Assail

by Ian C. Esslemont

  He burst into the ruins of a temporary camp: trampled tents, smouldering fires, scattered fallen spears and equipment. And bodies. Many bodies. All invaders as far as he could see.

  He turned full circle to scan the banks of mists. This was useless. He could search until the dawn and not come across the man. Then it struck him: the one thing that would draw him in.

  He lifted his hands to his mouth. ‘Lotji! I am come for you! Where are you? Coward!’ He stumbled on. ‘I challenge you!’ Rounding a half-fallen tent, he practically crashed into a band of invaders.

  ‘Get him!’ one screamed.

  Orman yelled a war-bellow and threw himself upon them, slashing right and left. But there were far too many. He spike-thrust one in the mouth and tried to disengage while they shifted, working round to his blind side. Then one threw off his cloak on to his neighbour, knifed another, and leapt to Orman’s side: Gerrun Shortshanks. ‘Heard you yelling,’ he grinned.

  Orman nodded his gratitude then turned to the remaining troop, who were edging inward, wary but determined. Gerrun startled him by charging one side. ‘Don’t wait for them!’ he yelled, taking a sword-swing on one dirk blade and kicking the man down.

  Orman followed his example. It was a shifting, swirling mêlée from then on. He blocked blows with his hatchet, took out knees with counter-attacks, dodged, and shifted his head left and right, ever circling. One canny fellow kept him pinned on his blind side until he surprised him by tossing a hatchet to wind him and slow him down long enough to snatch up a fallen spear and run him through. He spun then, quickly, but not quickly enough as another invader slipped inside the spear from his left, blocking the haft to slash a blow that Orman only slipped by throwing himself backwards. He lost the spear in doing so.

  The outlander closed, shortsword reversed. Orman rolled, and as he did the fellow grunted and clasped a hand to his chest. The grip of a knife stood there from his leathers. He fell to his knees, cursed impressively, and toppled.

  Orman straightened, panting, his limbs quivering. He retrieved the spear. Gerrun appeared next to him. The short man grinned up at him and winked. ‘You let him get inside,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll try to watch for that,’ Orman allowed. His mouth was as dry as stone.

  ‘This way,’ Shortshanks said, and headed off. Suddenly, he stopped, and tottered back into Orman’s arms. His front was slashed open and blood and inner fluids now poured down his fine felt trousers all the way to his cured leather boots. Orman gently lowered him, dead already, to the trampled grasses. He straightened then, knowing what he would see: Lotji standing a short distance off amid the fog, leaning upon Svalthbrul.

  ‘It is I who must challenge you,’ the Bain said.

  ‘Don’t be a fool! There are hundreds of invaders! We must work together to turn them away!’

  But the Bain only shook his head. He straightened, levelled Svalthbrul at Orman. ‘A challenge, once given, must be answered.’ He smiled then, and Orman was reminded of Jaochim’s smile. ‘And thankfully we are upon Bain lands.’

  The knapped stone spearhead gleamed wet with blood. This close, it appeared enormous. Lotji’s arms tensed for the thrust. Orman realized he held no weapon and snatched his fighting knives from the rear of his belt. ‘Fool!’ he damned the man, fully expecting this to be his last moment.

  Both he and Lotji froze then, utterly shocked by a bellowed roar bursting so close that Orman swore he felt the hot breath. An enormous black shape burst through the mist. A swatting paw the size of a shield knocked Lotji tumbling away, to disappear into the swirling scarves of haze. The beast, the size of a wagon, lumbered off in pursuit and disappeared. Orman shouted uselessly: ‘No! He has Svalthbrul!’ Cursing the old man for a fool, he gave chase.

  The crashing and roars of their battle guided him. He stumbled amid the wreckage of a camp: flattened torn tents, scattered cook-fires, scattered equipment. Invaders ran straight past him in their panic to flee the duel. The trail of debris and deep pawprints torn in the soft ground led onward out of the camp to a copse of ghostly alder and birch. Orman found shattered trunks and trees that had been knocked askew and were now leaning drunkenly. The ground was torn by claws. Blood lay splashed across one fallen bole. He followed, knives readied.

  The tumult subsided. Amid the coursing banners of fog, he glimpsed a huge dark figure lying across shattered trunks. Old Bear. He quickly sheathed his blades and cradled the man’s bloodied head.

  ‘Speak to me, old man.’

  Old Bear drew a long, shuddering breath. ‘What use is a glorious duel,’ he growled, ‘when no one can see a blasted thing!’

  Orman burst out a laugh. ‘Y’damned old fool!’

  ‘It would have been something to boast of,’ Old Bear answered, his voice far softer now. ‘Anyway,’ he swallowed, said wearily, ‘softened him up for you.’

  ‘Should’ve stayed out of it. It’s my fight.’

  The old man attempted to rise. ‘No, no. Would’ve been … would’ve …’ He eased back, his limbs relaxing.

  ‘Would’ve been something for the hero songs,’ Orman finished. Old Bear just nodded his shaggy head. His remaining brown eye closed and Orman felt his massive frame sag in death. He eased the head down, stood.

  It was strange, he reflected. Outland invaders were here to steal the land from his own people, yet it was one of his own who had taken everything from him. ‘I know you are there!’ he called to the mists. ‘Let us end this now.’

  As if answering a draught of fresh wind, the fog thinned. Off a short distance stood Lotji. ‘I wanted you to see your end!’ he shouted. He drew back his arm and launched Svalthbrul. Orman flinched. For some reason he hadn’t expected the man to simply throw the spear. He thought he’d have a chance to engage. Some sort of fair chance.

  A grating thud sounded then and Orman blinked, surprised. Instead of being thrust through as he’d expected, he found the spear Svalthbrul jutting from the ground not an arm’s length from him. Its thick haft stood quivering.

  Just as he had left it, he realized. When he had given it to Lotji.

  Given it. And he remembered Old Bear’s words: ‘wrested it from the dead hand of Jorgan Bain …’

  Svalthbrul, it seemed, was still his.

  He snatched it up. Raised his gaze to Lotji. The Bain was staring, his eyes widening now. Unaccountably, he laughed, almost in approval or resignation, and gravely saluted Orman. Then he turned and walked away to disappear into the mists.

  Orman brought the cold faceted stone head of the spear to his lips and did what he knew Lotji now understood, and accepted, as his unavoidable fate. ‘Find the bastard,’ he whispered, and heaved the weapon as high as he possessed the strength to do. Svalthbrul flew from his hand, almost leaping, and vanished. He drew his fighting knives and followed the line the weapon’s passage had cleaved through the mist.

  Distantly, it registered upon him that the noise and tumult of battle had faded almost completely. He stepped over the corpses of fallen outlanders. Ahead, three standing figures solidified from the haze. He heard their laboured exhausted breathing. Sensing his approach, they tensed, swords rising.

  He met three soldiers, two women and one man, armoured alike in long mail coats, belted, with broad shields and helmets. Their shields featured a much battered and scraped field of dark red with some sort of wiggly line across.

  ‘Identify yourself,’ the man ordered.

  ‘Orman, hearthguard to the Sayers.’

  The three relaxed. The man sheathed his longsword. ‘Jup Alat. We are with the Losts. This is Laurel and Leena. Fight’s over, I think. What can we do for you?’

  He motioned onward behind them. ‘I’m tracking someone.’

  The big fellow frowned. ‘No one passed us.’

  ‘Nevertheless. If I may?’

  The three parted. ‘Certainly. If you wish.’

  Orman nodded and continued on. The three stood motionless, peering after him until the coursing fog closed between them onc
e more.

  He walked until he began to suspect that he’d somehow lost the trail, or had perhaps passed where the weapon had fallen. He paused then, listening. A stream of some sort rushed and hissed a good distance off. A freshening wind shushed through tree boughs. Far off, people called to one another through the fog.

  An explosive wet cough sounded to one side. Orman tightened his grip on his weapons and closed. He found Lotji standing, tottering. The spear Svalthbrul had driven through him straight up and down; its end stood above his head, the haft disappearing into one shoulder. The spearhead stood forward, almost straight down, from his pelvis. At some noise from Orman the Bain turned, slowly, in lurching steps.

  His grin was a smear of blood-red. The mouth worked and out came a faint: ‘You win.’

  ‘I care nothing for your damned feuds. Where is he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jass! Damn you!’

  ‘Ah. Him.’ The man drew a shuddering breath. His eyes closed, then fluttered, blinking. It occurred to Orman that the man could not fall even if he wanted to. The haft of Svalthbrul held him rigid, tree-straight. His knees buckled and he fell straight down. Svalthbrul’s blade drove into the ground and the man moaned an agony beyond reason. His head rose, revealing that he grinned once more as if at some cosmic jest. ‘I would try the Greathall,’ he mouthed.

  Enraged, Orman kicked him down. He fell and lay motionless.

  Bending, Orman took hold of the wet, bloodied haft close behind the spearhead and yanked. He set one boot against the man’s thigh and yanked again. The haft came sliding free in a slither of fluids. Mist curled from the gore-slick length.

  ‘And what of Jass?’ Vala spoke from behind and Orman spun. She stood breathing deeply, her long-knives bloodied to the grips, her forearms splashed.

  ‘He said to try the Greathall.’

  The news rocked the woman. Open dread filled her alien oval eyes. ‘The Greathall is more than a day south of here,’ she breathed, appalled.

  Orman wasn’t certain he understood. ‘But then …’

  Vala did not pause to answer. She spun and ran. He took a few faltering steps after her, calling, ‘Vala! Vala … Dammit to the Abyss.’

  Twin figures came jogging up through the thinning fog: the Reddin brothers. Both appeared hale, if sliced and cut by minor wounds. Neither carried his shield, which must have been battered to pieces in the fighting. ‘Here you are,’ said one, Keth perhaps.

  ‘Where is Bain Greathall?’ he demanded.

  ‘South of here,’ answered the other.

  ‘South? Where?’

  One brother extended an arm, gesturing downhill. ‘South.’

  Orman took off at a jog. After a short time he found the brothers flanking him. ‘What is it?’ one asked.

  ‘Jass is at the Greathall.’

  They entered a more mature forest of tall pine and birch and the ground opened up. They had left behind the localized banks of fog. Orman glimpsed other figures also fleeing south through the woods. He ignored them.

  ‘If there are any Bains left they will be defending the Greathall,’ one brother offered.

  ‘Let us hope,’ Orman muttered beneath his breath.

  Through the rest of the day and into the night they alternated between walking and jogging. The sky was clear and bright. The Great Ice Bridge could clearly be seen spanning the entire inverted bowl above. It glittered from one horizon to the other. The moon, battered and blurry still from the strange fires that burst upon it years ago, was a sickle blade waxing.

  They ran straight past camps of some few stragglers, or latecomers. These men and women watched them without a shouted curse, a yell, or a fired arrow. It was as if they considered them some sort of ghosts, such as the Eithjar.

  Dawn’s orange light brightened behind an eastern ridge. In its glow Orman spotted the faint smudge of black smoke rising from the forest canopy below. He broke into a run.

  The pall was quite distant; he had to splash through two small streams while he pushed his way through the underbrush. He heard the brothers following. He burst through to cleared fields and saw ahead the Bain Greathall, aflame. Figures surrounded it.

  Orman could not be certain, but believed he howled something as he charged. Faces turned his way. He crashed into armed men and women, thrust right and left. He was now truly blind in a red mist of fury and a crushing dread. More lowlanders came closing in from surrounding the hall. The brothers joined him but instead of remaining within their cover he charged from one man or woman to the next. Some remaining rational part of him seemed to watch this and wonder whether Old Bear’s talent of ferocious shapeshifting had passed to him.

  He then became aware of himself standing motionless, spellbound, exhausted, his limbs quivering, before the dark opening of the gaping entrance. The arrow-pierced corpse of an Iceblood, an old man, lay upon the stairs. Vala held the doorway. Smoke gouted out about her in a black river. Embers glowed in her hair. Her leathers were slashed over countless wounds – but that was as nothing to the agony in her wild staring eyes. Devastation had hollowed them completely. But most of all what held him breathless and fascinated was their grim and absolute despair.

  He reached out to her; she flinched away as if some wild beast, turned, and ran within to disappear among the licking flames and smoke. He lunged up the stairs but hands held him back. He believe he howled and fought then froze, transfixed.

  Through the billowing smoke he’d glimpsed something.

  Amid the churning coils, the collapsing roof-timbers, something hung from the immense log that was the roof crossbeam. A small figure swinging ever so slightly. His leathers were curling and smoking in the intense heat. His hands were tied behind his back and he’d been thrust through the chest.

  Thrust through by Svalthbrul – the weapon he now held in his hands. A burden he now knew to be wholly and inescapably cursed.

  He screamed then. Bellowed to the sky. Howled on and on until something struck him and he fell, knowing nothing more.

  *

  He awoke in an out-building, a small hut of chinked logs. He smelled stale smoke. Svalthbrul stood leaning next to his cot. He left it there and arose to push open the door of thin wooden slats. It was late in the day. White smoke wafted from the collapsed ruins of the burnt Greathall.

  Keth Reddin stood without, arms crossed. Orman nodded him a greeting.

  ‘The Bains are no more,’ Keth said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am sorry for the loss of your half-brother.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Keth nodded; he’d said what he meant to say and was finished.

  Orman took a deep breath of the reviving air. ‘We must return to Sayer Hall to bring word of this … this loss.’ Keth nodded again.

  The Reddin brother shifted to peer back through the open door. Orman followed his gaze. Yes. Svalthbrul. He took a hard breath to steel himself and re-entered the hut. Yes. He closed a fist upon the weapon. Though he now hated it, it was his. His burden to carry. His curse. If it could speak, he now understood it would be laughing at all the blood it had drunk, the discord and violence it had sown.

  He ducked from the hut and crossed to the smouldering ruins. The brothers followed. He stood for a time facing the pile of ash and blackened logs, Svalthbrul cradled in his arms. He adjusted the patch of ragged leather he’d cut to cover his eye. He bowed to his fallen kin. There were no words to say. No tears to shed. His heart had been thrust through as irrevocably as Jass’s. He was done, finished; as burnt and ashen within as the hulk of this Greathall.

  He set off north.

  * * *

  It had taken only one salvo from Cartheron’s springals to destroy the foremost of the vessels pursuing them. It erupted in a blast of flying timbers and cartwheeling men, and sank as if pulled from beneath. The rest of the flotilla eased up oars. Their bow-waves disappeared in a wash of dispersing foam, and Jute watched them diminish to the rear.

  Another two days’ journe
y brought them rounding a headland to enter a broad bay, its shore one of tall rock cliffs. Jutting from these cliffs, hard up to their very edge, stood the blunt cylinder of grey rock that was the Keep at Mantle town. As they approached, he kept an eye on the structure; something about its dimensions bothered him.

  He leaned on the railing next to where the ex-Malazan officer, Giana Jalaz, stood with her bare forearms over the wood, an apple in one hand. ‘I see ships,’ he commented. Indeed, the masts of some handful of vessels rose from the waves at the base of the cliff beneath the tower. ‘They are blockaded, you say?’

  She took a bite, chewed. ‘So I was told,’ she answered round the mouthful. She raised the apple. ‘Good thing you brought supplies.’

  ‘That was not my intention, you can be sure …’ he said, but she was moving now, signing something to the other soldiers who had accompanied her. They began pulling on their armour.

  Giana herself simply yanked her thin blouse over her head and tossed it to Jute. Mechanically, unthinkingly, he caught and held it; it was warm from her body. Her upper torso was wide and muscular, her breasts small and high, the areoles dark. Only then did Jute realize he was staring and spin away.

  ‘Hang on to that,’ she told him. ‘That’s my one good shirt.’

  He stammered, ‘Of course.’

  A low laugh from Ieleen made his ears heat. ‘Getting changed, are we?’ she enquired sweetly.

  ‘Could be a fight,’ Giana explained. He heard her armour rattle and jangle as she pulled it on. ‘Buckle me up, won’t you?’

  Still with his back to the disturbing north Genabackan woman, he said, ‘Perhaps someone else …’

  ‘Well, seeing as I’m blind,’ Ieleen offered, ‘she might not like the result if I took a hand. Go ahead, dear. You can tell me all about it later.’ Then, even more disturbingly, the two women shared a laugh.

  Jute decided that he was at a distinct disadvantage and that perhaps it would be best if he just went along with things. He turned and found the ex-Malazan officer waiting, her side to him, buckles of her hauberk presented. He set to work.