Assail

CHAPTER VII

Fisher Kel Tath sat in the gloom of the cave lit only by the small sputtering fire. With his fingertips, he massaged tiny circles over his temples. ‘So let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘You wrecked on the coast while you were returning home?’

Coots and Badlands, both of the Lost clan, nodded vigorously. ‘Aye,’ Badlands answered.

‘And you’ve been down here for how long? Months?’

The brothers shared guilty glances. Coots started counting on his fingers, frowned, shrugged, then scratched his ridged bald pate.

Fisher stared his disbelief. ‘Why haven’t you escaped? You could climb out, couldn’t you?’

Badlands waved a hand. ‘Oh, yeah. Might fall to our deaths any time, though.’

‘But you don’t intend to stay down here for ever, do you? Don’t you want to get home?’

Another quick guilty glance shot between the brothers. Fisher looked from one to the other. ‘What is it … what aren’t you saying? That is, if it’s any of my business.’

Coots laid more moss and dried bracken on the modest fire. He hung his big gnarled hands over his knees. ‘Well …’ he rumbled, ‘we kinda had a fight with Stalker.’

‘Stalker?’ Fisher echoed. Then he remembered. ‘Stalker Lost — head of the clan.’

Badlands was nodding. ‘Yeah. He was all for coming back. We had us a falling out over it. Back when we was captured by that crazy mage in the Galatan Sweep.’

Coots looked offended. ‘Wasn’t then. Was when we tried pirating but got chased down by that Elingarth navy convoy.’

‘Was not! Was when you shacked up with that queen o’ them troglodytes!’

‘They wasn’t troglodytes — they just had an aversion to sunlight.’

Fisher raised a hand for a pause. ‘Well, you can’t mean to stay, surely? What are you eating?’

Coots looked to the low soot-blackened stone ceiling. ‘Oh … lizards, salamanders, bats, rats, birds, eggs, mushrooms, roots, frogs, and a cliff-climbing mammal kinda like a marmot.’

‘And a mountain goat,’ Badlands added.

Coots snapped his fingers. ‘Right. Forgot about that. There’s mountain goats on these cliffs too.’

Fisher’s brows rose. ‘Ah. I see. So you’re out hunting mountain goats?’

Badlands nodded. ‘Yeah. And there’s fish in the stream below.’ Fisher glanced over to Jethiss who stood to one side, frowning his confusion. ‘But this Bonewight means to take your bones, yes?’

Coots waved that aside. ‘Not till after spring break-up. That’s when the flood coming down the valley might damage the bridge’s foundations. Least, that’s what Yrkki says.’

‘Yrkki?’

‘Yeah. Yrkki. An’ he’s not a bonewight — he’s a bonewright. He’s real particular about that.’

‘He says he knows my name,’ Jethiss said from the darkness where the glow from the fire barely touched him.

Both Coots and Badlands eyed the Andii for a time. Badlands gave a musing frown, ‘Well, if he says he does, then he probably does.’

‘I want it from him.’

Coot blew out a breath, stretched. ‘Real cagey with what he knows is Yrkki. Been hanging around here for ages. Treats us like we’re equals, though. Funny that.’

Fisher took a breath and sang, low and slow: ‘Set in stone to ward the way, spirit guardians await the day.’

Coots and Badlands blinked at Fisher, then Badlands scratched his scalp beneath his bunched hair. ‘I’ve heard that before. That one o’ yours, Fish?’

‘Not originally. I transcribed it from a much older poem.’

Coots cracked his knuckles one by one. ‘Hunh. So you’re sayin’ Yrkki’s a prisoner himself? Set here to guard the way. Set by who?’

‘By the Jaghut,’ Fisher answered. He kept the rest of his suspicions to himself.

Badlands laughed. ‘Them old stories. Ghost stories. Hobgoblins and ghoulies in the night. All them hoary old ones is all long gone.’

‘An’ who’s he supposed to be guarding against, then?’ Coots asked.

‘The Jaghut’s enemy.’

The brothers lost their smiles. ‘That’s not funny, Fish,’ Coots rumbled.

‘I thought you said they were all gone?’

Badland’s lips drew tight over his large teeth. ‘You know they ain’t.’

‘Exactly. Kellanved changed that. We need to warn the north.’

‘I’m thinking the Eithjar know,’ said Coots.

‘What is this you are talking of?’ Jethiss asked from the darkness.

Fisher straightened, set his hands on his knees. ‘Sorry, Jethiss. Local history. Old feuds.’ He motioned to Coots. ‘In any case, we should bring word.’

The brothers shared a measuring glance. ‘Well,’ Badlands allowed, ‘only if you talk to Stalker.’ He cut a hand through the air. ‘’Cause we swore we weren’t comin’ back.’ Coots nodded his firm agreement.

Fisher looked to the low roof and sighed. ‘Fine. You don’t have to come all the way.’

‘So — we are going?’ Jethiss asked.

‘Yes.’ Fisher stood, dusted his trousers. ‘I’m sorry he did not give you your name.’

Jethiss nodded his sour agreement. ‘Yes. Nor is he likely to, I suspect.’

Badlands pointed towards the distant cave opening. ‘We was thinking we’d climb along the trelliswork. Plenty of handholds there.’

Fisher thought of going hand over hand across that grisly construction and shuddered. What horrors might he encounter among those bones? Still, it was probably the best plan. He nodded. ‘Very good.’

‘Let us wait until night,’ Jethiss said.

Coots raised his opened hands. ‘Night, day. What difference does it make?’

‘It might make a difference to me.’

‘Fine,’ Fisher said. ‘We’ll wait.’ He motioned to Coots. ‘What do you have to eat?’

‘Got some dried bat.’

‘Never mind.’

*

It was a clear night. The stars glimmered sharp and cold; the moon had yet to rise. Coots led the way out of the cave mouth. He scrabbled along a thin ledge using hand- and footholds. Fisher followed, then came Badlands, and Jethiss last. Coots edged along the rough rock of the cliff face. The ghoulish pale latticework of the bridge neared. They were perhaps a chain down from the walkway. Below, the trellising extended far deeper into the ravine, to be swallowed by the dark. Fisher heard the crash and hissing of churning water.

Here, dried ligaments and sinew secured the bones to the rocks of the cliff. Fisher felt his stomach rebelling at the thought of having to grasp such gruesome handholds. Coots, however, swung out on to the bones without any pause or outward show of scruples or disgust.

Reluctantly, Fisher followed. He found the bones dry and rough to his grip. They actually provided very secure holds. Many were not tied at all, being merely locked together as if they’d grown, or been bent, to fit one over another like hooks or woven rope. Fisher wondered anew at the creature’s self-proclaimed title: Bonewright.

He slipped his feet into convenient pelvic curves, used ribs like ladder rungs, edged along gigantic femurs that must have come from titanic ancient ungulates such as the legendary giant elk or caribou. At times the full visceral realization came to him of what he was suspended upon and he would break into a cold sweat, shivering, as his vision darkened. But these fits would pass, or he would force them away by concentrating upon other things — the sanctuary of the far side, for example — and he would continue after a few moments.

One by one they made the opposite side of the ravine. Jethiss came last. He swung out on to the cliff-face and was helped up by Badlands. The brothers then faced one another and threw up their hands, yelling at same moment: ‘Run for it!’

Fisher stared after them as they legged it across the dirt landing. It cannot possibly be this easy, he thought to himself.

And indeed, at that moment the ground rocked beneath their feet. Thought so, Fisher managed before stumbling and being pulled from the edge by Jethiss. The dirt landing erupted beneath the brothers, sending them flying skyward amid a spray of dirt and gravel.

The Bonewright, Yrkki, heaved himself up from the ground.

Coots landed heavily amid broken rocks, but as if he were made of nothing more than a twisted knot of muscle and gristle he was up in an instant, long-knives in hand, to launch himself at the creature. Bone chips flew as he slashed at a limb. Badlands latched on to the other leg and began to pull himself up the massive bone.

Yrkki tottered and kicked. Its roars brought rocks crashing down from the surrounding cliffs. Fisher and Jethiss began working their way around it, if only to avoid being crushed beneath its enormous feet.

‘Go for its spine!’ Coots yelled.

‘You go for the damned spine!’ his brother yelled back.

Yrkki swatted at Coots. ‘Do not make me break your bones,’ he thundered.

Fisher and Jethiss had circled around the battle. Fisher drew his sword. ‘We cannot leave this to the brothers,’ he told Jethiss.

‘No indeed,’ the Andii answered. He startled Fisher by running out into the open. ‘Yrkki!’ he bellowed. ‘I demand that you give me my name!’

The creature straightened and turned round. He held a struggling brother in each hand. The giant dragon skull lowered to regard Jethiss more closely. The otherworldly deep ocean-blue flames seemed to brighten in its empty sockets ‘Your name would only make you weep,’ he boomed in his basso voice.

‘No!’ The word seemed torn from Jethiss. He thrust out his hands as if refusing to accept what he heard. Darkness flew at the Bone-wright. Ink-black folds seemed to coalesce from the surrounding night to enmesh it. It threw the brothers free to claw at them.

‘What is this?’ Yrkki bellowed. ‘Galain?’

Jethiss thrust out his hands again and the monster tottered backwards, flailing. The folds and scarves of night appeared to be yanking it back into the ravine. The naked talons of its feet slid and gouged at the dirt as it slid. ‘None shall remember your name!’ it boomed as the black folds enmeshed its skull and it fell backwards, bone legs kicking, to disappear over the cliff’s edge.

Jethiss slumped to the dirt. Fisher ran to pick him up. Badlands joined him and threw the Andii over his shoulder. ‘Run!’ the man yelled, spraying blood from a split lip. They ran. Coots came behind, weapons out, covering their retreat.

They climbed a switchback trail that led to a knife-sharp ridge of rotten rock. The far side sloped down into a high mountain valley. It was a dark night but Fisher could make out a stretch of woods below. Badlands set Jethiss down in the hollow of two large leaning halves of rock, then sat rather heavily. Fisher eased himself down next to him. Badlands felt at his mouth. ‘I think I lotht a damned toof!’

Coots came to stand over them. ‘You’re always okay ’cause you land on your head.’

‘Same as you ’cept it’th your ath!’

Coots gestured to Jethiss, who lay unconscious. ‘How’d your friend do that?’

‘I don’t think even he knows,’ Fisher answered.

Coots grunted his acceptance, then rubbed the wide bulge of his stomach. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said, peering about. ‘I’m gonna hunt something up.’ He walked off into the dark.

‘Better be thoft and thewy!’ Badlands called after him, then groaned and cupped his mouth.

Fisher tucked a roll of bedding under Jethiss’s head. ‘I’ll take watch, if you like,’ he told Badlands.

The brother waved a negative. ‘Naw. You thweep. My mouth hurths.’

Fisher nodded, edged down further into his seat against the rock, tucked his hands under his arms, and let his chin fall. After the exhausting rush of the encounter with Yrkki, sleep came quite quickly.

The delicious smell of roasting meat woke him. He sat up, blinking. Badlands and Coots were crouched at a small fire. Two skinned and gutted rabbits roasted on sticks over the flames. Jethiss sat nearby, arms draped over his crossed legs. He appeared troubled and distracted; Fisher could imagine why. What the man had accomplished was the manipulation of Elemental Night. Something open to the mages of his kind, yet he had made no mention of such a capacity. Who knows what else might lie hidden in him?

‘Found the trail of your buddies,’ Coots said, and licked fat from his fingers.

‘Thank you.’

‘Easy to follow. They only have a few days on you.’

‘Thanks.’ Fisher searched among his feelings: he found no desire to return to the raiding party. He’d much rather strike straight north. ‘I thought we were heading to the Lost Holding.’

Badlands carried a swollen purple-bruised mouth and cheek. He slurred: ‘It’s othay. You doan’ have to come.’

‘I want to. What of you, Jethiss?’

The Andii was staring at the fire. ‘It matters not to me,’ he murmured.

‘We’ll come with you, then.’

The brothers exchanged dubious looks. ‘We move pretty fast,’ Coots explained.

‘We’ll keep up.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He gestured to the rabbits. ‘Eat up and we’ll go.’

Fisher discovered that the brothers were not exaggerating. After they’d eaten and drunk from waterskins and Fisher had rubbed his teeth with a green twig, the brothers kicked dirt over the fire then took off at a run. Fisher was quite startled, but followed quickly. Jethiss came after. Soon, Fisher found that he had to increase his pace considerably in order to keep the brothers in sight.

The Losts ran pell-mell down slopes, dodged trees, jumped from fallen logs and leaned into steep slides of loose talus and broken rock, guiding themselves with a hand. Fisher struggled to follow. His breath came hard and his chest burned. But as the sun climbed overhead his legs loosened up and his breathing eased. He found his pace, and glancing back saw that so too had Jethiss, as the man followed with an easy loping gait.

He came abreast of Badlands. Or rather, Badlands fell back to him; the man ran with a hand pressed to his mouth, breathing loudly, leaning over to spit blood, cursing and wincing as he went. He fell back behind Fisher, then Jethiss as well.

Coots did not stop for any sort of mid-day rest or meal and so Fisher had no choice but to follow. The man appeared to be striking a course far more east than north. They crossed steep mountain shoulders and narrow valleys, scrambled up naked rock ridges, shuffled and half tumbled down the other sides into dense forests of conifer and slashing stiff-branched brush that exploded in sharp bursts when Coots bulled through.

By late in the day Fisher was stumbling, exhausted, hardly able to lift his burning bruised feet. He pushed through a thick copse of spruce and caught the welcome sight of Coots standing motionless on a rock outcropping that jutted from the mountain shoulder they were descending. The sun cast an amber-gold light over the valley side from where it sizzled on the western horizon.

Coots stood shading his gaze to the north. Fisher joined him, panting and gulping the biting chill air. The Lost brother shot him a sidelong glance and grunted his approval.

Fisher swallowed to wet his burning throat. ‘What is it?’

Coots gestured, inviting him to look. He stepped up, shaded his gaze. To the north, the mountain slopes graded down in falling arcs to reveal hazy foothills beyond. Past the hills, a body of water glimmered golden yellow in the sunset. Beyond the flat glittering field of water, mountains rose so far away as to be deep blue. These rearing heights climbed to snow-white peaks tinged with a hint of sapphire. The sunset washed the ice-capped heights in a glow of salmon-amber.

‘The Salt range,’ Fisher said. He did not add that the mountain range looked no different from what he remembered growing up beneath its looming bulk.

‘Aye.’ Coots pointed a blunt finger below. ‘And the Sea of Gold.’

‘Hazy,’ Fisher observed.

The man’s eyes, narrowed beneath his shelf-like hairless brows, appeared troubled. He rubbed one of his gold earrings between a thumb and forefinger. ‘Aye,’ he murmured, thinking.

Jethiss joined them. Fisher cast him a glance and was envious to see that the Andii did not even appear winded. That was just not fair.

‘We’ll camp here,’ Coots said, and he eased himself down on the rock, grunting and grumbling. He unrolled a strip of leather to reveal what was left of the roasted rabbit, and passed it round for them to pick at.

Badlands finally came staggering in. He had a hand pressed to his mouth and was keeping up a steady stream of slurred cursing as he came. He sat heavily. Fisher offered him the rabbit but the man winced at the sight of it and waved it off.

‘I’d better have a look at that,’ Coots said.

Badlands flinched away. ‘Theep y’ham hanths off, y’ox!’

‘You might get an infection,’ Fisher said.

‘Thalker can thake a look.’

‘Stalker does the cutting and bonesetting,’ Coots explained.

‘He might not make it …’

‘I’ll make it!’

Fisher shrugged. Fine. They’d see, he supposed. He turned to Jethiss. ‘How are you?’

The Andii shrugged.

Fisher wished to improve the fellow’s mood. ‘There are powers in the north. Perhaps one of them might find your name …’

The man’s head snapped up at that, his gaze suddenly sharp and fierce, as if Fisher’s words had awakened something within him. A memory, perhaps. For some vaguely troubling reason Fisher wished he hadn’t mentioned the possibility.

When night came Coots stood and peered out over the cliff’s edge. Curious, Fisher joined him again. He squinted down to the black glimmering slate-like expanse that was the Sea of Gold. A blush of lurid yellow light glowed in a halo around the sea.

‘A lot of fires,’ Coots rumbled, explaining. ‘Smoke by day, fire by night. Looks like war in the lowlands.’

‘We go round, I take it?’

The big fellow nodded. He ran a hand over the ridged and scarred armour-like pate of his skull. ‘Aye. We go round.’

* * *

On the eighth day riding north skirting the Sea of Dread, Kyle, Lyan and Dorrin pulled up short to stare at an amazing sight.

As far as they could see in a line running behind the low bare hills along the coast there stood a forest of bare spires: ship’s masts. A long parade of them, slowly edging along. Kyle and Lyan exchanged wondering glances. Then Kyle urged his mount east in a slow walk for a closer look.

They topped a hill that allowed line of sight on the shore and stopped. It was an immense convoy: a long train of roped ships being pulled by teams of men, plus the occasional horse and mule. Kyle had seen such things before, of course, mule teams pulling barges on canals, but this was the first time he’d seen the concept applied on the shore of a sea. He counted over twenty ships in this one flotilla.

‘Looks like they’ve found a way around your Sea of Dread,’ Lyan remarked.

Kyle rested his forearms on the saddle pommel and shook his head in awe. ‘Nothing like naked greed to find a way through any barrier.’

A susurration of noise reached them from the nearest teams of men and women heaving on the ropes. Individuals came running inland from the shore, knelt, and trained crossbows in their direction.

‘They think us hostile locals,’ Lyan said.

‘Yes. We’d best be going.’

A chuff of dirt behind stiffened Kyle’s back and in that instant he realized their mistake — they’d all been looking in the same direction. He turned his head, knowing what he would see: a cordon of soldiers advancing upon them from farther inland. It looked like they meant to drive them to the coast.

Lyan’s blade shushed against its wooden sheath as she yanked it free. She kneed her horse to stand between Dorrin and the soldiers. Kyle did not draw his weapons. He urged his mount down the hill a short distance. The men raised their crossbows and spears. ‘What do you want?’ he shouted in Talian, knowing exactly what it was they wanted.

‘Give up your horses and you can go,’ one answered in thickly accented Talian.

‘They are ours and we will keep them!’ Lyan shouted.

One of the crossbowmen brought his weapon up to aim and a fellow near him knocked it down. ‘Don’t shoot, y’fool! Might hit a horse.’

‘Here’s mine!’ Lyan yelled and kneed her mount into a charge down the hill. She whooped a war-cry as she came and Dorrin followed in her wake.

She thundered past Kyle, who could only urge his mount onward to join her. A spearman directly in her path jabbed but she parried with her blade and the man leapt to save his life. Dorrin followed close behind. A crossbowman drew aim on Lyan and Kyle twisted his mount over to charge him; the man dropped the weapon and leapt aside.

Then they were through, galloping for a draw between the next two shallow hills. But when Kyle brought his horse over he saw Dorrin’s mount running riderless, its saddle empty.

He yelled, turned in his saddle: the lad lay in a heap on the flat between the rises. The soldiers were closing on him. Kyle yanked his mount around, just as a scream of shock and rage announced that Lyan had discovered what was happening.

Kyle reached Dorrin first. Dismounting at a run, he yanked the boy up by one arm and flinched upon seeing a bolt impaling his leg. Some crossbowman had snapped off a lucky shot. He tossed the lad over his saddle and drew a hatchet. ‘Hang on!’ he ordered. Dorrin nodded, his face snowy pale and glistening with sweat, and wrapped the reins around his hand. Clenching his teeth against the necessity of it, Kyle struck the horse’s flank with the impaling spike.

The horse screamed and reared, then took off in a spray of kicked-up dirt. Dorrin hunched low, hugging its neck. Kyle turned to face the closing men and women. He counted fifteen.

Damn the Twins’ luck. Nothing for it. He switched the hatchet to his left hand and drew his blade.

The men and women spread out in an arc, facing him. He snapped a quick glance behind, saw Lyan leading Dorrin away on his mount, the lad’s horse following.

‘Togg turd!’ one man shouted. ‘At least we can make you pay!’

Then one of the spearmen stepped forward, pointing. ‘You!’ he bellowed, and charged. In the instant the man closed Kyle noticed that he wore a tattered blue cloak. Shit.

‘Die, Whiteblade!’ the ex-Stormguard yelled in rage.

In a single movement Kyle swung, hacking the head from the spear, spun, sliced through the haft and the man’s leading arm at the elbow, looped his arm in an arc and took off the fellow’s head cleanly through the neck.

The dismembered corpse fell, spraying arterial blood from neck and arm.

In the stunned pause that followed, Kyle charged.

The first he reached actually turned to run. Kyle cut him across his back, severing his spine. He caught a sword blow from another with his hatchet, then swung, cutting through the sword arm. He severed a spear as it thrust, took off the spearman’s leading leg at the knee.

A crossbow bolt hissed as it brushed past his head and he wished he had a damned helmet. The thought drove him to charge the remaining crossbows. The nearest, a woman, reflexively raised her weapon to protect herself; Kyle sliced through the stock and ironwork and took her forearms with it. She woman stared in horror at the severed stumps of her arms, her eyes rolled up white, and she toppled. Kyle meant to close on the remaining two crossbowmen but four swordsmen were dangerously close. He remembered the trick he had learned from the Silent People and threw his hatchet, taking one bowman in the stomach, and charged the other. This one backpedalled, terrified. Kyle pressed forward until the man tripped then took off one foot as it flew upwards. He spun to meet the swordsmen, blade raised in a guard, but no one was pressing the attack. The survivors were running.

He eased his stance, let out a long hard breath. The wounded crossbowman, screaming curses and clutching his ankle, he left alone. He bent down to retrieve his hatchet, and walked away. Their friends may, or may not, come back for them. The lesser wounded might make it to the coast.

He didn’t care. He was just tired of the stupidity of it. The needlessness of it. He had been forced to defend himself and now he was a killer. He cleaned the blade on the blue cloak of the dead Stormguard, carefully sheathed it. This one he didn’t recognize, but it made sense that many of them would now be out selling their spears. He walked on, trying to spit, but his mouth was too dry.

Atop the next rise he found Lyan tending to Dorrin. She’d torn his trouser leg and removed the bolt and was now tightly wrapping the wound. Mercifully, the lad was unconscious. Kyle was worried; the boy had lost a lot of blood.

He cleared his throat to speak, croaked, ‘We have to move.’

‘I know,’ she answered without stopping her work. Kyle nodded, though she wasn’t looking. ‘Saw you fight,’ she said, and glanced up. He saw something new in her eyes, something that troubled him. ‘That was plain butchery.’

He went to collect the horses.

That night, across the small fire, Lyan cradled Dorrin to her chest, giving him her warmth. He’d woken only for brief moments, groaned his pain, and shut his eyes once more. Sweat now gleamed on his face and Kyle feared a fever. It occurred to him that the lad might not make it and the thought brought a terrible squeezing pain to his chest that made it hard to breathe. The boy had shown such good sense, such endurance, such patience and wisdom beyond his years. Kyle suddenly realized that if he had a son, he could only hope for one such as this. The band across his chest became a burning acid gash and he blinked away a swimming blur in his eyes.

He decided, then, what he would do in the morning.

When Lyan mounted, Dorrin held in her arms before her, Kyle did not mount as well. Instead, he stood next to her leg looking up at them. She drew breath to tell him to hurry, then realized what was going on and swallowed.

‘Take the horses,’ he told her.

She shook her head.

‘Take the horses and buy healing for the lad.’

She continued shaking her head, only now looking away, blinking.

‘Go.’

She nodded then, curtly, and lowered her head. He sought her mouth and found it hot and wet with tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, half choked.

‘As am I,’ he answered just as faintly.

She twisted away, kneed her mount gently forward. The two other horses followed. Kyle watched them go then turned to face the north. He had already looped the straps of a few waterskins over his shoulders, and now he set off at a jog.

*

After two days he imagined he had entered the region of desert plains that his people’s stories named the Vanishing Lands, or the Lands of Dust. It was a broad northern desert of dwarf trees, lichens and brittle brush, with a scattering of clumped grasses and tiny wild flowers. Clouds did pass overhead, occluding the sun, but none released any of their life-sustaining rains here. The air was frigid and painfully dry. His lips chapped and split. He was ruthless with his limited supply of water; one mouthful in the morning, and one at noon. The heights of the Salt range, a deep aqua-blue in the distance, taunted him with their gleaming shoulders of snow and icefield.

He passed the remains of people, and even of horses. Most lay half buried in clumps of meagre soil. Wild flowers surrounded them like burial wreaths. The bones were very old, or at least appeared so, wind-gnawed down to stumps where exposed to the gusting dry air.

The nights were the worst. There was no cover to be found anywhere. He lay wrapped in a blanket, exposed to the buffeting winds. At times these rose to storms that lashed him with tossed sand and gravel. All the warmth would be sucked from him and only uncontrollable shivering kept heat in his bones. He would wake with dunes of blown dirt gathered up his sheltered side.

One night something large banged into him, tossed by the wind. He reflexively lashed out to snatch it. It took him some time peering at the thing in the starlight to identify it, but eventually he realized that what he held was an eroded, battered, wind-tumbled human skull.

He kept it with him as he walked the next day, turning it in his hands. It wasn’t old, that much he was certain of; bones yellowed or greyed with age. This skull still held that bright whiteness of bone picked clean. Bones also roughened with age, became more porous, and lost mass. This skull still held heft, and was smooth where not abraded through rolling and bumping.

While he paced along studying the skull, something bright caught his eye on the ground and he stopped. His arms slowly fell and he let the skull thump hollowly to the bare rock beneath his feet. He had wandered into a field of bones. The remains lay as far as he could see in every direction. They gleamed whitely, humped together in small depressions where the winds had swept them up. Ribs lay snug in natural cracks of the exposed granite bedrock. Wide scapulae lay flat where the winds could not budge them. The round dome of a skull was caught up against a knot of rock.

Kyle reached for the grip of the blade snug at his side to reassure himself, and continued on. None of the bones that he passed showed any signs of violence: no shattering, or gashes or cuts. They had not even been gnawed by scavengers. Fat femurs had not been cracked open for the rich marrow.

Equipment too lay scattered about: corroded armour, metal fittings, wind-smoothed coins, and naked rusted blades. But no leather, cloth, padding, or even wood. How could it have rotted away so quickly?

That night the winds returned with redoubled violence. It was as if they wished to pick him up and send him tumbling back down to the prairie of the Silent People. They seemed to punch him from all directions and sent needle-sharp lances of sand that stung and burned any patch of exposed skin. He tucked himself entirely under his blanket in a desperate effort to escape their constant lashing and hissing.

In the morning, when he shook out the blanket, he found it full of holes. Patches of it had been eaten away entirely. Something about this troubled him far back in his mind: memories from the ancient stories he’d heard in his youth. The Land of Dust … the Land of Winds. He shook his head; surely the winds alone couldn’t kill a man. But perhaps they could scour the padding from discarded armour.

He rolled up the blanket, took a sip of water, and moved on. The silver heights of the Salt range beckoned. The distant peaks shimmered suspended over a layer of haze, or clouds, like ships at sea.

Towards noon a dust storm struck. It swept down from the north. A swirling churning mass of solid yellow that engulfed the entire plain ahead. Kyle tore off a strip of cloth and tied it over his face leaving only his eyes exposed. He ducked his head, raised a hand to shelter his eyes.

The wall struck like a blow of rage. Sand and grit blasted at him. It gnawed the flesh of his hand, bit at his scalp. The noise was a howling and a grinding avalanche combined. Kyle walked blind, a hand extended into the murky haze of gusting blankets of dust. There was no cover anywhere at all. If it became unendurable, he supposed he would have no option but to lie down and curl into a self-protecting ball.

And the thought came: As so many others had done before him …

Land of Winds. Land of Dust. Put these two together and you have a desolate uninhabitable desert that scours all life from itself.

Then a shape resolved itself out of the sweeping scarves and twists of sand and dust. Vaguely humanoid; a shape of seething hissing winds and grit. A blunt arm pointed. A moaning wind-voice spoke: ‘You I would allow to pass. But you carry a thing of chaos. This cannot be allowed to pass.’

Thing of chaos? Kyle clutched at the blade. He called uselessly into the winds: ‘What do you mean? This is the sword of Osserc!’ He heard no sound of his own voice yet the creature answered.

‘Yes. This thing he carried for a time. Yet its origins are older than he. Know you not what it is?’

‘It is a sword.’

‘It is no sword. Lay it down and you may pass.’

‘No! It was given to me by Osserc himself!’

‘Then he did you no favour. All that will be left of you will be that artefact. And that I shall grind until its dust is spread across the continent entire.’

Artefact? ‘No!’ Kyle yanked the blade free, swinging across his front. The winds flinched. At least that was how it felt to him. He almost tumbled forward into a lull that lasted a fraction of a moment. The winds’ howling doubled. It rasped and growled in what seemed like frustration.

‘Then die!’ the creature bellowed, and raised its arms of churning dust.

Kyle charged, rolled forward, and swung. The blade bit into the shape at its broad base, and just as when he had struck the manifestation of a goddess on Fist an enormous blast of unleashed energies threw him backwards to land on the rock, depriving him of his breath and bringing stars to his vision.

When he regained his senses, he raised his head to see the dust storm dispersing. It fell in uncoiling scarves of particles that came hissing down. He stood, brushed a thick layer of it from his chest and hair. He raised the blade still gripped tightly in his hand. He remembered that someone had once told him it wasn’t made of metal — it certainly didn’t look like metal. It was creamy amber, opaque at its thick spine verging down to translucent towards the curve of its keen edge. He ran his fingers down the side of the blade. It felt organic to him, like horn, or scale. An artefact? Artefact of what? And chaos? What had that being meant about chaos? Yet he didn’t imagine he’d killed the creature. Just as at Fist, when he’d struck the Lady, she had merely dispersed for a time. So too here, probably. Shrugging, he resheathed the blade, carefully, edge up, and walked on.

The air was clearing. The winds were dying. The peaks and shoulders of the distant Salt range emerged from the haze of dust once again. He raised his last remaining waterskin, shook it to listen to its meagre sloshing, and let it fall. He angled his route a touch to the east.

* * *

This village was larger than any of the ones she’d yet found. The sight of the collection of round hide roofs was a gut-punch to Silver-fox when she topped a slight rise. She paused, nearly toppling from her quivering lathered mount. Pran appeared at her side, ready to catch or steady her.

She flinched from his presence, kicked her mount on. It started forward with heavy clumsy steps.

As before she found them strewn where they’d fallen. As before, kites and crows lifted like dark shadows from her advance to hover overhead, waiting for the momentary disruption to move on. The vultures merely spread their wide black wings and waddled to one side.

Occasionally, foxes and wild dogs scampered off into the grasses, their muzzles wet and dark with blood. There they lurked, awaiting her departure.

But this time it was quiet. So quiet she could hear the hide flaps tapping and slapping in the wind, the grasses shushing, the wind moaning through gaping open entrances. No strained voices rising in near-crazed grief shattered the silence. No screams of rage. No weeping.

This time all was silent. Silverfox slid from her mount, let the reins fall. She stepped on to soil dark and wet with blood yet hardly noticed. She found that she had to consciously urge her legs to move. Pran appeared from behind a hut ahead of her.

‘Summoner,’ he began, and she thought she heard pain in his voice, ‘you need not-’

‘Yes,’ she snapped. The word felt torn from her. ‘I must. I must … witness this.’

She brushed past him. She walked between silent huts of poles and hide, stepped over knifed women, men, and children. Many had fallen curled round their young, protecting them. Slaughtered. All. She raised her gaze, found it blurred. All? All?

Lanas … how could you? What will they say of you? Of the T’lan?

She lifted her wrinkled, age-darkened hands to her face, turned them over and over. Yet what was this but a glimpse of the old ways? Her people’s hands were no more clean. No one’s were. How could this have once been the norm? How could the ancestors have named this a great victory and boasted of it? The slaughter of children? Perhaps it was a good thing to be reminded of this — once in a while.

Sound reached her. So wrapped in her horror was she that it took some time for it to register for what it was: the wail of a baby. She started, jerking, and ran in the direction of the noise. Rounding a hut she came up short, her breath catching.

All were not dead. A woman stood ahead. She cradled a tiny squirming bundle awkwardly in her muscular arms. A woman not of this village, nor even of this continent. For Silverfox knew her, and as she advanced the woman’s sharp gaze reflected their mutual recognition. Dark earth-brown she was. Sun-darkened even more over her wide arms. Sturdy-boned, heavy-browed, with smooth silken black hair, in old buckskins.

Kilava. Last living Bonecaster of the Imass.

Silverfox inclined her head in greeting. The baby writhed in its wrap of a coarse blanket. It squalled anew. Silverfox found she had to swallow hard to wet her throat to speak. ‘Just …’

‘… her,’ Kilava finished. ‘Yes.’

Silverfox peered anew round the silent village. ‘Who were they?’

‘They called themselves the Children of the Wind.’

Silverfox regarded the babe. ‘It is hungry.’

‘I have no milk to give,’ Kilava said. She arched a brow to Silver-fox. ‘We neither have any milk left, do we?’

Silverfox shared the knowing look. ‘We are neither the nurturing sort.’

Kilava gestured to her hair. ‘You have come into your name.’

Reflexively, Silverfox lifted and examined a twist of her long ash-grey streaked hair. ‘So I have.’

They regarded one another for time in a heavy silence; the ancient Bonecaster’s gaze shifted to peer behind Silverfox. She turned to see both Pran and Tolb standing at a respectful distance. ‘They would remain out of my reach,’ Kilava muttered to Silverfox.

‘They have tasted your temper.’

‘I have not changed my mind!’ Kilava shouted.

‘I would not have thought so,’ Pran answered.

The Bonecaster snorted at that. She lowered her attention to the babe. ‘I will take this one south. Find willing arms for her. Then I will return to warning the tribes.’

Silverfox’s breath caught. ‘Then some have escaped …’

‘Those who have heeded my warnings. I’ve been sending them to the west. The Kerluhm are headed to the mountains — I do not believe they will divert for refugees.’

‘Thank you, Kilava.’

‘I did not do it for your benefit, Silverfox. Your task remains and I wish you’d taken hold of it.’

Silverfox felt her cheeks heating. She snapped, ‘We’ve been through this already.’

Kilava did not answer. She adjusted the babe in her arms then brushed past to walk on to the south. Once she was gone, Pran and Tolb came to Silverfox’s side.

‘A powerful ally,’ Pran observed.

‘We cannot count on her aid,’ she warned them.

Behind her, Pran and Tolb shared a silent glance. Silverfox examined them. ‘Where’s my horse?’

‘We have found another,’ Tolb said.

She turned to peer among the silent empty huts, rubbed her eyes. ‘I can’t stay here. I’ll keep going — have it brought to me.’

The two Bonecasters bowed. Silverfox walked on. The two stood motionless for a time, then Tolb spoke: ‘Should we reach the very north it will be good to have her with us.’

Pran’s dry sinews creaked as he nodded his agreement. ‘Even she would not stand aside … then.’

*

Atop the heights of a rocky cordillera, a file of skeletal figures came to the lip of a tall hillock of mixed gravel and sands. Here, ages ago, a continent-spanning mountain of ice ground to a halt, piling up this near mountain of debris. Wordlessly, they spread out to line the edge. The bones of their feet clattered and grated across the stones. The rag-ends of hides and furs snapped and lashed in the cold dry wind. Here they stood still as statues of bone and ligament. The wind whistled through dry chest cavities and gaping fleshless jaws. Several times the sun rose, traced its path across the sky, and set. They waited, as patient as the stones themselves.

Beneath the cold light of the moon the shifting and grinding of stones announced movement within the slope. Stones came sliding down, banging and clattering. The talus heap shifted, slipping. A fist punched free of the gravel and a forearm of bare aged bone emerged. A figure straightened, sending dust and sand blowing in the wind from a long tattered bearhide cloak that glowed dirty white beneath the moon. It lifted a ravaged head half scoured of flesh.

A figure, nearly identical but for the cloak, advanced to greet this newcomer. They clasped hands to bony forearms. ‘Ut’el Anag,’ the cloakless one said. ‘Long have we been parted.’

The newcomer nodded its battered skull. ‘Lanas. It warms my spirit to see you once again.’

Further Imass now came dragging themselves free of the heaped moraine. Ut’el raised his head as if to sample the chill night air through his naked nostril slits. ‘Omtose retreats before us.’

‘As it ever has.’

The Kerluhm Bonecaster turned his head to the east. Lanas shared his gaze: across a shimmering plateau rose sapphire peaks, capped in silver. ‘The stain has spread,’ Ut’el observed, ‘and the source remains.’

‘We arrive to wash it away — as ever. Though we are opposed.’

The head snapped round. ‘Who?’

‘Remnants of the Ifayle … and now the Kron.’

Ut’el nodded. ‘They will come round and will thank us before the end.’

‘As it always has been.’

Without further word Ut’el stalked off to the east. Lanas remained. ‘There are survivors here,’ she called.

Ut’el turned. ‘Forget these lesser ones. The source lies to the east.’

‘The source?’

‘The Matriarch. The mother of their kind.’ He raised an arm of ligament and bone sheathed in tattered leathers, pointed to the distant peaks. ‘She awaits us, Lanas. She’s known we would come. Like the thawing of the spring, we come. Eventually.’

‘It will be a long walk,’ Lanas answered.

‘As it has ever been, Lanas.’

She inclined her head in assent and came abreast of Ut’el. Together, the two struck a path to the north-east over the rocky slope. The rest of the Imass followed in a rattling and clack of bone over stones. Behind, more of their brethren dragged themselves free of the eroding moraine, sloughing off a rain of dirt and mud.

* * *

Orman jogged downhill from one high mountain valley to the next, ever angling to the east. For two days ghosts, Sayer ancestors, pointed the way. On the third day he came to a ridge separating the Sayer Holding from the Bain. Here, an immense half-dead white pine stood taller than all its kind. Pinned to the trunk by a hunting knife hung Jass’s cloak.

He understood the message, for he recognized the knife. He’d last seen it pushed through the belt of Lotji Bain. He ran on, leaving the challenge hanging for others to find. Should any others be following. He descended the ridge, crossed a forest towards a stream rushing over a wide bed of naked broken rock. Here, a shout sounded over the pounding waters.

Lotji stepped forth from the cover of the wide bole of a pine. He held Jass before him, a knife to his throat, the lad’s hands tied. He bellowed up: ‘I’m glad you came, hiresword! You’ve saved me a lot of time. You know what I want. You and me! Now!’

Orman squeezed the haft of Svalthbrul so tight it seemed to squirm in his hands. He picked his way across the tumbled rocks. He so wanted to meet this man — to cut him to pieces with Svalthbrul — but what if he lost? What of Jass then? Jass, as he’d known all along, was far more important to him than any weapon. No matter how storied. He raised the spear. ‘I have something you want, Lotji … and you have something I want. Let’s exchange.’

The offer brought the man up short. His face wrinkled in distaste. ‘An exchange?’ he shouted, almost in disbelief. ‘An exchange? You would part with Svalthbrul for this useless pup?’

‘I would.’

‘Why?’

Something in Orman resisted revealing his true reason and it took him a moment to identify it: the man was not worthy of such an intimacy. It was a family matter — not for outsiders. ‘Honour!’ he shouted over the pounding stream. ‘I swore to serve the Sayers!’

Lotji shook his head, his gaze scornful. ‘Hearthguard,’ he snorted. ‘Hearthguard you are and hearthguard you will ever remain — nothing more!’

They closed further and Jass choked out: ‘Leave me to die! I deserve no better.’

Lotji shook him by the neck like a disobedient dog. ‘Quiet!’ He motioned to the rocks between him and Orman. ‘Far enough. Set the spear there and back away.’

‘Release the lad!’

‘Back away first!’

Orman jammed the butt of the spear amid the rocks so that it stood tall and straight. He backed away one step. ‘Release him!’

Lotji waved him off. ‘Further!’ He pressed a knife blade to Jass’s throat.

Orman snarled a curse but backed away a few more steps until clear of the spear. Lotji edged up almost within arm’s reach of it.

‘Now the boy!’

Lotji just shook his head. ‘You stupid fool!’ He snatched up the spear. ‘Now I have both and you have nothing!’

Orman felt his shoulders fall. Damn. Should’ve fought him.

Lotji examined Svalthbrul’s knapped stone spearhead, then cast an arched glance to him. ‘You do have one thing left, though. And now I’ll take that …’

Orman moved to draw his hatchets.

Lotji jerked his arm, Svalthbrul lashed out and crashed against Orman’s skull. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

*

He snapped to wakefulness in a panic, fighting for breath. Something was choking him; he strained to raise his hands to pull at whatever it was, but his arms were secured behind his back. He saw that he hung from a branch; Lotji was tying off the rope round the trunk even as he watched. Jass lay to one side, weeping, his hands tied behind his back.

Lotji appeared before him, peering up. ‘I was looking forward to killing you in a duel, hearthguard. But you stole the pleasure from me. Therefore, I demand a blood-price.’ He extended the nut-brown faceted stone head of Svalthbrul to Orman’s face. He tried to squirm aside but the spear licked forward. Fire engulfed his head. He screamed, or tried to, lurching and spinning as he struggled. The rope squeezed tighter about his throat.

‘Farewell, fool,’ Lotji called, now yanking Jass to his feet. ‘Perhaps this will teach you wisdom.’

Orman fought to scream, to curse, to beg, but nothing could escape the twisting noose strangling his throat. His vision, oddly restricted now, darkened. He felt nothing, sensed nothing — only a swelling balm that seemed to soothe all pain and tension from his body.

He felt as if he were floating.

Pain roused him; some sort of sharp blow. Cold air scraped his throat and he gagged, coughing. He lay for a time possessing only the strength required to draw a breath into his straining body. After this, he managed to open his eyes — or one eye, at least. The other remained stubbornly closed.

Someone was leaning over him. A dark man, skin almost black, his face deeply weathered and lined. He wore a plain leather hood. Orman tried to speak but no words would come.

‘Quiet now,’ the man urged, his accent strange. ‘No talking yet. Hard to access anything here but I think I can stop the bleeding.’

He was bleeding? He pursed his lips, managed to croak in an exhalation: ‘Who …’

A smile touched the man’s lips. ‘Same as you. A hiresword working for these Icebloods. The Losts. We have to stick together, hey? You’re with the Sayers, yes?’

Orman nodded his head weakly.

The man grunted. ‘Good. I fix you up and you go back to the Sayers and let them know the Bains are broken. They’ve retreated halfway up their Holding. Soon us and you Sayers will be flanked. Understand?’ Orman nodded. ‘Good. Now, let’s see what I can do.’

The man bent over him. He slithered his warm hands up under Orman’s shirt to press against his chest. Something happened then and Orman felt strength flow into him. His breathing eased. The man pressed a hand to his face and the searing yammering pain there dulled to an aching throb.

‘There,’ the fellow said. ‘Best I can do. I’m no expert at Denul.’

‘Thank you,’ Orman managed in a hoarse whisper.

‘No trouble. I’ve seen worse.’ He helped Orman stand. He tottered on his feet, but remained upright. He touched a hand to his neck and hissed, snatching it away. ‘Nasty that,’ the man said. ‘But it will heal. Sorry about the eye, though.’ Orman blinked at him. His eye? He raised a hand to investigate but the man caught it. ‘Don’t touch. Not yet. Let it get a scab.’

Lotji had taken his eye. He might as well have killed him. How could he fight now?’

‘Name?’ he croaked.

The man just shrugged. ‘Call me Cal. Listen, sorry I can’t take you with me, but any lowlander army comes advancing up here maybe we can pinch it between us, hey? Put it to the Sayers. We’ll keep an eye out.’ And the fellow saluted him: a hand to the brow swept down and out.

Orman just nodded, still a touch confused and bewildered. The fellow jogged off to the east. As he watched him go Orman realized that everything he wore, his hooded cloak, his leather armour, was stained a deep dark blood red. He found that he could not move. Perhaps he should simply remain here upon these rocks until his very flesh rotted away and his bones fell between the cracks and gaps of the stones.

For a brief time he thought he’d found something. Something worth fighting for. Now he’d thrown it away. Lotji had taken his eye, but he hadn’t taken his honour … that he’d thrown away himself. He should’ve died this day. Should’ve died fighting the man. Only that could have redeemed him.

Now it was too late. The valley blurred as his eyes burned and smarted. He felt as if he could no longer breathe — something new was binding his chest from expanding.

Why hadn’t he? Why?

Then he remembered something more important. Something vastly more important than his selfish worries over his honour or his name. The reason why he hadn’t thrown his life away beside this pounding stream of frigid meltwater.

It seemed that he had learned wisdom after all.

Released from the paralysis of self-loathing, he turned and limped back the way he’d come.

Once he topped the ridge, he started down the other side, sliding and gouging a trail through the loose rotten rock, stumbling and half-falling down to where the slope shallowed to allow brush and trees to take hold. Here he stopped and brought his hands to his mouth. ‘Sayers!’ he called, hoarsely. ‘Come to me! I have news!’

He tottered on then, knowing that any of the ancestors, the Eithjar, could appear before him should they choose to. He walked due north now. He meant to keep going until he could go no further.

Eventually, as the day waned, he pushed through spruce woods to find a shape awaiting him, translucent, wavering, a tall man in leathers, smoky knives at his hips. Orman stopped before him. ‘I have news,’ he gasped. The figure nodded. ‘Lotji Bain has taken Jass, the youngest of your line. He has taken Svalthbrul as well, though to you that should matter far less than what else I have to say. The Bains are broken, retreating. Soon a lowlander army will advance up their Holding. The Losts propose to attack it in concert from both sides. Take this news to Jaochim.’

‘You should speak to Jaochim or Yrain,’ the ancestor spirit answered, its voice hardly more than the brushing of the wind through the trees.

‘No. I go north.’

The figure’s gaze shifted away and rose to the heights. ‘North? To what end?’

‘I go to seek the one who should care the most regarding your line.

The Eithjar shook its head. ‘He will not listen to you. You will perish in cold and hunger on the great ice.’

‘So be it.’

The ghost nodded grim acceptance. ‘Indeed. Farwell.’

Orman answered the curt nod. He walked on.

He knew it was as the Eithjar said. He would win through or die in the attempt and he was satisfied with either end. Both were better than meekly offering his head to Jaochim in payment for the failure to observe his duty. He would run on, heading north, until those legendary serpents of ice consumed him.

It would be a fitting end; he remembered all the many nights he’d spent watching the sapphire crags. How they glimmered like jewels strung about the neck of the Salt range peaks. Now he would finally have his chance to see them before he died.

* * *

They followed the coast of the Sea of Dread eastward, where legends and sailors’ stories told of a settlement and a fortress; a great stone keep named for its ruler, Mist. Jute thought the coast unpromising: the soil too rocky and thin for decent farming. Pine forest dominated. It swept up broad slopes of foothills that disappeared into fog-shrouded distances. At least the wildlife was rich. Fish were plentiful, eagles soared overhead, and one or two large tawny bears were spotted ambling through the brush.

Word came via the many fishing launches and ship’s boats oaring between the four vessels that Captain Cartheron was recovering and that he’d chosen to remain on board the Supplicant for the while. Ieleen had chuckled throatily at that news and when Jute made a questioning sound she explained: ‘Gettin’ together, those two. Much to talk about, no doubt.’

Jute had frowned at the news, baffled. What could such a potent sorceress see in that battered old veteran? Certainly, he’d had his heyday as a top lieutenant and confidant of the hoary old emperor, but all that had been long ago.

The further east they ventured the thicker and more persistent the ground fog and banks of mist became. Jute could even watch it pouring down the forest slopes and out over the calm waters like some sort of liquid itself. At first he was alarmed, as it reminded him of the enchanted fogs of the Sea of Dread. But Ieleen did not seem concerned, and so he decided it must be a purely natural phenomenon.

Also growing in number were those chunks of floating ice, some as large as the vessels themselves. Jute kept a number of the crew permanently armed with poles to fend the hazards off. They also occasionally encountered great sheets of ice loose upon the surface. These passed lazily, drifting south. Some appeared no thicker than a skin, others a good arm’s depth of rock-hard ice.

It occurred to Jute that they were witnessing a spring break-up, and that somewhere to the east there must lie a great congestion of ice.

Farmsteads emerged from the mists: modest log and sod huts amid clearings hacked from the forest. Rounding a bay they came to a broad low headland, cloaked in fog, where a single tall keep of stone reared close to a rising cliff behind. A clutch of huts and cleared fields surrounded it and the shore was crowded by vessels heaved up upon the flats. Jute counted some fifty of them.

East of this lay an inlet choked in ice. Jute could hear the grinding and groaning of the massive sheet. Behind the inlet, further inland, rose what appeared to be a mountain of ice — a great sky-blue dome that gleamed like a sapphire jewel.

‘If only you could see this, dearest,’ he told Ieleen, awed.

‘I see something,’ she murmured, and she did not sound pleased by it.

The Supplicant anchored clear of the shore, while Jute had the crew drive the Dawn up on to the flats. The Ragstopper anchored next to the sorceress’s vessel; the Resolute drew up next to the Dawn. Jute was troubled to see all the nearby ships were empty of any crew. No guards or watches, and no teams working on repairs even though most were quite badly in need of it.

He ordered a watch, armed himself, and kissed Ieleen on the cheek.

‘Have a care, luv,’ she told him. ‘I’ve a sense our friend isn’t the only power here.’

The mud was thick and chill. It clung to his boots like weights as he made his way up the shore. Tyvar emerged, fully armed and armoured, helmet tucked under one arm. His long blue cape dragged in the mud as he came.

‘Greetings!’ the mercenary called out, grinning behind his beard, as friendly as ever. ‘How fares our pilot?’

‘She is recovered, thank you.’

‘Excellent! And our Malazan friend is also in good care, so I hear.’

‘Yes.’

Tyvar gestured a gauntleted hand to the keep. ‘And what do you make of the settlement?’

Jute peered round. There were people about: figures could be seen working the many fields where scarves of fog drifted. ‘Quiet.’

Tyvar’s smile hardened and he nodded. ‘Ah! Here comes our, ah, ally.’ He motioned to the flats. A launch had pulled up, oared by crew that Jute couldn’t identify over the distance. The tall unmistakable figure of Lady Orosenn straightened then, and stepped out into the mud. She made for shore. As she neared, Jute saw with some surprise that she had changed her outfit: she now wore tall leather moccasins laced to the knees over buckskin trousers, belted, with a shirt and a long thick felt jacket hanging open at the front. Her hair blew long and midnight black about her shoulders. Her face, now uncovered, revealed a broad tall brow, deep ridges sheltering the eyes, and a long heavy jaw.

He and Tyvar bowed. ‘Greetings, Lady Orosenn,’ the mercenary rumbled. ‘You are dressed for the weather, I see.’

She laughed, waved a hand deprecatingly, took a deep breath of the chill air. ‘I am dressed for home, friend mercenary.’

‘Home?’ Jute blurted, then regretted opening his mouth. ‘You are from here?’ he finished weakly.

The lady laughed again. ‘No, friend captain. I am not. Yet this is home all the same.’ She waved them onwards. ‘Captain Cartheron sends his regrets — he yet remains too weak to walk. Come. Let us greet our hostess, the Lady Mist. Though, I am certain she will not be so pleased to see us.’ She swept on, and Jute and the mercenary captain hurried to follow.

As they neared the keep they passed more of the locals, though, in point of fact, Jute noted that none were local. All were men and all were quite obviously from elsewhere. Jute recognized Genabackans and Malazans and glimpsed many other types unfamiliar to him despite his extensive travels. Most wore the ragged remains of sailors’ sturdy canvas trousers or leathers; most carried hoes and other farmers’ implements. None would meet their gaze as they passed. Some even turned away, or shook their heads.

Jute glanced to Tyvar. ‘Solemn lot.’

‘I see fear,’ the mercenary rumbled.

‘They are trapped,’ Lady Orosenn commented.

Tyvar’s gaze narrowed. ‘As we shall be?’

‘I will do my best to extricate us.’

The mercenary captain grunted in answer, but his hand now rested on the grip of his greatsword.

The iron-bound door to the keep stood open. No guard challenged them as they entered. The way led to a long main hall. All was dim as the only light shone in through high slit windows. No torches or braziers burned. Against the far wall a woman in glowing white robes waited. She was seated upon a tall-backed chair, or throne, of rough-carved wood.

As they neared, Jute realized that the long snowy robes spread out around her in ragged tag-ends actually reached all the way to the sides of the long hall. Disturbingly, as he watched, these banners seemed to twist and writhe as if possessing a life of their own. He hastily pulled his gaze away.

The woman smiled and motioned them onward. Her hair was iron-grey and hung about her in long swaths that also spread out upon the stone flags.

Tyvar approached and knelt upon one knee. Lady Orosenn bowed deeply. Jute hastened to follow suit.

‘Lady Mist,’ Tyvar began, ‘we thank you for this audience. I am Commander Gendarian, Tyvar Gendarian, of the Blue Shields. With me are Captain Jute, and Lady Orosenn. May we take this opportunity to beg for supplies and timber to repair our vessels, as the passage here has been a most trying one.’

‘Greetings, travellers,’ the sorceress answered. ‘I extend to you the protection and security of residency here in the settlement of Mist.’

Residency? Jute cast an uneasy glance to Lady Orosenn. The tall woman was shaking her head, her expression one of sad displeasure. Even Tyvar glanced back to share a rather stunned look. ‘I’m sorry, m’lady, but I’m not certain I understand …’ he offered, ever diplomatic.

Lady Mist opened her arms. ‘I should have thought my meaning was plain. You are now my subjects. You will surrender your weapons and armour and join the rest of the men and women here tilling the soil and building a settlement. You have until tomorrow to comply.’

Tyvar cocked his head, as if confronted by something bizarre. ‘And if we do not?’

The sorceress did not answer. She merely returned her arms to the throne’s thick armrests. The silence dragged on and Jute almost turned to whisper to Lady Orosenn, but something caught his eye down upon the stone flags and he flinched instead: scarves of mist now coiled about Tyvar’s feet and even as Jute watched they began writhing up his legs like winding sheets.

Tyvar hissed, sensing something, and glanced down to bat at his legs. The ropes cinched tight and he fell to the floor in a clatter of armour. His helmet skittered off into the dark.

‘Sorceress!’ Lady Orosenn suddenly called out, commandingly.

The ropes of mist fell away and dispersed like smoke. Tyvar was on his feet in one quick leap. A gauntleted hand went to the long grip of his greatsword. Lady Orosenn reached out to gently touch the man’s shoulder and he immediately released the weapon.

The sorceress was nodding through all this. ‘A very wise decision. For you see … I am not entirely unprotected.’ And she gestured, waving her hand forward.

Heavy thumping steps sounded from the dark corners behind the throne. Out stepped two giants, or so they appeared to Jute. Hoary shapes out of legend. Jaghut? Trell? Fabled Toblakai? Who was to know? Fully two fathoms tall they must have been. One wore a long heavy coat of bronze scales that hung to the floor in ragged lengths. He was bearded, his hair a thick nest, his jaw massive with pronounced tusk-like upwards-jutting canines. He carried an immensely wide two-headed axe; this he thumped to the flags before his sandalled feet in a blow that shook the floor. The other stood nearly identical but girt in armour of overlapping iron scales. Thrust through his belt was a greatsword fully as tall as any man, from its tip to its plain hexagonal pommel of bevelled iron.

Both favoured the party with hungry eager grins.

‘Allow me to introduce my sons,’ Mist continued. She extended a hand to the left. ‘Anger.’ She gestured to her right. ‘Wrath.’

Lady Orosenn lurched one step forward as if she would charge Mist. ‘You have not been kind to your sons,’ she grated.

Mist thrust a finger at her. ‘You I will allow to continue on to the north. All who come to pay tribute to our great ancestors are welcome.’

‘They are not my ancestors,’ Lady Orosenn growled, low and controlled, and Jute was shaken by the uncharacteristic ferocity in her voice. ‘They are more my great-nephews and nieces.’

Mist’s hands convulsed to claws on the armrests and she gaped. Then, recovering, she gave a girlish laugh and waved the words aside. ‘An outrageous claim. In any case, you have no stake in this. Stand aside.’ Her eyes moved to Tyvar, and she pointed to the entrance. ‘Go now, and convince your crews to cooperate. Any resistance or rebellion will be utterly crushed.’

Tyvar turned on his heel and marched from the hall. Jute glanced from the mercenary’s retreating back to Lady Orosenn, who had not moved, and chose to follow Tyvar. Leaving, he heard Lady Orosenn say, in a voice now touched with sadness: ‘It seems that we never learn, Mist.’ Then he heard her steps following in his wake.

The village, if it could be called that, was deserted. So too the slope down to the ships. Everyone knew to keep indoors. Jute noted with alarm the creeping banners of fog. They were coursing in towards them from all sides, as if they were streams of water sinking into a basin. Tyvar muttered to Lady Orosenn, ‘We cannot counter this sorcery. Togg is no longer with us.’

‘I will do my best. Push off immediately.’

‘I am not used to this crouching behind the cover of another.’

‘Think of me as your priestess, then.’

The big man barked a laugh. ‘Would that were so, m’lady.’

She urged him onwards. ‘Quickly, set the crew to work. No time for talking.’

‘Yes ma’am.’ Jute ran for the Silver Dawn. Drawing near, he waved, shouting: ‘Push off! All crew! Now!’

First Mate Buen appeared at the side. He shouted back, ‘What’s that?’

Jute came stumbling and slogging through the mud. ‘I said get the crew out, damn you!’

Buen gestured to the bay, now shrouded in dense mists. ‘It’s too foggy to set out. Can’t see a thing.’

Jute nearly screamed his frustration. He drew the shortsword at his side — the first time he could recall ever doing so — and pointed it at his mate. ‘Get everyone over the side now! We’re leaving or we’re dead!’

Buen raised his hands. ‘All right all right. What’s the big rush?’

‘Just do it!’

The mate turned away. ‘You heard the cap’n. Over the side.’

‘But it’s muddy out there,’ someone complained. Dulat, perhaps.

Jute leaned an arm against the slick planks and rested his head there in disbelief. He glanced across the flats: Lady Orosenn stood in the muck next to her launch, facing inland. Her oarsmen, stiff figures in rags, hardly stirred a muscle. Something about them made him jerk his gaze away to examine the Resolute. Tyvar was of course making far greater headway than he. His crew had jumped down and even now were crowding around the bows to push.

We’re going to die, he told himself.

Movement up the slope caught his eye. A lone figure, running, arms waving. It was a sailor by the rags he wore. ‘Take me!’ the man bellowed, his voice cracking. ‘By the merciful gods — take me with you!’

Buen appeared in the muck at Jute’s side. He pointed. ‘Who in the green Abyss is that?’

Jute glared, then shoved him to the planks. ‘Push, damn you!’ More of his crew came jumping reluctantly into the clinging mud. ‘Push, all of you! Push!’

‘Please take me wi-’ Something choked off the man’s call and Jute turned to look.

Coils of mist enmeshed the sailor. As Jute watched, those ropes and scarves lifted the man up into the air where he struggled in eerie silence. Then the ribbons of shifting gossamer fog about his middle yanked tight. The man vomited — but not the normal stomach contents. The very organs themselves came bursting from his mouth in a rain of escaping fluids to slap to the ground as a mess of pulped viscera. Jute fought his own gorge. The corpse, nearly cut in half now, a blood-red organ dangling from its mouth, jerked as the banners of mist yanked each limb clean off, one after the other, the arms first and then the legs.

One of Jute’s crew gagged and vomited.

The tendrils then lashed like whips and Jute ducked as the dismembered parts of the corpse came flying at the Dawn to bang against the hull. The torso thumped wetly to the deck.

‘Fucking Abyss!’ Buen yelled, ducking.

‘I told you to push,’ Jute observed. He was surprised by how calm he sounded.

The crew dashed themselves against the hull. Feet dug and slid frantically in the muck. Someone was whimpering and Jute couldn’t blame him.

A strange sort of pressure brushed against him then and he turned. Lady Orosenn had her arms out, as if pushing. Jute glanced about: the mist was rolling backwards as though in a stiff wind. Though no true wind ruffled any of them. It lashed and whipped on all sides yet was driven back — if only a short distance.

Two great bellows of rage sounded from the obscuring banks of fog. Jute’s head sank once again. Do these foreign gods never tire of their jokes? Two enormous shadowed silhouettes came lumbering down the slope.

As if this new threat were the key, the bows of the Dawn lurched backwards. The sailors followed, heaving. Water kicked up about them as they pushed into the weak surf. The hull lifted free of the flats. Jute could’ve kissed every one of the damned crew as those few left on board now reached down to help lift them up and in. He clung to the top rail, his feet dangling in the surf, and peered back. Lady Orosenn still had her arms outstretched yet even from this distance Jute could see them shuddering with effort. All about, in a clear semicircle around the ships, whips and tatters of fog lashed and writhed.

We are clear — but what of her? Jute wondered, horrified. How will she …

As he watched, the sorceress took one shaky step backwards into the launch then tumbled the rest of the way as if thrown. The stiff upright oarsmen started rowing; the launch surged out into the surf. The scarves of mist came unravelling down the slope just as the brothers, Anger and Wrath, emerged like two fiends out of myth. The brothers stopped on the shore and shook their fists, bellowing their rage. The mist, however, did not halt. It came on, brushing sinuously over the waves like a horde of sea-snakes, straight for him — or so it seemed.

‘Pull me up, damn you all!’ he roared.

Hands yanked at him, heaved him up. On deck he straightened to peer at everyone gaping at the shore, then turned as something crashed into the waves just short of the bow. It sent up a towering burst of spray that splashed everyone.

On shore, Anger stooped for another boulder.

Jute turned to his astonished crew. ‘Don’t just stand there!’ he roared. ‘Man the sweeps!’

The spell of fascination was broken; the crew scrambled for the oars.

Jute returned to studying the shore. Anger had a boulder raised over his head that wouldn’t shame any siege onager. This he heaved at the Dawn in a mighty throw. The rock came whistling down to splash to the port side. Spray from the impact doused the oarsmen.

A distant crash of timber snatched Jute’s attention to the Resolute. A boulder thrown by Wrath had struck the tall bow-stem, snapping it off. Their oarsmen kept heaving and the vessel kept its headway so Jute surmised the keel remained true.

As for Lady Orosenn; her silent crew pulled her out to the waiting Supplicant with breathtaking speed. They climbed rope ladders up the side.

All along the receding shore, the bank of fog thickened to a near opaque wall. It was as if Mist were sealing off her realm in an impenetrable barrier of cloud. Only the giant brothers remained: blurred twin shadows, roaring their namesake ire and heaving rocks that now fell short in tall towers of spray and haze.

Jute went to the stern. ‘Swing us round,’ he ordered Lurjen.

‘Heading?’ the man enquired, his gaze fixed on the rippling fist-waving shadows.

‘East. There’s a channel there or I’m a Letherii philanthropist.’

‘Hit it off with the locals?’ Ieleen enquired dryly, her hands resting on her walking stick and her chin atop them.

‘The usual miscommunication, dearest.’

‘The channel may be impassable,’ she pointed out.

‘We’ll take our time.’

‘We’re too low on supplies.’

‘Then we’ll send out launches to fish or hunt — there may be seals.’

‘You’re determined, then,’ she sighed.

Jute turned to her. ‘Why, of course. After all this?’

She pensively tapped her stick to the decking. ‘I was just thinking that perhaps we’ve gone about as far as we should. All things considered …’

He squatted next to her. Sensing his nearness, she gave him a smile, but it was a wistful one. ‘I’m worried, luv,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve about pushed our luck as far as we ought.’

‘We’re about,’ Lurjen said.

‘Ahead slow,’ he answered without turning from his wife. ‘Find open water.’

‘Aye, aye. Ahead slow, Buen,’ Lurjen shouted.

‘Aye,’ the first mate answered. ‘Get a man up that mast! Two at the bows! With poles!’

‘We’ve a sorceress with us, lass,’ Jute said. ‘And a mercenary army.’

She shook her head. ‘Leave it to them. Who are we? Just common people. We don’t belong in this land of ogres and powers. It’ll be the end of us. I feel it.’ He pressed a hand to her shoulder and she took it, squeezing tightly. ‘Not much farther, yes?’

‘All right, lass. I swear. If it looks too rough. Not much farther.

‘Too rough!’ She laughed. ‘Luv — what is it now, pray tell?’

‘We escaped.’

‘You may not the next time.’

‘I’ll be careful, love.’

‘See that you are,’ she snapped, then sighed and gave his hand a squeeze.

‘Ice ahead, captain,’ Buen called from amidships.

Jute straightened. ‘Very well.’ He faced the bows, squinted ahead where the light held a bluish glow from the thickening flow of great ice slabs. ‘More men on poles. And let’s have a touch more sail.’

‘Aye, aye.’

*

Neither Storval nor any of the hired swordsmen would admit it, but Reuth’s navigation saw the Lady’s Luck south through the Wreckers’ Coast. Only his uncle offered any acknowledgement of the feat, and this with mere cuffs across Reuth’s shoulder. Meagre fare, but more affection than the coarse, bluff fellow generally granted.

Reuth kept apart from the band of fighters Storval had gathered about himself: the sneering Stormguard and other disaffected swordsman from Fist. The Mare sailors generally avoided the fighting men as well, siding now with his uncle in any discussion regarding strategy or ship’s business.

It was, he knew, a very dangerous situation for the future of their venture — and for the future of his uncle, for that matter. Not to mention himself, he slowly began to understand. Navigator or no, the swordsmen in no way hid their contempt and dislike of him.

Again he wished Whiteblade were still with them. He would’ve sided with his uncle, he was certain. But then, who knew? Had the champion revealed himself these Stormguard might have attacked him immediately, as they had every reason to loathe and hate him for the loss of their Lady.

In any case, there was no way to know now.

Under Reuth’s constant guidance, the Lady’s Luck successfully rounded the tip of the Bone Peninsula and reached the mouth of the narrows. Here they found a great flotilla of vessels from seafaring cities and states from all four corners of the world. All at anchor while their pilots and steersmen studied the maze of jagged spars and stone teeth that were the Guardian Rocks.

Tulan ordered them to drop anchor here as well, and the Lady’s Luck joined the informal queue of vessels all awaiting some change in the currents, or a fellow navigator’s brash attempt to dare the rocks. Reuth had no doubt that everyone carefully watched how well these ventures fared: what course to follow, what turns to avoid.

For the rest of that day and the next he watched as well. They witnessed two attempts to thread the maze, both at high tide. One in the evening and one at the next dawn. Four ships set out in the evening. None survived the twisting, foaming course, though one nimble galley nearly made it through.

The wreckage of broken timbers and tangled rigging came washing out to pass between the anchored vessels. Few of the sailors waving their arms and begging amid the flotsam were picked up; most coursed onward past the flotilla to bob out into the grey waters of the Sea of Hate, where, Reuth was certain, all would eventually drown or be consumed by sharks.

At one point in the day Storval came ambling up to where Tulan and Reuth stood close to the bow. ‘Well, captain?’ the mate asked. These days the man said ‘captain’ in a strange tone, as if he were winking, or worse. It came to Reuth that now that they’d arrived, the mate and his gang must think themselves close to free of them. He knew that they had a long way to travel as yet, but he also knew there was no way Storval would listen to him.

‘We’ll see,’ his uncle answered.

The first mate just nodded, rather insolently, and ambled off.

‘Can you get us through there, lad?’ Tulan whispered to Reuth as they faced out over the waters, away from the crew.

‘I think so,’ he said, with far more certainty than he felt.

‘Well,’ his uncle answered in an almost apologetic sigh, ‘seems we’ve no choice in the matter now. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.’

‘So we might as well.’

His uncle didn’t speak for a time and Reuth glanced over; he found the older man eyeing him with something like surprise. Tulan grinned then, and cuffed him, far harder than usual. ‘There you are, lad!’ he exclaimed. ‘This voyage will make a man out of you yet.’

Reuth rubbed his shoulder. ‘If I live long enough …’ he muttered.

Tulan jerked a thumb out towards the narrows. ‘What do you think?’

Reuth just shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. The crew won’t follow my commands.’

‘They’ll bloody well follow mine. ’Least till they throw me overboard.’ He leaned down to rest his thick forearms on the railing. ‘These fools are such asses that all you have to do is give me the commands and I’ll shout ’em out.’

‘Would that really work?’

‘Sadly so, lad. Sadly so.’

Reuth shook his head in disbelief. Seemed he truly was learning a lot on this trip regarding the nature of men. He returned to studying the mouth of the narrows.

An angry hiss from his uncle brought his attention round to the stern. Three vessels were coming up from the south, all alike in cut and banners: three fat merchant ships specially altered for fighting, with archers’ castles fore and aft.

‘Where do they come from?’ his uncle asked.

Reuth frowned as he ransacked his memory of the sheets of ships’ sigils and heraldry he’d scanned. Plain dark blue field, a black chair or throne, with horizontal bars of gold beneath. Then he had it. ‘Lether.’

His uncle grunted. ‘Hunh. No competition at sea from them then.’

Reuth agreed with his uncle’s assessment. Not known for their seamanship, those Letherii merchants.

The gathered Stormguard suddenly raised a great ruckus, cursing and raising their spears at a ship now hugging the side of the Lady. It dropped anchor not very far from them.

Reuth saw immediately why: it was an obvious pirate vessel, a long low galley.

‘Bastard chisellers!’ Storval yelled. ‘Ready to ride our wake in, the scum. I’d like to swing over and clear their boards.’

Reuth studied the figures crowding the deck: a large contingent of warriors. Most in metal armour, banded or mail, with shields. All in similar dark tabards. Quite grim-looking, too. Serious and watchful. Reuth wasn’t sure that the Korelri swordsmen would have an easy time of it.

He returned to watching the eddies and churning currents. If these pirates — if that was what they were — wanted to try to follow them in then they were welcome to do so. Personally, he didn’t think they’d have any chance.

Finally, he decided on his course. He told Tulan to ready for a dawn run.

His uncle pulled on his greying beard and nodded sagely. ‘We’ll show these outlanders just what a Mare galley can do, hey? Join me at the stern.’

‘The stern? Must I?’

‘Aye, next to Gren.’ Gren was their best tillerman. Reuth nodded, though unhappily. He hated being at the stern where Storval and the Stormguard held court. Yet it made sense.

Tulan reached out but this time gently squeezed Reuth’s shoulder in his big paw. ‘High tide, then.’ Reuth nodded. ‘Good. Get some sleep till then, won’t you? Rest, hey?’ Reuth nodded again, and slid down the side to sit with his back to the timbers.

He wrapped himself in a blanket and tucked his hands under his armpits. His uncle might be eager to show off to everyone the superiority of a Mare galley, but what he wanted to do was wipe the superior sneers off the faces of these Korelri soldiers with a clear demonstration of his skill and worth.

He just hoped to all those false foreign gods that he didn’t mess it up.

His uncle’s barked orders woke him before dawn. He had the crew readying for the run: stowing gear, preparing the sails for quick deploying, drawing out every pole and oar on board. Reuth made his way to the stern deck. Gren was already at the tiller, his broad arms hanging over the wooden arm. The veteran Mare sailor gave Reuth a wary nod. Other than Gren, Reuth and Tulan, the stern was empty; Tulan had everyone, the Stormguard included, manning the oars, or ready to step in. Storval paced the main walkway, overseeing the oarsmen. He would pass along Tulan’s orders.

Reuth already had a shaded eye on the waterline of the foremost rocks where the honey glow of the false dawn shone across the narrows. He was alarmed; the waters were rising faster than he’d anticipated. He caught his uncle’s gaze. Tulan raised a brow in an unspoken question. Reuth nodded. Tulan leaned against the stern railing, shouted: ‘Lower oars! Full speed.’

Storval echoed the orders.

The oars slapped the waves to either side of the narrow galley and they shot ahead with such power that Reuth had to take a backward step. Gren shot him a grin, but not a superior one; the man was actually grinning with a kind of savage anticipation. Reuth was fascinated to see him wrapping one of his arms in a rope attached to the tiller.

‘Better tie yourself off there, lad,’ the veteran warned.

Reuth started, surprised, then peered around: he found a line and wrapped it about his waist, then secured himself to the side.

‘Going to see us through, hey, lad?’ Gren observed.

Reuth felt his cheeks heat.

Gren drew a bone-handled knife from his side and slammed it into the tiller close to the rope.

‘No — Tulan’s in charge. What’s the knife for?’

‘In case we capsize, lad, an’ I have to cut m’self free. Now, none of this talk of your uncle. We’re Mare sailors, you ’n’ I. These Korelri Chosen, what do they know of Ruse? Nothing. In pointa fact, they hate the sea. But between you ’n’ me — you have the Ruse-sense, lad. I seen it.’

Reuth blinked at the burly fellow. ‘You’ve seen it?’

Gren winked. ‘Oh, aye. When they look out over the water they scowl and glance away. They’re frightened. But when you watch the sea, you smile. That’s why they don’t like you, lad … you’re not scared of the sea.’

Reuth stared, speechless. Such an idea had never occurred to him.

‘Full speed I said, damn you!’ Tulan shouted again. He glanced back to Reuth then glared past him, his face darkening. ‘Damned shadows sneaking in after us!’

Reuth glanced back: numerous ships were under way, all sweeping into line along their wake. The first was the local pirate vessel. He thought them foolish to come chasing in — their galley had far too little freeboard for the manoeuvring that would be needed here.

‘Over ten ships, lad!’ Gren laughed. ‘There’s a compliment. They know we’re Mare sailors, and this is a Mare vessel. If any sailor can thread this needle, it’s us!’

Tulan shot Reuth a questioning glance, which he answered with a nod. He turned to Gren: ‘Hug the starboard shore as we come in the mouth. Be ready to swing full to port.’

‘Aye.’

Tulan nodded at this, reassured, and returned to facing the bows.

The roar of churning waters swelled. In the unruly yawing and bucking of the galley, Reuth felt the currents beneath them swirling and hammering as the incoming high tide wrestled with the narrows’ outflow. The first of the rocks passed as dark blotches in the channel — submerged now, but still lurking tall enough to snatch a keel. Already Reuth’s face was chill and wet from the spray suspended in the gusting winds that howled down the constricting cliffs of the narrows.

Gren stood hunched over the tiller arm, his bare feet splayed wide. ‘You do what you have to do, lad,’ he urged, winking.

Reuth swallowed hard and drew a hand down his face to wipe away the spray. ‘Chase speed,’ he shouted.

‘Chase speed!’ Tulan immediately bellowed, hands to mouth.

‘Chase speed!’ Reuth barely heard Storval echoing. He did notice that the first mate no longer paced the walk. Now he stood with an arm round the mast, probably gripping a line.

Gren had lost something of his grin now as he studied the oars. Reuth spared a glance and saw right away that they were far from the ideal unison in their slashing dip and rise. He recognized the interference of the inexperienced swordsmen — regrettable, but necessary for power. He’d have to take it into account in his estimates. ‘Ramming speed,’ he called.

‘Ramming speed!’ Tulan bellowed.

The Lady’s Luck surged ahead, rocking Reuth on his feet. They shot between the first of the black jagged teeth of the Guardian Rocks. The foaming slew of waves danced about them. One fat swell of webbed olive-green water rose taller than their side. Reuth now kept his vision far ahead of their position. ‘Ready on the turn,’ he warned.

‘Aye.’

Reuth delayed until he dared not wait a heartbeat longer and yelled, ‘Full port!’

Gren drove the tiller arm aside, grunting, legs straining. He even set his shoulder against it. The Lady’s Luck groaned around them as she slewed over. Tulan steadied himself against the stern railing. Reuth grabbed hold of the line holding him upright as the galley rolled frighteningly. They started across the narrows and Reuth saw immediately that their line wasn’t what he was shooting for.

‘Port oars ease off!’ he called, panic now in his voice.

‘Port oars ease off!’ Tulan roared.

Reuth assumed Storval was relaying the commands but he heard none of it over the grinding thunder of the waters about them. The port oars rose to stand straight out from the side. The Lady’s bow nosed over as the opposite row of oars powered on. ‘Resume oars!’ Reuth yelled.

Tulan relayed the command. The line of port oars dipped. Reuth breathed a sigh of immense relief. Their line looked good to him, but they’d lost speed. He leaned, pointing, to shout to Gren: ‘I want a line between that short rock and the cliff for another sweep to the middle.’

The steersman’s thick brows rose, but he nodded. ‘Aye.’

The Lady’s Luck jumped then, flinching as if stabbed, and slewed aside. The grinding of wood over rock momentarily silenced the water’s roar. Reuth leaned over the side in time to see a black shadow sweep past beneath the surface. They’d struck a submerged rock a glancing blow.

Gren strained to bring the bow back into line. ‘Chase speed!’ Reuth yelled.

Tulan repeated the command with a good deal of cursing and fuming.

Reuth felt the surge of renewed speed as the oarsmen leaned into their work. The swordsmen were useless on their timing, but they had real power. And the Lady was responding as before: she didn’t feel sluggish at all. The planking held, thank their Mare carpenters and Ruse enchantments of seam and timber.

They were coming abreast of the short black tooth of rock that Reuth had named the pony in his mental map of the route ahead, and he called out: ‘Ready for the return!’

‘Aye!’

‘Now! Sweep to the middle!’

Gren cursed and heaved, bringing the heavy timber arm back the opposite way. The Lady’s bows now swung over, but heavily, as they fought the swifter current in this narrow pinch close to the port cliff.

‘Ramming speed!’ Reuth called out.

‘Ramming speed, you dogs, or we’ll drink with Mael this night!’ Tulan roared.

The oars dug in, pulling. The Lady shuddered. So close did they draw to the cliff that one rear oar on the port side clattered from the face. They gained speed as real panic seemed to take hold and the Lady shot out towards the middle of the channel.

Reuth was pleased: they’d avoided the worst of this lowest section of the Rocks, stretches where the waters swelled and boiled signalling many hidden teeth below. The line ahead promised smooth glassy portions. Briefly, he wondered how the trailing vessels fared, but he dared not glance to the rear to search for them.

He pointed to the coming maze of rocks. ‘Take that first one on the port side, Gren.’

‘Aye.’

After that first turn of the crowded middle section, Reuth couldn’t be certain of the route he chose. He only had split seconds to send the bow one way or the other and the answers came to him more or less on instinct: the fat curl of one swell; the deeper blue of one particular channel; the foam gathered in one side pool that promised a slower current. The teeth brushed past so close Tulan stepped in to order oars raised, or poles deployed to fend the Lady off a rock the current was pressing her against. Wood scraped in tortured groans. Oars cracked on stone, or were bashed aside in a rattling head-smashing sweep of the benches.

At one point a sideswipe knocked the entire starboard side into disorder in a running clatter of breaking oars. Tulan leapt the stern railing to help clear the chaos. Here the discipline of the Stormguard paid off as they immediately followed every command. Reuth glimpsed one of them pulling blind, his face a solid sheet of blood pouring from a gash in his scalp. Another yanked one-handed while his other hung useless, the bone of his forearm shattered.

These men know how to fight the sea, he realized. This was their life, their sworn calling. He had one moment to realize that this was why they’d left Korel — they could no longer find a battle there — then the next instant he had to select an escape even as the Lady, losing headway, began a spin driven by the current.

‘Back round!’ he yelled to Gren. ‘Circle the rock for another try!’

The steersman shot him a mad grin and laughed. He pushed the arm fully over.

This particular rock was a huge one, which was why Reuth could try the move. He only hoped that Tulan and Storval could knock the starboard banks into order before they came round once more. As the Lady made its dancing turn round the great tooth, Reuth was treated to a view back up Fear Narrows. He glimpsed many ships yet in play, all galleys, the pirate vessel closest behind. Its sweeps flashed in poor timing but with massive deep bites that seemed to lift the entire ship.

Spelling, he said to himself. They must be spelling the oarsmen — no one could sustain such an effort for longer than one quick rush.

The bow continued its arc and then came the time for them to catch the current once more. Reuth looked to the banks: the port oars were raised waiting to start, but disorder still reigned among the starboard sweeps.

‘Trapped,’ Reuth breathed aloud. ‘We’re caught!’

‘What for it then, lad?’ Gren answered.

‘Port side drag oars!’ he yelled. Gren took up the call as well, yet Reuth could well imagine that their voices hardly carried over the thunder of the churning waves pounding on all sides.

Then Tulan’s great bull-roar sounded out: ‘Drop them port sweeps! Back oars! Push, you dogs! Break your backs!’

The drag pulled on the bow and in the widening gap a portion of the starboard sweeps bit into the swell.

‘Take us into the open,’ Reuth told Gren. He nearly dropped then, quivering, his legs almost without strength.

The steersman nodded. ‘The line?’

Reuth gestured up the middle. ‘It looks to be opening up.’

The Lady limped along now, but the narrows broadened here, the current slower. The vertical cliffs still allowed no respite for any crippled vessel, but they made headway. Reuth allowed himself a glance to the rear: incredibly, many vessels still followed.

He returned to scanning for the best route ahead. Don’t fail now, he told himself. Not when we must be nearly through. He examined the waters emerging from round each looming rock ahead; some frothed far more than others, suggesting a rougher path. He decided to keep to weaving through the middle to avoid getting pinched against a cliff.

This long drawn out section of the way wore hardest upon him. He was already exhausted, unable to focus as well as he had. He dragged a hand down his face and rubbed his stinging eyes. Then he thought of the oarsmen still pulling below him and shook off the mood. None of them had been spelled through any of this. The Lady simply didn’t have a large enough complement.

‘We might be through,’ he told Gren.

The steersman rolled his massive shoulders to loosen them. ‘We might.’ Then he frowned. ‘I smell smoke.’

Reuth squinted ahead. Smoke? How could there be … He caught coils of black smoke now curling round the rocks ahead. What in the Lady’s name …?

The stern of a tall three-tiered vessel came edging out from behind the looming centre tooth — an enormous galley entirely engulfed in flames.

Shouts of alarm sounded from the crew below.

‘Lad …’ Gren murmured.

Reuth simply stared. A sea battle ahead? A sea battle in the middle of the narrows? But the Lady’s entire crew was given over to the benches. How could they possibly hope to -

‘Lad, choose …’ Gren prompted, louder. ‘Now.’

Reuth shook himself. Choose? Now? He studied the vessel’s aimless spin as it came heading broadside down towards them like a wall of fire. Black smoke billowed, cloaking a portion of the channel.

‘Hard Port!’ he shouted.

Gren thrust the tiller arm over. The Lady’s bow swung towards the port shore of the narrows while the burning vessel, helpless in the current, came directly across their line. Smoke blew across their deck in thick sooty billows that blinded Reuth.

‘Pull!’ Tulan urged, coughing. ‘Keep pulling!’

The hungry roar of flames now overtook the rush and hissing of the waters about them. Gouts of flame penetrated the wall of smoke like bursts of those damned Moranth munitions. A firestorm much taller than the Lady came crackling and thundering, as searingly hot as an enormous kiln, directly past their starboard side. Reuth covered his face. He coughed and gagged in the thick oily smoke. Something hot kissed his hand and he yelped, jumping and waving the hand.

‘Put those fires out!’ he heard Tulan barking. ‘Douse those embers!’

The pall of smoke began to clear. ‘Sail’s caught!’ Storval shouted.

‘Drop it!’ Tulan ordered.

‘Cut the ropes!’ Reuth heard Storval call.

Blinking, Reuth felt more than saw the bundled sail come crashing down, crossbar and all, while flames licked about it. ‘Overboard!’ Tulan bellowed. ‘Now!’

Men grunted and heaved. Wood grated, then a heavy splash announced that the burning bundle had struck the waves.

Reuth started then, remembering his duty, and called out: ‘Back over, Gren.’

The steersman grunted his surprise and slammed the arm across. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured.

Reuth wiped his face and his hands came away black with soot. ‘Is it a sea battle, Gren?’

‘Don’t know, lad.’

‘Because we can’t-’

‘Never mind. You just get us through.’

Reuth gave a quick shamed nod. ‘Yes. Sorry.’

He studied the possible paths ahead. The way appeared to be broadening. He did his best to choose the turns that would send them into a line that would allow the most options. His main concern now was their waning speed. The men were spent, of course, and their headway was flagging. Yet the current was weakening. Portions of this section even ran smooth.

After a few more slow turns they emerged into a full wide channel marred only by a few isolated rearing teeth. It appeared they’d run the Guardian Rocks.

Gren shot Reuth his mad grin.

Tulan came stomping up to the stern. Soot blackened his sodden furs and his beard seemed to have caught fire along one side. He was drawing in great breaths as he laid a hand on Reuth’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Well done, lad,’ he croaked, his voice almost gone. ‘Well done.’ He turned to peer ahead, drew in a great lungful of air. ‘Now what?’

‘There are a few mentions of a settlement here. Ruse, some write it.’

Tulan grunted. ‘Fair enough. We’ll make for it. We need safe moorage for a refit.’

Gren began untying himself from the tiller arm. ‘You’ve your sea legs now, I think, hey?’

‘I’ve had enough of the sea.’

Gren laughed. ‘There you go. You’ve the way of it now.’

A sailor Tulan had sent up the mast now called out: ‘Our shadows are with us. One close, others distant.’

Reuth glanced behind. Indeed, more vessels were limping out from among the rearing teeth. They were far behind, but it appeared that the lead one was their pirate friend.

The crew continued to row, but at a leisurely pace. The narrows broadened. There was almost enough of a breeze to warrant lowering a sail, if they still had one.

‘Something ahead,’ the lookout shouted.

Reuth shaded his eyes but couldn’t make anything out. Tulan called up: ‘What is it, man?’

‘Hard to tell … ships! Looks like a mass of ships!’

Reuth thought of his worries about a sea battle. Tulan’s brows crimped and a hand went to check for the sword at his hip. ‘See that everyone’s armed,’ he ordered Storval.

‘Aye.’

They closed at a slowing pace. What awaited ahead was a mass of ships, but no fighting. The forest of mismatched galleys, launches, fishing boats and cargo vessels were congregated around a slim side channel. As they neared, it became clear that most had seen heavy fighting. Reuth made out archers crowding almost every deck. ‘Don’t like the look of this,’ he murmured to Gren.

‘We’ll surprise ’em,’ Tulan answered. He leaned over the stern railing. ‘Full speed! Looks like a reception committee.’

‘You heard the man,’ Storval announced. ‘No more easing off! You and you — back to your positions.’

Ahead, a single arrow took flight above the ragtag navy and with that signal the vessels dispersed like a swarm of bees. It looked to Reuth as though they meant to cordon off the entire narrows.

‘Chase speed!’ Tulan bellowed out.

The Lady’s Luck surged ahead, though with not nearly the power and crispness of earlier in the day. It was now a race. Reuth motioned to the opposite cliff face and Gren nodded. He slowly angled the bow aside.

‘Ramming speed!’ Tulan ordered. In answer, the Lady’s Luck hardly accelerated. ‘Row, you wretches!’ the huge man raged. ‘Put some effort into it for a change!’

The fastest of the navy vessels were leading the dash to the opposite cliffs, but it looked to Reuth as if they might just slip past first. He congratulated himself on being of Mare — the greatest seafarers and shipbuilders on the earth.

He turned to Gren with a smile on his lips. ‘We might just-’

‘Get down!’ the steersman cried, and yanked him by an arm.

A rain of arrows came slamming into the Lady’s Luck. Men yelled all up and down the benches. The sweeps clattered and slapped into chaos. Some caught the water to drag. The Lady lost headway as if sliding up a sand bar. Tulan was now bellowing among the oarsmen. A second volley of arrows swept the deck and Gren held Reuth in the cover of the ship’s side.

Something rammed them in a snapping of sweeps and grinding of timbers. Reuth’s head struck the side, leaving his vision blurry. He peered up to see that a smaller galley had struck them a glancing blow. Grapnels flew from the enemy vessel while a crowd of archers continued to rake the Lady.

‘Cut those ropes!’ Tulan roared.

A second blow shuddered through the Lady’s Luck as another vessel scoured alongside.

‘Repel boarders!’ Storval called.

‘Doesn’t look good,’ Gren hissed, looking down. Reuth followed his gaze to see an arrow standing from the man’s thigh.

‘Gren! What should I do?’

‘Be a good lad and tear a piece of cloth for me.’

Reuth tore at his own shirt. The steersman snapped off the standing length of shaft then reached under his leg, clenched his teeth, and yanked on something. He grunted his agony, then lifted a hand holding a bloodied arrowhead and shaft. He tossed it aside then sat heavily, nearly passing out. Reuth tied off his leg.

Another impact threw him from his feet to roll across the stern deck. He clambered up and peeked over the side. They’d been rammed from behind to be knocked clear of the ships that had surrounded them and now they drifted with this new galley — the pirate vessel that had followed them in.

Armoured men and women, all in deep blood-red tabards, leapt from its bows to the Lady’s stern. One of them, a shorter fellow with a strange grey-blue pallor to his skin, peered down at him. Surprisingly, the fellow carried no weapons, only two short sticks. ‘Where is your captain?’ he demanded.

‘I command here!’ Storval answered, climbing the stern deck, sword out.

The newcomer raised his hands, fingers spread. ‘Man your sweeps. We’ll cover your retreat.’

‘And who in the Lady’s name are you?’ Storval sneered.

‘Doesn’t matter. Get your banks in order. They’re closing again.’

Storval peered past the man to the rear, grunted his assent. He sheathed the sword and thumped down to the main walkway. ‘Man the sweeps!’ he called. ‘Everyone! Now!’

Reuth leapt the stern railing. Storval? Why Storval? Where’s … He searched among the benches then found him lying sprawled among some other bodies. His uncle, fallen, motionless. Dead.

The newcomer now stood at his side. ‘Lad? What is it? Are you all right?’

Reuth raised his gaze to the man. Behind, across a gap of water, three of the leading chase vessels suddenly burst into flames for no reason that Reuth could see. Figures dived overboard. But it was all muted and distant. As if everything was a long way away. He heard himself say woodenly: ‘My uncle is dead.’

‘I’m sorry, lad,’ the fellow murmured. ‘You are the pilot? We saw you here, at the stern.’

Reuth nodded. The fellow was looking at him strangely, and nodding to himself. ‘We are in your debt,’ he said. ‘And the Crimson Guard pays its debts.’