Assail

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘The Holdings are beneath rods of ice. But more to the point, we are pursued.’

  ‘Pursued? The outlanders?

  ‘That would be a simple matter. No, I speak of another enemy.’

  The lad started in recognition. He exhaled a steaming breath in wonder. ‘The old enemy?’

  Fisher nodded. ‘Aye. Our Army of Dust and Bone – the T’lan Imass.’

  ‘I know them only as the Undying Army.’

  ‘Close enough.’

  ‘But,’ Orman gestured back to the corpse of Buri, ‘the invocation was completed – this was his purpose …’

  Fisher advanced until he could press a hand to the lad’s shoulder. ‘I know. And it has been successful. But some it seems are resisting enough to advance. Or a Bonecaster, one of their shamans, has come. In any case, we must flee.’

  The Sayer lad appeared almost shattered by the suspicion that he had done what he did for nothing. Kyle could not help but step up as well, saying, ‘It is working – few are coming. We will escape, I’m sure.’

  ‘Someone is coming now,’ Jethiss announced, staring south. Kyle spun, his hand going to the grip of the white blade tucked in his belt.

  Two tall figures emerged from the blowing snow, a young man and woman. Everyone drew weapons. Kyle took a few hesitant steps; he knew the one with the great bunch of wild curly hair. He raised his hand. ‘It is the Heels.’ He ran down to meet them. ‘Baran, welcome!’ He took his hand. The lad smiled behind the rime hardened round his beard. ‘Cull or Yullveig?’

  The smile faded and Baran shook his head. He turned, pointing, ‘We aren’t alone.’

  Kyle squinted into the gusts. Thin figures approached. Their tattered leathers and cloaks snapped and lashed in the wind and he shivered – for a moment he thought them Imass. They closed, and to his astonishment he recognized them … Shimmer, Blues and K’azz of the Crimson Guard. And with them a fourth person, a young girl, of obvious Iceblood heritage.

  K’azz came forward. He walked bowed, as if struggling beneath a great weight. Kyle was shocked by his condition: emaciated and haggard, cheeks grey and drawn. The man was hardly more than skin and bone. Yet fire flashed in his eyes and he offered up a warm smile. ‘Kyle of Bael lands,’ he said. ‘It is good to see you.’

  Kyle took his hands, found them frozen into rigid claws. ‘What by all the gods …’ he wondered aloud. ‘Why are you here?’

  Shimmer approached and he embraced her, flinching when he found her skin as cold as the snow. It even held the same silvery paleness. ‘Kyle,’ she said. ‘We hear great stories of the white blade.’ He could only laugh as he gripped Blues’ hand.

  Then he remembered, and invited them on. ‘Come. There is someone you must meet.’

  He watched while they wearily trudged towards the rest of the gathering. The girl crossed to stop at Erta’s side. He watched as Cal-Brinn took a few faltering steps towards them, then ran, kicking up snow, and they embraced, the four, all together.

  He went to join Fisher and Jethiss while the group spoke in low tones. To his eyes it was an oddly subdued reunion. Then he noticed the tears running down Fisher’s cheeks, his lips clamped as against a moan. In a moment the man lurched away, hugging himself.

  ‘What is it?’ Kyle whispered. ‘Are you sick?’

  He jerked his head savagely, his eyes clamped closed. Then he seemed to master himself and raised his head to the ash-grey clouds above, the falling snow, blinking back tears. He offered Kyle a wounded smile. ‘Only now do I see it. Only now.’ He glanced back to the four Crimson Guard. ‘It was before me all this time, yet I failed to see.’ He raised his face to the dark sky once more, drew a rasping breath. He clenched the bag holding the instrument at his side and raised it to press it to his brow as if he would break it. ‘There are no words,’ he groaned. ‘No words for this song.’ He staggered away into the gusting snow and playing lights of the shifting banners above. Kyle moved to follow, but Jethiss caught his arm.

  ‘Leave him. All he needs is time.’

  ‘Do you know what he speaks of?’

  The Andii shook his head, his narrowed gaze upon the mercenaries. ‘No. But the higher we venture I am beginning to see more and more.’ He raised his chin to the heights above. ‘I see that we are not alone.’

  Kyle squinted to where the dark peaks reared naked and jagged high above. Movement pulled his eyes down. A single large figure was closing upon them; it looked to possess the height and narrow build of a full-blooded Jaghut. It wore tanned old leathers, trousers and a long jerkin. As it closed, the Sayer lad, Orman, let out a gasp of recognition. The newcomer was a Jaghut woman; she limped with one stiff leg. Laces of stones shone at her neck and hung woven in her wide mane of hair.

  ‘You!’ the Sayer lad exclaimed.

  This newcomer offered him a small quiet smile. ‘Yes. Well met, Orman Bregin’s son, of the Sayer.’

  And the lad actually knelt on one knee before her, saying: ‘Great Mother.’

  Mother? Kyle wondered. Then, in turn, the Heels knelt, and then the Myrni girl. If Fisher were here Kyle imagined that he might actually kneel too. Then it struck him – he ought to as well. This creature’s blood flowed through his veins.

  ‘So few,’ she whispered, an edge of anger hardening her voice. She crossed to Buri’s corpse, still upright, impaled, covered now in a fine layer of snow. She rested a hand upon his bowed head, then walked round to take hold of the spear that pinned him to the ice. She yanked, and the weapon slid free. The slick, wet haft steamed in the chill air. She raised the weapon, studying its length. ‘It has been a long time,’ she murmured.

  For a time no one spoke, until Jethiss broke the silence, saying, ‘It is not safe here.’

  The Jaghut elder tilted her head as she looked him up and down. ‘You, I did not see.’ She glanced to K’azz. ‘Nor you.’ She limped to Orman and extended the weapon. The lad’s face actually wrinkled in loathing, but none the less, he took it from her hands. ‘But you are right,’ she said. ‘We must go higher.’

  Kyle squinted to the south: he could just make out small dark shapes pushing through the field of white: a broad line of them that seemed to extend all the way across the ice-plain. He began backing up. ‘They are coming,’ he said, though he was sure they all knew.

  ‘This way,’ the elder said, and she started up the slight incline that led to the peaks.

  The three Sayers followed with the Heels and the Myrni girl. Kyle and Jethiss came after, followed by the four Crimson Guard, who spread out as a laughably slim rear guard. They climbed the shallow rise. The snowfall thinned, as did the ground-hugging clouds. Looking back, Kyle was amazed to catch glimpses of the level tops of the packed cloud cover below looking like the calm surface of the ocean itself, extending off as far as he could see.

  The wide face of the nearest peak closed before them, dominating the north. It appeared to consist of nothing more than jagged rock cliffs and heaps of broken talus. Their boots crunched upon loose stones as they climbed. His chest burned now; he felt as if he could never catch enough breath.

  Past the snowfall, higher on the rock slope they climbed. Ahead, Fisher straightened from among the boulders to await them. As the woman limped onward, swinging her leg awkwardly as she came, he called down, ‘Come no higher.’

  She paused, glanced back briefly and answered: ‘They will not relent.’

  The lines of the bard’s mouth appeared graven in stone. His grey-streaked long hair whipped in the strong winds and his gloved hand was upon the grip of his Darujhistani longsword. ‘Go east or west. Hide anywhere but here.’

  The elder continued to close. ‘You would draw a weapon upon me?’

  ‘If I must. You mustn’t disturb what lies above.’

  ‘What lies above is our only chance of escape.’

  The bard’s features appeared ready to crack. He gasped as if in pain: ‘There are other ways.’

  Kyle’s own hand went to the blade at his belt as he saw how the Sayer
lad’s fists tightened upon the spear, and the two with him prepared to draw their longswords.

  The elder shook her head as she advanced right up into sword-range. ‘Will you draw upon me?’

  Some terrible emotion shuddered through the bard and his face broke as he groaned, defeated. His hand fell from the sword grip and he slumped to the rocks to sit hunched, his head in his hands.

  The elder passed him. She rested a hand upon his head for a time, as in blessing, then walked on. When Kyle reached him he extended a hand. At first the bard refused to raise his head. But then he held up a hand, which Kyle took to pull him upright.

  ‘There is no dishonour here,’ he told him.

  Fisher shook his head, fierce. ‘She is a fool if she thinks she can control them. Or dictate terms. No one can.’

  ‘We shall see,’ Jethiss said. His gaze was on the heights, where a blasting wind punished the bare rock above.

  ‘The same goes for you,’ Fisher told him.

  A peculiar smile came to the Andii’s lips. ‘I merely have one simple wish.’ And he passed them, climbing once more.

  The Crimson Guard reached them. Kyle noted how the bard regarded them now with a bruised look in his eyes of which the mercenaries seemed oblivious. Blues carried his sticks in his hands and he gestured back with them. ‘They’re gaining and there’re too many of them.’

  ‘Our guide believes she has a secret weapon,’ Fisher spat, hugging himself.

  ‘Well, we’d better find it damned soon,’ Blues grumbled. He urged them on.

  Kyle almost groaned himself as he forced his legs to move. Dizzy spells came and went and he had to rest, sitting a few times, until one of the Guard appeared to chivvy him along. He had no idea how long they’d been climbing, though the sky was clear now and he could see that it was late in the afternoon. He felt as if he’d been wandering across the entire mountain range for an eternity.

  *

  Shimmer found that she climbed in a fog, even though they had left the mists and snow of the cloud cover far behind. Above, the Jaghut elder, the obvious matriarch of all these northern clans, led the way. Her distant descendants followed. The ex-Guardsman Kyle came after them, filled out now to a rangy, fierce-looking plainsman and fitting bearer of a storied blade. He kept fitting company as well; the strange Andii, and the legendary bard.

  K’azz had them spread out to serve as a rear guard. She could not stop peering over to Cal – just to make certain he really was still with them. What a shock it had been, finding him. The man hadn’t appeared much different, only more careworn than before. Yet she must have changed; she saw the distress of it in his eyes when they embraced. And his shock upon seeing K’azz’s condition couldn’t be hidden from any of them.

  ‘The others?’ K’azz had asked, and he had replied: ‘Waiting below,’ and that had been the extent of the conversation. Then they fell in together and it was as if nothing had intervened and no time had passed at all – though in truth, nearly two decades had come and gone.

  She climbed. Rocks clattered and shifted beneath her ratty broken boots, and she wondered how it could be that so much time could have disappeared without her noticing it. Perhaps, she reflected, that was how lives went by. Long or short, they ran out like sand through your fingers before you could even think of closing your fist; and by then it was too late, and the sands were gone.

  A shout snapped her head up. A warning from Blues. She turned, drawing her whipsword all in one motion.

  They faced a closing skirmish line of T’lan Imass. Some forty in all. Cal-Brinn had his longsword out, Blues his sticks. K’azz stood with arms crossed.

  Two Imass approached from the line. One wore the rotted hide of a northern white bear. Necklaces of bear claws rattled about his withered neck. The other was squat and bore a trim of white hair about its skull, tied with what looked like stones or shells.

  ‘Stand aside,’ the white bear one whispered, his voice carrying as if he yelled.

  ‘Remember your manners!’ K’azz answered, startling Shimmer with the sudden new anger in his voice. ‘I would know who speaks!’

  The lead one’s features, dried and withered, almost conveyed surprise. He inclined his head in assent. ‘I am Ut’el, of the Kerluhm T’lan Imass. Who is it that knows the old formulas?’

  ‘Well met, Ut’el. I am K’azz, of the Crimson Guard. Know that we will not allow you to pass.’

  ‘You will be brushed aside,’ stated the Imass next to Ut’el.

  ‘You may try,’ K’azz invited.

  One of the line advanced, whispering, ‘Enough talk.’ It swung its long chalcedony blade at K’azz, who stepped inside to block the arm, twisting. Bones snapped like dry branches and K’azz took the weapon while kicking down the Imass.

  The entire gathering of T’lan Imass became utterly motionless, as did Shimmer, watching but not believing. How could that have happened? How did K’azz do such a thing?

  After remaining frozen for a time, Ut’el tilted his ravaged head and whispered in a voice like the wind scouring the rocks: ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Greetings, old enemy!’ came a bellow that made Shimmer jump. It was the Jaghut, coming down the slope, awkwardly, stepping sideways. Her descendants were arrayed before her, spears lowered and swords readied.

  Fisher and Jethiss accompanied her.

  Ut’el straightened in obvious recognition. ‘I did not think to see you again,’ he answered. He pointed a withered finger to the lad, Orman. ‘That is my spear you hold.’

  ‘You deserve it,’ Orman grated. He raised it to throw.

  The Jaghut reached out and lowered the spear-point with her hand. ‘There will be no hostilities. We are in the shadow of the Forkrul.’

  Ut’el turned his flat dried mien to right and left. ‘I see them not. They sleep – as is their nature.’

  ‘Dare you risk that?’

  He waved to encompass everyone with her. ‘Dare you?’

  She crossed her arms. ‘We are at stalemate, then.’

  The Imass edged his head beneath its bear skull in the faintest of negatives. ‘I think not. You yet have everything to lose. While we … possess nothing.’

  ‘I believe you will find that you are wrong in that, Ut’el,’ K’azz said, loudly and suddenly. He lowered his head a touch to indicate the lower slope. Ut’el and the one with him turned. An instant later, all the Imass turned as well.

  Shimmer peered past them: what looked to be four more T’lan Imass approached. She could see nothing in this – four more meant nothing as there were already too many to withstand. Yet what of K’azz and his defeat of one? There was something in that – some hint of an idea that, for some reason, she could not bring into focus. Something that made her look away from her commander.

  The four proved to be two obvious T’lan and two living women – one old, the other of middle-age. From the manner in which the two T’lan followed the older woman, Shimmer thought her the leader, though the other woman, dark and wind-tanned, stood apart.

  To Shimmer’s astonishment, the gathered T’lan Imass knelt to one knee before the old woman in her worn tanned leathers and necklaces of turquoise and green jade. Ut’el, the leader, knelt as well, murmuring, ‘Summoner. You honour us.’

  ‘You are?’ she demanded.

  ‘Ut’el, Bonecaster to the Kerluhm.’

  The woman turned from him to rest her attention upon the other Imass. This one stood firm and impassive beneath her hard gaze. ‘Lanas,’ the woman said at last, and there was no welcome in her voice.

  The Imass dipped her head, the teeth and stones woven into her remaining white hair clattering in the chill air. ‘Summoner.’

  From what she’d heard of events in south Genabackis, Shimmer now understood this Summoner to be Silverfox, a living Imass Bonecaster – the first in millennia. And born, it was said, to fulfil their Vow. This must be so, she decided, as she noted how Silverfox ignored the Jaghut matriarch. Yet the surviving Iceblood, the Heels and the Sayers, w
ere lined up before their ancestor, ready to defend her. Standing apart was the small grouping of Kyle, Fisher and the Tiste Andii. It occurred to her that, being from this region, Kyle might also be a target of the Imass. She signed to K’azz: Shall we defend?

  He answered: Wait and see.

  After studying this second Imass, and perhaps communicating some soundless message, the Summoner dismissed her. In passing, her gaze fell upon K’azz and Shimmer saw how it fixed there. The woman started, almost stunned, it seemed, by what she saw. An entire gamut of emotions crossed her wrinkled, sun-burnished features: surprise, disbelief and amazement, followed by near horror and stricken grief.

  K’azz, for his part, simply lowered his head as if in shame.

  Recovering her bearing, the woman tore her gaze from K’azz to face the Bonecaster. ‘You have done well, Ut’el, to sustain so many against the pull of Phellack. For that I salute you. But I must ask: what is it you believe you will accomplish here?’

  ‘I merely serve the demands of the Vow, Summoner.’

  Silverfox answered, her voice hard: ‘I decide what does, or does not, serve the Vow, Bonecaster.’

  Ut’el bowed his head, acknowledging her authority. ‘Forgive me, but all was set out ages ago. It is our legacy. It is all we Imass have left to us.’

  ‘All you have …’ Silverfox echoed, wonder in her voice. She turned on the one named Lanas. ‘I see … My apologies, Ut’el, I had thought you Kerluhm deliberately blind. But I see that I was mistaken.’ She closed to stand directly before the female Imass with her copper-capped incisors and ravaged torso of countless sword thrusts. ‘You, Lanas Tog, have withheld the gift of the Redeemer.’

  ‘Time for that afterwards, Summoner,’ Lanas answered, her voice faint and dry as falling leaves. ‘There will always be time … afterwards.’

  ‘What does the Summoner speak of, Lanas?’ Ut’el demanded.

  ‘You will not show them?’

  The Imass remained immobile in her defiance.

  Silverfox turned to Ut’el. ‘I speak of a gift that is not mine to give.’ She invited one of the Imass with her to stand forward.