Assail

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘He ran into the woods howling like a madman.’

  Arrows thudded around them as the archers fired blind. They cursed and yelled from atop the palisade. ‘Let’s go from here,’ Fisher said.

  ‘Yes.’ Something brushed Fisher’s arm: a pair of moccasined feet. Coots’. He took hold of one. Jethiss led him on through the blackness.

  They walked for some time. Jethiss coached Fisher through brush and over rocks. The slope climbed; the roar of the burning fort diminished to a distant murmur. It occurred to Fisher that to sustain such a large aura of elemental dark, Kurald Galain, must cost its summoner great effort, yet Jethiss betrayed no strain in his voice or breathing. Perhaps such raisings were natural for the Andii. He wondered, though.

  Eventually, their pace slowed. Fisher bumped Jethiss, who had stopped. ‘I can go no further,’ the Andii murmured, his voice husky.

  ‘You have done a miracle, Jethiss. Saved us for certain. They would have pursued. Tried to take our heads.’

  ‘There is a tree here,’ he said. ‘There is a view over the lowlands.’

  Like a passing deep shadow, the absolute black faded away. The sunshine glare of midday stabbed at Fisher’s eyes. He winced and shaded his gaze, peered around.

  They had climbed far into the forested slopes above the Sea of Gold. Below, it glimmered now in the sunlight with an amber-like shine – hence its name, perhaps. Jethiss sat heavily, arms draped over his knees, his head sunk, utterly spent. He’d set Coots in the nook of thick roots at the base of an old knotted spruce. The body faced down-slope; Fisher thought it appropriate. ‘Have you belts or rope?’ he asked.

  ‘I have my weapon belt.’

  ‘Keep that.’

  ‘No. Take it. I have no more use for it.’

  Fisher shook his head. ‘You’ll still need to defend yourself.’

  The Andii lifted and dropped his broad shoulders. ‘I broke the knives.’

  ‘You broke them?’ Fisher marvelled; Wickan knives were a finger thick at the hilts. Thinking of weapons, he realized he’d lost his own as well. He pulled off his belt. Jethiss offered his own. Using both, he secured Coots’ body to the tree, tying him under his arms and across his chest. Something told him to leave the multitude of arrows still residing there and so he did so, careful not to snap one shaft.

  Jethiss watched. Fisher took Coots’ long-knives and pressed them into his stiffening fingers, then laid his hands in his lap. He stood back to examine the corpse – still so broad and huge, seemingly full of life, as if asleep.

  He cleared his throat and raised his head. ‘I name these twinned long-knives the Wolf Fangs. Let it be known they did not betray their bearer. I name any hand that takes them without due respect or honour cursed to see all hands raised against them. Cursed to lose all honour and respect. Cursed to fall as crow-carrion.’

  ‘This do I so too vow,’ Jethiss added, his voice cracking.

  ‘Coots of the Lost clan,’ Fisher sang aloud:

  ‘Loyal brother, mighty in wrath.

  Mighty in wrestling, mighty in laughter.

  Far-reaver, beloved companion.

  You are lost to us, and Lost you shall remain forever.

  None shall undo this till these mountains are ground to the sea.’

  He lowered his head. ‘So ends my honour song of Coots of the Lost clan.’

  After a long silence, Jethiss motioned down the rocky slope. ‘Look there.’

  Fisher turned. A figure had emerged from the treeline. Staggering, falling, it made its agonizing way up the rocks, mostly on all fours, crawling over the stones, pulling itself up.

  It was Badlands. His leathers were torn. His limbs bled from countless cuts. His face was a glistening mask of mud and blood and tears. He crawled on, weeping, sobbing, right past Fisher’s and Jethiss’s boots till he came upon one of Coots’ moccasined feet and this he grasped as if drowning. He pressed his face to it and gave a heartbreaking moan that drove Fisher to look away. This was not for him to see; this was the private grieving of family.

  He touched Jethiss’s arm and together they walked off down the gently falling rock slope. The afternoon light gathered its amber colour. The shadows of the trees lengthened. Fisher turned to Jethiss. ‘You broke those Wickan knives …’ Jethiss nodded. Fisher eyed him speculatively. ‘Mane of Chaos – does this name mean anything to you?’

  The Andii tilted his head, considering. He shook it. ‘No. Should it?’

  ‘It is another name for Anomander Rake. Is that name familiar?’

  The man turned his face to regard him directly. There was a wariness in his dark eyes now. ‘There’s something …’ The eyes became alarmed. ‘Are you saying … that I might be …’

  Fisher shook his head. ‘I don’t know. His hair was white, though. But …’ He took a heavy breath as if steeling himself. ‘They say he gave himself to Mother Dark, to elemental night. And if he did … is it not possible that perhaps it, or she, gave him back …’

  ‘Yet he had white hair.’

  ‘True. A mark of the Eleint, the ancient songs say. The chaotic touch of T’iam. Those Elder songs also say that Mother Dark never accepted the gift of Chaos. She would not take it in, and so he would return without it …’

  Jethiss lowered his gaze. ‘I cannot say. I do remember something …’ He shook his head.

  ‘Yes? What?’

  ‘Something about a gate. I remember a gate. An opening on to … something. And battle and pain. Then suffocating as if drowning. And last of all, I remember something about a sword …’ He shook his head again. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. I should not pry.’ Fisher set his hands to his thighs. ‘Should we see?’

  Jethiss nodded. They walked up the rock slope. Badlands stood now, facing his brother, his hands clasped before him. They came and stood just behind. ‘I’m sorry,’ Fisher said.

  Badlands turned to them, but he kept his gaze downcast and for that Fisher was grateful, for he didn’t think he could bear what might lie in the man’s gaze. His face still glistened with tears, though the blood of countless gouges and scratches had dried and cracked. He moved to step past them, as if to descend the slope. Alarmed, Fisher asked: ‘Where are you going?’

  Still refusing to raise his eyes, he croaked, ‘To kill them all.’

  ‘No you’re not.’

  Badlands halted. ‘Don’t stand in my way, Fish.’

  ‘I am only reminding you of your duty.’

  ‘Oh? An’ what is that?’

  ‘Your duty to your family. Stalker needs you now. Your other sisters and brothers and cousins will need you even more.’

  Badlands barked a harsh laugh, startling Fisher. He raised his gaze, and though Fisher had readied himself, the fires of desolation burning there made him flinch.

  Jethiss had stepped aside as if to make room. Now he slowly moved to Badlands’ rear.

  ‘You don’t know nothing,’ Badlands growled and Fisher heard the abandonment of utter feyness in the words.

  ‘What do I not know?’

  ‘Outta my way, Fish.’

  ‘Go to your family, Badlands.’

  ‘Don’t make me—’

  Jethiss grasped the man round the middle and lifted him from the ground. Fisher lunged in and snatched a knife from Badlands’ belt, reversed it and smacked it across the man’s temple. Badlands fell limp in Jethiss’s arms. The Andii gently lowered him to the ground.

  Fisher stood hands on hips, staring down at the big fellow. Of course, if the brother had truly wanted to be rid of them he could have easily won through. He could have drawn upon them. Neither of them was armed, after all. He sighed and looked to Jethiss. ‘My turn.’

  * * *

  The north coast of the Sea of Gold was a graveyard of broken ships. Some lay half sunk just offshore, a mere few leagues beyond the mouth of the channel up from the Dread Sea, their crews only able to coax a last few chains of distance out of their tortured vessels. Others lay on their sides o
n the mud flats between ice floes. Stranded crews and passengers waved and called to them amid great piles of cargo.

  At the Dawn’s side, Jute heard some astounding offers shouted in accents out of Quon Tali, Malyntaeas, Falar, and even Seven Cities. Half the cargo in return for transport, one fellow bellowed. A tempting offer; but the large armed crew of hireswords surrounding the heaped crates put Jute off.

  Buen suggested, ‘Perhaps we should pick ’em up. Easy money.’

  Jute shook his head. ‘They’d swamp us. Probably try to take the Dawn.’

  The first mate sighed wistfully. ‘Too bad. All that cargo brought all this way just to rot. Might be kegs of wine from Darujhistan out there …’

  ‘Drop it.’

  Buen pushed himself away from the side. ‘Thought we came to make some money,’ he grumbled as he went. Jute ignored the muttering. Always griping; it was the man’s way. He walked back to the stern and Ieleen next to Lurjen at the tiller. He studied the vessels following: the Malazan Ragstopper had swung in behind, the Resolute next, while the Supplicant followed far offshore. Seemed Lady Orosenn wished to keep some distance between herself and everyone else.

  ‘What do you see?’ Ieleen asked.

  Jute scanned the shore once again. He saw … futility. And greed. ‘Blind stupid avarice,’ he said.

  ‘We’re here.’

  He snorted. True enough. And what had they brought in their hold to the largest gold strike in living memory? Food. Not weapons or timber or tools or cloth. Food. Flour and molasses, crates of dried fruit, stoneware jugs of cheap spirits. Goods for sale. And once the hold was empty, why, what to fill it with but sacks of gold, of course!

  Jute shook his head at the stunning naiveté of it. It had all seemed so easy back in Falar.

  Now … well, now he believed they would be lucky just to get out of this alive.

  The coast passed in a series of flats and lingering sheets of ice. They passed vessels drawn up on the shore and raised on crude log dry docks, while crews worked alongside sawing logs into planks and burned fires to reduce resin to recaulk seams.

  Then the stranded vessels and would-be fortune-hunters thinned. Those ships that couldn’t limp along any further had all pulled in or sunk by this point. Those that could continue did so, leaving their fellows behind. The old unspoken law of reaching out to take what one could and damning the rest to Hood’s cold embrace.

  The raw ugly ruthlessness of it sickened Jute. What a waste! What a stupid urge to enslave one’s fortune to – the empty promise of unguarded riches to be picked up by anyone. Where was the merit in any such gathered power or riches? Merely because you were first to snatch it up? Could not the second person there simply kill you and take it for himself?

  Best not to invest in such easily transferable value, Jute determined. His gaze fell to the blind face of his love and he rested a hand upon hers.

  ‘I feel your eyes on me,’ she murmured. ‘What’s on your mind, luv?’

  ‘I just realized that I’ve risked everything to reach a destination I don’t even want to be at.’

  A secretive smile broadened Ieleen’s lips. ‘Glad to hear that, luv.’

  Jute frowned. ‘But you didn’t object …’

  ‘That’s what journeys are for, my love. You have to take the path to learn where you want to be.’

  ‘The philosopher wife speaks.’

  She gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘We mates sit and wait. And, if we’re lucky, our partners finally catch up to where we’ve been all the while.’

  Jute crossed his arms. ‘Oh? Been a long wait, has it?’

  ‘Damnably long. But now that you’re here, maybe we can go home.’

  ‘Certainly, light of my life. We’ll just sell our goods at outrageously inflated prices, load up with successful fortune-hunters groaning beneath the weight of all their gold, and head home.’

  ‘We should just cut out the middle and turn round now.’

  Jute laughed. ‘And what would the crew think of that?’

  Her frosty orbs shifted as if to look ahead, and though he knew her to be blind, Jute couldn’t shake the feeling that her sight was penetrating all the distance to their goal. She sighed. ‘We’re sailing into a nest of pirates, thieves and murderers.’

  Jute tried to shake his premonition of trouble. ‘Then it’s a good thing we have a mercenary army with us, isn’t it?’

  She shook her head. ‘A last mission, Tyvar said. Have you not thought about that?’

  Indeed, it hadn’t occurred to him. He waved it off, then remembered, and made a noncommittal noise. ‘Don’t you worry. We’ll raise anchor and ship out if we must, don’t doubt that.’

  They sailed through the day and night. The Ragstopper and the Resolute kept pace, while the Supplicant held out in deeper water, far offshore. Jute wondered at Lady Orosenn’s strategy, but it was the listing Ragstopper that held his attention; the vessel was so low in the water, so sluggish and lumbering, it was a wonder that it still held its bows above the surface. The collection of rotted timbers that it had crumbled into seemed little more than a glorified raft.

  Late on the second day, smoke hazed the air further up the coast ahead. A stink reached them, the commingled reek of human settlement: smoke, excrement, rot, and cooking. Jute had been long from it and it churned his stomach. They rounded a low headland still gripped in ice and there ahead lay a broad bay fronted by wide mud flats. An immense tent city swept in an arc all along the shore. Smoke rose from countless fires. What must be a hundred vessels lay pulled up on the flats, or anchored in deeper water out in the bay. The coast swept up from here in broad forested valleys and ridges that climbed to foothills obscured by hanging banners of fog. Above this vista reared the snow-capped shoulders of a range of mountains: the Salt range, according to sources he’d heard recounted.

  Jute was astounded by the numbers of ships that had succeeded in the journey – yet this must be the barest fraction of the entire fleets of vessels that had originally set out. All testament to the driving power of greed and the lure of easy riches. He felt saddened by the spectacle though he himself was a merchant, a businessman; it struck him as a damning condemnation of humankind.

  ‘Which way?’ Lurjen asked from the tiller.

  Jute shook himself from his reverie. He gestured ahead. ‘Make for one of the docks there near the centre.

  ‘Aye, aye.’

  Lurjen chose one of a number of log docks that stood tall above the flats and extended out over the water. The Silver Dawn came alongside, ropes were thrown and secured to log bollards. His crew wrestled with a gangplank. Jute studied the jumbled mass of countless tents, the men and women coming and going, the crews cutting wood to repair vessels, build more docks, and raise buildings. He estimated the numbers here in the several thousands. A city. An instant city utterly without planning or organization, as far he could see. Tents lay like fields of mushrooms, all without logic or order. No straight thoroughfares existed, no streets or lanes; all was a chaotic mess. He was dismayed to see men and women squatting over latrine pits right next to open-air kitchens where the steam from boiling pots melded with the steam rising from the pits to waft over the entire mass of humanity.

  A far worse reek rose from the flats where cadavers lay rotting, most having sloughed their flesh: an open-air graveyard where the dead were obviously simply thrown from the docks and shore. Hordes of ghost-crabs wandered from corpse to corpse like clouds of locusts, gorging themselves.

  The ragged fortune-hunters who crowded the dock waving and shouting were no more reassuring. Ragged and starving they were, in tattered shirts and canvas trousers, with mud-caked bare feet. They shouted their services as stevedores. Jute wouldn’t trust a pot of shit to any one of them.

  Lurjen gestured further along the dock and Jute was relieved to see the Ragstopper coming alongside. Thank the gods for that. He peered around for the Resolute and was troubled to see she had dropped anchor in mid-bay, not far from the Supplicant.
/>   The crowd actually had the temerity to try climbing the gangway. Buen was pushing them back; he cast a glance to Jute, who shook a negative. ‘No work,’ Buen yelled. ‘Not today. G’wan with you!’

  ‘Bastards!’ one shouted back.

  ‘You’ll get yours! You’ll see!’

  Buen pulled his truncheon and waved them off. Someone new pushed through the crowd: short, grey-haired, in rags just as dilapidated and dirty. Cartheron Crust. Jute hurried down the gangway to meet him.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Better. Been better.’

  ‘Recovered?’

  The old captain pulled a hand down his patchy beard. ‘Somewhat. Hard bein’ reminded of one’s mortality like that. Feelin’ old now, have to say.’

  Jute gestured to the shore. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Fuckin’ mess.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Cartheron waved him on. ‘C’mon, let’s go see who’s in charge of this dump.’

  Jute held back. ‘Just the two of us?’

  Cartheron didn’t stop. ‘Yeah. Trust me. It’ll be just fine.’

  Jute shouted back to Buen on the gangway: ‘Making arrangements!’ and hurried after him.

  A knot of eight armed men and women blocked the base of the dock. They wore styles of leather armour from all over: the detailed engraved and enamelled leathers of Seven Cities, the plain layered leathers common to south Genabackis, even an expensive set of leaf-shaped scaled leathers clearly crafted in Darujhistan. The probable leader stepped up: a big black-bearded fellow in a long coat of mail. A longsword hung shoved through his wide leather belt.

  ‘Welcome to Wrongway,’ this fellow announced as they neared.

  ‘Wrongway,’ Cartheron echoed. ‘Funny.’

  The bearded fellow grinned. ‘Yeah. Lying Gell thought so.’

  ‘Lying Gell …?’

  The man hitched his belt up his broad fat belly. ‘Lying Gell, Baron of Wrongway.’

  Cartheron turned to Jute. ‘There you go – that didn’t take so long, did it?’ He addressed the spokesman: ‘And you are …?’

  The man’s grin widened over broken browned teeth. ‘They call me Black Bull.’