They returned to the highlands. From time to time grey shapes appeared in the woods to walk alongside them. Orman found that he no longer paid their ghostly visitors any mind at all.
He passed the time speaking to Jass and was rather embarrassed when the lad truly did treat him as an elder brother, though he was no Iceblood. He found that, indeed, there were only five living Sayers. Only these few defended the entire Holding. The bonded couple Jaochim and Yrain ruled – if that was the word for such a small clan. Of Buri, Jass confessed he had seen the man only a few times. He kept to the far north and when he visited even Jaochim bowed to him, for he was the eldest living of any clan of the Icebloods.
When they climbed the highest valley and emerged into the fields the hounds came bounding out to greet Old Bear. They leapt up upon him, licking his face and barking. He swatted them aside and tousled their ragged pelts. In turn they pulled and gnawed upon his cloak.
‘They smell the bear in you,’ Jass teased.
‘That they do,’ he answered, grinning. ‘Ale tonight, lads!’
Keth and Kasson shared small tight grins. Orman winked at Jass. They found Yrain had arrived. She and Jaochim oversaw the evening meal in two of the three raised chairs. The middle one remained empty – for Buri, Orman supposed.
Old Bear entertained them all with the tale of his appearance in the battle. How Orman fainted dead away on the spot like an old widow and how he chased the foreign soldiers up trees, into streams, and even to the very walls of Mantle town.
Everyone laughed as the tale went on and on, until it transformed into another tale, the story of one of their ancestors, Vesti the Odd-handed, and his journey to the tallest of the Salt range. There, so he claimed, he met the matriarch of all his kind living in a tower of ice, and had his amorous advances rebuffed.
‘Was this Vesti older than Buri?’ Orman asked Old Bear.
‘He was not,’ Yrain answered, cutting off the man’s answer. Orman inclined his head, accepting this. The woman shared Jaochim’s rather distant and cold manner. Her hair was long, deep flame red, and wavy. She kept it loose about her shoulders. Her build was lean and her skin had an odd hue to it, as if she possessed a touch of colour: a pale olive. She wore leathers, old and much worn, with strings of red stones, garnets, about her neck and wrists.
‘Winter is the eldest of us,’ Jaochim explained.
‘Winter?’ Orman asked.
Jaochim made a small gesture with one hand. ‘We call him that. When he visits he seems to bring winter with him.’ The man frowned then, eyeing Jass, who sat next to Old Bear. ‘Bring me your spear, Jass,’ he called.
The lad rose, puzzled. He came to the platform and handed the weapon to Jaochim, who studied the iron spearhead.
‘This weapon has taken no life,’ Jaochim announced. He handed it back butt-first. ‘I told you to blood your spear and you return it unblooded?’
Old Bear straightened on his bench, ‘The lad fought two of the soldiers. I saw with my own eyes …’
‘Yet he slew neither.’
The old man waved a thick arm. ‘Well, I’m sure that if I hadn’t come charging in—’
‘It is so,’ Jass answered, lifting his chin. ‘I took no life.’
Jaochim pointed to the front of the hall. ‘Then go. And do not return until you have taken a life in defence of our holding.’
Orman almost stood from the bench to object, but for the heavy paw of Old Bear upon his arm. This was too harsh! Yet Jass bowed. He turned away. As he did so, Orman saw his gaze flash to his mother, Vala. She sat rigid, her lips clenched against all she might say. Her eyes caught Orman’s and he saw there a silent plea – the beseeching of a mother for her son. Aware of Jaochim’s disapproving glare, Orman allowed himself only the smallest nod. The woman eased back in her seat, her shoulders falling as she let go a pent-up breath.
Jass gathered up his pack and headed for the wide front entrance. Orman half stood to follow but Old Bear’s great paw closed upon his arm again and yanked him down to his seat.
‘Let me go,’ Orman grated, his head lowered.
‘Not now, lad. Later.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s their way, lad.’
‘Their way is damned harsh.’
‘That it is. Now let it go.’ He filled Orman’s tankard. ‘Drink up. Celebrate. Today you’re alive, lad.’
‘What of it?’
‘What of it?’ Old Bear appeared horrified. ‘Why, lad. That’s everything! Live every day as if honourably facing death then celebrate if you live to see it’s end, hey?’
Orman snorted, but he had to grant the point. Living without fear. Trusting wholly in one’s skill. That was something he had yet to achieve. It was an ideal. One he fell woefully short of.
He raised the leather tankard and gulped down the ale, spilling some down his front. There! To the Abyss with everything! Damn the odds and damn these Icebloods’ rigid notion of honour. He would have none of it. He threw an arm about Old Bear’s shoulders. ‘When can I go?’ he murmured, holding his face close to the old man’s.
Old Bear laughed and slapped his back. He answered beneath his breath: ‘With the dawn.’
*
Wrapped in old furs, Orman lay awake listening to the night. Old Bear snored terribly. Distantly, somewhere in the forest, wolves howled to the night sky. He decided he couldn’t wait any longer, never mind whether he was stepping upon Jaochim’s edicts. He threw off the hides and dressed. Across the hall Kasson’s eyes glimmered in the firelight as he lay awake, watching. Orman thrust his heavy fighting knives into his belt and snatched up Svalthbrul. Across the way, Kasson raised a hand in farewell. He gave the brother a nod and jogged from the hall.
Outside, he headed south. His breath plumed in the cold night air. He wrapped cloth rags about his hands as he ran, Svalthbrul clamped under an arm. Once he reached the forest and the steepening descent into the first of the lower valleys, he stopped and peered about the dark woods.
‘Eithjar!’ he called. ‘I am searching for Jass! Which way?’
He waited, but none came. Well, I guess they don’t come when called …
He started down the trail.
When the sun rose above the lower ridges of the Salt range he was crossing a valley. A runoff stream churned down its middle, no deeper than his shins, but frigid as it splashed and hissed among the boulders and rocks of its naked bed. Across the stream he stamped his sodden feet to bring feeling back into them. He raised a hand to his mouth and called: ‘Which way?’ His shout echoed among the steep valley walls.
He almost missed it then, in his impatience and disgust. A thin ash-grey shape flickering at the treeline far to the east. He frowned at the indistinct visitation, uncertain whether his eyes were playing tricks upon him. Then the shape raised an arm pointing to the east and was gone.
Orman rubbed his gritty eyes, blinked them. Gods, the east! This high that would be … No! The little fool! Bain Holding! What could he possibly mean to …
He set off at a run the way the shade had pointed. He smashed into the dense brush, limbs snapping and lashing. He vaulted from rock to rock. The way steepened as he approached the valley side. Ahead, past the trees, the ridgeline climbed bare and rocky. Snow yet lingered in the shadows and capped the highest shoulders. The air was frigid, yet it seemed to burn his lungs as he panted onward. And all the while, Svalthbrul’s keen knapped edge sang as it cut the cold air.
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 ri
dged 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 m
assive 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.
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