Assail

by Ian C. Esslemont

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘I did not mean to …’ he began.

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

  ‘Blood-price?’

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

  ‘And I do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Act? How so? What is it I’m to do?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Was so.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Would you announce me?’ Fisher asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Fisher sketched a salute and edged between them.

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

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

  ‘I thank you, m’lady.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Very dangerous.’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Interesting …’ she said at last.

  Fisher frowned at that. ‘How so?’

  ‘Holden?’

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

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

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

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