Assail

CHAPTER III

Orman crossed pine bridge in the night. The trunks of its bed creaked beneath his feet. Frost glimmered over the pale wood as it reflected the stars above. Below, the cold waters of Fool’s Creek rushed past beneath a clear skein of ice. It was still too early in the season to travel up-country — it would be months before the passes cleared — but he was no stranger to the snows. He’d hunted the valleys bordering the Holds through the winter. And with his father he’d wandered the high slopes for a full year.

He knew the territory surrounding the old hunting camp. It was on level ground next to a seasonal run-off stream. High forested ridges overlooked it on two sides. There was no true camp — it was merely a convenient marshalling ground from which to set out on longer journeys. He also knew it would be an obvious place for any pursuit to come hunting for him. This did not overly worry him. He frankly doubted they’d come. After all, he had nothing to lose now that he’d been declared outlaw. And he carried Boarstooth.

He set off at a jog-trot up the trail that climbed the first of the many ridges and mountain shoulders to come. The tall old growth of conifers blocked the stars, plunging him into deep shadow that was broken only by shafts of moonlight that came lancing down like spear-thrusts. Snow and ice was brittle and crusted beneath the battered leather moccasins that climbed to his knees. His breath plumed in the chill air.

Yet he jogged tirelessly. And Boarstooth was a joy to hold: its balance was exquisite, the heft of its slim leaf-shaped stone blade a promise of power. The wood of its haft was polished dark with oils, and the point of its balance was worn even darker by the grip of its countless owners. For it was old — older than memory. His father told him it was a relic from the lost past. It was famous here in the north, and so his uncle Jal had claimed it for his own.

If he continued through the night he should make the hunting camp near to dawn. If he continued. He thought of what he had left behind, and what he held, and he resolved to keep going. Nothing would stop him now. He was a free man in the wilderness, an outlaw among the lowlanders, and he would keep it that way.

The leagues passed swiftly, and he began to sweat. Short of a turn in the trail that wandered on towards the camp, he paused. Who was waiting ahead? Was anyone? After all, he had only the word of Gerrun Shortshanks, a man looked upon with suspicion by many, whom some named forsworn for his mysterious coming and going, and damned as a probable thief.

A man who knew what he, Orman, would no doubt take with him should he finally strike out into the wilds on his own.

He turned off the trail and headed up the nearest ridge slope. He slowed, circled round the densest brush, stepped over fallen logs covered in humps of snow, climbed bare rock outcroppings. He found a curve of the ridge that overlooked the stream and here he crouched, his back to a moss-covered rock, Boarstooth across his lap, to wait. He blew upon his hands for a time to warm them.

The sun’s rise was delayed, for it had to climb over the eastern mountain ridge. Mists filled the valley, twining through the trees like banners of ghost armies. To the north, the rising heights of the Salts humped and reared in snow-covered shoulders and peaks, all bathed in the golden-pink of dawn.

Eventually, the mists burned off as the sun’s slanting rays pierced down to the valley floor. The clearing was empty. No gear lay about; no fire sent up slim wafts of white smoke.

Orman’s stomach churned with acid sourness — what a fool he was! To have made any decision purely on the word of a shiftless rascal like Gerrun. Served him right. Looked as though he’d headed south to offer his spear to Ronal the Bastard after all.

The noise of snow brushing snapped him around and he crouched, Boarstooth levelled. A short distance away stood one of the Reddin brothers — even this close Orman wasn’t sure which. He wore furs over a long leather brigandine that hung to his thighs. Furs wrapped his legs down to his moccasins, tied by leather swathings. His sword hung belted and sheathed, though one gloved hand rested on its long hand-and-a-half grip. The man’s other hand was raised, signing that he meant no harm. Indeed, his pale hazel eyes even held a hint of humour.

Orman nodded to him. Then his shoulders slumped as he understood the reason behind the humour. He turned slowly. There stood the other brother, directly behind, arrow nocked, its bright iron point trained directly upon him. He straightened and brought up Boarstooth to set its butt to the snow. He crossed his arms over its haft and hugged it to him, his gaze still watchful.

This Reddin brother — damn, but he’d have to figure out which was which — relaxed his pull, then slipped the arrow into the bag at his side. Orman nodded a cautious greeting. The fellow gestured, inviting him down to the campsite. Orman started down.

Here he found gear hidden under hides, all snug beneath a layer of freshly fallen snow. He turned to the brothers who now stood side by side, watching him.

‘They’ll be after me,’ he told them.

The brothers nodded their acceptance of this. Both were tall — taller even than Orman who was among the largest of his friends — and both wore their straight brown hair long and loose. Both carried only a light dusting of moustache and beard, for they were still young, hardly any older than he. Their eyes held a strange sort of shy watchfulness mixed with wariness, as if they expected terrible things at any moment.

These two had survived Longarm’s raid into the Holdings, Orman reminded himself. He thought he saw in their bruised gazes the possibility that they too had glimpsed the ghosts of the Icebloods beckoning from the shadows of the deep woods.

One glanced to the other and jogged off southward, obviously to keep watch. The remaining brother approached. His gloved hand still rested on the grip of his longsword. Orman knew these two fought back to back, sometimes two-handed, sometimes one-handed with a dirk or a shield in the off hand. The brother looked Boarstooth up and down then nodded as if to say: impressive.

‘Old Bear?’ Orman asked.

The brother shook a negative.

‘When?’

‘Soon,’ the brother allowed, his voice almost womanishly soft.

‘Could use a fire.’

The brother nodded, then headed off north. He crossed the ice-edged stream stepping from rock to rock. Turning, he gestured for Orman to follow.

The brother — which one, damn the man! — led him up the wooded ridge slope. ‘Keth?’ he called, trying a throw. The young man paused, straightening. He glanced over his shoulder, his mouth drawn tight with suppressed humour, then turned away without offering any clue.

Ha! Very funny. Have your little joke. I’ll find out eventually.

They came to a cave comprising of leaning slabs of stone. The unmistakable musk of bear assaulted Orman, but for now the cave appeared unoccupied. The stamped-out remains of a fire lay before it. Here, the brother sat on a log and tucked his hands up into his armpits for warmth. Orman studied the fire pit. It was sunk and shielded by rocks so that its glow was hidden from below. He then glanced up at the dense branches of the spruce and fir woods. They should disperse the smoke quite well. He leaned Boarstooth up against a rock and set off to gather firewood.

When the sun reached overhead the other Reddin brother appeared. He tossed the body of a freshly killed rabbit to his brother, who pulled out his fighting dirk and set to skinning. Orman spent his time trying to decide which was which. It really didn’t matter, of course — but in a fight it certainly would. The dressed rabbit went on to a stick over the fire.

While the rabbit cooked the brothers sat quietly peering down at the clearing below. Their furs differed, Orman saw: one wore sheepskin wrapped around his tall moccasins while the other wore layered leather swathings over cloth wraps.

‘Is Gerrun joining us?’ he ventured.

The brothers exchanged a wordless glance. Then one gave a small shrug and a purse of the lips that said perhaps.

He gave up trying to get a response from them then. After a meal of the rabbit, goat’s cheese cut from a hard lump, and hardbread, the second brother headed off to keep watch. Orman put his back to a trunk, stretched out his legs, and allowed himself a nap.

He woke to a tap against his side. He opened his eyes a slit to see one of the brothers standing over him, bow in hand. This one inclined his head down-slope and Orman instinctively understood his message: company.

It was late in the day. He rose and adjusted his leathers, returned his sword to his side, then picked up Boarstooth. The brother had jogged off, disappearing into the woods. A troop of men was filing on to the clearing. A hunting party — and he the quarry. It seemed he had underestimated his uncle’s greed and temper. He slowly descended the ridge.

Presently one of the largest men of the party, one he recognized, raised his bearded face to the ridge, set his hands to his mouth, and bellowed: ‘Orman Bregin’s son!’ It was Jal, his uncle. ‘We know you are there! We tracked you! Come down, lad, and hand over that which you stole!’

Among the men, Orman now recognized two of his cousins. Of the rest, eight in all, seven were of his uncle’s hearthguards. And to his surprise the last of the hunters was the short, richly dressed figure of Gerrun Shortshanks himself. The party spread out, hands going to their sheathed swords.

Orman descended the slope to step out from behind the trunk of a large pine. He called: ‘I took only that which is mine by birthright!’

His uncle spotted him and waved him in closer. ‘Come, lad. Don’t be a fool! This has gone on long enough. Return it and I will let you journey south — no ill feelings. Why, I even offer a small purse to see you on to Mantle town.’

‘I do not want your silver, uncle. Just that which is mine by right.’

His uncle spread his hands in a gesture of exasperation. ‘And what will you do there in the wilderness? Wander willy-nilly to no good purpose like your father? Come now, grow up.’

Orman slammed the butt of Boarstooth to the frozen ground. ‘Bregin was sworn to Eusta! And I am my father’s son.’

Jal shook his head. All the while, his hearthguards advanced on the woods, spreading out. A few now crossed the rushing stream, stepping from rock to rock. Their armour rustled and jangled in the cold air. ‘Eusta is long gone, lad,’ his uncle called. ‘Your father should have bent his knee to Longarm. If he had, you could have risen in his service. But as it is …’ and he shook his head as if at the waste of it.

A new voice bellowed then, as deep as a rumbling of rocks falling. ‘Who would enter the Blood Holdings?’ The challenge echoed from ridge to ridge and a crowd of rooks took flight from a slim ash bordering the clearing. They cawed and squawked as if answering the voice and swirled overhead in a dark cloud.

The hearthguards hunched, peering warily about. Weapons slid from sheaths.

Orman scanned the woods. As if by magery a hugely tall and broad figure emerged from the trees close by the stream. A shaggy bear’s hide was bunched wide at the shoulders and hung in ragged lengths to brush the snowy ground. The great beast’s head rode the man’s like a hood, its upper jaw intact, yellowed teeth curving downward. Within that grisly headdress glared the grey-bearded, lined and one-eyed face of Old Bear.

Jal stared in amazement and wonder — he even retreated a number of steps to strike his back against the trunk of a spruce. Then he nodded to himself and fury darkened his face. ‘So. It is as everyone thought.’ He called to Orman: ‘Your father struck a pact with the Bloods. A traitor! He served them!’

Stung, Orman came sliding sideways down the rocky treed slope. He hopped fallen trunks and melt-slick rocks, holding Boarstooth high. ‘Say what you will of me,’ he shouted, ‘but do not insult my father’s name! You who cowered in the warmth of your hearthfire while he kept watch!’

‘Conspired with the mountain demons, you mean,’ Jal rumbled darkly. And he waved his contempt, his fingers thick with gold rings.

‘Enough!’ Orman yelled, furious, and he threw Boarstooth. The moment the weapon left his hand he felt a stab of regret. He did not know what he’d intended — to frighten the old man, to wound him — but the instant he loosed he knew the ancient heirloom would fly true.

Jal watched, perhaps in disbelief, as the spear flew high across the stream, then arced downward, tracing a path straight to him. It slammed home, pinning him to the tree where he remained standing, his mouth open, eyes staring wide at the haft where it emerged from his girth.

The hearthguards watched the flight and impact in stunned silence. Then they charged.

Arrows took the nearest two, one in the side, another through the head, giving Orman time to draw his sword. He parried the third — this one cousin Belard — then pommel-smashed him in the face, knocking him flying backwards in a spray of blood.

Old Bear was down from the woods in great bounds, roaring with battle-joy. He knocked aside the swing of a hearthguard with his tall spear then slashed him across the neck. The man fell gurgling and clutching at his throat. Orman’s other cousin, Tomen, backpedalled wildly, splashing through the stream then turning to run.

Two more hearthguards closed on Orman. A thrown hatchet from Gerrun took one, but the other dodged and ducked as he came. An arrow meant for him shattered on a rock. Orman met him, parrying and closing to grapple. Moments later the man jerked as a bloody arrowhead punched through the leathers of his chest, almost reaching Orman. The lad let him fall to the mud and snow, where he curled around the point like a pinned bird.

Raising his gaze, panting, Orman saw his cousins and the remaining hearthguards in full retreat from the clearing. He relaxed, or tried to: his limbs would not stop shaking. Suddenly he felt very cold indeed. He walked across the crackling sheet ice and bloodstained snow to where his uncle still stood, fixed to the spruce by Boarstooth.

Jal still lived. His bloodied hands still gripped the slick haft and thick crimson blood smeared his beard. His wide eyes followed Orman as he came. He tried to speak but coughed instead and groaned his agony. He spat out a mouthful of blood to croak: ‘Kinslayer I name you. Forsworn. Damn you to the Dark Taker’s deepest pit.’

Orman took hold of Boarstooth’s slick haft. Jal slid a hand free to fumble at the silver-wound grip of his sword. Orman held his uncle’s eyes. Hatred and wordless fury blazed back at him. He yanked on the spear, twisting and levering, until the eyes lost their focus and the man’s head slumped forward. He pulled the weapon free. His uncle fell in a heap at the base of the tree.

Orman stared at the gleaming gore-smeared blade. Steam rose from it into the chill air. I am a kinslayer, he realized. So many stories of vendetta and feud surround this weapon. Is it cursed? Am I?

‘Well met, Orman Bregin’s son,’ a deep voice growled behind him. He turned, wonderingly, still feeling as if he were in a dream, or a nightmare. There stood Old Bear, wrapped in his bunched bearskin cloak, leaning on his tall spear. His one good eye held calm evaluation, as if still taking his measure, while the other glared frosty-white like an orb of ice. Behind, the Reddin brothers now stood with Gerrun, all three silent and watchful.

‘I did not mean to …’ he began.

‘I understand, lad,’ Old Bear said, his voice gentle. ‘But Boarstooth, once loosed, would have its blood-price.’

‘Blood-price?’

Old Bear nodded solemnly. ‘Aye. Jal insulted it. Had no right to lay his hand upon it.’

‘And I do?

‘Oh, aye. When your father was hardly older than you are now he wrested it from the dead hand of Jorgan Bain. It was a storied duel. They fought in Green Rock Valley on the border of Bain and Lost holdings. There they duelled through two days. Stopped only to rest at night.’

Orman blinked, hardly understanding. ‘But I heard none of this …’

Old Bear snorted his disdain. ‘These southern lowland scum aren’t worthy of such tales, hey?’

Feeling oddly cold and shivery, Orman nodded. ‘I see … I think.’ Then he bent over and vomited ferociously, hands on his knees, gagging.

Old Bear rumbled a laugh and slapped him on the back. ‘There, there. The first one’s always the hardest!’ He chuckled again, greatly amused, then roared: ‘You three! Pack up! Kasson, we leave at once!’

‘Aye,’ Kasson answered, and it irritated Orman no end that he didn’t catch which brother had spoken.

* * *

Three days after Burl and the crew of the Strike came across a ghost ship adrift on the Dread Sea, men and women of the crew began disappearing. No one saw anything. Burl questioned everyone himself, as did the second mate, Gaff. Those on watch neither saw nor heard anything. Nor were there any discernible signs of violence; no blood, no marks of forcible abduction. Over the course of the day or night people simply went missing. Sometimes it even happened during their time on duty. Burl had no explanation for it; the crew members seemed to have merely up and jumped over the side to sink without a call or a struggle.

It happened sometimes. Over the course of his decades at sea Burl had known of a few cases where seamen had taken their own lives. Their disappearances had been similar to these: no struggle, no blood, no yelling. One time, when a young mate, Burl had been watching over the deck, glanced away, and looked back to find one less crewman at work. The man had simply thrown himself quietly over the side and allowed himself to sink to Mael’s own boneyard below.

Over the course of three decades it had happened two or three times. Not more than twice that in mere days. So he was not surprised when he found a contingent of crew members confronting him one foggy morning.

Gaff, the second mate, led the knot of men as First Mate Whellen was still abed, apparently unable to awaken from whatever it was that ailed him. Burl crossed his arms and waited for Gaff to say his piece. He was not too concerned; the crew had every right to be fearful. It had hold of him as well. Perhaps more so, as he wasn’t sure they understood that they were far past turning back. He no longer had any clear idea of their direction, and hadn’t for some time.

The second mate finally clawed a hand down his wiry beard and cleared his throat. ‘Me ’n’ the crew,’ he began, his voice hoarse, ‘we say you can’t deny it no longer, captain. These disappearances ’n’ such. They’re the work of the curse.’

Burl made a show of his annoyance. ‘What curse, man? What? I know of no such thing. It’s just this place. The fogs and cold — it has an unhealthy effect on some.’

The man hunched and ran his hands over the thighs of his frayed canvas trousers, but his mouth was set in a stubborn line. ‘There’re stories. Old songs. The Dread Sea …’

‘Tall tales. Made up fireside imaginings. Nothing more.’ Burl raised his gaze to take in everyone. ‘Have any of you ever actually seen anything?’

None of the assembled crew would meet his eyes. None but Gaff, who scowled anew. ‘It’s been weeks, captain. The sea isn’t this large. We should’ve reached the north shore long ago. The curse has us, I tell you. Soon there’ll be none of us left and the Strike will be like that ghost ship we come across. Act now before it’s too late, captain.’

‘Act? How so? What is it I’m to do?’

The second mate’s gaze slid past Burl to the stern, to the door to the cabin where Whellen lay abed. The realization of what his second mate intended came to Burl and he felt real anger clench his throat — that, and disgust. So, we have finally come to this. Funny how all must band together to throw just one off the ship. ‘That’s enough of such talk, Gaff,’ he growled, fury rasping in his voice. ‘Are we superstitious fools to sink so low? You think you can pin such things on any one person — all in some craven effort to save your own hide? No. We’re not of Korel, where I hear they practised such things against the Stormriders — not that it did them any good. No more such talk. We’ll be through this soon. Things will look up. Think of the gold ahead — we may be the only ones to actually make it, hey?’

Many of the crew, those who had been with Burl the longest, now looked shamed by his words. Gaff saw this and clenched his lips against saying more, though his hardened expression made it clear he was only temporarily silenced. Burl waved the crew back to work and pulled open the door to the cabin.

Within, he went to where Whellen lay sleeping, or under some sort of spell. The man looked deathly pale and Burl pulled another blanket over him. What ails you, man? he wondered. If they only knew. If he only had a ship’s mage; but such men or women were few in the Southern Confederacy. For now he would wait. Things had to change. And Gaff — he would hear from him again. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in not running the man through the moment he understood just how far he would go in his mania. Yet if Gaff dared not move against him because he could not count on the crew’s support, then so too was he constrained. If he wanted to remain captain he couldn’t go round running crew members through over a few heated words.

He sat down heavily. It was cold in the cabin, and the aura of frigid air seemed to be wafting from his stricken first mate. Burl set his elbows on his captain’s table and held his head in his hands. By the Thousand-faced god, you’d better not be some damned curse-carrier, Whellen. Because if you are … Ach!

He slumped back into his chair. Never mind. The one who carries any curse is always the last to know, yes? It wouldn’t be a damned curse otherwise, would it? This last thought chilled him and he pulled his gaze from Whellen.

So it could just as easily be me, couldn’t it?

* * *

Two days into the climb into the Bone range, Fisher’s guest awoke. Officially within the party, Fisher was appended to Malle’s Malazans. The expedition’s overall leader, Marshal Teal of Lether, had been against taking him on, as, in his words, ‘he saw no profit in hiring a mere wandering player’.

Fisher had then rather reluctantly revealed that he had travelled through this region before. After demonstrating local knowledge to the satisfaction of Malle’s own expert on Assail, the mage Holden, the Gris noblewoman offered to take him on, she said, to play and sing tales for her edification.

Therefore, it was in a Malazan-style field tent that Fisher sat idly strumming his current instrument, a stringed idum, consisting of a long narrow arm on a round gourd-like body. It was a traditional instrument of the Seven Cities region.

He was strumming and plucking, exploring possible composition elements for his current travels, when a voice spoke from within the tent. ‘You play well.’

He lowered the instrument’s arm from where he’d held it close to his ear and turned on his stool next to the open flap. Outside, the fires of the expedition crackled and cast a flickering light within the tent. His guest still lay within his blankets on the travois, but now his eyes glittered as dark as if the night itself was watching.

‘You are with us!’ Fisher came to his side. ‘I am Fisher. Fisher Kel Tath. And you are?’

‘I …’ The Andii frowned. ‘I am …’ He rubbed his brow and the frown rose into growing alarm. Fisher glanced away from the open panic that surfaced in the man’s night-black eyes. ‘I — cannot remember,’ he confessed, almost awed. ‘I cannot remember anything.’

Fisher pulled his stool next to the travois. ‘It is all right. I understand you nearly drowned. No doubt your memories will return in time. Do you remember anything of the sea, or drowning?’

‘No. That is …’ The man rubbed his brow with both hands as if struggling to pull memories from his mind. ‘Perhaps. I think I remember … fighting for breath.’

Fisher studied the man. Could he in truth be amnesiac? He’d heard that sometimes a near death by drowning could do that to a person. Of course, a sceptic would note how that was all too convenient. ‘So. You do not remember your name. What of your past? Any images, or places?’

The Andii gave an angry shake of his head — angry only with his own failure. ‘No. Nothing.’

‘Yet you are of the opinion that I play well.’

The man offered a half-smile. ‘Perhaps I should say that your playing was pleasing to my ear.’

‘Ah. Well, I thank you. Now, what of a name? I cannot just say hey you.’

‘No. That would certainly not do.’ He sat up in the travois then rubbed his brow anew, as if dizzy. He looked to Fisher and the bard thought the man’s glance uncharacteristically open and unguarded for an Andii. Or for any adult, for that matter. It was too much of the honest artlessness of youth. ‘Can you give me one?’

Half wincing, Fisher lowered his gaze. Ye gods, what a responsibility! Naming an Andii was not something anyone should casually take on. Yet he knew many old Tiste Andii lays, and they were jammed full of names and ancestries. ‘I … could,’ he allowed.

‘Very good.’ And the man sat waiting as if Fisher was about to bestow it right away.

Fisher gave a rather nervous laugh. ‘Let me consider the matter. Such things require … care.’

‘Ah. I see.’ And the man nodded his acceptance.

Fisher cleared his throat into the silence. ‘In the meantime, let me see to kitting you out properly. We are headed into mountains. Your thin cloth trousers and shirt, though they are of an expensive weave, will not do. And you need footgear of a sort — that will be a challenge. And some sort of weapon. Do you use a sword?’

With the mention of the word ‘sword’ the man’s head snapped to him and for an instant the black eyes held an expression that was far from innocent openness. Then the mood cleared and the Andii smiled as if having discovered something. ‘Yes. I remember … a sword. Something about a sword.’

Fisher slapped his thighs and rose. ‘There you are. Progress already. Soon it will all come back. Now wait here — I’ll see what I can pull together.’

He made the rounds of the three camps. Marshal Teal offered to sell him equipment at an insultingly inflated price. Enguf’s raiders had no extra gear, and were in fact short of everything themselves. He returned to the Malazan camp and headed for Malle’s tent.

Three guards sat on stools before the closed flap. A small fire burned low in front of them while behind a thin slit of lamplight cut through the tent opening. They were three of a kind: gnarled veterans in battered light armour, the heaviest item of which was a shirt of mail. Like three boulders, Fisher thought, that had rolled and bashed their way across countless fields and continents until every edge carried a bruise or a scar.

‘Lookee here,’ one commented, nudging his fellow. ‘It’s that foreign screecher. Where’s that cat you keep stretched on a stick and torture every night?’

‘Evening lads,’ Fisher said placidly. ‘Here to see the mistress. And it’s an idum. An instrument out of Seven Cities.’

‘Oh, I know that,’ the first said. ‘Heard them played. Broke every one of them I saw after that.’

‘You wasn’t in Seven Cities,’ the one on the right objected.

‘Was so.’

‘Yes, he was,’ said the one in the middle. ‘I remember it distinctly — he was advertised as the famous Malazan dancing boy.’

The one on the right now nodded his agreement. ‘Oh, I remember now. His bum was everywhere.’

The first joined in the nodding. ‘I distracted them and you stuck your knives in — or something like that.’

Fisher struggled to keep his face straight. ‘Gentlemen … your mistress?’

‘Now I know she wasn’t in Seven Cities,’ the middle one said.

The one on the right rubbed his jaw with a gnarled paw. ‘She mighta bin.’

‘Would you announce me?’ Fisher asked.

‘As what?’ the first asked, looking him up and down. Fisher raised his eyes to the night sky. The guard nudged the one in the middle. ‘Your turn.’

This one kicked the one on his right. ‘Your turn.’

The last dropped his hand from his jaw and sighed his annoyance. ‘I can’t believe I have to be the one to go to all the trouble.’ He lifted his head and shouted: ‘Hey, Malle! It’s that foreign bandolier here to see you!’

‘That’s balladeer, Riley dear,’ Malle called from within. ‘Now send him in.’

‘What’s the difference?’ Riley asked out of the side of his mouth.

‘He wouldn’t fit so well across your chest,’ the one in the middle answered.

‘Oh, I dunno about that,’ Riley answered, eyeing Fisher up and down. ‘He just might.’

Fisher sketched a salute and edged between them.

Inside, a number of lamps cast a warm yellow glow. Tables and stools cluttered the outer half of the tent. Hangings concealed a private rear sleeping chamber. With Malle were her two hired mages, one of whom he knew: the old and battered Holden of Cawn, mage of Serc. The other was new to him: a young plain lass, obviously the mage of Telas he’d sensed earlier. A low table between them lay cluttered with scraps of food, glasses, and rolled sheets of parchment he recognized as charts and maps.

Malle waved to a stool. ‘Fisher Kel Tath,’ she invited. ‘Please be seated.’

‘I thank you, m’lady.’

She waved a black-gloved hand to Holden. ‘Holden of Cawn.’

‘The songster and I know each other of old, ma’am,’ Holden explained.

‘Oh. How convenient.’ She indicated the girl. ‘This is Alca of Cat, new to my service.’

Fisher bowed to the girl, whose pale lipless mouth drew down as if anticipating some sort of insult from him. He merely inclined his head in greeting once more, and indicated the rolled parchments. ‘You come well prepared.’

‘These?’ Malle snorted her scorn and tossed back a tiny glass of some thick blood-red liqueur. ‘Mere traveller’s tales. Might as well draw monsters on their borders.’ She eyed him speculatively. ‘You, however, have travelled through here before.’

‘Along the coast only, ma’am. Never inland.’

‘And why not?’

‘Very dangerous.’

She eyed her mages. ‘How very encouraging. Dangerous in what manner?’

He shrugged, extended his legs. ‘I do not know exactly. All I can say is that those who attempt to cross the spine of the Bone range are never seen again. There are stories, of course. Many rumours.’

Malle refilled her tumbler from a tall thin crystal decanter. ‘And have these stories a common theme?’

‘A monster. A threat. A price to be paid.’

The woman held the tiny glass between the fingertips of both hands and studied him over the rim. Under her steady gaze he was thankful that he had told the truth.

‘Interesting …’ she said at last.

Fisher frowned at that. ‘How so?’

‘Holden?’

The old mage cleared his throat and spat into a bronze pot next to his feet. ‘The oldest accounts have a road that tracks the top of the Bone Peninsula. Know you of that?’

Now Fisher regarded Malle steadily. ‘I have heard stories of such an ancient traveller’s account. It is said that the imperial archive in Unta possesses it.’

Behind the glass a small tight-lipped smile came and went from the old woman’s mouth. ‘Archivists can get into debt as easily as anyone.’ She waved to invite him to speak. ‘What have you heard?’

Fisher wasn’t certain that he believed the woman’s explanation, but outwardly he gave the appearance of not particularly caring either way. ‘I am a singer, a collector of songs and tales. And there are very old ones from this region that speak variously of the Bone Road, the Bridge of Bone, or the Way of Bone.’

‘Colourful,’ the old woman commented dryly. ‘Any other hazards we should be mindful of?’

Fisher opened his arms. ‘Well, there are always bandits, thieves, and mountain tribes.’

‘I doubt that any ragged bandits would attack a party of some hundred armed men and women,’ the girl sneered. ‘Hard knocks for poor rewards.’

Fisher shifted his gaze to her. ‘Some might fight to defend their territory.’ The girl just snorted, looking sour.

‘Anything else?’ Malle enquired.

Fisher nodded. ‘Then there are the supernatural dangers.’

Holden chuckled and winked. ‘Ah yes. The legendary ghoulies, ghosties and giants of Assail.’

Fisher did not share the man’s amusement. ‘The ghosts are real, my friend. The further north you go the worse they get. That and the cold.’

Alca leaned forward. She slid her forearms along her thighs to her knees. ‘These stories of cold and ice interest me. Since we landed I have sensed it. It is Elder. Omtose Phellack. This land was once held by the Jaghut — is that not so?’

Fisher studied the girl more closely; not so young as he had thought. And a scholar. Perhaps a researcher into the Warrens. He crossed one leg over the other and clasped his hands over his knee. ‘Some say all lands were once held by the Jaghut. But yes. It is thought that their mark lingers.’

‘And beyond the Jaghut there lies the threat of the namesake of this region,’ said Malle.

Fisher simply blinked at her. ‘Those are just stories, m’lady.’

‘Indeed? Let us hope so.’

Her tone told Fisher that his audience was at an end. He bowed his head and rose.

‘You had wished to speak of some matter?’ she enquired.

Fisher’s brows shot up — ah yes. He’d quite forgotten. ‘Our guest is awake and I wish to request equipment for him. Warm sturdy clothes and a weapon.’

‘And does our guest possess a name?’

Fisher shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, he remembers nothing. The shock of nearly drowning, perhaps.’

The old woman’s smile of sympathy was cold. ‘Perhaps.’ She gestured curtly to Holden. ‘See to it.’

‘Aye, ma’am.’

Bowing to all, Fisher ducked from the tent. As he crossed the camp it occurred to him that he’d entered to make a request only to find himself the object of an intense cross-examination regarding the peninsula and the lands beyond. Understandable, he supposed, given that they intended to penetrate within. Yet among the rolled charts and pressed fibre sheets he’d glimpsed a flat wooden box, closed and clasped. And he knew such boxes. They held draughting instruments: compasses, tools for measuring angles and scales. These people were not only consulting maps — they were assembling their own.

The party might in truth be after gold, but he considered it a good bet that these Malazans were after something else as well.

* * *

Once Jute Hernan, late of Delanss, was certain the Silver Dawn had passed beyond of the maze of rocks that choked the entrance to the aptly named Fear Narrows, he loosed the terror that squeezed his own chest like bound cordage and inhaled fully. He allowed his gaze to rise inland, up the calm channel of the long twisting narrows itself.

What he saw waiting ahead did not give him much cheer. Tall sheer cliffs on both sides offered little or no anchorage. And the Dawn was in desperate need of refit and repairs after threading through the Guardian Rocks; she was leaking at the seams, stores were water-spoiled, and she was desperately short of sweet water. Once more, he did his best to dredge up the tales of this region that he’d soaked up with his warm milk and bread when a boy. They told of how those vessels with enough luck, or piloted with enough skill, to navigate the Guardian Rocks could look forward to shelter within a protected port called Old Ruse, itself one of the many wonders of the region.

Scanning the rearing cliff walls, he saw no hint of any such tranquil or welcoming harbourage. Perhaps it was all sailors’ fancies and flights of tale-telling round the alehouses. Yet so far the stories had proved accurate to some degree: yes, the lands could be found more or less south of Genabackis; yes, the north-east coast was warded and ringed by hidden rocks and shoals; and, yes, an even worse hazard along this stretch of shore was its inhabitants, who, having no interest in trade or relations with the outside world, treated any vessels within their reach as sheep to be slaughtered, thus supporting the mariners’ universal wariness of the Wrecker’s Coast. And if one did pass beyond all this, one did come to a narrow inlet warded by series after series of jagged rocks. A formation any vessel would only dare attempt during the hours of highest tides. The Guardian Rocks.

Now, according to all the tales, what lay before his crew of the pick of all the mariners and pirates of Falar was Fear Narrows: a hostile inhospitable chute which allowed access to the broad calm Sea of Dread. Deceptively calm. Or so the stories always went.

Jute headed for the Dawn’s quarterdeck, nodding encouragement to the men and women of the crew as he went. Not that he felt it — it was simply his role as he saw it: reassuring these volunteers, each of them daring and intrepid enough to answer his call to join a voyage like none before. A voyage to the ends of the world in search of riches, though for most, including himself, such a voyage was a reward in itself.

He thought of what might lie in wait for them beyond the Sea of Dread: fortresses constructed from the bones of earlier travellers foolish enough to trespass there; strangling mists; limitless fields of ice taller than any city tower; forests guarded by giants of ice and rime. And beyond all these, mountains harbouring a race said to be willing to offer any gift a traveller daring and tenacious enough to reach them might think to request, yet no gift worth the harrowing price demanded by these legendary Assail.

Jute mentally cast all such unknowns overboard. One threat at a time! Right now his job was to see to finding safe anchorage for the Dawn, and such harbourage looked to be scarce indeed.

At the stern stood their master steersman, Lurjen, a short and broad stump of a fellow, gripping the side-mounted steering arm. His leathers were darkened with sweat and more ran in rivulets down his bald, sun-burnished pate. His massive arms still appeared to quiver from the exertion of heaving the ponderous oar to the directions of their navigator, who sat on a short stool behind him, leaning forward, chin almost resting on her walking stick. Ieleen of Walk, Jute’s navigator and his wife. A legend she was among the mariners of Falar, and some whispered witch or sorceress of Ruse, for her seeming miraculous intimacy with wave and channel. All the more fantastic as she was completely blind.

‘Sorceress you are, my dear!’ Jute called. ‘Your reputation is unshakable now.’ Sorceress indeed, dearest, he added silently. How else did you steal my heart away?

‘I just listen to the waves, luv,’ she answered, and she winked one staring wintery-white eye. ‘Our friends are still with us,’ she added, motioning to the rear with a tilt of her head.

Jute cast a glance behind where the last of the rocks now disappeared from sight. Indeed, some three or four vessels were still treading their wake. When they’d arrived out beyond the mouth of the narrows they’d found a great mass of foreign vessels at anchor awaiting the right tide. Or just waiting and watching to see who would be the next fools to dare attempt the jumbled currents and hidden tearing teeth of the Guardian Rocks.

For a time they had waited and watched as well. Six different vessels they saw make the attempt: each went down in a mass of shattered timber. Jute thought he could almost hear the screams of the crews as they were sucked down into the curling, tumbling currents and dashed against the rocks. And after each attempt a wash of corpses and litter of rope and broken wood rode the waves out on to the equally aptly named Sea of Hate.

Then, one day just before dawn, Ieleen gave him the nod and he ordered all the crew to the oars — no sails for this narrow passage — and they’d set out, following her directions. Their navigation through the shoals down the Wreckers’ Coast must have impressed the masters of other ships, for five other vessels quickly followed their route.

Of his part in that turning twisting run Jute was not proud. Ieleen barked her commands while Lurjen grunted and huffed, heaving the steering arm back and forth. The Dawn yawed and pitched so steeply that half the time one or the other side’s oars waved uselessly to the sky. Yet his love seemed to have taken all this into her calculations as she sat staring sightlessly, her head tilted ever so slightly, as if listening to someone whispering in her ear. All he could do was hang on tight to the mainmast, shouting to keep order among the crew as oars struck rocks to throw men bodily from the benches, or knock them senseless. Timber groaned as hidden rocks scoured the sides and keel. Many times the crew were not so much rowing as using the oars as poles to fend off looming black pillars that jutted from the foaming waters like saw-teeth.

Then, of a sudden, like the passing of a thunderstorm, it was over. The waters streamed beneath the bow as smooth as glass. The crew slumped where they sat, breathless, utterly spent, though with enough energy to weakly laugh and cuff one another. And he’d planted a kiss on Ieleen’s cheek and called her a wonder.

Now, glancing back, he saw only three of the five vessels that had set out following their lead. They also coursed along, oars idle for the nonce. Obviously just as relieved, or disbelieving, as they. ‘Yes,’ he told Ieleen. ‘They’re still with us. Two are of a strange cut to me, though one’s a Malazan galley or I’m a Kartoolian eunuch.’

‘You’re no eunuch, luv. I’ll attest to that.’

Pained, he lowered his voice. ‘Not in front of the crew, dearest.’

She waved a hand. ‘Oh, they’re happy when we’re happy. They just don’t like it when we fight.’

Jute cleared his throat. ‘Well. Where we go from here is a mystery to me.’

‘Something’s ahead,’ she answered and lifted her chin. ‘The wind sounds different.’

He grunted his acknowledgement. ‘A touch of sail, Buen,’ he called to his first mate.

‘Aye, aye.’

‘Dulat, get up top and get an eye out.’

The youngest and slightest of the crew jumped up from a bench and exclaimed, ‘Thank the gods for that!’

‘No use anyway,’ Sarsen, a giant of a fellow out of Gano, grumbled. ‘It was like having a flea on my elbow.’

‘Someone has to show the ox where to go,’ Dulat retorted.

Sarsen peered up at him, squinting. ‘Better run up to your perch, little flea.’

Dulat set his feet on the mast and started up. ‘Now I have to show everyone where to go!’

Jute grinned; the crew was in good spirits. And they should be, given what they’d just accomplished. He waited until Dulat had had a good look then called, ‘Anything?’

‘Might be a cove or a channel ahead on the starboard cliffs.’

‘Very good.’ He turned to Ieleen. ‘Anything more?’

She sniffed the air. ‘There’s a settlement close.’

‘Old Ruse, then.’

‘Perhaps.’

He returned to Dulat. ‘Direct us over!’

‘Aye.’

‘We’re seeping, Buen. What’s the rate?’

‘Too fast for comfort. We have to make repairs.’

After a time Dulat shouted down: ‘Our shadows are following.’

Jute mentally shrugged. Nothing they could do about it. Moreover, since this journey promised to be a long one, they’d no doubt be seeing a lot more of each other in any case. And there’s strength in numbers, a more cautious voice whispered in his mind.

The crew rowed at a slow easy pace; in the slim cut of the narrows the sail did little to help. Jute kept his eyes trained on the gap in the cliff wall ahead. Steadily it became clear to any who cared to look that it held some sort of channel. When they came abreast of the opening, everyone saw at once that it opened on to a broad cove that was a natural harbour. Wharves, slips and docks lined its shore, while above rose the stone buildings of a town. Old Ruse, apparently.

‘Make for port!’ Jute bellowed, relieved. Thank hoary old Mael himself! He’d feared savages populated the entire land and they’d not be able to put in anywhere.

Lurjen grunted and grumbled anew as he swung the steering arm over. Ieleen sat still, hands atop her walking stick, humming a tuneless song to herself. As usual she was content to let him handle the mundane tasks. He knew she’d step in should she sense anything awry.

The channel was a narrow one. There was hardly room for the oars. Before entering the wide cove they passed tall towers to either side at the end of the channel — some sort of defensive installation against raiders or pirates, no doubt.

Within, the crew eased up on the oars to peer about in wonder. It was a town hacked from the very stone of the narrows’ cliffs. Great clouds of sea-birds crowded the ridges of the surrounding cliffs. Their screeching and cawing drowned out all other sounds.

‘Make for the nearest berth,’ Jute told Lurjen. The Dawn curved across the smooth waters on its own for a time. Lurjen directed it to the north side of the broad arc of the harbour.

‘Our friends are with us,’ Dulat called down.

Jute glanced to the stern: so they were. Their entourage nosed into the cove one after the other. Closer now, Jute recognized the lines of the first vessel: Genabackan. No doubt some damned pirate out to make a quick fortune. The middle vessel, a tall three-tiered ship, remained a mystery. He’d frankly never seen anything like it on any sea, from Quon to Seven Cities. The Malazan galley brought up the rear. Quite dilapidated Jute thought it. A veteran, that one. Or just damned sloppy.

‘Movement all about,’ Dulat called, sounding bemused.

Jute turned to the wide arc of wharves and slips. Indeed, crews were swarming out on to the ships and boats, which, it now occurred to him, were a mishmash of various styles and origins. Oars slapped the water up and down the harbour.

Behind him Ieleen had stopped humming. ‘Luv …’ she began tentatively.

A small voice whispered in Jute’s thoughts: oh, dammit to Mael.

‘Swing us round!’ he bellowed to Lurjen though the man stood right next to him. The squat fellow savagely heaved the thick wooden steering arm over. ‘Port side back oars!’

The port side oarsmen raised their arms high to bite deep then pushed with all their might, gasping and grunting. The Dawn lurched into a tight circle. Glancing back, Jute saw their companions reach the same conclusion as all three vessels now struggled to bring themselves about. The Malazan galley was the quickest to respond, obviously crewed by old hands. The Genabackan vessel followed. The foreign ship, however, responded slowly and awkwardly; she was clearly a top-heavy ungainly design. How she could possibly have made it through the rocks was a mystery to him.

‘Archers!’ Dulat warned from atop the mainmast.

Jute cast a quick glance over the arc of ships approaching under oar. Arrows flew here and there, but not a steady volley. Not yet. Just testing the range. No, too distant yet. It appeared to his eye that these Old Ruse pirates had sprung their trap too soon. They might all make the channel before being intercepted and engaged. All except the tall three-tiered vessel that, now that she was circling near, had the look of a strange class of oared galleon about her.

‘The entrance!’ Dulat yelled, and real alarm choked his voice. ‘The towers!’

Something was happening at the channel entrance. The water across the way was foaming and tumbling. Squinting, Jute made out chains rising from the course. They climbed each tower wall, crossing the narrow channel from side to side.

A gods-damned harbour chain. No wonder they jumped to the attack. We’re trapped within. It occurred to Jute that in a way they were still on the Wreckers’ Coast, after all. And, he supposed, this town must be its damned capital city. They’d avoided every hazard, side-stepped every pit so far, only to walk right into the mouth of the very last trap. He almost hung his head at the injustice of it.

‘I know your moods, luv,’ murmured Ieleen. ‘Don’t you despair.’ She shifted her blind gaze to the starboard. ‘That foreign vessel near?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, his voice heavy. ‘We’re passing her.’ Not that any of it mattered any more.

‘Well. You call me a sorceress …’ and she offered another wink.

Jute frowned his confusion. Sorceress? Even if she was, they were still trapped.

‘The Genabackan trader’s circling behind!’ Dulat called.

Jute looked. The Genabackan vessel was now heading to brush past them as if meaning to intercept the entire fleet. As she stormed abreast, oars flashing, a man hailed them from her side. ‘Wait by the channel!’ Then they were gone.

That was strange enough, but what was really odd was that the man was armoured like a heavy infantryman. He wore a white tabard over a banded hauberk of iron and iron greaves and vambraces, was bearded with a great mane of black hair, and had a helm in one hand and the tall grip of what must be a great bastardsword at his side in the other.

But what was strangest of all was that the entire deck was jammed from one side to the other with soldiers all armoured alike. All wearing white tabards. And on the chest of each tabard a triangular shield shape of a pale sky blue.

‘There must be over two hundred soldiers on that ship!’ Dulat cried out, and he threw his hands in the air in amazement.

‘We’re not out yet,’ Jute growled under his breath. Blue — that struck a cord in his memory somehow. ‘Who in Togg’s name was that?’ he murmured to himself, and he crossed his arms to tap a thumb to his lips.

‘The voice of command, dear,’ Ieleen answered. ‘Now do head for the channel.’

His response was a snort, but he nodded to Lurjen.

‘And I may be blind but shouldn’t we ready our own archers?’ she added sweetly.

Jute let a hard breath escape between his teeth. Not that it would matter. He searched amidships, found their master-at-arms. ‘Letita! Ready archers!’

‘Aye!’ she answered, ever eager.

Half the crew at the oars stood for the detail. Jute knew he was lucky; some of the greatest sea-fighters in Falar had volunteered for this voyage, archers and swordsmen and women. If this were an even fight he’d place his bet on them any day — but they faced over a hundred damned ships.

‘The Malazan’s drawn near one o’ the towers,’ Dulat shouted. He was shading his gaze. ‘They’re readying springals and arbalests at stern and bows.’

Jute squinted at the far galley. Siege weapons? Did they mean to try to take the tower?

‘Engagement with them Genabackans!’ Dulat called.

Jute almost shook his head; the lad was actually excited by all this. Couldn’t he see how it would play out? It would soon be his own guts spread upon the waters.

The Genabackan pirate ship with its crew of soldiers had pretty much ploughed into the front rank of wrecker vessels. It was now surrounded by the rag-tag flotilla of ships and boats. Grapnels flew. They were being boarded from all sides.

‘That foreign ship!’ Dulat shouted.

The tall vessel had fallen behind as well. It too was being surrounded as it and the Genabackan now held the rear, engaging the wreckers, while the Dawn closed on the Malazan vessel.

Jute watched the fighting, fascinated despite his dismay. Hordes clambered up the side of the Genabackan ship. From across the smooth waters of the cove came the clash of iron and screams of the wounded. Shapes came tumbling over the sides. Most fell limp to splash into the water or crash on to decks.

‘They’re slaughtering them,’ Dulat breathed, awed.

Aye, for the nonce, Jute added darkly. But eventually they’ll be overrun. Numbers will tell. He shifted his gaze to the foreign ship. The wreckers appeared to be having trouble climbing the sides of the supernaturally tall vessel. Some few made it, clambering hand over hand on ropes, up and over the side. But what became of them he couldn’t see. Nor in all this time had he seen any crew on board either, for that matter.

No shouts or noise of fighting crossed the water from that vessel.

Then he physically jumped as explosions thumped the air behind him. They slapped him in the back to concuss the air from his lungs and the Dawn shuddered from stem to stern. Some of the oarsmen lost their grips, so shocked were they. He turned, gaping. ‘What in the name of the dead god of death was that?’

Blossoming clouds of smoke enmeshed the top of the north tower. Even as Jute watched, disbelieving, amazed, stone shards came flying through the swelling black clouds to arc over the waters before they struck, punching great tall towers of spray.

Dulat, atop the very highest spar, threw his arms in the air, howling in triumph: ‘Munitions! The damned Malazans are demolishing the tower!’

Jute felt an immense weight lift from his shoulders. By the Queen’s soothing embrace … there’s hope yet. He swung his gaze to the Genabackan; but have we the time? The vessel was completely surrounded, its sides aswarm with boarders — yet from the furious action on the deck, the soldiers fought still. The foreign vessel was equally engulfed and overrun, but oddly, disturbingly, quiet.

‘Send us a touch southerly there on the channel,’ he told Lurjen, who nodded profoundly, his eyes huge.

‘Yessir.’

‘They’re reloading their arbalests!’ Dulat called.

Jute ignored that to study the wreckers closing upon them in what he now understood to be a fleet of captured launches, traders’ coasters and unsuspecting travellers’ galleys. ‘Take the range,’ he called to Letita. She nodded, now fully armoured, her iron helm with its long camail of chain link hanging past her neck, bronze cheek-guards closed. She raised her bow.

The shot fell just short of the bow of the closest vessel.

‘Target that nearest one,’ Jute ordered.

‘Ready archers!’ Letita shouted. ‘Fire!’

All forty archers loosed. Most of the flight struck true over the open galley, raising chaos among the oarsmen. ‘Fire at will,’ Jute called. ‘Pound them!’

Buen appeared on the quarterdeck and handed Jute his blade, wrapped in its belt, which he tied on. The first mate then thumped into the wood of the deck next to Lurjen the wicked cross-hilted parrying daggers the man favoured for close-in fighting. The steersman grinned and winked his thanks.

Jute turned to Ieleen. ‘Sorry, lass,’ he said. ‘It’s time you went below.’

His wife shook her head. ‘I can’t hear so good down below.’

‘Ieleen …’

‘Never mind ’bout me.’

Jute sighed his exasperation. ‘Lass …’

She just smiled. ‘Every time we have this argument. And every time you lose. Now, forget about me and mind our speed.’

Jute spun to the bow and choked. They were so close to the channel opening he could make out the individual weed-draped links of the chain swinging and dripping ahead. ‘Ease off, y’damned blind fools!’ he bellowed. ‘Back oars!’

Movement above caught his eye: Dulat hunching, one arm covering his head and the other hugging the very tip of the mainmast where he sat atop the yardarm. Oh, for the love of D’rek … ‘Back oars!’

Multiple punches assaulted his ears and chest. Clouds of pulverized stone and black smoke blossomed above. A rain of stone shards came arcing for the Dawn. ‘Take cover!’ he yelled and bent over Ieleen, hugging her to his chest.

The striking rock sounded like cloth ripping as it punished the decking and splashed all about. It reminded Jute of the impact of shot from arbalests during his naval engagements. Men and women of the crew grunted their pain or slumped, unconscious or dead, from dull thumping impacts. The huge links of the sea-chain rattled and bumped as they swung. Jute grunted himself as small stones and gravel pelted his back and shoulders. He cast an eye to the barrier and the length appeared to slump lower in the water.

Beneath him, Ieleen squeezed his arm in empathy. He straightened to see that Letita had not allowed her archers to let up. The foremost boat that had been heading for them now wallowed, having lost all headway, and she’d turned her attention to the next — but some six more now came closing in upon them.

‘I think this is it, dearest,’ he murmured to Ieleen.

‘You’re always saying that.’ Then her head snapped up as something captured her attention. Her brows rose and she breathed an awed, ‘Oh my.’

He followed her blind gaze; it was fixed upon the tall foreign vessel. Something strange sounded then. Or failed to sound. It was like the tolling of a massive bronze bell as tall as a house, but silent. Something came rolling from that ship. It struck sharp expanding waves in the water. It swept over all the wreckers’ vessels. Wood of oar and hull snapped and splintered as the invisible wave engulfed them.

‘Here it comes!’ Jute shouted, but heard nothing of his own voice. Indeed, at that moment it was as if he was deaf to every sound.

The Dawn rocked as if punched, pitching from side to side. Yet the concussion merely passed over them while at the same time utterly crushing the nearest wreckers’ boats as if clenching them in a giant’s fist. Ieleen, wrapped in his arms, let out a gasped breath, and he heard, faintly, ‘Now there’s a sorceress!’

Atop the mainmast Dulat threw his arms into the air. ‘Yeaw!’ he howled, or Jute thought he did, for he barely heard the man. ‘We won! We won!’

Won? Jute snorted. The spell, or ward, or whatever it was, had only bought them time. Behind this first wave of attackers far more were oaring down upon them. Even their Genabackan defenders, he noted, were assembling oars to withdraw from the wreckage of broken timbers and canted half-sunk hulls surrounding them. And something told him they shouldn’t count on their foreign ally to rescue them a second time.

He turned his attention then to the Malazans. Squinting, he could make out figures still working frantically to wind their springals and arbalests. Amazingly, the crew had kept to their duties through the sorcerous blast and the fusillades of rock and the threat of impending boarding. But then, he reflected, they must have seen much worse — should all the stories be believed.

The arbalests swung into position at stern and bow even as he watched. At some unheard command they fired in unison. He caught a momentary glimpse of the fat munitions flying up like dark eggs to disappear into the billowing smoke obscuring the tower’s heights. Fresh eruptions punished his ears and punched his chest. Cussors, he judged. They must be throwing waves of cussors at the installation. Those boys are damned serious about getting out of this trap.

A new sound grated its jagged course along Jute’s skull and spine. Through the swelling clouds of dust and smoke he thought he glimpsed the very stone of the tower, itself chiselled from the rock of the cliff-side, split away in two there at the top. A teeth-shaking thunder announced the length of bronze links, each perhaps as great around as his own waist, slithering and thumping its way down the stone side of the tower to crash into the channel. The top of the tower followed. It burst into shards as it fell then punched the water, sending up great spouts of foam and spray that reached even to the Dawn, spattering its decks.

A great roar went up from the crew and Jute slapped Lurjen’s meaty shoulder. ‘Ahead easy, master Buen!’ he called.

‘Aye!’

‘I want pole-men at the bows!’

‘Aye.’

Buen called commands, setting the rowers’ pace. Jute bent down to plant a kiss on Ieleen’s head. ‘I’m for the bows, love.’

‘Wouldn’t do to get stuck and block the channel, yes?’

‘I do believe our Malazan friends would blow us to Hood’s own cellar if we managed that.’

She laughed and waved him off. ‘I do believe they would.’

At the bows, Jute picked up a pole and leaned over the side. He felt a twinge of guilt at striking for the channel first, after the Malazan did all the work. But of the two vessels, they were unquestionably in the better position to make for the opening. Even as he watched, the Malazans were turning to follow. Further back, the foreign vessel’s bow was sweeping their way in an ungainly broad arc; to the rear, the Genabackan soldiers had turned their vessel broadside to the incoming second wave of ships and boats and was exchanging racking arrow-fire with some ten of them even as their oarsmen worked to keep them mobile.

Jute had time to wonder, amazed, how they’d fitted so many men on that ship when the grey shapes of jagged rock blossomed in the water beneath him and he readied his pole.

‘Two rods!’ one of the pole-men announced.

‘Steady on!’ Jute shouted.

‘One rod!’ a pole-man on the starboard side called.

‘A touch to port!’ Jute yelled to Lurjen.

Oars scraped the sheer cliffs to either side. It was suddenly very dark and chill in the shadow of the narrow slit. The pole-men kept jabbing. ‘A half-rod!’ one shouted, alarmed.

Damn the Twins! Nothing for it. Jute turned to Buen. ‘Keep going. Don’t stop for anything!’

Rock from on high pattered down upon the deck. Wood groaned and creaked as the hull grated over stone. Jute hoped to Mael that it was just piled wreckage and not some great obstinate boulder. The terrifying scraping and creaking passed, then the debris field fell away to reveal deep black waters.

Jute straightened in relief. He considered asking for more speed but decided against it. There was no need to risk banging against the cliff sides. When they broached the entrance the crew cheered again but Jute was quiet — for now there was but one thing to order. He caught Buen’s eye and called, ‘A westerly course up the narrows, First Mate.’

‘Aye,’ the man answered. His sun-burnished long face dropped its unaccustomed smile.

‘Slow,’ Jute added, then he turned to watch the entrance as it dropped behind them.

The Malazan was the first to exit, as Jute expected. It was a very long time before the next vessel emerged; by then a curve in the narrows was taking them out of sight. The tall foreign ship it was and Jute shook his head in amazement. Ye gods! The Genabackans covered the retreat of that great lumbering beast?

Then they were too far up the main channel and Jute turned his attention to finding some beach or cove to put in. He returned to the quarterdeck. Along the way he stopped at the mainmast to shout up, ‘Find us a landing, Dulat. Or you’re not coming down!’

‘Oh, no worries there, cap’n. We’ll sink long before that!’

Or be wallowing so bad we’ll have no control. In either case, time was limited. At the stern he called to Ieleen: ‘How’s the wind, lass?’

She tilted her head, her brow wrinkling in thought, and was quiet for a time. He and Lurjen kept quiet as well, awaiting her judgement. ‘It’s freshening ahead,’ she finally allowed. ‘Though how far I cannot say.’

Jute turned away, frowning. One good thing about sailing west: it was damned clear how much daylight they had remaining. That would put an end to things. There was no way he could sail into unfamiliar waters after dark. Have to drop anchor next to the base of one of these cliffs and risk being driven up against it.

He glanced behind, searching the narrows. There was the Malazan. Its master had it tagging along in the far distance, just keeping line of sight. Jute was puzzled. They could easily catch them if they wished; Jute had the Dawn keeping a slow pace.

Then he realized: the Malazan was holding back for that foreign vessel. Probably doing its best to keep a line of sight on her. But why bother? They were in a channel; there was no chance anyone could get lost. But what if he, Jute, found a slim hidden cove or inlet and put in? What if the way opened into a maze of islands or sand bars? That captain was playing a careful game.

It occurred to him then that if he wished, he could lose them now. Order chase speed and dash ahead to find this freshening wind then free all Dawn’s sail. This was a race after all. A selfish lunge to grasp what riches one could find and damn the slow ones to failure or death. Wasn’t that the point of chasing after gold or coin or any other fortune to be snatched from others or seized at sword-point? He’d leave them all completely lost, or he was an Untan dancing girl.

Yet they’d saved his life. Or, more important, saved the Dawn and all who served on her. Including his love. And so he could not in good conscience abandon them. Besides, travelling with Malazans armed stem to stern with munitions, a powerful sorceress, and a pocket army — if they survived taking on the entire wrecker fleet — could have its advantages.

‘The cliffs are slipping away!’ Dulat called from his perch. Jute was startled; he’d quite forgotten about the lad.

Indeed, the cliffs appeared to be smoothing out, sloping down as they advanced through the narrows. Perhaps the end of this inescapable chute was near.

‘Strand on the south shore!’ Dulat called again, pointing.

Jute squinted; he couldn’t make it out. The light was gold and near straight on as the sun was falling to the horizon. ‘Take us in!’ he shouted up.

‘Three points to starboard,’ came the answer.

Jute turned to scan to the rear. No other vessel was in sight. The Malazans may have sunk; they’d looked uncommonly low in the water. He turned to find Buen on the mid-deck walk. ‘Light a smudge,’ he called.

The man gaped at him. ‘A smudge? Here? On an unknown shore?’

‘Do it!’ Jute snapped, suddenly annoyed at having his word challenged.

Buen seemed to remember himself and he ducked his head, touching his chest. ‘Aye, cap’n.’

‘Everyone’s on edge, luv,’ Ieleen murmured from his side.

‘I’ll give him the edge of my hand.’

‘It’s a steep gravel strand,’ Dulat shouted. ‘Wide, though.’

‘Have to do,’ he answered.

‘Steady on,’ the lad shouted to Lurjen.

Black smoke now wafted in a choking thick cloud from the pot Buen had set. Sailors moved the iron brazier to keep as much of the ship upwind as possible. The smoke plumed low and heavy over the waves, as if the Dawn were unravelling a scarf.

The shore now hove into view. In the deep gold of the setting sun Jute made out a steep rise of black stone gravel leading to the last remnants of the narrows’ cliffs: an inland rise of perhaps no more than a chain, topped by long wind-whipped grasses. And spread across the wave-washed gravel lay a litter of broken timbers, barrels, torn sailcloth and a tangled rigging, and the blackened skeletal hulls of two ships.

Jute tried to remember the stories he’d heard of the region and came up with a name. The south shore of the Dread Sea — the Anguish Coast. Wasn’t that the best of Oponn’s jests! They were like sailors on leave staggering blind drunk from one rats’ nest to the next. And he’d thought things couldn’t get any worse. ‘Any sign of survivors?’ he called up.

After a time the lad answered: ‘None as I can see.’

Jute wiped a hand across his brow and found it cold and sweaty.

‘Another ship!’ Dulat shouted then, making Jute flinch.

‘Whereaway?’ he snapped, alarmed.

‘Following. That Malazan galley p’rhaps.’

Jute let out a long breath. A hand brushed his and he snapped his head down: Ieleen reaching out. He took her hand and she gave a squeeze. Jute’s chest suddenly hurt with a great swelling pressure and he answered the squeeze. ‘Very good, Dulat,’ he said. ‘Take us in, slow and steady.’

‘Aye.’

The lad directed them to a relatively clear swath of strand and Buen drove them in at a strong speed. The bow ground and grated its way up the gravel and crewmen and women jumped over the sides, pushing and tugging on the hull. Buen then tossed out two stout hemp lines that most of the crew grasped to heave the Dawn as far up the slope as possible. The lines were staked into the gravel.

Jute climbed down over the side. Ieleen, he knew, would remain on board. She hadn’t set foot on land for some years now and he’d chided her on it, but she remained adamant and so he’d relented. It was a silly superstition to his mind, but it was important to her and he really couldn’t care either way.

The black gravel crunched under his boots. Letita stood awaiting him, still armoured, helmet under an arm. ‘I want a perimeter, a picket, and a watch. And send out some scouts. What’s past that short rise?’

She saluted. ‘Aye, captain.’

He next tracked down Buen. ‘Gather some of this wrack for fires. Both for cooking and for signals.’ The man nodded his assent but appeared unhappy with the idea of casting signals far and abroad. Jute then ran into a grinning Dulat who was inspecting the unpacked casks and kegs of their remaining foodstuffs. Jute made a show of studying him long and hard as if puzzled.

The lad’s smile faltered and he asked, uneasy, ‘Yes, captain?’

‘Why aren’t you at your post, sailor?’

‘My post? Ah, well — we’ve hauled up, haven’t we?’

‘What has that to do with anything?’

‘And it’s getting dark.’

‘You coming down makes it lighter, does it?’

The lad had to think about that, his head cocked. ‘No …’

‘Then get back up there and keep an eye out for those ships or any others!’

Dulat cast one last glance at the stores, sighed his longing, then saluted and jogged off for the ship. Jute clasped his hands behind his back and paced off to a vantage from which to scan this most southernly bay of the Dread Sea. The Malazan ship was a black dot making its way to their location; of the other two vessels he could see no sign. As he watched it occurred to him that the Malazan silhouette was canted rather alarmingly to the starboard. There’s seamanship, he told himself. Keeping afloat despite every reason to be underwater.

The dark silhouette limped nearer. Its oars, a single bank on each side, flashed in the weakening sunset. The fires piled on the beach sent out clouds of grey smoke that sometimes blew over Jute as the contrary winds gusted and shifted. He spotted one of Letita’s marines, Gramine, and waved the man over.

‘Any word from the scouts?’

‘No sir. Not yet.’

‘Send Letita over when there’s news.’

‘She’ll come, sir.’

Jute gave a light snort. Nerves. Damned nerves. ‘Yes,’ he allowed. He returned to examining the Malazan galley. ‘I suppose she will.’

The vessel drew nearer, silent but for the faint splash of oars. ‘I see the other ship!’ Dulat shouted then from his post atop the mainmast. ‘She has signal beacons burning at the bow!’

‘Very good, Dulat.’ He returned to watching the Malazan’s crippled approach. After a time, boots crunching through the gravel announced Letita. Jute turned and she saluted. ‘Grasslands inland,’ she reported. ‘Empty.’

‘These wrecks?’

‘Looted then burned here, on site.’

Jute eyed the charred skeletal ribs. He wondered aloud, ‘Burned on shore?’

‘Aye.’

‘Then someone’s here.’

Her gaze slid to the north where it rested, naturally narrowed and wary. ‘They’re gone now.’ Attractive eyes, he reflected as he had a number of times. Hazel with a touch of sea-green, if he had it right. The wind cast her ragged-cut black hair about.

‘You do not mix much with the crew,’ he observed.

Her gaze snapped to him. It remained narrowed, challenging now. ‘Nor do you.’

‘There is someone awaiting your return home to …’

‘Strike, sir. Yes.’

Strike still? He’d known she was a graduate of the famed military academy on that island, but was surprised to hear that she still considered it home. ‘Well … we’ll make it back. That’s the point of any journey, yes?’ and he gave a small laugh. She watched him in silence. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, that’s all for now.’

She saluted, ‘Very good, captain,’ spun on a heel and marched off.

So serious, he reflected. Well, she was early yet in her career. He returned to watching their companion’s progress. Closer now, the ship appeared even worse for wear. Battered and scarred. Its planking faded with age. He couldn’t make out the name scrawled below the bowsprit. It ground up on to the beach, but far lower than the Dawn. Some of his crew helped secure lines that they hammered into the gravel. Two figures clambered down its side. Jute went to meet them.

The foremost of the two was a squat wiry fellow, quite old. He was in much-worn leather armour, scoured where Malazan sigils of rank would once have ridden. His unkempt grey hair blew about in the winds and a grey-shot beard matched. His wrinkled features bore the faded slate hue of a native Napan. The second was equally wiry, spidery even, in common sailor’s jerkin and trousers, barefoot, with a mane of thin white hair and a pinched, worried face.

Jute extended an arm to the first fellow and they clasped wrists, sailor-style. ‘Jute Hernan, Master of the Silver Dawn. At your service sir. You have my eternal gratitude for getting us out of that trap.’

This fellow waved his other hand, dismissing the topic. ‘Ach — it was my own arse I was worried about. Cartheron, of the Rag-stopper. Our thanks for leading us through the rocks. We’d never have made it otherwise.’

Jute stared, quite taken aback. Cartheron? The Cartheron? One of the legendary captains of the Old Empire? Unlikely … yet how many Cartherons could there be? He released the man’s hand and nodded at the compliment. ‘Well, as you say. We were worried about our arses as well. How fare our companions?’

The Malazan captain glanced away, squinting to the east. Jute noted that squinting suited the man’s face, either through a lifetime’s habit, or perhaps naturally. ‘The galleon was limping along. Umryg is no sea-faring state.’

‘Umryg? I know nothing of such a land.’

‘As I said.’

Jute blinked, rather at a loss. ‘Well. Can you effect repairs here?’

The Napan’s squint soured into a scowl — the expression also no foreigner to his features. ‘Not my first choice, that’s for damned certain. Rather have her up and dry.’ Then he laughed. ‘But she’d probably fall to pieces so p’raps it’s for the best.’

His companion pressed forward, outraged. ‘We can’t manage any of the necessary repairs here in this forsaken land. Gods, the keel needs inspection!’

Cartheron turned on the man, his first mate, perhaps. ‘The keel needs no inspection,’ he snarled. ‘Its rotten through and through and that’s that!’

The first mate spluttered, searching for words. He pulled at his hair in his passion. He finally yelled back: ‘And so what do you suggest, O great Captain Cartheron?’

‘Stuff more rags into her.’

‘More — more rags? She’s more rags than wood!’

‘And yet she floats. There’s philosophy for you, Orothos.’ Hands grasping fists of hair, the first mate glared back, dumbfounded. ‘What?’

‘Beacon fires on the water!’ Dulat yelled from the gathering twilight.

Vastly relieved by the interruption, Jute stepped away from the two Malazans, who continued their furious argument until a threatened cuff from Cartheron sent the first mate ducking. ‘How far?’ he called.

‘Hard to say. Coming this way, though.’

‘Good.’ Jute studied the beacon fires on the shore for a time, then, satisfied with their strength, scanned the water for some sign of the approaching vessel. Cartheron came ambling over in a side-to-side wide-legged walk that only those who have spent most of their life a sea can manage. At first Jute was tongue-tied as he considered just who he might be standing next to all alone in the dark. What stories might he hear? What sudden, unlooked for intimacies or unburdenings of secrets? Was this the Cartheron Crust, one-time companion to the old ogre emperor and his killer and usurper, Laseen? Victor, with Nok, of the battle of Fenn Bay, where the combined Falaran navy was scattered in a rout? His grandfather had fought at that battle and told stories of the sorcery unleashed.

Finally, he was unable to contain his curiosity any longer, and, gaze still shaded on the waters, he cleared his throat. ‘So, sir. Are you the Cartheron?’

‘How many damned Cartherons do you know?’ the man growled.

‘Well … just you.’

‘Good. For a moment there you had me worried.’

Jute cleared his throat once more. ‘Well, I was wondering because-’

‘There she hails,’ the Malazan said, pointing.

Jute squinted. He could just make out the flickering glow of the fire, and his eyes were far younger than this man’s. ‘Who is she?’ he asked.

‘A sorceress. Damned powerful one. That’s all I know. We met while we were all anchored there waiting for someone to dare the rocks.’ Jute glanced to the man and saw him grinning. ‘You. As soon as I saw your light galley dart for the rocks just at the peak of high tide I knew you had a good chance. Trust a Falaran at sea, I always say. When there’s no Napan to be found, mind you.’

‘What of your pilot, then?’

The Napan lost his grin. ‘My pilot’s a souse. Nerves.’ Jute frowned at that. Nerves? ‘Here we are,’ Cartheron announced. He raised his chin to the surf.

The huge silhouette of the sorceress’s galleon detached itself from the surrounding gloom. A fire burned in a brazier atop the raised castle at its bow. Jute estimated that height at a good six fathoms above the waterline. A launch was being lowered over the side. He and Cartheron waited.

When the launch reached the surf Jute waved out his sailors to help draw it up. The eight oarsmen remained seated within while two figures climbed out. The first was an aged fellow, all in dark clothes, his hair long and brightly glowing in the murk. He held out a hand to his fellow passenger. As soon as the woman stood — for it was clearly a woman, though wrapped in loose windswept robes — it was also clear to Jute that she hardly needed the old man’s help. Unusually tall one might’ve described her — alarmingly tall, even. Strapping and sturdy would perhaps be kind. She was fully taller than he or any man of his crew and her presence was accented even more by her long flowing headscarf, a face veil that revealed only her eyes, and her equally disguising layered robes.

He and Cartheron bowed to the woman and he introduced himself.

The old man, his face sun-burnished and wrinkled and dominated by a long nose, carried a tall staff — thought not so tall as the woman. He stamped this to the gravel and announced: ‘Timmel Orosenn, the Primogenitrix of Umryg.’

The woman waved a hand as if to brush this pompous announcement aside. Jute noted the hand was large enough to encircle his head like a fruit. ‘Lady Orosenn will do,’ she said in a rich honey tenor. ‘Falaran,’ she added, addressing Jute. ‘We are in your debt. Your navigator is a sorceress indeed …’ and she gave a small laugh as if sharing some unspoken secret.

Jute laughed as well; he’d always thought so. ‘That she is, my lady. But it is we who owe the debt. Your actions in the harbour saved us all.’

‘I merely did what I could to buy us time.’

‘Speaking of the harbour, what of Tyvar?’ Cartheron asked. ‘They exited the channel,’ Lady Orosenn answered. ‘What has become of them since I cannot say.’

‘Tyvar?’ Jute asked.

‘The Genabackans,’ Cartheron explained. ‘He sent a launch among us while we anchored earlier. We’ll let him introduce himself — if he hasn’t sunk.’

‘Then we wait,’ Lady Orosenn said, agreeing.

The old man frowned at the news. He peered about glowering into the dark and muttering to himself. Finally, he raised his voice. ‘M’lady,’ he urged, ‘it is not safe for you to linger here on shore. Best you remain on board your vessel, yes?’

The Lady’s eyes, so very enticing behind the veil, shifted to the south. Jute followed her gaze but saw nothing. She nodded then, reluctantly. ‘Very well. If I must.’ She looked at Jute. ‘Give my thanks should Tyvar arrive.’

‘There is a danger?’ Jute asked.

‘Only to me. There are … old enemies that I must be wary of.’ The old man urged her back to the launch and her crew pushed off.

‘So we wait,’ Cartheron reaffirmed, and he wiped his mouth then eyed Jute. ‘Care for a drink? I have damn fine Untan distilled grain spirit on board. I could send for a bottle.’

Jute immediately felt his mouth water. ‘That would be wonderful. My thanks.’

Cartheron’s first mate had glared at the proposal and now he hissed aside to his captain: ‘You’re drinking the manifest!’

‘Manifestly. Now be a good man and have a bottle sent over.’

The first mate glared anew but threw his hands in the air and stalked off, grumbling and gesticulating. ‘… not a rat’s ass left … empty hold … utter loss … chicken farm …’

Some time after that a sailor in a tattered shirt and torn canvas trousers arrived carrying a bottle in one hand and two small glasses in the other. These he handed to Cartheron then walked away, all without a word or salute. Jute had the impression that standards had rather fallen on board the Ragstopper.

Cartheron inspected the glasses, blew in them, and wiped them on his very dirty shirt. He used his teeth to pull the cork free then splashed out a liberal measure of the spirit and handed Jute a glass. Jute’s enthusiasm had fallen off with the polishing, but he set aside his reluctance and raised the glass. ‘To a successful venture,’ he offered.

‘To ample wine and rich women,’ Cartheron answered. ‘Or is it the other way round?’

They drank. The liquor was indeed very fine, and very strong — including the undercurrent of sweaty shirt. Jute coughed into a fist. ‘This Tyvar — you believe he’ll make it?’

‘Oh yes. Very impressive fellow. Reminds me of the old days. But I’ll let him introduce himself. We should see him soon.’

They had another glass and Jute stood in the flickering firelight longing to question the man regarding those ‘old days’ he had so casually mentioned. But tact kept him quiet. If the man wanted to talk, he would. Besides, he understood that these veterans were often unwilling to discuss the past — it was usually painful. He was old enough himself to understand that.

‘Hear that?’ Cartheron asked after a long near-silence of crackling fires, the slow crash of the waves, hissing grasses, and the calls of night-hunting animals out on the plain beyond.

Jute started — he’d been fading. Exhaustion and alcohol. ‘I’m sorry? What?’

‘Listen.’

Jute struggled to focus. Then he finally heard it: the strike and ripple of oars out upon the water.

‘He’s here,’ Cartheron announced. ‘Good.’ He raised his drink to Jute and downed it, sucking his lips. ‘Our chances have just improved materially.’

A launch emerged into the firelight’s reach. Several of the oarsmen and women jumped overboard to drag it in through the surf. Jute noted that all wore belted layered gambesons or leathers that were the underpadding of heavy armour. All the crew fought, it seemed. Two men thudded down on to the gravel shore, both still in their armour. One was the bearded fellow who had called to Jute from the vessel earlier. The other was his virtual twin, similarly armoured, only older, his beard shot with grey.

The pair doffed their helmets and tucked them under their arms, then strode up the shore to Jute and Cartheron.

‘Captain Cartheron,’ the bearded fellow greeted him. ‘I am glad to see you still with us.’

Cartheron gestured to Jute. ‘May I introduce Captain Jute Hernan, of the Silver Dawn.’

The man bowed from the waist. ‘Captain. May I compliment you on your pilot? He is worth his weight in gold. I would follow him on any sea in any storm. But I am remiss.’ He indicated the man at his side. ‘Allow me to introduce my companion. This is Haagen Vantall, Steward of the Blue Shields.’

The man bowed, as did Jute, who strove to keep his amazement from his face. The Blue Shields! Of course. One of the fighting religious cults out of Elingarth. A brother order to the Grey Swords who had fought the Pannion threat years ago.

Haagen motioned back to his companion. ‘And this is Tyvar Gendarian, Commander of the Blue Shields. Mortal Sword of Togg.’

Tyvar shook his head. ‘Mortal Sword in title only. Togg has withdrawn, as so many of the gods have now, yes? We are all left with only our own prayers to comfort us these days.’

Jute took a steadying breath. He felt as if his head was swimming. ‘Well. My thanks for interceding in the harbour. You saved all of us.’

Tyvar waved it aside. ‘It was nothing. I would have remained and slain them all as a service to our fellow mariners, but time is pressing and we are yet at the very beginning of our journey, are we not?’ He looked to Jute expectantly.

Jute suddenly felt his mouth grow dry. He swallowed, or struggled to do so, nodding. ‘Yes. Yes, quite so. These southern reaches are said to be the easiest portion of the passage. They say it gets progressively more deadly the further one travels north. We have only just entered the southernmost bay of the Dread Sea.’

Tyvar shared a glance with his companion. ‘And does your pilot know these waters?’

Despite feeling strangely shamed to fail this man, Jute had to shake his head. ‘No. But I would dare the Stormriders with her and will sail on.’

Tyvar burst out a laugh and slapped his thigh with his bunched gauntlets. ‘Excellent. May we accompany you then and sail north under your guidance?’

Jute stared, utterly amazed. ‘I’m sorry?’ he finally stammered in disbelief.

‘Perhaps our good captain is concerned regarding the apportioning of shares …’ Haagen murmured to Tyvar.

The Mortal Sword’s brows rose and he nodded, ‘Ah! I see. Do not concern yourself, captain. We of the Blue Shields are not interested in what gold or plunder may be amassed-’

‘Hear, hear,’ Cartheron muttered into his glass.

‘We wish only to reach the north. Aid us in this and we offer our swords. What say you?’

Jute gaped, staring from one to the next before settling upon the wrinkled grey-hued features of Cartheron Crust. The old sailor cocked a brow and held out the bottle. Jute offered his glass, which Cartheron filled. ‘Then I say we travel north.’ And he raised the glass to toss its contents to the back of his throat, gasping and coughing.

The commander of the Blue Shields let out a great shout and slapped Cartheron on the back. ‘Excellent! Two days for repairs, yes? Then we sail.’

Two days was far less than Jute would have wanted, but the deadline reminded him that they were not alone in this rush to the north. Others were on their way, or already ahead; who knew how many. And so he nodded his agreement. ‘Very well. Two days.’ And he added, gesturing to Tyvar, ‘If I may ask, sir, why do you wish to journey to the north? If not for the gold or the plunder, then what?’

The tall man nodded again, sombre. ‘A very good question, captain. Before Togg withdrew, he set upon me one last task, one last mission. That when certain portents were fulfilled, we of the Blue Shields would venture to the north of this region and there fight to right an ancient wrong. And to prevent a great tragedy.’

Jute frowned, uncertain. ‘A great tragedy sir? What would that be?’

Tyvar waved as if the answer was obvious. ‘Why, the death of innocents, of course.’ He bowed his farewell, then turned to Cartheron. ‘My regards to our Lady,’ he offered. ‘Come, Haagen,’ and the two returned to their launch.

Jute and Cartheron watched them go. It was now the middle of the night, and darkness quickly swallowed the small boat. The bonfires snapped and popped on the beach, sending sparks high amid the stars of the night sky. Most of Jute’s crew lay asleep around them. He sighed and rubbed his aching, foggy brow.

Cartheron slapped the cork back into the bottle and regarded him, scratching meditatively at the bristles on his cheeks. ‘Take my advice, lad,’ he said. ‘Don’t get caught up in all this talk of missions and god-given purposes. I’ve seen it before and it only leads to misery and pain.’ He offered the bottle, which Jute took. Then he inclined his head good night and walked into the dark, crunching his way across the gravel strand to his launch.

Jute stood alone for a time. He studied the night sky as if he could somehow discern there a portent of what might lie ahead, but he was no Seer or mage. He turned to the ridge with its tall tossing grasses — who knew what enemies or dangers lay hidden within? Finally, he drew a deep breath and headed to a fire to find a place to lie down.

* * *

Silverfox walked the dunes of the coast. Her hair, long uncut and uncombed, whipped about her head. She hugged herself as she went; the wind was cold this day. Sea-birds hovered overhead, their wings backswept like strung bows. It was odd, she considered as she went, how she was alone yet felt as if she had to be on her own. Because of course she was never truly alone. Within her Bellurdan, the giant Thelomen, raged for action, while Nightchill, the ancient Sister of Cold Nights, and the true wellspring of her power, counselled patience. Closest to her in her humanity was Tattersail, the mage, once of the Malazan imperial cadre. She too urged patience.

And yet what of Silverfox? What of her? What did she wish? The sad fact was that she had no idea. Hers was the mere frail soul of a girl, full of doubts and fears. How could she set herself against such potent beings? How could she even be certain which thoughts were her own?

She raised her hands to study them, turned them over. Skin sun-darkened, stretched thin and dry, age-spotted, joints knotted and swollen — not the hands of the young girl she held in her mind’s eye. Her creation, birth, and maturation had consumed the life of her mother. As now it was consuming hers. Yet she was content; it was just. She only hoped there would be enough time. The Imass had waited untold thousands of years for her arrival, a living Bonecaster who could release them from their ritual, and now that life was slipping away. Should she fail, how much longer would they have to wait again?

If there ever could be a second chance for redemption.

The wind gusted, sands hissing about her, lashing her, and she turned her face away. The stiff brown grasses clinging to the dunes shushed and grated. She saw Pran Chole standing alone on the shore, facing out to sea, and her chest tightened in bands of dread. No — not again.

Though it was the last thing she wanted to face, she clambered down the sand slopes to the strand. He did not turn when she joined him. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

Pran was slow to answer. ‘I am not certain. I sense something … different.’

‘Different? How?’

Dry tendons creaked as he turned his ravaged face to hers. ‘Powerful.’

She suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Nightchill wavered close to her consciousness as if to reassure her with the message: do not fear, I am here.

I am no child to need such soothing, she cast against the presence in her thoughts.

Regardless, I am here should there be need.

‘It comes,’ Pran breathed, and he extended a skeletal arm, all bone and desiccated flesh, pointing.

Silverfox sought out her own powers as a Bonecaster, a shaman, in her own right.

A head broke through the waves, its owner obviously walking the rising shore, approaching. Patches of long hair clung here and there over the bare dome of a tannin-stained skull. Dark empty sockets beneath thick brow-ridges, full wide cheekbones over lipless jaws that still carried strips of muscle and tendon. Next came chest and shoulders of bone beneath a ragged hide shirt, coarsely sewn, with sleeves all torn and stained.

At her side Pran Chole made one faltering step forward, as if half moving to greet the newcomer. A dry breath, like a sigh, escaped his throat.

‘What is it?’ Silverfox asked.

The newcomer approached, bowed on one knee to her. ‘Greetings, Summoner,’ he murmured in the T’lan voice that was the mere brush of falling leaves. ‘It is an honour.’

Pran Chole took another hesitant step closer. ‘I am Pran Chole. We of the Kron salute you.’

‘I am Tolb Bell’al,’ the newcomer answered, ‘Bonecaster to the Ifayle T’lan Imass. And long have I been absent.’

And to Silverfox’s utter astonishment, the two Imass embraced. For a time they held one another at arm’s length, seeming to study each other. Ifayle, she marvelled, amazed. According to the Kron they’d been lost long ago. Some even claimed they were lost here, on Assail.

‘Long has it been since the steppes of the Has’erin, Pran,’ said Tolb.

‘Indeed. That was a parting of many tears.’

‘Yet we meet again.’

Silverfox stepped up. ‘Pardon, Tolb of the Ifayle, but I must know … have you been here before?’

The two relinquished their grips. The newcomer turned to face her. She felt the full power of his regard, and it was potent indeed. This one may be the last and only shaman of the Ifayle, she thought. He carries their fate upon his ravaged shoulders. ‘No, Summoner,’ he answered. ‘But the Ifayle are here and I have searched everywhere to know the answer to their fate. I found it nowhere, and despaired. Until your arrival. I see now that we merely had to wait for you to come to us.’

Merely! Silverfox felt her knees weaken at the ages of weight that one small word carried.

‘So … you know.’

‘Yes. I alone escaped and have spent all this time in search of an answer. And now here you are.’

‘I?’

‘Yes.’ He bowed once more. ‘Summoner, we must travel north. The answers are there. In the far north.’

Pran Chole also faced her. ‘Summoner? What say you?’

The moment Tolb spoke she’d felt the right of it. In truth, she’d known it since they arrived on this shore. Yet she had avoided it. Dreaded the final irrevocable hard choices. She rubbed her hands up her arms and held herself. ‘I must face Omtose Phellack unveiled. Something the world has not seen in tens of thousands of years.’

‘Not you,’ said Pran.

She blinked at him, a touch irritated. ‘Not I?’

‘No. Tolb and I and the remaining Bonecasters shall. As during the ancient unveilings when the Odhan was scoured clean by rivers of ice leagues thick. Or the war over the rich fields of the Gareth’eshal, which yet lay lost to us beneath the sea.’

‘Then what of me?’

‘Summoner,’ Tolb spoke gently, ‘you must bring the Kerluhm to heel. You must stand before them and deny them their war.’

‘Your war,’ she corrected. ‘You also swore the ritual.’

The Ifayle Bonecaster nodded deeply then, his neck creaking, and it seemed to Silverfox that a great exhalation of repentance shuddered from the ancient. ‘A question of interpretation. They choose to fight it. We choose to end it.’

This near confession touched her deeply and she felt an urge to console the man though he was a walking corpse to her vision. Yet, she wondered, what differences truly lie between us? Only the accidental timing of birth. I could easily have been hearthmate to him, or he born of the Rhivi. She swept an arm to Pran. ‘Gather everyone.’

‘Summoner,’ Pran said, a warning in his voice. ‘It will be a long journey.’

‘How so?’

‘We cannot move through Tellann — Omtose inhibits this. We must travel across the land. So did the Jaghut deny us tracts of land and slow our progress in the elder ages.’

Silverfox stared, speechless. Walk … on foot all the way north across this enormous continent? It would take months! Still, was she not of the Rhivi? Why let yet another migration deter her? She smoothed her layered hides down her hips. ‘Then let us go at once.’ And she headed for her tent to pack.

Behind her, Tolb Bell’al and Pran Chole shared a glance that could almost be said to contain humour. ‘You chose well, Pran,’ Tolb murmured, his breathless voice nearly lost in the wind.

‘It was she who chose to come to us,’ he answered.

* * *

When the lookouts of the Lady’s Luck sighted land in the east, Kyle counselled that they turn south to travel round the horn of the continent. Tulan Orbed, however, ordered Reuth to find their position first to see how far north the winds had taken them. That night Reuth studied the stars, their setting and rising, and determined that they had indeed been driven quite far to the north. Kyle’s advice against travelling round the northern coast was rejected.

Two nights later Reuth came to where Kyle slept wrapped in blankets in the bows. The lad reached out to wake him but his approach had already roused him; he now slept as wary as when on campaign.

‘Kyle …’ Reuth urged over the shush of the bow wave.

‘Yes?’

Tears gleamed on the lad’s face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered, choking, his voice thick.

Kyle understood immediately, and reached up to squeeze the lad’s shoulder. From the stern came a knot of men — the majority of the crew all told — headed by the ex-Stormguard and Storval. Kyle pushed Reuth away. ‘Hide yourself now, lad.’

After one last anguished look — which Kyle answered reassuringly — the youth slid down amid the rowers’ berths and disappeared. Kyle stood. The crew confronted him, spread out, the ex-Stormguard at the fore.

‘The lad warned you, did he?’ Storval growled.

Kyle ignored the glowering mate. He spoke to Tulan: ‘You should be proud that your nephew finds murder distasteful.’

The master of the Lady’s Luck at least had the grace to appear embarrassed. He pulled on his thick black beard, his gaze downcast. ‘My apologies, outlander. But we must know …’

‘Show us the blade,’ Storval demanded.

Kyle glanced to the east where the coast lay as a dark line that brought the horizon close. With his foot, he drew the pack he used to rest his head on towards him. ‘You want to see the sword, do you?’ And he reached behind his back.

Storval yanked his shortsword from his belt. The ex-Stormguard levelled their spears. The front line of the crew reached for their knives. The rest raised cocked crossbows.

Kyle slowly drew the weapon and shook off the leather wrap. A glow immediately suffused the bows, cast by the curved, translucent, cream-hued blade.

‘Whiteblade,’ one of the crew breathed, awed.

Storval’s gaze remained fixed on the sword. He took a steadying breath. ‘Hand it over.’

‘Before I was in Korel lands,’ Kyle said conversationally, hefting the blade, ‘I was with a mercenary company. The Crimson Guard. And with them I acquired a rare and mysterious skill. I will demonstrate it now.’

Storval frowned at him, puzzled. ‘What?’

Kyle kicked the pack up to his free hand and turned to the side. Then he planted one foot on the gunwale and leapt over. Roars of outrage followed him until his head plunged beneath the frigid water.

He emerged into darkness. The sword in his grip was a murky glow in the water as he struggled to open the pack. The ship was a diminishing dark blotch in the night. A great cheering whoop reached him from it — Reuth’s shout of triumph — followed by Tulan’s barked: ‘Shut up, lad! Come about!’

They might bring the Lady’s Luck about, but Kyle was confident they’d never spot him here in the dark of night amid the waves. Holding the sword beneath the pack, he drew out the water-bladders he’d half inflated, and began blowing into one. It would be a long swim to shore and he’d have to keep topping up the bladders, but he should make it — provided he didn’t freeze to death first.

*

Dawn saw a man drag himself by his elbows up through the surf, his hands mere pale blue clubs. He lay on the beach of coarse gravel, half in the waves, exhausted and immobile, warming himself in the gathering light.

Later in the morning, Kyle pushed himself up and blew on his hands. He pulled at his wet clothes then faced inland. Eroded cliffs topped by scrub and brush hid what lay beyond, but he knew what awaited him: a broad flat steppe-land of grasses and copses of trees, arid, a near desert in regions, that swept all the way east to the foothills of the near-mythical Salt range.

He drew the sword from his shirt, wrapped it in the empty sack, and tucked it through his belt. Then he pushed back his sodden hair, tied it with a leather strip, and set off.