.

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ He appeared almost embarrassed. ‘I don’t know why. I just feel the same way.’

‘Perhaps the Andii share something of their — our — way of thinking.’

‘Perhaps so.’ Jethiss rose, refreshed their glasses. ‘So, what shall we do?’

‘What of your … quest?’

The Andii clasped the glass in both hands. ‘I believe I was sent in this direction for a reason. I do not know the reason, but you mentioned someone, or something, in the north that might provide an answer. What is it?’

Fisher shook his head; he considered taking up his glass, but reconsidered and left his hands crossed on the table. ‘I will not speak of them.’

‘Then they are there. Thank you.’

Fisher bit his lip. Gods! He was a bard! The stories he could tell of the Forkrul! But he took up the glass and drank instead. ‘I will not encourage you in this.’

‘Neither do you dissuade me.’

‘That is not for me to decide. Each of us possesses a Wyrd — a fate — and nothing we do can undo it.’

Jethiss thought about this while the birds roosted overhead, cooing and fluffing their feathers, and the rain pattered, hissing. He answered, musingly, ‘You think everything is foreordained?’

‘No. I believe we follow our natures. That our natures determine the choices we make. In short … we do it to ourselves. There is no one else to blame.’

‘Not even the gods?’

Fisher threw back the last of his wine, sucked his teeth. ‘The gods are determined by our natures. But if you decide to quibble them down to nothing more than mere causation — then why have them at all?’

‘Things happen regardless?’

‘It is a logical deduction.’

The Andii nodded, sleepily. ‘I suppose some other justification would have to be found, then, for their existence.’

‘I suppose so.’

Jethiss pushed himself to his feet. ‘Well, there you have it. The world’s troubles sorted out over a cask of wine.’

Fisher smiled fondly. ‘A nightly ritual.’

‘I am off to find some bedding.’

‘Good night.’

Fisher sat alone in the amber glow of the dying embers. He listened to the rain pattering and wished the night would whisper an answer to the quandary he faced. To survive, these Icebloods — we Icebloods — must retreat north, ever higher. Yet, if the legends and tales were to be believed, a peril far greater than any human invasion slumbered there. A threat to all, no matter what breed or kind.

What was he to do? He listened again, intently, but the night seemed only to sigh. He answered the whisper with a sigh of his own.

* * *

Kyle entered the sprawling besiegers’ camp wrapped in a ragged dirty cloak with its hood raised, a battered shortsword beneath at his side and dirks at his belt. The white blade he now carried wrapped in leathers and firmly tucked in his shirt. No one challenged him as he came walking in from the west, no picket or posted guard, and this alone convinced him that this mob was doomed to failure.

It was a bright and lingering twilight, the sky a beautiful shade of purple. He stopped where a gang of fortune-hunters, now soldiers — of a kind — lingered beneath the awning of a tent. ‘I’m looking for the Shieldmaiden,’ he said.

‘Who isn’t?’ answered one, and took hold of an imaginary set of hips before him. ‘This time of night, hey?’ Kyle ignored him and continued east, as the man’s gaze had flicked in that direction when he’d spoken. ‘Hey!’ the fellow called. ‘Where’re you from?’

‘Cordafin,’ he called back.

‘Where’s that?’

Kyle kept walking. How the fuck should I know? I just made it up.

He continued round the broad arc of the camp. There were enough of them, he decided. But they had to be kicked into shape. Was Lyan the one to do it? He found one larger tent, a possible command tent. It at least was guarded, and almost entirely by Genabackans. This convinced him. As he’d thought; they’d recognized her. He approached the guards before the closed flap.

‘I’d like to speak to the Shieldmaiden.’

The guards, two burly veterans, exchanged annoyed looks. ‘You can’t just saunter up and meet a commander,’ one said. ‘You look like a veteran, you should know that. Chain of command. Who’s your sergeant?’

Inwardly, Kyle cursed. ‘I just arrived.’

‘Thought she’d welcome you personally?’ another commented with a sneer.

‘You know her or something?’ the first demanded.

‘We’ve … met.’

‘When?’

Kyle licked his lips. This was rapidly degenerating and now he couldn’t just walk away. ‘On the … the passage in.’

The first grunted. ‘Congratulations. That’s nice.’ He straightened, pointed off. ‘You just arrived? See that big house, the one with two storeys?’

‘Yes.’

‘You want to join, you go sign up there.’

‘Right. Thanks.’

‘You Malazan?’ the second asked.

Kyle managed a scowl. ‘What d’you mean, Malazan? I’m from Jasston.’

‘Jasston? Where the Abyss is that?’

‘Korel.’

This second guard grunted, only slightly mollified. ‘There’s a guy here from Theft. You know Theft?’

Kyle struggled to appear indifferent, shrugged. ‘Yeah. Why?’

‘’Cause you don’t look nothing like him.’

Kyle gave a negligent wave then ended the gesture by tucking his hand into his shirt where he took hold of the grip of the white blade. ‘That’s because Theftians look like rats.’

The guard blinked, then they all broke into huge guffaws. Kyle allowed himself a tight grin. After the guards stopped chortling the first looked to him and frowned. ‘Well? Why’re you still here? Go sign your papers.’

Kyle gave a curt nod, then forced himself to amble off. As he walked away, he heard one say, ‘That Theftian did kinda look like a rat …’

He took care to walk in the direction of the two-storey frame and plaster daub house for a time, then, when he was certain he must be out of sight, he cut to the south and lost himself amid a maze of pitched tents. He had no intention of signing anything. So far no one had pointed him out directly as having quite a resemblance to the southern tribes of this region, but he wasn’t about to push his luck.

He’d almost given up hope of coming up with a plan to reach Lyan, short of storming her tent, when through the crowd of armed and armoured men and women, he glimpsed the slight short figure of a youth — Dorrin. The sight filled him with pleasure, and with hope; the lad would take him to Lyan. But it also twisted his throat, as the lad was walking only with the aid of a crutch: his left leg was gone below the knee.

Kyle halted, stricken. Whatever treatment Lyan had bargained for among the convoy hadn’t been good enough to save his leg.

It took a great deal of effort to shake off the shock of the sight; the lad was so young. But perhaps it was fortunate — he’d get used to it quickly. And it would win him credibility with the troops; a youth and already a veteran.

Speaking of troops, he also noted the two Genabackan guards escorting the lad. Lyan was of high enough rank to rate bodyguards for her and her ‘family’. Indeed, to listen to the talk, it sounded as if she was second-in-command out here.

Still, approaching Dorrin was his only hope of reaching her. He’d have to play it carefully and hope the lad could think on his feet. He jogged off, dodging around tents to get ahead, then waited just round the corner of a shed. When Dorrin approached, with his slow limping gait, Kyle stepped out and made a show of spotting the lad. ‘Dorrin!’ he shouted, ‘It’s me — Kyle! You remember, Kyle, yes?’

Dorrin had frozen, gaping. His mouth actually opened in an O as if to begin the sound of ‘Wh-’

‘Kyle! Yes? You remember, don’t you?’

The guards had recovered and one was striding forward to brush Kyle aside when Dorrin reached out to him, calling, ‘Kyle! Yes! How wonderful to see you!’ The guards looked to the youth, frowning. ‘We met …’

‘… on the ship,’ Kyle completed.

‘On the ship, yes,’ Dorrin said.

Kyle pushed forward and knelt in the mud before the youth, looked him up and down. He almost said, sorry about the leg, but caught himself in time: Whiteblade had been there, after all. So he asked, ‘What happened to your leg?’

Dorrin looked confused for a moment, but recovered quickly. ‘Oh. I, ah, lost it. Sickness in the bone.’

‘I’m sorry, lad.’

The boy shrugged. ‘It’s okay. I can still get around.’

‘So you can. And well, too. I assume Lyan’s here?’

‘Oh, yes! She would so much want to see you!’

‘I’m glad. Should I wait with you?’

Dorrin peered up to one guard. ‘Can he stay with me, Turath?’

This fellow, an older Genabackan, probably a veteran from the look of him, possibly of the Pannion wars, scratched his greying beard while glaring his ill-disguised suspicions of Kyle. After a moment of consideration — Dorrin had just handed him a very troubling poser of a problem — he reached a decision: ‘The Shieldmaiden should be informed, little sir.’

‘Oh! Of course,’ Dorrin answered.

Turath jerked his chin to his fellow and the guard jogged off. Then the veteran settled his scarred hand on the grip of his shortsword and planted his feet wide right next to Dorrin. ‘We’ll wait just here,’ he said. A lazy smile of anticipation quirked his lips.

Kyle ignored him and studied the lad. He did appear to be in good health; he was smiling, his eyes were bright, and he looked well fed. ‘Are there any others here your age?’ he asked. ‘To talk to?’

Dorrin shook his head regretfully. ‘No. No one.’

‘I’m sorry. It must be hard to be all alone.’

He brightened again. ‘But we aren’t any more! You’re here!’

Kyle just chuckled and squeezed his shoulder, rising. He found himself looking into the veteran’s troubled gaze; the man was frowning while he scratched his beard once more, as if chasing after a thought.

Kyle looked away. After a time of silent waiting, he saw the guard scowl his displeasure and he glanced over to find the second man jogging up. Obviously, Turath was disappointed not to see him accompanied by ten more troopers.

He nodded to Turath. ‘She says he can wait in their quarters.’

Turath grunted a non-committal sound.

Dorrin raised his trimmed tree-branch crutch. ‘This way, ah, Kyle.’

Lyan had one of the remaining houses — only a small one-room cabin, but a structure all the same. The front of the cabin was a general meeting room/living quarters, while hung blankets separated sleeping quarters for her and for Dorrin. The guards waited outside at the door. Dorrin clumped to a chair and sat; Kyle spotted a tall earthenware jug of water and poured himself a drink. ‘Some water?’ he asked Dorrin, who shook his head.

‘She will be awfully pleased to see you,’ the boy said.

Kyle smiled his thanks, but already he was beginning to see the foolishness of coming here. There’d been survivors from the fight on the Dread Sea shore. And at any turn in the encampment he could stumble on another Stormguard, or a Korel veteran. It was plain now that they had to get out as soon as possible, preferably this night.

‘She said we were lucky,’ Dorrin said.

He blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘That day. When we parted. She said one of the ships was from the north, and they recognized her.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘But …’ and the lad lowered his voice, ‘you’re not very popular around here.’

He raised his brows. ‘I imagine not.’

He sat, and they waited. Dorrin was very quiet for a young lad, and still, and Kyle realized why: it was difficult for him to get around. He reflected on the few amputations he’d seen amid all the fighting he’d known — because the Crimson Guard and the Malazans had had enough trained cadre mages familiar with basic Denul magics. Not so in these wilds, obviously.

It was late and dark when he heard the guards shift to attention outside the door. Moments later, it opened and Lyan entered. She wore her mail armour and her sword at her hip, but now a thick cloak of black and grey wolf fur hung over one shoulder. She carried her helmet in one hand and set it on a table. Her auburn hair was neatly braided and she was far cleaner than the last time he’d seen her.

Her face, he noted, was carefully flat and composed. She nodded to him. ‘Kyle … good to see you again.’

‘Lyan.’

She turned to Dorrin. ‘It is late. You should lie down.’

‘But …’

‘Kyle and I have much to discuss.’

The youth picked at the bark of his tree-branch crutch. ‘But he just got here.’

‘Tomorrow, Dorrin.’

He heaved an aggrieved sigh, thumped the crutch to the dirt and eased himself from the chair. ‘Good night, then.’

‘Yes, Dorrin,’ Kyle said. ‘Good night.’

The lad’s straw cot was at the very back of the cabin. After the blankets fell between them, Lyan went to the door and opened it a hand’s breadth. ‘You’re dismissed,’ she said.

‘Not one guard?’ enquired Turath from beyond.

‘I don’t think there will be a sortie this night,’ she answered, quite dryly.

‘Very good, commander.’

She closed the door, bolted it, went to the table and poured two glasses of wine. She gave one to Kyle and motioned him to remain silent. The cabin possessed one window opening, next to the door, and she peeped out to make certain the guards had gone before closing the wooden shutters and pulling a muslin cloth across. She crossed to him and raised the glass.

He smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with a raised finger. Leaning close, she whispered, ‘Are you a fool to have come here!’

‘I know … I know,’ he murmured back, his voice low.

She continued, fierce, hissing, ‘There are veterans here from Korel!’

He raised both hands, surrendering. ‘Yes. I agree. We’ll have to leave tonight.’

‘We?’

He was surprised to see her confused, but then she seemed to recover and she set down the wine, her gaze lowered. When she once more met his gaze he understood; she’d taken too long to find her words. ‘Kyle … there are riches, and more, to be won here — I can’t throw all that away …’

He set down his glass as well, fought hard to keep all expression from his face. ‘You were right.’

‘Right?’

‘I was a fool.’

Stung, she shook her head. ‘No … it’s not that. Don’t you understand?’

‘Leave. Now. With me. You and Dorrin. That I understand.’

But she took up her glass and walked away. ‘Now you are being a fool. A romantic fool.’

He picked up his wine as well, threw it back hard and swallowed. He regarded her across the beaten earth floor. In his anger it occurred to him: was this why she still wore her armour? Hadn’t even unbuckled her sword? He murmured, ‘You’re the fool, Lyan.’

Her face stiffened, and she inclined her head as if in farewell. ‘Thank you for saying hello to Dorrin. You mean a lot to him. For his sake, please do not get yourself killed.’

‘For his sake?’

He watched her closely, saw the muscles of her jaw tighten against an answer she might have given, watched her resolutely refuse to speak.

He crossed to the door, unbolted it and glanced out. The muddy mass of tracks and wagon-ruts that was a way out of Mantle town lay mostly empty. He turned back to give her one last look. ‘Give my apologies to Dorrin.’ And he slipped out.

He might have imagined it, but it appeared as if she lurched towards him as he left, but it was too little and too late. So much, he decided, for what might have been between them. He now wondered whether he’d imagined it all — as a romantic fool might.

He yanked his hood low and pulled his cloak tightly about himself, tucking his hand within his shirt to grip the white blade. He meant to head out north immediately; get out of the encampment as swiftly as possible. His route took him past a few timber houses of the old Mantle town. As he crossed in front of one entrance it burst open and out spilled a crowd of rowdy drunken outlanders in a glare of yellow lantern-light. They stumbled into him and he righted one with a quick, ‘Careful, there.’

It was a woman, and she blinked at him, frowning, even as she clenched a fistful of his cloak. He answered the frown, puzzled. She shoved her other hand into his face, showing him the bandaged stump where a thumb would jut.

‘It’s that damned Whiteblade!’ she yelled.

In answer, Kyle yanked free the blade and swept it across her neck in one swift motion. The crowd of outlanders shouted and gagged their horror as her head fell in a gout of jetting blood. He attempted to yank free but her fist still held him tight by the cloak. He chopped off that hand at the wrist.

Other hands grabbed at him and these he severed as well. The crowd — those not clenching stumps of wrists and forearms — now scrambled to give him room. He fled north.

But yells and alarm preceded him. Armed soldiers exited a large tent right in front of him. A few quick cuts crippled these and he pushed inside. He sliced the main centre pole, and as the heavy sailcloth tent billowed down around him he cut his way out at the rear. Now he ran.

Calls for archers sounded all about. He tried to keep to the darker patches of the tent encampment, but more and more torches were being lit as troops crowded the ways. Ahead, across trampled fields and a creek, lay woods. He pounded for the creek. Troops from tents nearby attempted to slow him by blocking his way. The white blade severed shields, vambraces, spear hafts, and two crossbows before their handlers had finished cocking them.

Several arrows hissed past him. One plucked his cloak, then he was tumbling down a muddy slope into a shockingly chill rushing creek. He slogged on. A tossed burning torch crashed into his back, sending him off his feet into the creek. Arrows nipped the waves about him.

‘Get him!’ someone yelled from the shore.

A new voice bellowed, commandingly, ‘Stay out of his reach! Archers, form up!’

Kyle lurched to his feet and stumbled on. He was surprised, then, to see a thick night fog now rolling out of the forest. He couldn’t understand it, but it was a blessing and he made for it.

‘Damned northern giants!’ someone yelled.

‘Fire now!’ the commander ordered.

Kyle dived under the swift waist-high waters. The current buffeted him and the water seemed to suck all warmth from his body. He simply attempted to stay under for as long as he could; he gripped at boulders his questing hands found in the bed, tried to bring his legs down.

Holding his breath, he reflected that never in all his years did he imagine how much he would owe old one-handed Stoop of the Crimson Guard for all those enforced near-drownings in swimming lessons. Finally, his lungs burning, he had to come up and he pushed his face to the surface to suck in a fresh breath of air. He blinked, finding that he’d entered a world of dense swirling banners of fog. Voices shouted, sounding very far off for some reason, as if the fog muted or distorted them. He slogged onward. Gaining the far shore, he heaved his frozen stiff body up the mud and bracken to lie panting, thankful just to be out of that numbing water.

A wide hand gathered up the cloth at his back and yanked him to his feet. ‘What are you doing here?’ a deep voice demanded. Kyle wiped water from his face and peered up at a bearded giant of a fellow in cured leather armour, a spear in his other hand.

‘I’m looking for the Losts.’

The hand released him and urged him along with a push at the back. He nearly fell as his legs wobbled, numb and tingling. ‘They’re coming. We must move.’ Through the curling vapours behind, Kyle glimpsed blurred orange flames bobbing. ‘The fog and creek should delay them, but we’d best give them some room.’

On a hunch, Kyle guessed through numb lips: ‘Are you Baran? Baran Heel?’

‘Yes. And you are the one my mother escorted off our Holding.’ At Kyle’s start, the fellow chuckled. ‘I saw you in the distance.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Hunting.’

Baran pushed him on. In the fog it was hard to tell their direction, but Kyle thought it north. The haze thinned as they jogged through the forest. As the night sky cleared and the land rose, he knew they were indeed headed north.

‘This is Bain Holding, isn’t it?’

‘Bain Holding is no more. It has gone the way of my mother’s, and so many others before it.’

‘Oh — I’m sorry.’

‘What is it to you? An outlander.’

He’d never considered himself proud of where he’d come from — quite the opposite, in fact — but the accusation irritated him deeply. ‘I’m no outlander. I’m from the southern plains.’

Baran peered back, grunted. ‘Ah. That explains much, then.’

Kyle waited, but the fellow offered no further explanation. Much later in the night, when they reached the wooded crest of the valley, Baran turned and peered back once more. He grunted again, sounding impressed, or mystified. ‘What did you do to rile them up so?’

Kyle struggled up the crest and squinted down and behind. Far off, torches bobbed and wove through the woods. ‘Killed a few,’ he said.

‘Hunh. Well, they’ve never shown much offence at murder before.’ He motioned to one side. ‘This way.’

As they jogged, Kyle remembered Yullveig’s words. ‘Is your sister here?’ he asked. ‘Erta?’

‘She has returned north. I believe she came to see more sense in my father’s words.’

‘But you do not.’

Baran’s large teeth flashed bright in the dark. ‘I prefer to fight to the end. I do not care if there is no grace in my leave-taking.’

‘Your father refuses to sink to their level. I respect him for that.’

‘Yet all your respect will not save his life.’

Kyle bit his lip. That barb struck hard and true. Also, it was this man’s people and way of life being swept from the face of the earth — best not to argue the finer points of it with him.

Baran was now leading him due east across a wide shallow valley. With dawn, he halted, pointed onward. ‘Lost Holding beyond.’

Kyle had to wait to catch his breath before he could answer. Keeping up with Baran had taken all he had. ‘My thanks. Won’t you reconsider? Come with me? We should all gather together, present a united front.’

The Heel flashed another grin behind his russet beard. ‘Form our own army, you mean? Speaking of sinking to their level.’ He shook his head. The wind blew his loose mane about. ‘No. That is not us. Not how we do things.’

Kyle nodded his understanding. ‘Then, this is farewell. Thank you, Baran, for saving my life.’

The Iceblood inclined his head in salute. ‘It was nothing.’

‘Good hunting.’

Baran hiked up his spear and grinned again. ‘Indeed. Let us hope they’ve followed far further than they ought.’ He jogged off.

Kyle watched him go until he disappeared into the woods, then turned to the east and Lost Holding hidden somewhere among the morning mists flowing down the shoulders of the Salt range.

* * *

She awaited them on the crest of a low hill: a single dark figure in ragged untreated hides standing slim against the purpling north sky. Tall spring grasses and blue wild flowers blew about her knees. Her black hair whipped in the contrary winds.

Silverfox eased up from driving her lathered mount and the beast immediately halted. Foam dripped from its lips with each laboured breath. Steeling herself, she wrenched one numb leg to raise it up over the pommel of her saddle. The scraping of her raw thighs was an agony to her. She almost fell when her feet hit the ground, only managing to remain upright by grasping at the saddle’s girth-strap.

Old, she reflected grimly. I am already old. Yet I see myself as a young woman. Perhaps everyone comes to do so, and I have simply reached the self-revelation prematurely. An achievement for a girl not yet into her twenties. But not surprising, considering I carry millennia-old awarenesses within.

Rubbing her thighs to ease feeling back into them, she hobbled up the rise to join Kilava.

‘Summoner,’ the ancient Bonecaster greeted her.

Silverfox flinched — the woman always managed to infuse such disapproval into each use. ‘Kilava.’

Behind the woman, down a series of gently descending grassy hillsides, lay the glittering surface of a broad bay, and the body of a wider lake, or sea, beyond. Ships lay at anchor in the bay, and a camp of sorts was spread out along the shore. Smoke from fires rose into the air. Already, mounted scouts were cantering out to investigate their presence.

‘What is this?’ she asked Kilava.

‘The locals name it the Sea of Dread.’

Studying the waters, she could well imagine why they would do so; the rigid grip of the Jaghut magics of Omtose Phellack yet lay hard upon it, though it was rotting and slipping away even as she watched. Like ice beneath the heat of a summer sun, she reflected. In this case, the end of its time here upon the land.

‘It is all that remains of a great ice-field that once covered all this region,’ Kilava explained. ‘One of the last remaining glacial lakes.’

Silverfox motioned to the north, where mountains remained visible in the dusk — the unmistakable gleam of ice shone about their peaks. ‘Yet some remains.’

Kilava did not turn to look. ‘Yes,’ she allowed. ‘High in the mountains.’

She did not need to add … our destination.

Silverfox sensed the presence of Pran and Tolb as they came walking up. Her Imass followers arrived to stand ranged along the crest of the hill. They were motionless but for their tattered leathers and hanging fur wraps and cloaks flapping in the wind. She watched the closing mounted scouts suddenly wheel, wrenching away, to turn and gallop back to their camp. One even fell from his mount and ran now, arms waving, after his horse.

‘Where are they?’ she asked Kilava.

‘Close now. Very close.’

‘You have not spoken to them?’

The Bonecaster shook her head, brushed her hair from her face. ‘No. They know my choice. They would attack. I might not be able to extricate myself.’

That casual admission brought home the slenderness of their chances to Silverfox. We are too far outnumbered. She wondered, then, whether she was in truth driving them before her. Or were they merely pursuing their goal while she chased after? One and the same, perhaps. In any case, the restrictions imposed upon Tellann in this region inhibited them all.

We walk as in the old days. Tirelessly, yes. But just the same.

Chaos had broken out within the camp. Figures ran to the boats drawn up upon the gravel beaches, pushed them out.

‘And who are these?’

Again, Kilava did not turn away to glance. ‘Outlanders. Strangers. Not a scent of the Jaghut about them.’

Silverfox nodded her agreement. She, too, saw none of the other race in them. ‘We follow the coast north, then?’

Kilava lowered her chin in assent.

Silverfox drew breath to speak again, paused, then continued regardless. ‘And … did you warn many off?’

‘All those I could reach.’

‘Thank you.’

Irritation wrinkled the Bonecaster’s features. ‘As I said — I did not do so to soothe your conscience.’

Silverfox fought to subdue her own annoyance. ‘None the less … thank you.’

Something heavy fell to the ground behind and Silverfox turned; her mount had collapsed. Its side shuddered for a time, drawing in and out like a bellows. Then this too stilled.

Two Imass broke ranks to jog onward down the hillside. Silverfox turned an eye on Pran Chole. ‘What is this?’

The mummified mask that was the Bonecaster’s face remained immobile as ever. He extended a stick-thin arm, no more than bone sheathed in leather, towards the camp. ‘You have need of a horse.’

Silverfox thought about that, then tilted her head. Yes, she supposed she did.