Assail

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Kyle glanced up from studying a line of woven linen. ‘There is something troubling you?’ The lad would not meet his gaze; instead, he stared off down the long gangway that ran the length of the Lady’s Luck. ‘One of the crew kicked you aside? Cussed you up and down?’

  Reuth gave a shrug of his thin shoulders. ‘No worse than usual. No, they’re not so bad. Remember, Tulan’s the ship’s master.’

  ‘Not one to coddle you too closely, though.’

  Reuth laughed without humour. ‘No. That’s for certain.’

  Kyle set the linen line aside and turned to another, which appeared to be woven of hair. He inspected it more closely and was surprised, and a touch unnerved, to see that it was not horse hair, as he had presumed, but human hair.

  ‘Pay no attention to what these ragged sailors say, Reuth. Continue studying your maps. You could become a navigator, or a pilot. That’s a rare skill. One these hands can’t even imagine.’ He didn’t add that he himself was barely literate – it was only after joining the Guard that he learned to read and write, just.

  ‘No. It’s not them.’

  Kyle pulled on the woven line – it was strong. Perhaps it was somehow special; that is, special beyond the sacrifice made by the women of Mare for the welfare of their husbands and sons. Perhaps it was employed in the ship’s rituals surrounding the invocations of Ruse. ‘Not them?’ he asked absently.

  ‘No. It’s you.’

  He raised his gaze to the lad to find him casting quick concerned glances his way. He lowered the line. ‘Oh? Me? How so?’

  The lad licked his lips then cleared his throat into a fist. ‘You are an outlander. You served with the Malazans, yet you are not of them. You have the look and bearing of what we would call a barbarian, an inhabitant of the Wastes – your sun- and wind-darkened hue, your black hair and moustache.’

  Kyle eased himself back, straightening slightly. ‘Yes? So?’

  Reuth hesitated, then pushed on: ‘You carry that sword with you at all times. You never leave it aside in a bunk or a chest. You keep it hidden from sight, wrapped and covered …’

  ‘Yes? So?’

  ‘Well …’ The lad peered warily about then lowered his voice. ‘There are those on board who say you might be Whiteblade.’

  Whiteblade. So there it was. No longer the Whiteblade, but just Whiteblade itself. A title, or epithet. How things change and transform in the retelling as each speaker slips in one or two embellishments to make tales their own – or to move them in the direction they think they ought to go.

  ‘You’re doing it again,’ the lad said.

  Kyle studied the lad: he appeared serious, worried even, hunched forward as he was, his eyes searching. ‘Doing what?’

  Reuth pointed to his neck. Kyle lowered his gaze and jerked a touch ruefully. The lad was right: he’d gotten hold of the amber stone he kept round his neck and was rubbing it as he thought.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just an old worn piece of amber. The gift of a friend long ago.’

  ‘So – are you him? Whiteblade?’

  He chose to give an unconcerned shrug. ‘And what if I was?’

  Reuth leaned even closer. His long unwashed hair fell forward and he brushed it back with an impatient gesture that was a habit of his. ‘Then you must be careful. There are those here who would like to kill you, I think.’

  ‘Thank you, Reuth. I’ll have a care.’

  The lad nodded earnestly. Edging forward even closer, he pressed his hands together and touched his fingers to his nose. ‘Ah … so … is it true what I hear?’

  Kyle simply shook his head, smiling slightly. He picked up the sailor’s dirk he’d taken as his own, honed to a thin sickle-moon, and set to cutting a hemp line to trim it.

  Reuth sighed his disappointment and sat back. ‘Well, I had to try.’

  ‘Thank you for the warning, Reuth. Now I think that the less time you are seen with me the better for you.’

  At first the lad look stricken – as if he’d been told to go away – but then the wider implications came to him and he nodded once more. ‘Ah! I see. Well, don’t you worry about me. Tulan’s the Master, remember.’

  Kyle waved him away with the short blade. ‘Go on with you now.’

  Winking, the lad clambered to his feet and ambled off.

  Kyle worked on, unweaving the coarse hemp fibres for a splice. This he could manage with his hands alone and his gaze shifted sidelong down the length of the galley to the raised stern deck where Tulan stood wrapped in layered robes that hung to his ankles. Nearby lingered a knot of the ex-Stormguard in their blue cloaks. With them was Storval, who made no secret of his antagonism. He’d often seen them together and it occurred to him that the lad was right: he would have to keep a closer eye on them. Any deep water crossing is a risky undertaking at the best of times. Tulan might be the Master, but ships are dangerous places. A man can fall overboard any time. Even by accident.

  CHAPTER III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘They’ll be after me,’ he told them.

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

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

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

  ‘Old Bear?’ Orman asked.

  The brother shook a negative.

  ‘When?’

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

  ‘Could use a fire.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Is Gerrun joining us?’ he ventured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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