Assail

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘Archers!’ came a familiar bellow.

  ‘Run for it!’ Badlands shouted and pelted up the mound.

  Kyle had time for three panicked steps in the yielding mounded dirt and a leap before arrows whisked the air over his back and punched the heavy logs of the Greathall.

  He lay panting in the muddy ground, his front wet with gore and pooled rainwater.

  ‘Up for another rush!’ Leena warned.

  Groaning, he staggered to his feet and hefted his shield, which, from the weight of it, seemed to have been transformed into lead. Badlands padded off to continue his watch on the defence. All about the ring of mounded dirt the new ranks of attackers came storming up, shouting and slamming swords into shields. He waited, tensed, the white blade readied, but none appeared at his section of the perimeter. No cursing wild-eyed soldier came charging up the slope.

  The Avowed on his left was a broad giant of a fellow who crashed his wide infantryman’s shield down on top of the smaller, lighter shields, bearing them low for thrusts over the metal rims or down on to heads and shoulders.

  Leena, on his right, had her hands full taking on a mass of pressing infantry; he half lunged, meaning to lend her his aid, only to catch himself, realizing that he dared not leave this section open and undefended. In any case, he couldn’t have gotten close enough – he knew well enough not to crowd a swordsman who fought the two-swords style: she swung both full round for smashing, sweeping blows, never quite halting their blades’ figure-eight weaving over and under in an mesmerizing dance. Attackers who could have pressed round her flinched away when their paths took them too close to Kyle.

  When the wave eased the Letherii infantrymen backed away, dragging their wounded with them. The Avowed swordswoman came to him. She was heaving in great panting breaths, almost dragging her weapons behind her. She thrust one blade into the soft earth to dab at a cut across her mouth, then leaned over to spit out a red bloody stream.

  ‘Looks like we’ll have to move you to a new spot,’ she croaked, her voice sand-hoarse.

  Kyle offered his waterskin, which she took gratefully. ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’

  After a long pull at the waterskin, she swallowed and said, ‘From my father. He was a veteran of the Iron Legion.’

  He’d heard the name once or twice. ‘The Iron Legion?’

  She looked annoyed. ‘You’ve not heard of it? The elites of the Talian Iron Crown?’

  Kyle blew out a breath. ‘Well, of course I’ve heard—’

  She waved the matter aside. ‘Never mind. Why should you have? The old emperor crushed them long ago.’ She pressed a fold of cloth to her cut mouth once more. ‘Hard for me to remember it’s all ancient history.’ She urged him off. ‘Find Cal before they come again. Tell him you should move.’

  The Avowed’s words had startled him for an instant, until he recalled that of course this woman may be older than his grandmother. He dipped his head in assent and jogged off.

  He passed the Andii, Jethiss, now gripping two short-hafted hatchets; Kyle supposed the great broad-axe’s ash haft hadn’t held up after all. The man’s scavenged armour was notched and battered, but he appeared otherwise whole. He inclined his head as Kyle passed, his long back hair hanging loose, and greeted him with a murmured: ‘Whiteblade.’

  Kyle found that to be addressed in such a fashion, by such a man, made his breath catch and he nearly tripped, at an utter loss for words. Finally, he bobbed his head, muttering, ‘Jethiss,’ and hurried off. He found Cal-Brinn standing on the front entrance’s log steps. All about him arrows studded the logs like tossed quills while before him the air wavered and shimmered in ribbons of night. He saluted the Crimson Guard captain. ‘Rashan?’ he queried. Cal-Brinn nodded. ‘I’ve seen little of the Warrens here in Assail.’

  ‘The Elder Omtose is dominant here. It suppresses any other conjurings.’

  The roar of another charge arose from beyond the earthworks and Kyle spun. Arrows nipped the air only to whirr away from the wavering ribbons before Cal-Brinn. The captain motioned to them, murmuring, ‘The best I could do.’

  Kyle watched while the Avowed within sight, together with Fisher and Stalker, answered the charge. They resembled bobbing corks in a choppy sea, tossed and battered, about to be submerged. ‘We cannot hold,’ he told Cal-Brinn.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he granted. ‘Yet in battle every exchange is a potential surprise. No one can say what turn will come. Who knows?’ He descended the steps to stand close to him, and, leaning down to bring his face close, he murmured: ‘Have you not considered that it is they who might lose heart?’

  Kyle ducked his head, thoroughly chastened. But the captain softened his comment with a wink, and, bellowing a war-cry, drew his longsword and charged into the line next to Stalker. Kyle felt his blood rise and nearly sing in his ears at such a sight, and he took a fresh grip on the white blade and ran to join the fray.

  It was late after the noon when Kyle next roused himself, blinking. He was only standing because he was leaning against the rough logs of the Greathall. His throat gagged him as if scraped raw, while his limbs hung numb yet screaming in the stinging, twitching pins of exhaustion. His shield was a battered wreck on his left forearm. He forced his fingers open upon the leather strap and let it slip to the ground.

  Badlands came jogging round the defences and joined him. The Lost brother was a mass of cuts and scrapes, a bloodied cloth was wrapped round his left upper arm and a severe gash across the side of his head had peeled back a portion of his shaggy hair leaving that ear a mass of drying gore.

  ‘Well – we ain’t dead yet!’ the Lost greeted him with an elated grin.

  Kyle roused himself further, wet his throat to answer: ‘But it’s still a good day.’

  Badlands laughed uproariously and clapped him on the shoulder, nearly sending him to the ground. ‘Now you’re getting into the spirit of it!’

  Kyle didn’t say that it was the Lost brother who appeared to have reclaimed his old spirit. He spat and croaked, ‘How many?’

  Grinning, Badlands raised a hand as if to hold him back. ‘Enough! Don’t you fear – more than enough. They’ve decided to grind us down.’

  The flickering light of flames now sent shadows whipping over them. Tossed torches came arcing out from behind the ranks. Some thumped to the ground in splashes of sparks and ash, but others struck the grassed roof of the Greathall to catch, sputtering and smoking.

  ‘Looks like they’ve changed tactics,’ Badlands observed.

  Kyle carefully sheathed the white blade. He studied the steep roof. ‘Shouldn’t we go up there?’

  ‘You’ll be poked full of arrows, lad.’

  More torches came flying overhead, together with skins of what must have been some sort of oil. The roof suddenly roared to life in orange flames.

  ‘Have to find Cal,’ Badlands said, and jogged off.

  ‘Hold the line!’ an Avowed shouted above the crackling of the flames. Kyle staggered to the earthworks and peered over: the Letherii soldiery had assembled a short distance off in double ranks, bows held before them, arrows nocked. The shifting light of the flames danced from their helmets. They were ready to repel any attempt at escape.

  The roof was now a deafening inferno. Its heat pummelled Kyle’s back. Drifting sparks stung his neck and billowing black smoke choked him. A tap on his shoulder revealed Badlands returned. He yelled into Kyle’s ear: ‘Time for that desperate break out somebody mentioned a while back.’ He motioned for Kyle to follow and led him to the rear of the Greathall.

  He found Stalker, Fisher, Jethiss and Cal-Brinn assembled there. All appeared to have taken wounds of greater or lesser severity. Cal-Brinn was crouched, a hand above his head against the heat and drifting embers. ‘They are expecting us!’ he shouted over the conflagration battering them with its yammering fury.

  ‘We can’t wait!’ Stalker answered.

  ‘I know!’

  The wool surcoat of one of the Avowed stand
ing guard nearby suddenly burst aflame. The man calmly yanked it over his head and tossed it aside.

  ‘I will try to raise my Warren,’ Cal-Brinn called out. ‘It may be too much – you might have to carry me!’

  ‘No!’ Jethiss pushed forward. ‘Allow me. I managed this once before …’

  Kyle remembered Coots falling and the darkness descending – yes, he’d somehow summoned sorcery before.

  The man stood utterly still, concentrating, Kyle imagined. Everyone, meanwhile, danced and batted at embers of burning hay and wood that came drifting down to sting flesh and singe hair. Yet Jethiss did not stir, even when embers touched upon him, sending up wisps of smoke to join the black clouds churning about them.

  Kyle came to despair: they’d be consumed before anything manifested! He wiped coals from the mail of his sleeves and his gloves smoked. Perhaps it was his dimming vision then, but the light changed. The blinding incandescence of the inferno seemed to brighten even more as black streams of night snaked away over the bared bloodied ground. He’d banished the darkness?

  Barely audible over the thunder just above their heads came shouts of panic from out beyond the earthworks. Jethiss turned to them, gesturing outwards. ‘It is done.’

  Cal-Brinn raised an arm, signing, and the Avowed converged. Coughing almost uncontrollably, Kyle joined the rush over the mound. He did not know what to expect out beyond the defences but complete chaos and confusion was not it. The Letherii lines had disintegrated; soldiers ran all about, falling, flailing, batting at twisting ribbons of dark that twined about them like snakes.

  Cal-Brinn gestured and the remaining Avowed formed a perimeter round their small party and they quickly pushed through to the forest beyond. Few blows were exchanged, though arrows did fly their way from distant portions of the ranks far from their point of escape. Kyle did a hasty count and came up with twelve of the Guard; they’d lost four in the defence.

  They jogged on. No one suggested a halt, despite pronounced limps and ragged breaths. At length, Cal raised his fist and the party staggered to a stop. Kyle leaned over, hands on his knees, gasping. Some collapsed to the ground. Despite his dizzying exhaustion, he turned to study their rear: a glow through the trees in the valley below betrayed the Greathall. He glimpsed no torches in the woods between. Perhaps Marshal Teal was content in having driven them off. Groaning, straightening his back, he crossed to where Stalker and Cal-Brinn spoke in low tones.

  ‘You need not come,’ Stalker was saying. ‘You have done enough.’

  ‘We would see you safe,’ Cal answered, his tone firm.

  ‘We will be safe in the heights.’

  ‘What was that?’ Fisher demanded, straightening from examining the wounded side of an Avowed.

  Stalker drew his fingers down his moustache, his lips tightening. ‘We’re heading to the heights. Any survivors from the other Holdings will have made their way there.’

  Fisher waved his arm in a broad arc. ‘Strike east or west. All directions are open. Head for the coast. Escape this region!’

  ‘But avoid the spine of the Bone range,’ Badlands muttered.

  Through this Stalker was shaking his head. ‘No, Fisher. We can’t avoid it any longer. It’s our legacy – and yours too, lad,’ he added, speaking to Kyle. ‘We share the blood.’

  ‘What of it?’ Badlands asked.

  Stalker began cleaning his blade on a handful of grass. ‘I mean it’s coming to a head – isn’t it, Fish? What do you say?’

  The bard drew breath to speak, but checked himself. Kyle almost thought his expression fearful before he suddenly turned away.

  ‘Speak, damn you!’ Stalker yelled. ‘Or hold your tongue from this point onward!’

  The bard suddenly swung round, his lips clenched so tight as to be almost white.

  From the edge of his vision, Kyle caught Jethiss stepping out of the dark. The Andii had his hands raised, open. ‘We are all of us run ragged. Our blood is high. Perhaps now is not the time …’

  But Fisher had drawn himself up straight and with both hands pushed back his long, sweaty grey-streaked hair. ‘You would have me speak, would you? Very well. All I have are suspicions, hints, lines from old sagas, but what I dread may be very real. I fear both what lies ahead and what lies behind. And for the life of me, I cannot say which is the lesser of the two! Omtose Phellack is stirring. And why? What could raise its ire? Badlands,’ he demanded, pointing, ‘I spoke of this before and you dismissed it – who is the old enemy?’

  The Lost brother’s brow wrinkled in confusion at first, but then understanding came and he snorted his scorn. ‘You can’t be serious, man!’

  ‘I fear it!’ Fisher answered, insistent. ‘And we are leading them on higher!’ He turned to Stalker. ‘And what sleeps in the heights?’

  Stalker scowled in obvious rejection of the bard’s words. He turned away and raised his head to the heights gleaming silver through breaks in the forest’s canopy. He was quiet for a time as he smoothed his long drooping moustache. ‘You’re letting your imagination get the better of you – jumping at maybes and phantasms.’ Yet his tone told Kyle that he was half convinced. ‘We’d better talk this over with the others.’ As if struck by a thought, he faced Jethiss. ‘My thanks for getting us out of there.’

  The Andii inclined his head a fraction. ‘No – it is I who should thank you.’ He glanced to Fisher. ‘Calling upon whatever it is in me that allows this manipulation has jogged free more of my memories. I believe I now know why I am here.’

  Strangely, instead of being pleased, as Kyle had thought he would be, the bard actually appeared wary. He offered a subdued, ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jethiss turned to Kyle. ‘Our people once had a champion who carried a blade that guarded us. Now we are without such a protector. I believe I have been sent to remedy that lack. I believe I have been sent for a sword.’

  Kyle could not help but close his fist on the grip of the white blade. All eyes, he noted, now rested upon him. He felt his breath whisper away in an unmanning clutch of dread.

  Jethiss frowned then, studying his face in puzzlement, then his brows rose and for an instant a strange expression crossed his face. What to Kyle appeared almost to be hurt. He waved a hand. ‘Do not worry, friend Kyle, I would never – that is, your weapon is safe.’

  ‘Then where,’ the bard asked into the lengthening silence, ‘do you believe you will find this weapon?’

  The Andii’s alien night-black eyes released Kyle to shift to Fisher. ‘In the north.’

  Kyle found himself blinking and weaving slightly as he dropped his sweat-slick hand from the sword. Only now did he note how both Stalker and Badlands flanked him, while Cal-Brinn had eased away, closer to the Avowed now quiet and watchful across the copse of woods.

  ‘A desperate option,’ Fisher remarked, rather dryly. ‘Do you think it wise?’

  ‘I think it necessary.’ And the Andii walked off into the woods, heading upland.

  Kyle and the remaining three exchanged silent looks. We are of the blood, he realized. As Stalker said, I, too, have a stake here.

  ‘So what do we do?’ Badlands growled, and adjusted the blood-soaked cloth round his upper arm.

  ‘I do not know,’ Fisher answered. ‘I’m not even sure we could stop him if we wished.’

  ‘Is he – you know … him?’

  The bard shook his head in frustration. ‘I do not believe so. He appears different. But then …’

  ‘Yes? What?’ Stalker prompted, irritated by the bard’s habit of withholding his thoughts.

  Fisher raised his shoulders in a helpless shrug. ‘He was a shapeshifter.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful,’ Badlands snarled, and he let out a breath like a fart. ‘That’s a big help.’ He waved Cal-Brinn over, calling, ‘Let’s put more room between us ’n’ them Letherii bastards, shall we?’

  * * *

  Reuth started up from his bunk in a panic. It was dark and all he could see were Storval’s hands reaching for his th
roat from the night. He blinked away the ghost-memory from his nightmares. He remembered that he was safe now, on board the Silver Dawn, in the care of a blind Falaran pilot and her husband, the ship’s captain. He had a sudden sense of the solid presence of his uncle, Tulan, wrapped in his bear-hide cloak, smelling of grease, and tears came to his eyes. He was gone, and the crew that betrayed him was now part of the invader army camped outside the walls of Mantle, high on its cliff-side perch.

  Though it was long before dawn he knew he’d never get back to sleep, so he swung his feet over to the cold boards of the cabin and dressed. The air was surprisingly chill and he shivered as he pulled on his woollen outer shirt and vest. Last, he drew on his goatskin shoes, slipped the leather thong over its horn toggle, and stood to stamp his feet on the boards to bring warmth to them. Indeed, so cold was the night air that he drew on the extra cloak he’d been given and clasped it at his shoulder with its round bronze brooch.

  Ducking his head, he opened the door and stepped out of what was the cabin of the captain and his wife – the only private cabin on board the vessel. He remembered, vaguely, being moved here. He drew in a long breath of the chill air and nearly coughed, so harsh was it. His lungs felt frozen. To the south, the night sky was dark and clear, the stars glimmering brightly. But thick black clouds choked the sky overhead and further north. They crowded so low as to cut off the heights of the Salt range.

  ‘Felt it too, yes?’ murmured the rough voice of his caregiver, the ship’s pilot, Ieleen.

  He turned to the tiller arm where she sat, long-stemmed pipe in mouth, hands clasping a short walking stick. ‘Feel what?’

  ‘The change.’ She took hold of the pipe and gestured. ‘All these days the wind has been coming out of the south, bringing warmth and the spring.’ She pointed the stem north. ‘But now the air is coming down from the mountains, bringing an unnatural cold.’ Her eyes, milky blind, somehow found his. ‘Ever felt the like?’

  Being of Mare, Reuth had to admit that he had. So dreadful was the similarity he was reluctant to give it voice. As if saying it would somehow lend it solidity. ‘The false winter of the Stormriders,’ he finally admitted, hunching and shivering.