Assail

CHAPTER VI

Reuth kept a wary eye out when Tulan ordered the Lady’s Luck in to land a party to search for water and provisions. This northern coast had proved singularly unpromising; long stretches of black gravel beaches, hillsides of low brush and bare smooth stone highlands. But provisions and water were low, and so Tulan dropped anchor in a bay and lowered a launch carrying a landing party under Storval.

That was four days ago. Four days since the party was last seen walking inland to be lost behind the lazy curve of a coastal rise. Short trees — large bushes, really — provided the main greenery of this coast. That and lichens and moss. Far inland, on the clearest of days, a distant range of gleaming mountain tops could just be seen. From his research Reuth alone knew their names: the Salt range, east and west. Or, on some charts: the Blood Mountains. Their destination.

Why then did he dread the sight of them?

On the morning of the fifth day — the last day Tulan said he would wait for them — the crewman atop the mast called out a sighting. Reuth ran to the side. Two figures came shambling into sight. Limping, running, helping each other along. They heaved the launch out and struggled over its side as it rose and fell in the surge.

‘Only two,’ Reuth breathed and Tulan shot him an angry glare. Reuth realized, belatedly, that everyone had seen this but that only he had been foolish enough to say it aloud. It was as Tulan said: too long in the dusty halls bent over manuscripts and not enough time spent among sailors. Well, after this voyage, he would have spent more than enough time at sea.

That is, should they ever get home.

The two managed to ready the oars and steady the nose of the launch to point it out to the bay. Reuth glanced away to scan the beaches of rolled gravel for signs of pursuit, but saw none. Where were the attackers? Surely these two couldn’t have outrun them. Yet no followers betrayed themselves amid the ash-hued naked rock.

Then movement on the nearest hilltop caught his attention. Figures came walking out into the open to stand atop the domed rock. Tall and slim, wearing tanned hide jerkins and trousers. They carried long spears, or javelins. Long brownish hair blew unbound in the winds.

Crewmen spotted them and shouted, pointing.

Tulan just grunted and muttered something about ‘damned natives’.

The launch reached them. Lines were thrown, attached to it. The two climbed up a rope ladder. It was Storval and Galip. Both carried flesh wounds, cuts and slashes.

‘The others?’ Tulan demanded.

Storval just shook his head, still winded, breathing heavily. He dropped two fat skins of water to the deck.

‘This wouldn’t have happened if you’d had Kyle with you,’ Reuth told Storval.

The first mate turned on him, his face flushed, enraged, his hand going to the dirk at his side. Tulan slapped the man’s hand aside, grasped Reuth’s arm and dragged him off. ‘You’re supposed to be a smart lad,’ he hissed. ‘So think before you open your damned hole.’

Reuth peered past his uncle to the first mate. ‘Well … it’s true.’ And he walked away.

He leaned on his elbows over the side while Tulan bellowed to get the crew moving for departure. Sailors readied the running rigging. Arms crossed on the railing, he eyed the figures on the shore, who still had not moved. Seeing us off. The Barren Shore, he knew, was one name for this stretch of the northern coast. Fitting. Another name was the Plain of Ghosts.

He decided he did not want to discover whether or not that appellation was accurate.

Some charts he’d studied had included an inlet in the northern coast that led to rivers and a settlement. A fortress named Taken. But on this coast, on these lands of Assail, Reuth decided not to lead the ship to a fortress with the name of Taken. No, not in these lands. He hoped instead that they would find water before then; some unnamed stream or trickle — anything.

Again, while he daydreamed, his thoughts went to Kyle, as they often did. He must have made it to shore — he’d seemed completely confident that he could. And ashore, he must have headed north. If anyone could make it, he could. Perhaps of all of them he would be the only one to succeed.

Wouldn’t that be an irony? And the probable truth, too, given how the gods seemed to relish irony, reversals, and fitting unanticipated rewards for deeds both good and evil. And on that account, Reuth believed they had earned what they had so far received — the very real possibility of an ugly anonymous death on some desolate shore like this.

It had been wrong of them to turn on Whiteblade like that. His uncle should have thought further ahead. Given the dangers, they would have been so much more secure with him among their crew. Reuth did not think much of their chances now. And that was fitting. For he too had known it was wrong, yet he’d shrunk from drawing a blade and standing with his friend.

He was a coward, and he deserved whatever shameful death the gods had set astride the path of his life.

He heard Tulan come stomping up behind him. ‘Are there no rivers marked on this shore?’ he demanded.

Reuth turned round and peered calmly up at his uncle. ‘We’re bound to come across a stream eventually,’ he assured him.

Tulan cocked an eye beneath his tangled bushy brows, as if troubled by the answer in some vague manner that he could not pin down. Then he snorted and lumbered off, muttering darkly beneath his breath.

Reuth returned to contemplating the iron-grey waters. Yes, eventually they would find water. Or they would not. It did not matter. Eventually, just as certainly, they would meet their end.

And there was nothing any of them could do about it.

* * *

Shortly after the Silver Dawn set sail, leading the convoy of four ships into the Sea of Dread, Ieleen became ill. She refused to go below and would not budge from her seat behind the tiller. She sat all day leaning forward, knuckles white on her walking stick, her head bowed, pressing against her hands.

The times Jute had come to urge her to go below and lie down she’d snarled tersely and he’d backed away. They’d been under sail for six days now, although for the majority of the last day the description ‘under sail’ had no longer been accurate. The canvas hung limp. Only the barest of chill breaths brushed Jute’s neck. He ordered the crew to the rowing benches and they carried on.

But he was worried. He’d never seen Ieleen like this. It was as though she was being crushed beneath a terrible weight. Towards evening he went to her once more. He bent over her, but dared not touch her — she didn’t like to be touched when she was casting ahead. ‘Lass …’ he whispered. ‘Where away?’ She seemed to flinch. Her body beneath its layers of shawls shuddered as if in the grip of an ague. ‘What is it, lass?’

‘I can’t …’ she whispered. Her voice was thick with sorrow. Leaning closer, he saw that the planking of the deck beneath her head was wet. A teardrop fell even as he watched.

‘Rest, dearest,’ he urged. ‘Gather your strength.’

‘I haven’t the strength,’ she answered all in a gasp. ‘I can’t see us through!’

‘It’s all right, lass. Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll feel better.’

‘No!’ She drew a great shuddering breath. ‘Makes no difference. It’s too late. I can’t see ahead. And … I’m afraid … I can’t …’ She choked then on her words, collected herself, and continued, huskily, ‘I can’t see behind.’

Jute straightened. He studied the southern horizon out past the following three vessels. Then he glanced to the north. The flat horizons appeared identical. A thickening sea mist obscured both. The waters were uniformly calm. Not even the winds gave any hint of which direction was which. If they were to be turned round in the night, how was anyone to know? Other than studying the night sky, of course. But should this fog close in about them …

He knelt to her once more. ‘What am I to do, love?’

‘Just keep going,’ she answered curtly. ‘Try to chart us a course tonight.’

‘Aye. Tonight. You just hold on then, dearest. Hold on till then.’

He paced to the bows. He might have reassured Ieleen but he held little hope. How could they escape if they had no heading? They’d oar in circles until they ran out of water and provisions and that would be the end of them.

Later that afternoon a launch came aside the Dawn and Cartheron himself climbed aboard. The old man peered about the deck and nodded to himself, evidently approving of what he saw. Jute greeted him. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’

‘A word, captain, if I may,’ and he lifted his chin to indicate the cabin.

Jute swept an arm to invite him onward. ‘This way.’

Inside, the Malazan captain glanced about the cabin as if searching for something. ‘You wouldn’t still have that bottle I handed over, or such like, would you?’

‘In fact I do.’ Jute produced the bottle and two tiny glasses.

Cartheron frowned at the small glass but shrugged and held it out.

‘And what can I do for you, captain?’

Cartheron tossed back the liquor and held out the glass again. ‘I was just hoping that you knew where you were headed. Because we sure as Mael’s own bowels don’t.’

Jute studied the clear fluid in his glass. ‘I won’t dissemble. My … pilot … has been having trouble in that regard. But tonight we hope to get a heading from the stars.’

Cartheron threw back his drink, sucked his teeth. ‘Hunh. The stars.’ He squinted at Jute. ‘Have you been studying them these last few nights? No? Well, I tell you — they’ve not been of much help. But …’ he drew a steadying breath and set down the glass, ‘I leave it to you.’ He slapped Jute on the shoulder and opened the cabin door. ‘Because, other than you, we’ve no damn hope of ever finding our way out of here.’

Jute laughed, a touch uneasily. He walked Cartheron back to the side and saw him off.

Tonight then. They had to make some progress through the night. Some measurable progress.

He waved Buen over. ‘Have the crew take a rest. We’ll resume at the evening watch.’

The first mate frowned, not liking loss of motion, but nodded and went to give the orders. Jute turned to Ieleen, meaning to give her the news, but one glance at her rigid back, her hands bloodless upon the walking stick as if it were a lifeline, and he decided not to disturb her.

If they made any headway this night, then she could rest. He’d see to it.

He ordered a general rest. The crew took turns napping. He would’ve himself, but Ieleen wasn’t getting any sleep so he couldn’t bear to lie down. He knew it would be useless.

Behind, the following three vessels slowed as well. Jute ordered the smallest launch lowered, a tiny skiff used for repairs, to be taken across to the others to let them know to be ready this night. Then he sat to await the dusk.

When twilight thickened, Buen came to him. ‘Permission to resume rowing?’

‘No. Wait for a bearing. No sense running off chasing our own shadow.’

The first mate appeared dubious, his brows rising. ‘As you say, captain. But I really think …’

Jute gave him a sharp look. ‘You think what?’

The man ducked his head. ‘Nothing, captain.’ He marched off.

Jute watched him go. That had been a strange outburst. Be-calmings can be hard on the nerves — was the man feeling it already? Damned soon for that.

He stared out across the rippling waters. Calm. Too calm for a body like this. The winds should kick up larger waves over all these leagues of water. Strange. He was not a man given to brooding, but something about this sea troubled him. He drew a hand down his face, rubbed his gritty eyes: perhaps he was just reacting to Ieleen’s troubles.

Gradually, the stars emerged. Jute’s mood darkened with the night as he realized that he couldn’t recognize any of the constellations. It was as if he was staring up at someone else’s night sky. Yet how could that be? Must be a trick of the night and the mists here on the sea. Even so, none of that would matter if he could just identify a pole star: a star that did not move.

Yet which was it? Amid all this panoply of glimmering infinity … which?

He hunched, defeated. The only explanation that he could think of was sorcery. They’d been ensorcelled. In which case, as well as Ieleen, they now had a further authority to turn to.

He called to Buen. ‘Ready the launch!’

Four oarsmen took him across to the side of Lady Orosenn’s intimidatingly tall galleon. No watch or officer hailed him from the darkened vessel. As they’d approached he’d seen a single brazier burning towards the bow. Now, from so low next to the side, it was only visible as a faint glow above.

‘Ahoy! Lady Orosenn! It is Captain Jute, come to talk. May I come aboard?’

They waited in silence for a long time. Jute was finally driven to bash an oar against the thick planks of the side. A bump appeared above: a head peering down.

‘Who is that?’ Jute recognized the voice of the old man who’d accompanied the sorceress. He’d quite forgotten his name, if it had been given at all.

‘It’s Captain Jute, come to speak to Lady Orosenn.’

‘A moment,’ the man called. Shortly afterwards a rope and wood ladder came clattering down. Jute stared up. ‘Wait here,’ he told his oarsmen, who all nodded, quite happy to remain.

He found the deck empty but for the old man. Jute peered about, a touch confused; normally such a huge vessel would require an equally large crew. Yet the vessel was unnaturally quiet but for the normal creaking and stretching of cordage and planks. Indeed, the old man appeared quite put out by his presence. It occurred to him that very possibly the only reason he now stood upon the deck was the fact that he had been raising a ruckus below.

‘What do you want?’ the scrawny old fellow growled, his voice low.

‘To speak to Lady Orosenn,’ he replied loudly.

The old man winced. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he hissed.

‘Why?’

‘You may disturb the Primogenitrix!’ the man shouted, angered, then ducked, glaring his rage.

‘I see. Well, won’t you go and see if she may be disturbed?’

The old fellow chewed on that for a time, his expression sour. Then he gave a curt jerk of his head and scuttled off. Jute waited. Alone now, in the quiet, he cast about for some hint of the crew’s presence, but all he noticed was the smell. The ship fairly reeked of foreign spices, and unpalatably so, too. He held a hand to his nose. Beneath the cloying scents he believed he also detected a faint whiff of rot. Perhaps even of decomposition.

The old man returned. He waved Jute off. ‘She won’t see you. Now go away.’

‘Go away?’ He peered past the scarecrow fellow to the stern cabin. ‘She seemed very approachable before …’

‘Well, she’s busy now.’

‘Doing what?’

The fellow frowned even more darkly, knotting his brows. ‘Sorcerous things. Now go — you are in great danger.’

‘Danger of what?’

The fellow drew breath to shout or argue, but caught himself and clamped his mouth shut. He leaned close, conspiratorially, and lowered his voice: ‘Perhaps you would care for a tour of this curious vessel, yes? I think you would find the lower decks of particular interest …’

‘Velmar,’ the rich contralto of Lady Orosenn called, ‘who is that you are speaking to?’

The old man jerked upright, still glaring his rage. ‘Captain Jute, m’lady.’

‘Is that so?’ The woman emerged from the murk. She loomed just as impressively tall as before, still wrapped in her loose robes, her head hidden in a headscarf, her veil in place.

Jute bowed. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, madam.’

‘Not at all. You are concerned, no doubt, about the choking wardings that have settled upon us.’

Wardings? Jute wondered. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘We seem to have lost our way.’

‘Such is one of their purposes.’

‘My, ah, pilot is attempting to find the way. But I fear the task is beyond her.’

The woman tilted her head, regarded him with her large, almost luminescent, golden-hazel eyes. ‘And you are concerned for her.’

‘Indeed.’

The woman nodded her great head, and Jute thought he heard a sigh. She turned away to the ship’s side, resting a hand atop the railing. ‘Your feelings do you credit, Jute of Delanss. I must admit I have been selfish. I had hoped to remain anonymous. To not have to … exert myself … as yet. But I see now that in doing so I have allowed a terrible burden to fall to another. A burden that should rightfully be mine.’

Velmar raised a hand. ‘My lady! This is none of your affair.’

She regarded her attendant then offered Jute what he thought a dry chuckle. ‘We work at cross purposes, my priestly guardian and I. You must forgive him. His only concern is my safety. Whereas the safety of others concerns me.’

She turned back to the railing, gazing off towards the Silver Dawn. ‘I sense your pilot’s struggle, Jute. She is drowning. The Sea of Dread will swallow her … as it would you all. Unless I finally choose to announce myself.’ She raised a hand, gesturing. ‘So be it. It is done.’

‘My lady!’ Velmar hissed, uneasy. ‘We are not yet far enough north.’

She looked back at him. ‘We are now, Velmar. ‘The Dread Sea is far enough. Do you not feel it?’ She spread her arms, expanding her robes like sails. ‘Never have I sensed it so strongly.’ She shifted her attention to Jute. ‘I am a child of exile, Falaran. Yet I am returning home.’ She extended a long-fingered hand, inviting Jute to the side. ‘Return to your ship. You will find your pilot at ease. I shall take the lead in the Supplicant. You must secure your vessels to mine. On no account must you become separated. Spread the word, Jute of Delanss.’

Jute could not help it: he bowed to the sorceress. ‘I will. My thanks — our thanks.’ He climbed down the ladder, stepped into the rocking skiff. ‘Head across to the Ragstopper,’ he told the men at the oars.

After the Ragstopper, they crossed to Tyvar in the Resolute. Chase launches were lowered, lines were unwound, and the coming dawn saw them arranged in line: the Supplicant leading, followed by the Silver Dawn, the Ragstopper, and the Resolute.

When Jute, exhausted, finally climbed aboard the Dawn he found the stool next to the tiller arm empty and he peered about frantically. The steersman, Lurjen, pointed him to his cabin. He lurched within. Ieleen lay in bed. He sat gently and laid a hand to her cheek.

She was asleep, breathing gently. He let out a long breath of ease and rose from the bed. Good. Let her rest. She is in need of a long rest. He exited the cabin and eased the door shut. He needed a rest as well; everything was blurry. He looked to Lurjen, pressed his fingers to his sore eyes. ‘I’m going to find a hammock.’ He went below.

*

Three days later they encountered the first drifting vessel. It was a broad-beamed merchant caravel, dead in the water. Its sails hung limp. Jute hailed it from the Dawn’s side, but no one answered. A launch was sent across from the Resolute. It carried some ten Blue Shield mercenaries; more than enough to meet any danger. Word came back that they’d found the ship empty of all life, as if the crew had just up and abandoned it mid-voyage. Meals lay half eaten, ropes half coiled. All without signs of any violence. No corpses, no evidence of any struggle.

It made even Jute uneasy and he was the least superstitious person he knew. The crew began muttering of curses and becalmings, haunts and murder. Everyone was on edge. Buen reported to him the bizarre rumour that accused the sorceress, Lady Orosenn, of dragging them all to their doom.

He’d laughed out loud when Buen repeated it to him, yet the strange thing was that the man had actually appeared hurt, as if he’d half believed it himself.

Ieleen had been bedridden since Lady Orosenn’s intervention, and when he’d told her of the rumours she hadn’t laughed. She’d looked very worried, and murmured, ‘We have to get through here as quickly as we can.’

Every day they sighted more of the drifting, abandoned vessels. Seventeen so far. They stopped bothering to send out launches to investigate. That was until they came abreast of a two-masted galley that Jute recognized as a Genabackan vessel, a craft the pirates of the south preferred. And there, standing amidships, was a man.

Jute hailed him, waving. The man did not wave back. He stood immobile, as if staring in disbelief. Jute looked at his own crew and was unnerved to see that they, too, we’re not waving or hailing. Why in the name of Mael not?

‘Buen,’ he called, ‘lower a launch.’

The first mate stared back up at him, rubbed a hand over his jaws. ‘Why, sir?’

‘Why? How can you ask that? There’s a man on board that vessel, that’s why.’

Buen peered about among his fellow crewmen. ‘We saw no one, captain.’

‘No one? You saw no one?’ He snapped his gaze back to the vessel. The figure was gone. Had he been there at all? Had it been … a ghost?

Jute slammed a hand to the railing. No! No damned ghosts! A man. Nothing more.

‘Ship’s boat coming alongside!’ the watch announced. Jute hurried down to the side. It was the dilapidated launch from the Ragstopper. Half the oarsmen rowed while the other half bailed furiously. Cartheron sat within, his legs stretched out, his leather shoes wet in the swilling water. He hailed Jute: ‘Going to take a look. Interested?’

‘Yes I am!’ He turned to Dulat. ‘Lower the ladder.’

The rope ladder was thrown over the side and he climbed down to the launch. It took a while to settle down into the battered rowboat, as it was so low in the water he was afraid his added weight would swamp the thing. But it took him, although the freeboard was a bare hand’s breadth. The Malazan sailors, in their tattered shirts and trousers, scarves tied over their heads, looked more piratical than any pirate crew Jute had ever seen. They pushed off and started rowing.

‘Thought I saw someone,’ Cartheron said from the bow.

‘As did I. The crew claimed they didn’t, though.’

Cartheron sagely nodded his grey-bristled chin. ‘Beginning to think you see or don’t see what you want on this sea.’

Jute shook his head. All part of the curse. Tricks of the mind. Delusions became real while reality itself drifted away.

They came up beside the dead vessel, which they saw was called the Sea Strike. No one answered their hail; Jute hadn’t expected them to. Cartheron ordered one of his sailors to climb the side and the man impressed Jute mightily by clambering up the planking as agile and sure as a monkey. Shortly afterwards a rope ladder came clattering down.

The deck was empty and abandoned, just like all the others. This one was far worse for wear, however; bird-droppings covered the deck, and the lines and sails were faded and frayed. Still, like the others, there were no obvious signs of violence.

‘Hello!’ Cartheron called. No one answered. The Malazan captain went to the cabin door. ‘Let’s have a look.’

Jute had turned away, meaning to investigate the bows, when a shriek spun him round. A shrill voice, hardly recognizable as human, had screeched: ‘At last!’

Cartheron stood impaled on a sword that a man, lunging from the cabin, had thrust straight out.

The Malazan had his hands pressed to his stomach around the blade. While everyone stared, stunned, the sword’s owner shrank from them, hands raised, his face white and his eyes rolling in mad terror.

‘Ghosts!’ the man yelled, and charged the side, toppling straight over.

‘No!’ Jute yelled. He lunged, but there was no sign of the fellow. It was as if he’d simply allowed himself to sink.

A wet cough brought his attention back to Cartheron. The Malazan had yanked the blade free and fallen to his knees. Jute and the sailors blinked away their stunned confusion and went to him. Jute gathered up folds of the captain’s shirt and pressed it to the wound. ‘Make a seat,’ he shouted to the gathered crewmen. ‘We have to lower him.’

Cartheron actually laughed, albeit without breath. ‘Ain’t this just the funniest comeuppance, hey? You drop your guard for a moment and … there you go. Damnedest thing.’

Jute wrapped the wound as tightly as he could. ‘Quiet, now. We’ll take you to the sorceress. Maybe she can heal you.’

‘Don’t you bother, lad. Bound to happen sooner or later. Long past time, in my case.’

‘Don’t even think of it.’

They tied him into a makeshift rope seat and lowered him into the launch. From the Sea Strike they oared straight across to the Supplicant.

This time the sorceress herself appeared at the side. Jute shouted up that Cartheron was wounded. She gestured for a rope to be thrown up, and after a moment the seat, with the unconscious man secured within, began rising steadily up the tall ship’s side. A rope ladder came banging down. Jute climbed alongside the rope seat, attempting to steady it. On deck, he and Velmar struggled to raise Cartheron over the side until the lady herself took a hand and easily lifted him across.

‘I will take him to my cabin,’ she told Jute, and carried him within.

‘You should all just turn round,’ Velmar grumbled, and he glared as if all their troubles were Jute’s fault. Jute ignored him.

They stood silently for some time. The launch from the Rag-stopper bumped the side below. The lines creaked and stretched. Velmar glowered sullenly, as if the very heat of his disapproval could drive Jute from the deck.

The captain sat on the edge of a raised hatch leading to the cargo hold. Curious, he glanced down through the wood grating. It may have been a trick of the shifting light, but he thought he glimpsed figures below, standing crowded together, motionless. He turned to the priest to ask him about them but the wolfish mocking grin that now climbed the man’s lips somehow stilled his tongue.

‘You’re sure you wouldn’t care to have a look below?’ the man asked, and the downturned smile widened.

Jute had no idea what the priest was hinting at, but didn’t think it sounded healthy. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Aren’t you curious?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Later perhaps,’ Velmar said, thoughtfully tapping a finger to his lips.

‘Certainly — later.’

The priest was nodding now. ‘Yes, I think so. Definitely later.’

Jute merely bunched his brow. Such games were of no interest to him.

Movement among the shadows of the stern brought him to his feet. The sorceress emerged. She still wore her headdress and veil. Jute peered up at her; all he could see were her eyes, and these appeared worried and saddened.

‘I have done what I can. He will not die. But neither is he certain to recover. Many organs were damaged. And he is old, and very tired.’ She glanced back to the stern. ‘Then again … he is an extraordinary fellow. He may just recover.’

Jute bowed to her. ‘Our thanks, Lady Orosenn.’

‘It is nothing. I am glad to be of help.’

Jute crossed to the side. ‘I’ll tell the crew. He is to remain here, then?’

‘Yes. He mustn’t be moved.’

‘Very well.’ He took hold of the rope ladder, swung his legs out over the side and climbed down.

Velmar’s shaggy head appeared above him at the side. ‘Later, Captain Jute,’ the man called down in his enigmatic tone. Jute just shook his head, while below the rowers from the Ragstopper steadied the launch.

In the days that followed they met fewer and fewer abandoned becalmed ships until the outlook was again clear of all other vessels. The sea was improbably calm, as was the wind. No breeze ruffled the air; no ripple disturbed the iron-grey surface. To Jute it was as if they sailed a sheet of misty glass.

Yet they were not entirely alone. Now and then crew members shouted their surprise and dismay, pointing down at the astonishingly clear water. Rotting vessels lay beneath them, in various stages of decomposition. And all, it seemed to Jute, from differing epochs or periods of history. Older-style galleys lay stacked upon even more archaic open-hulled longboats, which in turn appeared to rest upon even cruder hulls, some perhaps nothing more than dugouts. It was as if the Sea of Dread were one great graveyard of vessels, all heaped upon one another, each slowly settling into, and adding to, the mud and mire of the sea floor.

So too would they have ended, he imagined, were it not for the guidance, and shielding, of the sorceress with them.

For the next few days a dense mist enshrouded them. It clung to the masts in scarves and tatters. Jute found it almost hard to breathe the stuff. The noises of their passage returned to them distorted, even unrecognizable. It was almost as if the sounds were from other vessels hidden in the miasma, calling to them.

Then, slowly, the light ahead began to brighten ever so slightly. Took on a pale sapphire glint. The vapours thinned and they emerged as if through parting veils to find themselves once more behind the Supplicant, only now approaching a forested rocky coast bearing the last patches of winter’s snow. Great jagged spires of ice floated in the waters between them and the coast.

The fog thinned even more, revealing that beyond the shore the land climbed to rocky jagged ridges. Behind these, distant and tall, reared the white gleaming peaks of mountains. Jute gazed, entranced. Could those be their destination? The near-mythical Salt range?

A breath caught behind him and he turned, surprised. There stood Ieleen, gripping the doorway, walking stick in hand. He went to her. ‘Lass! You’re up!’

‘Aye.’ She sounded deathly hoarse. He guided her to her stool and she sat heavily, sighing her gratitude. ‘Aye. At last.’ Her sightless clouded eyes darted about. ‘I dreamed … troubled dreams. Someone shielded me from their worst.’ Somehow, the eyes found him. ‘We know who, hey?’

He nodded, then remembered. ‘Ah, yes. So, what do you smell?’

‘The scent that has been tormenting me for days now,’ she growled, displeased. She closed both hands atop the walking stick and set her chin there. ‘The stink of ancient rotting ice.’

* * *

Two days after departing the Isle of Pillars, Master Ghelath came stomping up to K’azz and Shimmer. They stood at the bow of their new vessel, the Letherii-commissioned merchantman named the Venture. The captain was mopping his brow and scowling.

‘This vessel’s a useless tub,’ he announced.

‘Don’t pull your punches,’ K’azz answered, not looking away from the waters to the north.

The Falaran sailor threw his arms wide. ‘We’re hardly making any headway at all!’ He thrust a finger down to their feet and the raised archer’s castle they stood upon. ‘These platforms fore and aft make us top-heavy. We’re squat, too broad at the beam, wallowing, and slower than a Cawnese river-barge!’

‘Speak for yourself,’ K’azz murmured.

Shimmer compressed her lips to hide a smile. ‘And what do you suggest, captain?’

Ghelath waved his arms as if they could start anywhere. ‘Hack off these half-arsed platforms for a start,’ he finally spluttered.

K’azz frowned. ‘There are easier options, master mariner.’

The captain daubed at his flushed glistening forehead. ‘Such as?’

‘Light a smudge.’

The man gaped at K’azz. ‘A smudge?’

‘Yes, captain.’

‘That’ll attract every ship within leagues!’

‘Yes, captain.’

He squeezed the cloth in his hands, twisted it. ‘That’s yer orders, is it?’

‘Yes. I agree with you captain, we do need to make better headway. See to it.’

Ghelath wiped his face with the rag. ‘Well … if you say so, sir.’ He went off shaking his head.

Shimmer regarded K’azz. ‘It could bring the Letherii.’

He turned away to lean against the railing once more. ‘I do not believe they are following.’

‘You underestimate the blind spitefulness of the self-righteous.’

That raised a faint smile. ‘Perhaps so, Shimmer. Such emotions feel distant now.’

She considered the statement. Indeed, she couldn’t remember the last time she felt an intense emotion. Such as rage. Or — and here her breath caught — even passion. And yet the pain I feel now burning in my chest is real. I feel. But I do not reach out. What is wrong with me? Am I still even capable …

She went to find Bars.

He was below talking with Blues, Sept, and Black the Elder. ‘A word, Bars. If you would,’ she said.

He nodded. She led him to the main cabin, which was quite sumptuously decorated — the Letherii merchant Luthal Canar seemed to have valued his creature comforts. The bed, she noted, was much wider and longer than the usual sailor’s bunk. Good. Blasted awkward to be banging your head when you’re trying to enjoy yourself.

She closed and latched the door behind them and stood before it.

He turned and peered down at her with a rather puzzled look. ‘Yes, Shimmer?’

This close she found she had to tilt her head back quite far. Damn, but he’s a big one. She’d quite forgotten. She drew a hard breath to steel herself, and said, ‘Kiss me.’

First his brows fell, then they rose higher and higher. The colour of his face actually deepened.

Oh, come on, you great ox! You’re not making this any easier. I can’t do all the work here. Without looking down she started undoing her belt. ‘Does a woman have to ask twice?’

Now he was shaking his head. ‘No, Shimmer. Don’t … not like this …’

Her weapon belt hit the floor and she started on his. ‘Come on, Bars. Don’t you feel anything? I want to. I want to feel.’

He snatched her hands in his. ‘No! Shimmer. No …’

She gazed up at him, saw hurt in his eyes. Hurt? Why that? Am I so-

She yanked her hands from him, flinched away. ‘I may not be some soft courtesan, Bars. My nose may be broken and I may have calluses on my hands … but I am a woman!’ She turned to the door. ‘And you are a fool.’

‘You are beautiful, Shimmer,’ he said, very quietly. Her hand lingered on the latch. ‘I’ve always thought you beautiful. You do not know how long I’ve wanted … longed … well.’ She heard him cross the cabin. Wood creaked as he sat on the framed edge of the bed. ‘I don’t want something so beautiful if it will just be taken away from me tomorrow. That would hurt too much, Shimmer.’

She slowly turned back to him. Oh, Bars … I didn’t know … How could I have known? You said nothing. Why didn’t you at least say something? She pulled her mail coat over her head. It dropped to the floor in a crash of jangling metal. She came to him. ‘How was I to know, you great oaf? You never said a thing!’

A wistful smile crossed his scarred face. He wiped something from his cheeks.

Tears? Oh, Bars … you great fool!

He cleared his throat. ‘There’s a saying where I come from, Shimmer. If you have to chase and corner the wild animal, then it’s not yours. But if you stand very still and let it come to you — then it’s yours.’

She stood very close before him. ‘So I’m a wild animal, am I?’

A smile crooked his lips as he peered up at her. ‘The wildest. And the most frightening.’

‘Frightening? How so?’

‘Women are terrifying to men,’ he whispered, ‘because they can break them with the simplest word or briefest glance.’

Now she smiled. ‘Not if they care for them.’ She took his head in her hands and gently pressed his cheek to her stomach. Even through the layers of padding and undershirts she could feel his heat. She closed her eyes at the pleasure that warmth gave her. ‘I think we have a lot of catching up to do,’ she said, and her voice was very faint, and husky.

He ran his hands up under her shirts along her thighs.

Her breath escaped her in a gasp.

*

The light streaming in through the opaque window glazing deepened to the gold of late afternoon and still they did not leave the cabin. Even shouts and the stamping of running feet across the deck did not rouse them. Only the thrumming release of crossbows and the muted sound of Ghelath shouting orders caused her to raise her head from his shoulder.

‘What is that?’ she murmured.

‘Blues can handle it,’ he answered, and pressed his mouth to hers. She clasped his head again and straddled him.

Later, a quiet knock on the planks of the door brought her head up. Groaning, she stood and dragged off the embroidered quilt to wrap around herself as she crossed the cabin. She yanked open the door. ‘What is it?’

Master Ghelath stood in the way. His grizzled brows shot up and his already ruddy cheeks darkened further. He swallowed and pressed his hands together. ‘Ah … we’ve another ship, ma’am. If you’re ready to move …’

She peered out past him. The masts of another vessel rose beyond the side of the relatively tall merchantman. A lower vessel — probably a far faster galley. She gave a curt nod. ‘Very good, captain. What does K’azz say?’

She pushed back her hair and the quilt fell partially open. Ghelath quickly glanced away. He blew out a long breath. ‘He awaits your pleas- Ah, that is … when you’re ready, ma’am.’

‘Very good. You may begin.’

He bobbed a bow. ‘Yes, ma’am. At once.’

She slammed shut the door, threw aside the quilt. ‘Get moving. K’azz has captured a better ship.’

Bars groaned and sat up. ‘It’s about time.’ He massaged a knee. ‘You’re killing me, standing there. I still can’t believe it’s you.’

She searched for her shorts and chamois. ‘I have no complaints either.’

‘Is that flattery?’

She pulled on her trousers and undershirts. ‘How about: now I know why they call you Iron Bars?’

‘Ouch!’ He drew on his trousers. ‘And what about you? Will I ever see you dance?’

She planted a kiss on his shoulder, tasted salt and sweat. ‘I hope we’ll have the chance.’

His smile turned sad once more. ‘I hope so too, Shimmer. I hope so.’

She nodded her answer and returned to the door. Outside, she watched the sailors handing stores over the side to the new vessel. In the middle of the deck, crowded together under guard, stood its former crew: a ragged band of would-be pirates hailing from the southernmost shores of this new continent, Assail. Bruises darkened the faces of many. They looked bewildered and thoroughly cowed.

‘We’ll be gone soon,’ Blues was explaining to them. He opened his arms wide. ‘Welcome to your new ship.’

She went to the side: the new ship was much smaller, two-masted, with low cabins fore and aft.

Have I just made a terrible mistake? she wondered. No. Reaching out for companionship — for a human touch — is not a mistake. Withholding such a thing is the mistake. She thought of all the years she had held herself apart and shook her head.

She had been the fool.

Blinking against the blur of tears, she glanced away. She caught Blues watching her, a teasing smile on his lips. ‘What’re you grinning at?’

‘Nothing, Shimmer. Nothing at all.’

‘Isn’t there any privacy around here?’ She stamped off to pull together her few possessions.

* * *

For nearly a week, the Reddin brothers and Old Bear beat against Orman’s spearwork. Even Bernal Heavyhand took a turn; the man’s blows rocked Svalthbrul and numbed Orman’s hands. On the fifth day they were out in the fields practising when a distant figure came jogging up the valley to the Greathall. The shaggy hounds howled their welcome and bounded out to meet him. Old Bear gestured for Orman and the Reddin brothers to return to the house.

They found the newcomer sprawled in one of the raised wooden chairs, petting a hound. Vala was bent down at his side, speaking to him. The man rose and waved them forward. ‘Welcome to Sayer Hall,’ he called.

‘Jaochim,’ Old Bear answered, bowing. He gestured to the Reddin brothers. ‘This is Keth and Kasson Reddin.’ He motioned to Orman. ‘Orman Bregin’s son.’

‘Greetings!’ the man called. ‘I am Jaochim. Brothers, you are welcome. Orman — I knew your father and I honour his name.’ Orman could see that the man was eyeing Svalthbrul. ‘My thanks for joining us. We have need for more spears.’

Old Bear cocked his brow. ‘Oh?’

‘The Eithjar have sent warning. A gang of some twenty raiders have entered the Holding. Take our new spears and drive them off, yes?’

Old Bear bowed again. ‘With pleasure, Jaochim.’ He slapped Orman on the back. ‘Our first sport, lad. Let us blood your spear!’

Jaochim stepped down from the platform and examined Svalthbrul. In turn, Orman examined the head of the Sayer clan. Very tall and wiry he was, like all the Icebloods. Long-jawed, with large canines and a deep brow. His long earth-brown hair hung in a dirty mass about his shoulders. His eyes were oddly shaped; oblong, they seemed, and glowed a deep amber. ‘So it is true,’ he said admiringly.

‘I am proud to carry it,’ Orman said.

Jaochim smiled. His canines made it a wolfish grin. ‘As you should be. Your father’s winning of it is a grand tale. The Eithjar speak of it still.’

Feet slammed the dirt of the floor and Jass came running in. ‘Jaochim!’ Uncle and nephew embraced. ‘I am so very glad to see you!’

‘And I you.’ Jaochim looked Jass up and down and nodded to himself. He gestured to Old Bear. ‘Take the lad with you, Bear. It’s time he blooded his spear as well.’

Orman couldn’t help himself: ‘No!’

Jaochim turned a frown upon him. ‘No, you say?’

Orman shot a look to Vala, but she stood motionless, her arms wrapped around herself, her lips drawn tight. Obviously she was fearful but would not interfere; perhaps she saw the need, or the obligation. He swallowed his sudden dread and cursed himself. ‘There are twenty …’

Jaochim nodded, patted Jass on the shoulder. ‘All the more need for another spear.’ He urged Jass out. ‘You will leave at once. The Eithjar will guide you.’

Old Bear bowed. ‘At once, Jaochim.’ He waved Orman off. ‘Get your gear.’

He waited before the Greathall. He had little gear to ready: just his father’s travelling leathers, his knives, a sleeping roll and a pouch of dried meat and hard cheese. And Svalthbrul, of course. Keth and Kasson emerged side by side wearing their heaviest armour: boiled leather hauberks with mailed sleeves and vambraces. Helmets were pushed back on their heads. They carried shields on their backs, longswords at their sides, and spears in hand.

Old Bear came out escorting Jass, who now wore a leather hauberk that was a touch on the large side for his gangly frame. The sword at his side also looked rather too big for him, and he carried his spear.

Orman went to Old Bear’s side. ‘Is this it, then?’ he whispered, low and fierce. ‘Just we five?’

‘Six,’ Bear answered, grinning — foolishly, Orman thought. ‘Gerrun is probably with them.’

‘With them? What do you mean, with them?’

The big man winked, and the gesture — as if this were all in good fun — infuriated Orman. ‘Don’t you remember the hunting party that came chasing you? Gerrun joined it. He’s with most parties that come up from the lowlands. Offers his services as a guide, he does.’

Old Bar headed off, jogging down the path that led to the trail out of the valley. Orman followed. He thought now of Gerrun, offering to guide his uncle, or perhaps merely joining the party for coin. How many times had the man gone alone among enemies? He shook his head in admiration. And he’d thought him a coward!

Later, as evening darkened beneath the trees, their pace slowed. The uneven ground was treacherous, the path nearly non-existent. Orman had the rear and Old Bear had fallen back to join him, or rather, the party now kept the old man’s pace as he puffed and lumbered along. ‘I understand your reluctance regarding Jass, lad,’ Old Bear said as they descended a steep rocky stretch. Orman didn’t answer. ‘Don’t you worry now. We’ll all look out for him, won’t we? And you can bet the Eithjar will also.’

‘Can they stop a sword?’ Orman growled.

The old man hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat. ‘Well, no. But there’re other things they can do here on the lands of their Holding, you can be certain of that.’

Orman grunted, unimpressed. ‘Then they had better just stay out of my way.’

At an old campsite Keth called for a stop. They threw themselves down and rested until sunrise, then ate a quick cold meal and set off once more. Ghostly shapes wavered into view occasionally: the Eithjar directing them onward. Three days later a translucent womanly shape, all in ghostly furs, appeared before them and motioned to the ground. All fell to their stomachs and rolled to cover.

After a moment, Kasson edged forward on his elbows, then waved them onward. They all slid forward to what proved to be a shoulder of a wooded slope offering a view of the valley. Here a party climbed alongside a slim tumbling stream of meltwater. Orman counted fewer than twenty and decided they had scouts out.

Keth must have come to the same conclusion as he gestured them all into thicker cover. They grouped together under a rock ledge. Keth motioned to the top of the thick trees that rose about them. Orman nodded and handed Svalthbrul to Jass, then set to climbing.

He had to swing round the trunk and lean out to glimpse the party as it advanced. He spotted Gerrun with them, but the man probably wasn’t laughing inside: this time he was tied up and being led along. This group, it seemed, wasn’t nearly as trusting as prior parties.

Something else about them troubled Orman. Then he had it: they were all dressed alike in battered banded leather armour that looked to have once been painted or enamelled a dark green, with shortswords at their sides and shields on their backs. And they climbed as a unit, not dragging out in a long straggling line. Soldiers. Veterans, probably. Not your typical fortune-hunters, though soldiers sought gold just as anyone did. Very bad news for their small band. There was no way they could take such a large party of experienced fighters. He climbed back down.

Old Bear, however, was not impressed. ‘We’ll come at them in the night,’ he said. ‘When they’re all asleep.’

‘There’ll be guards!’ Orman answered hotly, hardly believing his ears.

‘So there will be a few guards,’ the old man answered, waving it aside. ‘We’ll rush ’em.’

‘Rush them?’ Orman echoed scornfully. ‘They’re soldiers! Trained for such a thing!’

Old Bear merely turned to Jass. ‘Are we to retreat? Allow them passage?’

The lad, who had been following all this with a serious face, now shook his head. So serious was he it somehow made Orman’s chest ache. Oh, lad, he thought, we’re asking too much of you — we really are. ‘Jaochim has laid the task on us,’ Jass said, his eyes downcast, as if unwilling to look at them or let them see what was in his gaze. ‘So we must see it through.’

Orman groaned inwardly. Oh, lad! What other answer could you possibly give us? You’re too young to be brave enough to say no.

Old Bear grinned his approval. ‘Aye, lad!’ He cast a severe one-eyed glare on Orman, who nodded as well. For what else could he do? Had he not sworn his loyalty?

‘I will watch them,’ Keth said, and started pulling off his shield.

‘No,’ Old Bear interrupted. ‘The Eithjar will shadow them. We can follow at a distance.’

The Reddin brothers accepted this without further words. They sat back and started working the edges of their weapons. Orman laid Svalthbrul across his lap. These Eithjar had better be a big help, because he did not like their chances against an organized party of soldiers.

With dusk one of the dead ancestors of the Sayers came to them and beckoned them onward. They crept forward in a line, the Reddin brothers leading, Orman following Jass, and Old Bear bringing up the rear.

The night was very dark. The Visitor had withdrawn to a faint bottle-green dot among the stars; the moon was a sliver arc, while clouds bunched up from the lowlands. Orman thought it unaccountably warm for this early in the spring. Jass knelt then, raising a hand for a pause. He tilted his head as if listening to something only he could hear, then he gestured for them to spread out.

Orman edged to his left. He used Svalthbrul to part the brush and saw the glimmer of a campfire. He motioned to the Reddin brothers and signed ahead. Keth readied his bow and Kasson drew a hatchet. They all crept forward.

Against the flickering gold glare of the flames, he made out one of the guards. The man was standing with his back to the fire and Orman mentally cursed. Damned veterans! They know every trick. He almost backed out then, feeling that they were walking into a trap — yet how could that be with the Eithjar keeping watch? A bowstring thrummed and the guard pitched backwards.

Orman charged, Svalthbrul readied. At that moment the prone figures about the fire all threw off blankets and leapt to their feet — and not groggily, for they were armed and armoured, ready for the attack. There was no time to curse as one charged Orman directly. The man had his medium-sized round shield ready and he batted aside Orman’s thrust, but Svalthbrul was no ordinary spear and the edge of the lanceolate blade caught the shield and Orman used this to yank the shield aside and curve round it inward to thrust again taking the man through his chest armour and sinking deep. Too deep. The blade would not come free as the man fell. He held on hard, twisting, forgetting for the moment the boiling charging figures around him.

Someone shield-bashed him, knocking the breath from him and raising stars in his vision. The blow was so powerful it yanked Svalthbrul free and he turned it on the man, snapping up the haft as if it were a whip, taking him across the face so that he screamed as blood flew skyward.

Orman backed off. He searched among the dark milling shapes for Jass. He found him being pushed backwards by an opponent, his spear held sideways across his chest. The lad’s footing became hung up on a corpse and he fell. The soldier reared over him, sword pulled back for a thrust. Orman screamed as he threw Svalthbrul. The spear pierced the man completely. He fell leaving the weapon standing from his back. Jass recovered his and backed away.

But the Reddin brothers were surrounded, while Gerrun had gotten free somehow and was duelling with a soldier while armed only with short knives. Three more were coming for Orman; he drew his heavy fighting knives and despaired. Too many. Just too damned many.

Then the very ground shook beneath his booted feet. A roar burst upon everyone like a blast of thunder. A massive mountain of russet shaggy fur came bowling in upon the scene, paws the size of shields swiping men left and right. Massive jaws crunched on an armoured arm and threw a soldier flying, legs and arms spinning. Another swat sent the two facing the Reddins down in a crunch of broken bones.

The remaining soldiers broke, running. The titanic humped bear roared again and gave chase.

And then it was quiet. Orman stood dragging in cold air, weaving on his feet. He retrieved Svalthbrul and staggered to Jass, who stood motionless, staring off where the great bear — Old Bear — could still be heard crashing through the underbrush.

‘Just in time,’ he gasped.

‘So it’s true,’ Jass murmured in amazement.

‘What’s true?’

‘The old tales. Shapeshifter. Old Bear. The last of them.’

Orman wiped his cold slick face. ‘Or a spell, perhaps.’

Wet coughing pulled his attention round. A soldier. Orman moved off to stand over him. The man lay peering up, his chest a crushed ruin. ‘They warned us,’ he croaked.

Orman crouched on his haunches. ‘What’s that?’ He could barely make out the man’s foreign speech.

‘Them townsfolk,’ the soldier said. ‘They warned us.’ He tried to laugh, but had no air for it.

‘Where are you from?’ Orman asked.

‘Don’t matter.’

‘Where?’

‘Long ways away. Half-fort, Genabackis.’

‘You soldiers?’

‘Mercenaries, lad. You won this one … but I’d run … I was you.’

‘Why?’

‘Straw hut in a flood is you, lad. Compared to what’s comin’ … straw hut …’ The mercenary’s mouth fell slack and his gaze fixed. Orman pressed a hand down the man’s face to close his eyes.

The Reddin brothers came up, Keth limping and Kasson cradling his bloodied left arm. Gerrun was hunched over the dead, rummaging through their clothes.

Orman studied the three of them: the brothers and Jass. He motioned uphill. ‘Let’s go.’

‘What about Old Bear?’ Jass asked.

‘He’ll find us.’

‘And these bodies?’

‘Leave them for the scavengers — as a warning.’

Keth nodded. He and his brother bound their wounds then waved to Gerrun. They headed back the way they came.

They could only limp a few leagues before bedding down for the night. They kept a watch just in case any of the soldiers came hunting them. Orman didn’t think that any of them would have escaped Old Bear, but it was best to be careful.

The next day Old Bear emerged from the brush to join them. He looked his old self, except perhaps the great shaggy bear hide he wore appeared a little worse for wear, hacked and slashed even more. Now, though, Orman knew he would never again look upon the man in the same way as before.

‘You could have told us,’ he accused him.

The old man grinned hugely. Even his frosty bad eye seemed to glint in delight. ‘And ruin the surprise? Should’ve seen your faces! I’m sure you soiled your breeches, Orman Bregin’s son.’

‘Only from your smell.’

The old man guffawed his huge laugh. He slapped Jass’s back. ‘There you go, lad. Not so bad, hey?’

But Jass shook his head. ‘We would’ve lost.’

At that morose evaluation a huge weight eased from Orman’s mind. Good. The lad sees it. The victory — such as it was — hasn’t fed any false youthful cockiness. ‘I lost my duel,’ the youth said, and the pain in that admission squeezed Orman’s chest.

‘It’s all right, lad,’ Old Bear said. ‘Why, I’d be surprised if you won your first. That’s why we’re together. We cover one another. Next time maybe you’ll save Kasson’s life, hey?’

Jass merely shrugged. ‘It wasn’t …’

‘Wasn’t what?’ Old Bear asked.

‘… wasn’t what I thought it’d be.’

Over Jass’s head, Old Bear’s single eye caught Orman’s gaze and fixed there. He patted the lad’s shoulder. ‘It never is, lad. It never is what we think it’s going to be. It’s ugly, and confusing, and a blur and full of the acid of fear. Then it’s over and you don’t quite remember what happened but you’re either alive or you’re not. And there you are.’

Orman was nodding. ‘Yes. That’s how it was for me.’

Jass looked up at him. ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were scared?’

‘Yes I was. Only a fool wouldn’t be.’

The youth let go a long breath. ‘Well … I was very frightened.’

Old Bear cuffed him again. ‘’Course you were! Only natural. First time’s always the worst — hey, Orman?’

And Orman nodded, frowning with the memory of it. Yes, it had been.

The next day Gerrun announced that he ought to return to the lowlands to see what was going on. Old Bear waved him off, as did Orman and the brothers. They watched him go and Orman couldn’t help reflecting that the man was now headed down to the towns loaded with the coin and goods he’d pocketed from all those dead mercenaries. It occurred to him that perhaps Gerrun was enjoying the best of both worlds — the fine clothes and wine of the lowland towns, and the comradeship and belonging of the highlands — and he felt a hot surge of resentment towards him. Then he recalled the man’s role in hiring along with the invading parties, even the armies, spying on them and guiding them to ambushes, and he decided that the fellow pretty much earned every lead penny of it.

They returned to the highlands. From time to time grey shapes appeared in the woods to walk alongside them. Orman found that he no longer paid their ghostly visitors any mind at all.

He passed the time speaking to Jass and was rather embarrassed when the lad truly did treat him as an elder brother, though he was no Iceblood. He found that, indeed, there were only five living Sayers. Only these few defended the entire Holding. The bonded couple Jaochim and Yrain ruled — if that was the word for such a small clan. Of Buri, Jass confessed he had seen the man only a few times. He kept to the far north and when he visited even Jaochim bowed to him, for he was the eldest living of any clan of the Icebloods.

When they climbed the highest valley and emerged into the fields the hounds came bounding out to greet Old Bear. They leapt up upon him, licking his face and barking. He swatted them aside and tousled their ragged pelts. In turn they pulled and gnawed upon his cloak.

‘They smell the bear in you,’ Jass teased.

‘That they do,’ he answered, grinning. ‘Ale tonight, lads!’

Keth and Kasson shared small tight grins. Orman winked at Jass. They found Yrain had arrived. She and Jaochim oversaw the evening meal in two of the three raised chairs. The middle one remained empty — for Buri, Orman supposed.

Old Bear entertained them all with the tale of his appearance in the battle. How Orman fainted dead away on the spot like an old widow and how he chased the foreign soldiers up trees, into streams, and even to the very walls of Mantle town.

Everyone laughed as the tale went on and on, until it transformed into another tale, the story of one of their ancestors, Vesti the Odd-handed, and his journey to the tallest of the Salt range. There, so he claimed, he met the matriarch of all his kind living in a tower of ice, and had his amorous advances rebuffed.

‘Was this Vesti older than Buri?’ Orman asked Old Bear.

‘He was not,’ Yrain answered, cutting off the man’s answer. Orman inclined his head, accepting this. The woman shared Jaochim’s rather distant and cold manner. Her hair was long, deep flame red, and wavy. She kept it loose about her shoulders. Her build was lean and her skin had an odd hue to it, as if she possessed a touch of colour: a pale olive. She wore leathers, old and much worn, with strings of red stones, garnets, about her neck and wrists.

‘Winter is the eldest of us,’ Jaochim explained.

‘Winter?’ Orman asked.

Jaochim made a small gesture with one hand. ‘We call him that. When he visits he seems to bring winter with him.’ The man frowned then, eyeing Jass, who sat next to Old Bear. ‘Bring me your spear, Jass,’ he called.

The lad rose, puzzled. He came to the platform and handed the weapon to Jaochim, who studied the iron spearhead.

‘This weapon has taken no life,’ Jaochim announced. He handed it back butt-first. ‘I told you to blood your spear and you return it unblooded?’

Old Bear straightened on his bench, ‘The lad fought two of the soldiers. I saw with my own eyes …’

‘Yet he slew neither.’

The old man waved a thick arm. ‘Well, I’m sure that if I hadn’t come charging in-’

‘It is so,’ Jass answered, lifting his chin. ‘I took no life.’

Jaochim pointed to the front of the hall. ‘Then go. And do not return until you have taken a life in defence of our holding.’

Orman almost stood from the bench to object, but for the heavy paw of Old Bear upon his arm. This was too harsh! Yet Jass bowed. He turned away. As he did so, Orman saw his gaze flash to his mother, Vala. She sat rigid, her lips clenched against all she might say. Her eyes caught Orman’s and he saw there a silent plea — the beseeching of a mother for her son. Aware of Jaochim’s disapproving glare, Orman allowed himself only the smallest nod. The woman eased back in her seat, her shoulders falling as she let go a pent-up breath.

Jass gathered up his pack and headed for the wide front entrance. Orman half stood to follow but Old Bear’s great paw closed upon his arm again and yanked him down to his seat.

‘Let me go,’ Orman grated, his head lowered.

‘Not now, lad. Later.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s their way, lad.’

‘Their way is damned harsh.’

‘That it is. Now let it go.’ He filled Orman’s tankard. ‘Drink up. Celebrate. Today you’re alive, lad.’

‘What of it?’

‘What of it?’ Old Bear appeared horrified. ‘Why, lad. That’s everything! Live every day as if honourably facing death then celebrate if you live to see it’s end, hey?’

Orman snorted, but he had to grant the point. Living without fear. Trusting wholly in one’s skill. That was something he had yet to achieve. It was an ideal. One he fell woefully short of.

He raised the leather tankard and gulped down the ale, spilling some down his front. There! To the Abyss with everything! Damn the odds and damn these Icebloods’ rigid notion of honour. He would have none of it. He threw an arm about Old Bear’s shoulders. ‘When can I go?’ he murmured, holding his face close to the old man’s.

Old Bear laughed and slapped his back. He answered beneath his breath: ‘With the dawn.’

*

Wrapped in old furs, Orman lay awake listening to the night. Old Bear snored terribly. Distantly, somewhere in the forest, wolves howled to the night sky. He decided he couldn’t wait any longer, never mind whether he was stepping upon Jaochim’s edicts. He threw off the hides and dressed. Across the hall Kasson’s eyes glimmered in the firelight as he lay awake, watching. Orman thrust his heavy fighting knives into his belt and snatched up Svalthbrul. Across the way, Kasson raised a hand in farewell. He gave the brother a nod and jogged from the hall.

Outside, he headed south. His breath plumed in the cold night air. He wrapped cloth rags about his hands as he ran, Svalthbrul clamped under an arm. Once he reached the forest and the steepening descent into the first of the lower valleys, he stopped and peered about the dark woods.

‘Eithjar!’ he called. ‘I am searching for Jass! Which way?’

He waited, but none came. Well, I guess they don’t come when called …

He started down the trail.

When the sun rose above the lower ridges of the Salt range he was crossing a valley. A runoff stream churned down its middle, no deeper than his shins, but frigid as it splashed and hissed among the boulders and rocks of its naked bed. Across the stream he stamped his sodden feet to bring feeling back into them. He raised a hand to his mouth and called: ‘Which way?’ His shout echoed among the steep valley walls.

He almost missed it then, in his impatience and disgust. A thin ash-grey shape flickering at the treeline far to the east. He frowned at the indistinct visitation, uncertain whether his eyes were playing tricks upon him. Then the shape raised an arm pointing to the east and was gone.

Orman rubbed his gritty eyes, blinked them. Gods, the east! This high that would be … No! The little fool! Bain Holding! What could he possibly mean to …

He set off at a run the way the shade had pointed. He smashed into the dense brush, limbs snapping and lashing. He vaulted from rock to rock. The way steepened as he approached the valley side. Ahead, past the trees, the ridgeline climbed bare and rocky. Snow yet lingered in the shadows and capped the highest shoulders. The air was frigid, yet it seemed to burn his lungs as he panted onward. And all the while, Svalthbrul’s keen knapped edge sang as it cut the cold air.