Damn the hoary old Taker! It would be the end if they succeeded in flushing them.
Keth tapped his shoulder, inclined his head upstream. Orman squinted into the shadows of the gathering dusk. A fog was rising. It came tumbling down the stream in thick billows and rolls. And it was no normal mist or haze as Orman could hardly see through it.
Curses sounded from the archers, along with mutterings about Iceblood magics. A new party of attackers came crashing through the thick verge along the shore. Here they halted, blinking. They took in the descending wall of fog, the archers now retreating before it, and they too ran.
The treacle billows washed over them, and the shocking chill stole Orman’s breath. Stars of frost appeared on the iron of his hatchets. He felt his beard frosting over. Yet while the cold was sharp, even biting, he did not feel uncomfortable. Instead, as before, he felt refreshed, even invigorated.
They straightened. Their breath plumed in the icy fog. Vala gestured anew by thrusting her hands down the slope, then she waved for them to accompany her and started slogging through the water.
Far off, disembodied in the fog, came Old Bear’s booming laughter.
‘Was that them?’ Orman asked.
‘Who?’
‘The invaders.’
Vala’s laugh was just as loud and unreserved as Old Bear’s. ‘That was a scouting party. The main body is camped to the south. We will attack on the morrow.’
Orman almost laughed himself. ‘Us? Attack? How many of them are there?’
‘Some five hundred,’ she answered, indifferent.
‘So all ten of us have them surrounded?’
‘The Losts have hired mercenary hearthguards,’ Kasson explained in his soft voice, perhaps so quiet he never used it.
‘Must have amassed a lot of gold…’ Keth mused.
That was the most he’d heard from either of them; they seemed to get quite voluble during a fight.
‘Find a campsite and start a fire,’ Vala told them.
‘A fire?’ Orman wondered.
Vala smiled indulgently. ‘None will see it in this fog. I have no use for it – but you might wish to dry yourself.’
Her leathers were rimed with ice, yet mist drifted from her as if the Iceblood woman were afire. Orman knew it was not heat driving those tendrils of mist; he knew that if he touched her, his hand would probably freeze. He ducked his head. ‘Thank you.’ Then he remembered he was walking with Jass’s mother – a lover of his own father – and what had happened, and he hung his head even more. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured.
‘Do not chastise yourself. The Eithjar told me of it. Your only mistake was in not understanding that Lotji is very … old-fashioned.’
‘Old-fashioned?’
Her mane of black hair was frozen down her back and it crackled when she moved. ‘For Lotji, the old bloodfeud and vendetta remain everything. That is what drives him. These invaders, these lowlanders … he cares nothing for them.’
‘I see. So he is here for you Sayers.’
‘And you.’
The Reddin brothers had selected a copse of trees to camp in and had started gathering dry branches for a fire. The fog remained dense about them as if they had been transported to some otherworld where shapes emerged suddenly from shifting walls of haze, and sounds returned distorted and echoing eerily.
‘Me?’
Vala’s smile appeared touched with melancholy. ‘Haven’t you seen it yet, Orman?’
He had no idea what the Iceblood woman was hinting at. ‘Seen what?’
‘We are the same, you and I. Your people and mine. We share the same ancestors from long ago.’
Orman stared, dumbfounded. Impossible, he thought. How could that possibly be? They are Icebloods!
Vala continued, her voice calm, almost wistful. ‘Your clans separated from ours long ago to make their own way in the southlands. They mixed with humans they found there. Over the generations we drifted apart. Yet not so far apart. Orman, our numbers are few, we remaining clans. Our blood is too similar. When we wish to add to our numbers we take a mate from among you lowlanders – our distant cousins. Or, sometimes, we offer a position in our families to those few who arise every generation or so who seem to fit in among us.’
She regarded him directly now. Her strange oval eyes seemed to glow amber in the shadows. ‘Such an offer was made to your father. And so … whatever should happen…’ Her gaze released him and he found he could breathe once more. ‘Well … please know that I am glad you and Jass met. Glad that you did what you could for him.’
The Iceblood woman seemed to be suggesting that nothing more could be done for her son – his half-brother. Yet Old Bear had told him not to worry. He fought to find his voice, murmured huskily, ‘We’ll get him back. I swear.’
Her half-smile simply eased into a purer sort of wistfulness and she walked away to disappear into the shifting banks of fog. Orman knelt on his haunches with Keth and Kasson, who were minding the fire. ‘Where’s Shortshanks?’
‘With them,’ said Keth – or was it Kasson? He was no longer certain he had them straight after all.
‘Sleep,’ said the other. ‘We’ll trade off watches.’
‘What of Bear?’
They shook their heads. ‘He will not come to the fire,’ said one. ‘He says he does not want to smell of smoke but I think he doesn’t like fire when he’s raising the bear.’
‘Raising the bear? So it’s not some sort of spell? He truly is a shapeshifter?’
‘Have you not heard all the old tales? It was quite common, once. Now he is the last.’
‘And the morrow? What is the plan?’
But the brothers appeared to have used up their store of words, and merely glanced to one another, shrugging.
Orman lay down on a brushed-together bed of dried leaves and needles, facing the fire, and watched the tendrils of mist rising from his drying leathers wend their way up to the surrounding billows and there mingle among them.
* * *
Dawn came as a diffuse pewter-grey light. The fog cover remained. If anything, it had thickened. The cold was intense. Frost glazed the blades of his hatchets and the grass blades and brush crunched underfoot. Vala motioned them on; she appeared to be able to penetrate the dense soup of haze. Orman reflected that, while she might claim they shared an ancestry, he still couldn’t see a damned thing.
They descended a dividing ridge into another valley, this one not so steep. Fog still obscured all the distances where trees stood as ghosts, and boulders emerged like cave openings into darkness. Distantly, Orman could make out many voices and the jangle and ringing of equipment.
‘They are searching the fog,’ Vala snorted. ‘Fools.’ She motioned to the Reddin brothers. ‘Time to push them in. Spread out. A slow sweep down the side.’
The brothers nodded and moved off. They were readying their shields when the mist swallowed them. ‘What of us?’ he asked.
‘We will stay together. We are after the same thing.’ She motioned him off a little. He refreshed his grip on his hatchets and stepped aside until Vala became a shadow amid the haze. Then he began edging his way down the valley side.
Men and women called to each other further down the slope. Their accent was strange, yet he could understand some of the basic words. Outlanders. He considered shouting confusing orders, then decided a silent approach would be best.
The clash and grating of weapons sounded from his right, followed by the yell of a wounded man, cut short. As Orman felt his way down, a figure emerged ahead from the coursing banks of fog. It was a man shielding his gaze to peer up into the haze.
‘Who is that?’ the fellow called. ‘Name yourself!’
‘Greki,’ Orman answered.
‘Greki? Greki who?’
Still advancing, Orman said, ‘Greki … the False,’ and lunged, swinging a hatchet upwards to catch the man under his jaw, splitting it. The fellow gurgled a howl, clutching his face, and fell. Orman finished him
with a cut to the back of the neck.
‘Who is that?’ someone shouted from further down among the brush. More than one came running. Orman crouched to ready himself. Fortunately, they came in a disorganized rush; stumbling upon him almost one by one. Every advantage was Orman’s as he knew that whoever appeared would be his enemy. He did not bother with the niceties but took out knees and arms – whichever was nearest – then finished with single crippling blows and moved on.
The panicked calls and clash of blows exchanged and shrieks of wounded was constant now up and down the thinly treed valley side. The fog remained so thick Orman could make out none of the battle, and neither, he knew, could the invaders. It seemed that only the Icebloods could penetrate the haze. A powerful advantage for any engagement.
He felled three more as he edged further down the slope. The last actually still held a raised crossbow as he futilely searched the fog for a target. Orman almost felt sorry for the fool.
A shape appeared next to him so close and so silently that he flinched, almost falling to the ground as the tall figure of Jaochim reared over him. The Iceblood wore mere hunting leathers, and held two long-hafted bearded axes. ‘You are falling behind,’ he growled. ‘The battle is on the valley floor. Speed is our ally. We must break them before they organize a defence.’
‘I am sorry,’ Orman stammered.
Jaochim raised one axe almost in salute. ‘Never mind.’ Then he paused, frowning. ‘Did you really meet with Buri?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said he was readying himself for the true enemy.’
The Iceblood appeared startled by that. ‘The true enemy,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Those words?’
‘Yes.’
Jaochim scanned the fog. Again he seemed to speak aloud to himself: ‘Then we are wasting our time here.’ He suddenly waved all such concerns away, a gesture that reminded Orman of Old Bear. ‘Hunh. Well, run now. Hack and run.’ Then, unaccountably, he suddenly offered a fey smile that bared his prominent canines. ‘Lotji is here.’ And he loped off, to disappear into the swirling mist.
Reminded of what he should be doing, Orman set off running pell-mell down the slope.
Figures appeared through the fog’s chiaroscuro of shadow and light. He merely slashed at them in passing. What a fool he’d been! Wasting his time among these outlying pickets and scouts! It was Lotji he wanted – and he’d cut his way through the middle of this army to find him.
Following the clashes and shouts, he tracked down the main engagement. Figures charged him but he did not pursue the duels: he slashed and ran on. He passed knots of mêlées, glimpsed the Reddin brothers, back to back, surrounded but calmly defending – he left them to it.
He burst into the ruins of a temporary camp of 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 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 flattened torn tents, scattered cook-fires and abandoned 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 ease into death. He gently set the hea
d down and 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.
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 376
