Assail

by Ian C. Esslemont

  * * *

  Kyle entered the sprawling besiegers’ camp wrapped in a ragged dirty cloak with its hood raised, a battered shortsword beneath at his side and dirks at his belt. The white blade he now carried wrapped in leathers and firmly tucked in his shirt. No one challenged him as he came walking in from the west, no picket or posted guard, and this alone convinced him that this mob was doomed to failure.

  It was a bright and lingering twilight, the sky a beautiful shade of purple. He stopped where a gang of fortune-hunters, now soldiers – of a kind – lingered beneath the awning of a tent. ‘I’m looking for the Shieldmaiden,’ he said.

  ‘Who isn’t?’ answered one, and took hold of an imaginary set of hips before him. ‘This time of night, hey?’ Kyle ignored him and continued east, as the man’s gaze had flicked in that direction when he’d spoken. ‘Hey!’ the fellow called. ‘Where’re you from?’

  ‘Cordafin,’ he called back.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  Kyle kept walking. How the fuck should I know? I just made it up.

  He continued round the broad arc of the camp. There were enough of them, he decided. But they had to be kicked into shape. Was Lyan the one to do it? He found one larger tent, a possible command tent. It at least was guarded, and almost entirely by Genabackans. This convinced him. As he’d thought; they’d recognized her. He approached the guards before the closed flap.

  ‘I’d like to speak to the Shieldmaiden.’

  The guards, two burly veterans, exchanged annoyed looks. ‘You can’t just saunter up and meet a commander,’ one said. ‘You look like a veteran, you should know that. Chain of command. Who’s your sergeant?’

  Inwardly, Kyle cursed. ‘I just arrived.’

  ‘Thought she’d welcome you personally?’ another commented with a sneer.

  ‘You know her or something?’ the first demanded.

  ‘We’ve … met.’

  ‘When?’

  Kyle licked his lips. This was rapidly degenerating and now he couldn’t just walk away. ‘On the … the passage in.’

  The first grunted. ‘Congratulations. That’s nice.’ He straightened, pointed off. ‘You just arrived? See that big house, the one with two storeys?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want to join, you go sign up there.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’

  ‘You Malazan?’ the second asked.

  Kyle managed a scowl. ‘What d’you mean, Malazan? I’m from Jasston.’

  ‘Jasston? Where the Abyss is that?’

  ‘Korel.’

  This second guard grunted, only slightly mollified. ‘There’s a guy here from Theft. You know Theft?’

  Kyle struggled to appear indifferent, shrugged. ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘’Cause you don’t look nothing like him.’

  Kyle gave a negligent wave then ended the gesture by tucking his hand into his shirt where he took hold of the grip of the white blade. ‘That’s because Theftians look like rats.’

  The guard blinked, then they all broke into huge guffaws. Kyle allowed himself a tight grin. After the guards stopped chortling the first looked to him and frowned. ‘Well? Why’re you still here? Go sign your papers.’

  Kyle gave a curt nod, then forced himself to amble off. As he walked away, he heard one say, ‘That Theftian did kinda look like a rat …’

  He took care to walk in the direction of the two-storey frame and plaster daub house for a time, then, when he was certain he must be out of sight, he cut to the south and lost himself amid a maze of pitched tents. He had no intention of signing anything. So far no one had pointed him out directly as having quite a resemblance to the southern tribes of this region, but he wasn’t about to push his luck.

  He’d almost given up hope of coming up with a plan to reach Lyan, short of storming her tent, when through the crowd of armed and armoured men and women, he glimpsed the slight short figure of a youth – Dorrin. The sight filled him with pleasure, and with hope; the lad would take him to Lyan. But it also twisted his throat, as the lad was walking only with the aid of a crutch: his left leg was gone below the knee.

  Kyle halted, stricken. Whatever treatment Lyan had bargained for among the convoy hadn’t been good enough to save his leg.

  It took a great deal of effort to shake off the shock of the sight; the lad was so young. But perhaps it was fortunate – he’d get used to it quickly. And it would win him credibility with the troops; a youth and already a veteran.

  Speaking of troops, he also noted the two Genabackan guards escorting the lad. Lyan was of high enough rank to rate bodyguards for her and her ‘family’. Indeed, to listen to the talk, it sounded as if she was second-in-command out here.

  Still, approaching Dorrin was his only hope of reaching her. He’d have to play it carefully and hope the lad could think on his feet. He jogged off, dodging around tents to get ahead, then waited just round the corner of a shed. When Dorrin approached, with his slow limping gait, Kyle stepped out and made a show of spotting the lad. ‘Dorrin!’ he shouted, ‘It’s me – Kyle! You remember, Kyle, yes?’

  Dorrin had frozen, gaping. His mouth actually opened in an O as if to begin the sound of ‘Wh—’

  ‘Kyle! Yes? You remember, don’t you?’

  The guards had recovered and one was striding forward to brush Kyle aside when Dorrin reached out to him, calling, ‘Kyle! Yes! How wonderful to see you!’ The guards looked to the youth, frowning. ‘We met …’

  ‘… on the ship,’ Kyle completed.

  ‘On the ship, yes,’ Dorrin said.

  Kyle pushed forward and knelt in the mud before the youth, looked him up and down. He almost said, sorry about the leg, but caught himself in time: Whiteblade had been there, after all. So he asked, ‘What happened to your leg?’

  Dorrin looked confused for a moment, but recovered quickly. ‘Oh. I, ah, lost it. Sickness in the bone.’

  ‘I’m sorry, lad.’

  The boy shrugged. ‘It’s okay. I can still get around.’

  ‘So you can. And well, too. I assume Lyan’s here?’

  ‘Oh, yes! She would so much want to see you!’

  ‘I’m glad. Should I wait with you?’

  Dorrin peered up to one guard. ‘Can he stay with me, Turath?’

  This fellow, an older Genabackan, probably a veteran from the look of him, possibly of the Pannion wars, scratched his greying beard while glaring his ill-disguised suspicions of Kyle. After a moment of consideration – Dorrin had just handed him a very troubling poser of a problem – he reached a decision: ‘The Shieldmaiden should be informed, little sir.’

  ‘Oh! Of course,’ Dorrin answered.

  Turath jerked his chin to his fellow and the guard jogged off. Then the veteran settled his scarred hand on the grip of his shortsword and planted his feet wide right next to Dorrin. ‘We’ll wait just here,’ he said. A lazy smile of anticipation quirked his lips.

  Kyle ignored him and studied the lad. He did appear to be in good health; he was smiling, his eyes were bright, and he looked well fed. ‘Are there any others here your age?’ he asked. ‘To talk to?’

  Dorrin shook his head regretfully. ‘No. No one.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It must be hard to be all alone.’

  He brightened again. ‘But we aren’t any more! You’re here!’

  Kyle just chuckled and squeezed his shoulder, rising. He found himself looking into the veteran’s troubled gaze; the man was frowning while he scratched his beard once more, as if chasing after a thought.

  Kyle looked away. After a time of silent waiting, he saw the guard scowl his displeasure and he glanced over to find the second man jogging up. Obviously, Turath was disappointed not to see him accompanied by ten more troopers.

  He nodded to Turath. ‘She says he can wait in their quarters.’

  Turath grunted a non-committal sound.

  Dorrin raised his trimmed tree-branch crutch. ‘This way, ah, Kyle.’

  Lyan had one of the remaining houses �
�� only a small one-room cabin, but a structure all the same. The front of the cabin was a general meeting room/living quarters, while hung blankets separated sleeping quarters for her and for Dorrin. The guards waited outside at the door. Dorrin clumped to a chair and sat; Kyle spotted a tall earthenware jug of water and poured himself a drink. ‘Some water?’ he asked Dorrin, who shook his head.

  ‘She will be awfully pleased to see you,’ the boy said.

  Kyle smiled his thanks, but already he was beginning to see the foolishness of coming here. There’d been survivors from the fight on the Dread Sea shore. And at any turn in the encampment he could stumble on another Stormguard, or a Korel veteran. It was plain now that they had to get out as soon as possible, preferably this night.

  ‘She said we were lucky,’ Dorrin said.

  He blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘That day. When we parted. She said one of the ships was from the north, and they recognized her.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘But …’ and the lad lowered his voice, ‘you’re not very popular around here.’

  He raised his brows. ‘I imagine not.’

  He sat, and they waited. Dorrin was very quiet for a young lad, and still, and Kyle realized why: it was difficult for him to get around. He reflected on the few amputations he’d seen amid all the fighting he’d known – because the Crimson Guard and the Malazans had had enough trained cadre mages familiar with basic Denul magics. Not so in these wilds, obviously.

  It was late and dark when he heard the guards shift to attention outside the door. Moments later, it opened and Lyan entered. She wore her mail armour and her sword at her hip, but now a thick cloak of black and grey wolf fur hung over one shoulder. She carried her helmet in one hand and set it on a table. Her auburn hair was neatly braided and she was far cleaner than the last time he’d seen her.

  Her face, he noted, was carefully flat and composed. She nodded to him. ‘Kyle … good to see you again.’

  ‘Lyan.’

  She turned to Dorrin. ‘It is late. You should lie down.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Kyle and I have much to discuss.’

  The youth picked at the bark of his tree-branch crutch. ‘But he just got here.’

  ‘Tomorrow, Dorrin.’

  He heaved an aggrieved sigh, thumped the crutch to the dirt and eased himself from the chair. ‘Good night, then.’

  ‘Yes, Dorrin,’ Kyle said. ‘Good night.’

  The lad’s straw cot was at the very back of the cabin. After the blankets fell between them, Lyan went to the door and opened it a hand’s breadth. ‘You’re dismissed,’ she said.

  ‘Not one guard?’ enquired Turath from beyond.

  ‘I don’t think there will be a sortie this night,’ she answered, quite dryly.

  ‘Very good, commander.’

  She closed the door, bolted it, went to the table and poured two glasses of wine. She gave one to Kyle and motioned him to remain silent. The cabin possessed one window opening, next to the door, and she peeped out to make certain the guards had gone before closing the wooden shutters and pulling a muslin cloth across. She crossed to him and raised the glass.

  He smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with a raised finger. Leaning close, she whispered, ‘Are you a fool to have come here!’

  ‘I know … I know,’ he murmured back, his voice low.

  She continued, fierce, hissing, ‘There are veterans here from Korel!’

  He raised both hands, surrendering. ‘Yes. I agree. We’ll have to leave tonight.’

  ‘We?’

  He was surprised to see her confused, but then she seemed to recover and she set down the wine, her gaze lowered. When she once more met his gaze he understood; she’d taken too long to find her words. ‘Kyle … there are riches, and more, to be won here – I can’t throw all that away …’

  He set down his glass as well, fought hard to keep all expression from his face. ‘You were right.’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘I was a fool.’

  Stung, she shook her head. ‘No … it’s not that. Don’t you understand?’

  ‘Leave. Now. With me. You and Dorrin. That I understand.’

  But she took up her glass and walked away. ‘Now you are being a fool. A romantic fool.’

  He picked up his wine as well, threw it back hard and swallowed. He regarded her across the beaten earth floor. In his anger it occurred to him: was this why she still wore her armour? Hadn’t even unbuckled her sword? He murmured, ‘You’re the fool, Lyan.’

  Her face stiffened, and she inclined her head as if in farewell. ‘Thank you for saying hello to Dorrin. You mean a lot to him. For his sake, please do not get yourself killed.’

  ‘For his sake?’

  He watched her closely, saw the muscles of her jaw tighten against an answer she might have given, watched her resolutely refuse to speak.

  He crossed to the door, unbolted it and glanced out. The muddy mass of tracks and wagon-ruts that was a way out of Mantle town lay mostly empty. He turned back to give her one last look. ‘Give my apologies to Dorrin.’ And he slipped out.

  He might have imagined it, but it appeared as if she lurched towards him as he left, but it was too little and too late. So much, he decided, for what might have been between them. He now wondered whether he’d imagined it all – as a romantic fool might.

  He yanked his hood low and pulled his cloak tightly about himself, tucking his hand within his shirt to grip the white blade. He meant to head out north immediately; get out of the encampment as swiftly as possible. His route took him past a few timber houses of the old Mantle town. As he crossed in front of one entrance it burst open and out spilled a crowd of rowdy drunken outlanders in a glare of yellow lantern-light. They stumbled into him and he righted one with a quick, ‘Careful, there.’

  It was a woman, and she blinked at him, frowning, even as she clenched a fistful of his cloak. He answered the frown, puzzled. She shoved her other hand into his face, showing him the bandaged stump where a thumb would jut.

  ‘It’s that damned Whiteblade!’ she yelled.

  In answer, Kyle yanked free the blade and swept it across her neck in one swift motion. The crowd of outlanders shouted and gagged their horror as her head fell in a gout of jetting blood. He attempted to yank free but her fist still held him tight by the cloak. He chopped off that hand at the wrist.

  Other hands grabbed at him and these he severed as well. The crowd – those not clenching stumps of wrists and forearms – now scrambled to give him room. He fled north.

  But yells and alarm preceded him. Armed soldiers exited a large tent right in front of him. A few quick cuts crippled these and he pushed inside. He sliced the main centre pole, and as the heavy sailcloth tent billowed down around him he cut his way out at the rear. Now he ran.

  Calls for archers sounded all about. He tried to keep to the darker patches of the tent encampment, but more and more torches were being lit as troops crowded the ways. Ahead, across trampled fields and a creek, lay woods. He pounded for the creek. Troops from tents nearby attempted to slow him by blocking his way. The white blade severed shields, vambraces, spear hafts, and two crossbows before their handlers had finished cocking them.

  Several arrows hissed past him. One plucked his cloak, then he was tumbling down a muddy slope into a shockingly chill rushing creek. He slogged on. A tossed burning torch crashed into his back, sending him off his feet into the creek. Arrows nipped the waves about him.

  ‘Get him!’ someone yelled from the shore.

  A new voice bellowed, commandingly, ‘Stay out of his reach! Archers, form up!’

  Kyle lurched to his feet and stumbled on. He was surprised, then, to see a thick night fog now rolling out of the forest. He couldn’t understand it, but it was a blessing and he made for it.

  ‘Damned northern giants!’ someone yelled.

  ‘Fire now!’ the commander ordered.

  Kyle dived
under the swift waist-high waters. The current buffeted him and the water seemed to suck all warmth from his body. He simply attempted to stay under for as long as he could; he gripped at boulders his questing hands found in the bed, tried to bring his legs down.

  Holding his breath, he reflected that never in all his years did he imagine how much he would owe old one-handed Stoop of the Crimson Guard for all those enforced near-drownings in swimming lessons. Finally, his lungs burning, he had to come up and he pushed his face to the surface to suck in a fresh breath of air. He blinked, finding that he’d entered a world of dense swirling banners of fog. Voices shouted, sounding very far off for some reason, as if the fog muted or distorted them. He slogged onward. Gaining the far shore, he heaved his frozen stiff body up the mud and bracken to lie panting, thankful just to be out of that numbing water.

  A wide hand gathered up the cloth at his back and yanked him to his feet. ‘What are you doing here?’ a deep voice demanded. Kyle wiped water from his face and peered up at a bearded giant of a fellow in cured leather armour, a spear in his other hand.

  ‘I’m looking for the Losts.’

  The hand released him and urged him along with a push at the back. He nearly fell as his legs wobbled, numb and tingling. ‘They’re coming. We must move.’ Through the curling vapours behind, Kyle glimpsed blurred orange flames bobbing. ‘The fog and creek should delay them, but we’d best give them some room.’

  On a hunch, Kyle guessed through numb lips: ‘Are you Baran? Baran Heel?’

  ‘Yes. And you are the one my mother escorted off our Holding.’ At Kyle’s start, the fellow chuckled. ‘I saw you in the distance.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hunting.’

  Baran pushed him on. In the fog it was hard to tell their direction, but Kyle thought it north. The haze thinned as they jogged through the forest. As the night sky cleared and the land rose, he knew they were indeed headed north.

  ‘This is Bain Holding, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bain Holding is no more. It has gone the way of my mother’s, and so many others before it.’

  ‘Oh – I’m sorry.’