Cold intelligence regarded them through the empty dark sockets. No one, Fisher noted, had run; all had understood that the creature had them within its reach. All gripped weapons, were hunched for battle. The Malazan veterans had even readied their broad heavy-infantry shields.
All except Jethiss, who stood with arms crossed, an expression upon his face that Fisher could only interpret as disgust.
‘Pay the price,’ the creature boomed in a voice that brought rocks tumbling down the trail, ‘and you may pass.’
The Cawn mage, Holden stepped forward. Fisher had to give the ex-cadre mage his due: the man was damned brave. ‘What is your price?’
‘One in three must give his bones.’
Malle, just behind Fisher, let her breath out in a furious hiss. ‘This is not to be borne,’ she murmured.
‘And if we merely turn round?’ Holden asked.
‘Fight or flee, the bones of all will stay behind.’
‘A steep price then,’ Teal whispered to Malle. ‘But better than …’
He tailed off, because Jethiss had stepped forward.
‘What is your name?’ the Andii demanded.
Teal glared at Fisher. ‘Shut that damned fool up before he gets us all killed!’
The giant’s dragon skull turned to examine Jethiss. ‘You ask my name,’ it boomed. ‘You who do not even know your own.’
Fisher could have sworn that Jethiss literally jumped into the air at that. His arms fell to his sides, his hands clutched. He edged even closer to the creature. ‘Give me my name.’
The dark empty sockets regarded him steadily. Fisher thought he glimpsed dark blue-black flames flickering within. ‘I will strike a bargain with thee, child of the Andii.’ Its voice growled and rolled, and struck echoes from deep within the defile below. ‘Give me your bones and all others may keep theirs.’
‘And my name?’
‘That you shall have – for a time.’
Fisher lunged forward. ‘No!’
‘Done,’ Jethiss called out, sweeping a hand to seal the bargain.
Fisher gripped his arm. ‘Are you a fool? What have you done?’
The man offered a crooked smile. ‘I have bought my name – at a fair price.’
‘At the price of your life!’
‘At the price of saving near twenty.’
Fisher released him, let out a ragged breath. ‘Well, yes. But still …’
‘All must pass now!’ the creature boomed. ‘Go!’
Marshal Teal approached, inclined his head to Jethiss. He regarded him for a time as if searching for the right words, then said, ‘You may not believe me when I say this … but I understand what you are doing. We in Lether believe that everything has a price, but we are not fools. We understand that the most important things are paid for with blood. And so I salute you. You have found something more precious than life … I can only hope to find a thing so precious myself one day.’ And he bowed again, then waved his guard forward.
Malle came next – on foot. One of her guards led her mount. She studied Jethiss closely, peering sharply at him. ‘This is distasteful to me,’ she said. ‘Especially when,’ and she leaned forward, lowering her voice, ‘as you fighting men say, I believe we could have taken him.’
Jethiss smiled again. ‘At the price of many more than twenty, I should think.’
Her mouth remained a tight slash. ‘Still, I do not like it.’ She shook her head, cast a quick glance to the creature, which had raised its notched skull and now stared into the distance, seemingly paying no attention, and whispered, ‘Remember your ancestry.’ She bowed, and moved away. Her Malazan guard of veterans followed. Every one of them saluted.
Enguf came last. He was rubbing the back of his neck and looking quite sheepish. ‘A third of my lads and lasses thank you heartily. I tell you, they were all for running off. But now … well. We can hardly do that, hey?’ The man obviously wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. Finally, tears in his eyes, he lunged forward and enveloped the much taller Andii in a great hug, thumping him on the back. Releasing him, he growled, ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for, man. I truly do.’ He waved his Genabackan crew onward. Some of these, when they passed, just stared at Jethiss as if they thought him touched.
Then Fisher was alone with him. Jethiss gently urged him onward. ‘Go on. Go with my blessings. You saved me. Brought me to my name. You have my thanks.’
Fisher found himself shaking his head. ‘I’m not going.’
The Andii frowned. A touch of anger hardened his face. ‘Now who is playing the fool …’
Above them, the giant was stirring. Its titanic skull was lowering to regard them. Fisher leaned close to Jethiss. ‘You see … I too would like to know your name.’
Then the gigantic bone hands swept in and closed upon them, sweeping them off their feet and swinging them into the air, and Fisher screamed his surprise and terror as the creature took one great leap into the defile.
It thrust them into a cave that opened directly on to the sheer cliff. Fisher could see no way down as he was pushed within. The hands released them to fall to a rocky floor.
‘My name!’ Jethiss yelled into the absolute night surrounding them.
The rumbling voice echoed back, mocking. ‘I did not say when you would have it.’ Then Fisher sensed they were alone in the inky black.
‘I am sorry,’ Jethiss said from off to one side.
‘It’s all right. We still have our bones.’
‘For a time,’ Jethiss agreed.
Fisher felt at his back then, alarmed. He whipped the idum from where he’d slung it and gingerly felt along its wrapped length to find that the neck was broken. ‘Damn.’
‘What is it?’
‘Broke my neck.’
‘Your neck!’
Fisher snorted a laugh. ‘Sorry – the neck of my instrument.’
‘Oh.’
A hand clasped Fisher’s arm and helped him upright. ‘You can see?’ he marvelled.
‘I see fine. Why?’
‘I cannot. Although …’ He squinted in one direction. ‘I believe I see some sort of a glow off that way. A fire?’
After a moment Jethiss answered, ‘I see it as well.’ The hand pulled lightly. ‘I will guide you.’
Fisher shifted the hand to his elbow. ‘There.’
‘Ah. I see.’
It can’t have been that far, but the walk seemed excruciatingly long to Fisher. He lost count of the number of times he barked his shins on rocks, or twisted his ankles on the uneven cave floor. At times Jethiss had him duck under low-hanging formations or ledges. Eventually, as they neared the fire, he could see better and better, and finally he eased free of the Andii’s hand.
They came to a very modest little fire that gave hardly any light or heat. It appeared to be built of old dry roots and other such burnable trash. In the utter black of the cave, however, it felt wonderful to Fisher. He knelt to warm his hands at it.
Jethiss breathed a low warning: ‘We are not alone.’
Fisher straightened.
Two figures came emerging from the murk. Twins they appeared, so alike were they, both in rough torn leathers, both squat with extraordinarily burly muscular builds, like wrestlers, and both as hairy as bears. One was mostly bald, with gold earrings; the other sported a great massed curly nest about his head. Twigs rode in their thick black and russet beards. Long-knives and hatchets were tucked into their leather belts.
For a time they stared at each other, wordless. Then the massively haired one struck the bald one in the chest, saying, ‘It’s that songster, Fisher. Hey, Fish. Remember us?’
Fisher squinted. He knew the accent. It was a northerner’s … ‘I’m sorry … I don’t …’
The hairy one thumped his companion in his massive chest again, once more raising a cloud of dust. ‘It’s us! Badlands and Coots! Remember us? We’re of the Losts!’
And Fisher remembered, and he pressed a hand to his forehead.
‘Oh, no …’
* * *
A warband ambushed Kyle when he was a few days inland. He was not surprised. He knew that though these lands might appear a wasteland to some, to those who lived here it was their territory, their home, to be guarded against trespassers who would strain its already slim resources.
They were on foot, and arose all at once from the stiff grasses and brush of the rolling hills. He halted and raised his hands to demonstrate his peaceful intent. They wore headscarves and treated hides laced together as leathers, and carried spears, with bone-handled knives at their waists. What Kyle noticed right away was the striking similarity they bore to himself: short and broad, skin a dark olive hue, and thin facial hair of moustache and mere tufts of beard.
‘I would speak with your hetman,’ he called out.
‘You walk alone across our land and then you make demands upon us?’ one answered. ‘You are either an arrogant fool or a warrior worthy of our attention.’
‘I intend no challenge …’ Kyle began.
‘Your presence here is a challenge,’ the spokesman answered, his face hard, and he nodded. Kyle spun in time to knock away a thrown spear. He turned back to find the spokesman almost upon him in a silent rush, knife out. He dodged two quick thrusts, retreating. ‘Do not—’ He got no further as the man bellowed a war-cry and attacked again.
Though he hated to do it, Kyle drew and brought his blade up to cut through the man’s forearm. The hand flew free, still gripping the knife. The surrounding party of men and women all flinched back a step. The man clamped his remaining hand around the stump and stared in stunned wonder. Kyle picked up the thrown spear and cut through the haft in one easy slice. He raised the shortened weapon high, circling. ‘Let me pass,’ he told them. ‘I mean no challenge to you. I merely wish to pass through.’
‘What blade is that you carry?’ the man breathed in utter awe.
Kyle glanced down. The curved blade glowed its pale honey-yellow in the afternoon light. He wiped it on his trouser leg and tucked it into his shirt. ‘It is mine. Given to me and for none other.’ He swept an arm to the south. ‘Go now, report to your elders what you have found. I suggest none of you return.’
The warband leader straightened. His face was ashen with pain, his hand tight around the bleeding stump of his wrist. Yet he scowled, unbowed. ‘We will go to tell of this. But we shall return. You will not find us craven.’ He flicked his head and the rest of the warband turned as one and jogged off.
Kyle wanted to howl: I care not if you are craven or brave – just leave me alone! But he remained silent. He knew what the clan would do was not up to him; he could only hope to minimize any damage he might have to do.
The leader shuffled to where his severed hand lay, and bent to retrieve the knife.
‘Leave it!’ Kyle barked. ‘It is now mine. Is this not so?’
The man straightened. His face had darkened with the effort – and with rage. ‘It is so,’ he ground out through clenched teeth.
Kyle motioned him away. ‘Then go.’
For an instant Kyle thought the fellow might launch himself upon him, attacking with his teeth alone. But he let out an inarticulate snarl of frustration, his eyes blazing his fury, and backed away. Kyle waited until he had shambled from sight before bending down and collecting the knife.
Now he had two weapons. He set out jogging east.
*
The second night after that encounter he jumped awake to darkness and crouched, knife and blade out, circling. His feet raised dust as he shifted. The moon was out, a thin sickle. The Visitor was a fading green smear just above the western horizon.
‘Come out,’ he called. ‘Let us speak.’
A shape straightened from the brush, advanced. It was an older warrior. Grey streaked his hair. He carried a hatchet in each hand.
‘The blade glows,’ the man remarked. Kyle glanced down: the strange material of the sword seemed to collect the moonlight and shone now with a silver lustre. ‘What is your name,’ the man continued, ‘that I might recite it before the Circle?’
Kyle thought about that, then said, ‘Kylarral-ten is the given name of my youth.’
The man cocked his head, surprised. ‘In truth? Of what clan?’
‘The Sons and Daughters of the Wind, to the south.’
The man nodded. ‘We know them. We are the Silent People. What brings you to our land?’
Kyle did not take his eyes from the man as he slowly circled, his arms out, hatchets readied. He inclined his head a touch to the east. ‘I journey east and north. To the mountains.’
The man’s eyes shifted momentarily to the north. They glittered in the moonlight. He nodded. ‘Ah. I understand. A hero quest. You go to stand before the ancient ones. The ancestors. To prove your worth.’
‘Ancestors?’ Kyle said, surprised.
The man snorted his disgust. ‘Have you Children of the Wind forgotten everything?
Kyle vaguely remembered stories. But his father had not been much of a one for stories. And he died when Kyle was young and then his mother’s brother had sold him into slavery. There had been little time to sit and listen to the old tales around the fire.
None of this did he say.
‘Our forefathers,’ the man continued. ‘You must recite your lineage to be allowed into the Great Hall. There you shall fight and feast for ever, shoulder to shoulder with all the heroes of the past. And should you defeat me – here is my name. Swear you will not forget to commend me to our ancestors … Ruthel’en.’
Kyle nodded, quite serious. ‘I’ll not forget.’
‘Very good.’ Ruthel’en started circling once more.
‘We needn’t …’ Kyle began.
‘We must.’ And the man charged. But the charge was a feint. He halted abruptly to heave one of the hatchets. Kyle barely had time to raise his blade. Somehow it caught the thrown weapon, but not in time to prevent it from striking him a blow on the top of his forehead. Stunned, he just managed to deflect a disembowelling sweep across his midsection that raked through his jerkin, leaving a flaming eruption of pain behind.
Ruthen’el staggered back. His right arm hung useless, severed to the bone across the inside of the bicep. Panting, he reached across to take the hatchet into his left hand. Kyle stood weaving, blinking to clear his vision. Warm wetness covered the right side of his face, blinded that eye. He hugged his left arm across his stomach, terrified at what might happen should he let go.
Ruthen’el straightened, leaned forward to close once more. Kyle circled in a drunken stagger. He held the point of his blade straight out at the man. Ruthen’el batted the blade aside and closed. Kyle brought the sword around underneath, managing to catch the man’s side and slicing through. The shock of that blow caused Ruthen’el’s hatchet to strike flat and weak against Kyle’s shoulder, numbing the arm rather than taking his head off. Ruthen’el slipped backwards off Kyle’s blade, half eviscerated. He fell in the mess of his own blood and fluids and lay staring skyward, still conscious.
Weaving, Kyle sheathed his blade. He kept his arm pressed across his stomach and half knelt, half fell to the man’s side. Ruthen’el’s gaze found his face. ‘Remember me to the ancestors,’ he whispered wetly.
Kyle swallowed to gather spit to speak. ‘I will remember. You are the best I have ever faced. Tell me, this place of the ancestors … what do you call it?’
‘Joggenhome.’
Kyle straightened, wincing and gasping. Ruthen’el stared up at him. ‘You will not finish me?’
‘You are done.’ Kyle motioned to the east. ‘Perhaps you will last until the dawn and you will feel the warmth of the sun upon your face before you go.’
The man smiled dreamily. ‘A nice thought. But I think not.’
Kyle staggered to the dropped hatchet. He leaned down awkwardly to pick it up, then tucked it into his belt. Now he had three weapons. He shuffled off into the night.
The next day he washed his head wound at a waterhole. H
e inspected his torso and was relieved to see that it was merely a flesh wound: a slice across his upper stomach that had failed to sever any muscles. He washed it as well. He killed a lizard and cleaned it and ate the meat raw on the run.
The day after that the next warrior found him, a youth. This one he finished without taking another wound. Though strong and quick, he was far less experienced than Ruthen’el. He did not even give his name. He did shock Kyle, however, and nearly gained an advantage, by calling him ‘Whiteblade’.
He jogged now, through the rest of that day and the night, straining to put as much land as possible between himself and the Silent People. The next morning he was limping across the grassland, hardly awake, staggering and stumbling, when someone leapt up directly before him, yelled a war-cry, and bashed him to the ground.
He lay dazed, staring up at a young woman in a full coat of battered mail. She held a longsword to his throat. ‘Why are you following us?’ she demanded.
He blinked to clear his vision. ‘What? Following? I’m not …’ He swatted the blade aside, struggled to rise. The woman watched him closely, the sword still extended. He eyed her, thinking that he must be seeing a mirage. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, amazed.
‘Never mind that. What of you? What are you doing here?’
He glanced to the west, covered his gaze to scan the gently rolling steppelands. ‘I … I was travelling east when the locals set upon me.’
She grunted her understanding, sheathed the longsword. ‘They’re a murderous lot. We wrecked on the coast. Been travelling ever since. I understand there’re towns on the east coast. Civilization.’
‘We?’
‘Myself, my brother, and others. Now there’s only me and my brother.’ She whistled loudly and a head popped up from the tall grasses. She waved him in. The lad, about eight, came to stand shyly behind her. He wore a tattered shirt and trousers that might once have been very rich indeed, sewn of crushed velvet and fine leather.
He examined the tall woman more closely: thick auburn hair, pale, high cheekbones, slim but athletic build, an old scar across her right cheek from a blade. Her accent hinted of north Genabackis. ‘Who are you?’ he again asked in wonder.
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